“Our business won’t take long,” said Veronica. She shifted to Spanish. “Please. Senor de Sarcena would only have sent me if it was truly important. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want him to come himself.”
“Honey, who is it?” asked Vincent’s wife, coming into the kitchen behind him. She was a tall, thin woman, noticeably pretty and even more noticeably pregnant. She wore a long white bathrobe made of silk; she had matching pajamas under it.
“Political consultants,” Vincent told his wife.
“This early? Don’t these people have private lives?”
“I don’t know.”
She sighed. “Have them come in and get some coffee.”
The mayor pushed open the screen door. Trace noticed that the house was only sparsely furnished, a bit of a surprise after Junior had told her how much Vincent had stashed away in secret accounts overseas. But his wealth had come relatively recently, and besides, it wouldn’t do for a politician who was supposedly representing the “common man” to be living in a McMansion with marble coffee tables and thick leather couches.
Even if almost all of them do.
“Let’s talk in here.” He led Veronica and Trace to a small dining room off the side of the kitchen. Shotgun and Mongoose—wearing sunglasses to hide their bruises—stood off to the side as Trace and Veronica took seats at the table. Vincent’s wife stayed in the kitchen, fussing over the coffeemaker.
“What is it you want?” the mayor asked.
“We need to get two people from the prison,” said Veronica.
“What? I have nothing to do with that.”
“Please, Mr. Vincent. Senor de Sarcena appreciates your help.”
“Who are you even talking about?”
Veronica glanced at Trace. This was the first time the two women were working together, but they already had a simpatico rhythm.
“Maybe you should call him,” Trace suggested to Vincent.
“I don’t think so.”
Trace reached into her hip pocket and took out a satellite phone. She turned it on, then selected a contact number.
“Call this number,” she said, holding out the phone. “Hang up after the second ring. He’ll call back.”
“I don’t think so,” the mayor repeated.
Trace stared at him so hard her eyes practically drilled holes in his head. Veronica reached over, took the phone herself, and pressed the button to send. She listened a moment, made sure it rang, then hit end.
It rang thirty seconds later.
“Here,” she told Vincent, handing it over.
Vincent frowned, but took the phone.
“What is the problem?” said a heavily accented voice on the other end of the line.
De Sarcena.
No, actually, it was me, pretending to be de Sarcena. I was sitting in a motel a few miles away, soaking my feet in a tub of hot water. I would have preferred a more comprehensive cure administered under Dr. Bombay’s direction, but there was much work to be done over the next few hours; extensive treatment would have to wait.
“Who is this?” said Vincent.
“James. You know who this is. Is my money now not good for you?”
Vincent hung up. He slid the phone onto the table and rose, quickly leaving the room and disappearing into the back of the house. A few moments later his wife came in with a tray of cups and a coffeepot.
“First child?” asked Trace.
“Yes.” She smiled faintly. It was clear she was still slightly confused and struggling to be hospitable.
“I’ll do that for you,” said Trace, getting up.
“Oh, it’s all right. It’s no bother. How would you like it?”
She even gave coffee to Shotgun, who when asked how much sugar he wanted, replied by asking how much she had.
He showed great restraint, settling for only four spoonfuls.
Vincent returned to the room with a cell phone and a small notebook. He glanced alternately at Veronica, the pad, and the phone as he dialed a phone number.
It was a number he’d been given for de Sarcena, to be used only in emergencies and alleged to be impossible to tap.
I picked it up on the second ring. (I know Shunt is a genius, but some of the things he’s capable of scare even me.)
“¿Quién?” I said sharply. “Who?”
Vincent took a breath. Then another.
“We met three weeks ago at your house,” he said in English. “What room?”
A damn good question, I thought.
“Is this James?” I said in English, stalling. “James, why are you using this line? We just spoke.”
“What room did we meet in?”
My cell phone buzzed. I glanced down—I had an incoming text from Veronica.
Peace.
“What room?” demanded Vincent.
“We discussed matters in the Salon of Peace. Now—why are you quizzing me like a child? Do as my people ask, or there will be grave consequences. My friendship should not be taken for granted.”
I hung up.
Veronica slipped her phone back into the valise on her lap. Vincent’s head looked like it was about to explode.
“Mr. Vincent, I realize this is a difficult situation for you,” said Veronica, using her softest, most understanding voice. “It’s a difficult situation for Senor de Sarcena as well. He needs us to retrieve someone from the prison. They were accidentally placed there. They’re not criminals. We tried to do this ourselves. Unfortunately, for reasons known only to them, they will release the person only on your orders.”
“Those people all work for you. I have no connection with the jail.”
Trace cleared her throat, rather unsubtly implying that was a lie.
“I didn’t say it was logical,” said Veronica quickly. “We were quite surprised by it ourselves.”
“I barely know the people there.”
“You know Serena Gomez.”
His face changed in a way that convinced both Veronica and Trace that he knew her a little too well.
“I’ll call her on the phone,” said Vincent, lowering his voice.
“All of the calls to the prison are taped,” said Veronica, shaking her head. “We don’t need a record of this.”
Vincent frowned. Veronica unzipped the valise and took out a packet of bills … more of those ill-gotten dineros lifted from de Sarcena’s mansion.
“Your time is valuable, I know,” she told him, sliding over a packet. “More will be waiting when you return.”
Vincent stared at the money on the table for a moment.
“James?” called his wife from inside the kitchen.
He grabbed the pile. “I have to go out. I’ll be back.”
* * *
Veronica tried gently pumping him for information on the ride up to the prison. Both she and Trace were wired; the idea was to get him to say as much as possible to incriminate himself in the cartel’s dealings. But Vincent was in no mood to talk.
Maybe he was having second thoughts about being involved with the cartel. Maybe he realized criminals, especially foreign ones, shouldn’t have a say in American government. Maybe he was finally realizing what a tangled mess he had gotten himself into.
Or maybe he just had a lot of things to do and didn’t feel like wasting his time running errands for his paymaster.
He had the bills in his pocket, which was terribly convenient of him. We’d marked them, but having them physically in his custody when he was arrested would avoid quite a lot of bother and needless testimony.
Tex and Stoneman were following the two SUVs, providing a little extra security. I was up on the cliff with phones, binoculars, and a large thermos of some of the best coffee I’ve ever tasted.
The guards’ day shift was just coming in. That amounted to six people. The staff, once about a hundred strong, had been let go in a series of layoffs over the past year.
Not that I could blame them, really. Why pay for guards when they really aren’t guarding any
one?
* * *
Does this sound like a metaphor for many international businesses? Businesses that were once American? Companies that once made products you could use? Companies that once employed Americans in real jobs? Companies that were once loyal to employees and customers?
Companies that now could give a hoot about anything and anyone except profits? Companies now willing to go to the slimiest corner of the world to save a half penny on a widget? Companies now taken over by people who are little more than criminals?
Oops, excuse me. Stepped onto my soapbox there for a second.
* * *
Vincent’s annoyance began boiling over as they neared the prison. He became more and more agitated, shaking his head, folding and unfolding his arms. Finally, he began berating Veronica.
“I have a lot on my plate today,” he told her. He was sitting next to her in the back; Trace was up front in the passenger seat, with Shotgun as the driver. “A lot.”
“Such as what?” asked Trace. “What else do you have to do today?”
“There’s a press conference, for one thing. We’re unveiling a new Web site. And I have some sort of bullshit position paper to approve on bringing more jobs to the economy. Important things. This kind of crap I shouldn’t be involved in.”
“We’re sorry that we had to talk to you personally,” said Veronica. “Do you come up to the prison a lot?”
“I’m too busy. I was here a few times in the beginning.”
“I was under the impression that you and Ms. Gomez were … friends.”
“That’s history.”
“But you do own the prison,” said Veronica. Actually, this was just a guess, but it turned out to be a good one.
“A piece,” he admitted. “Through a cousin of my wife. She doesn’t know it, by the way.”
“Your wife or your cousin?” asked Veronica.
“Either one. Her cousin is batty. She’s in an institution.”
“That’s convenient,” said Veronica.
Vincent put his hand on Veronica’s knee. Veronica looked at it for a second, then gently moved it off. She wanted information, but not that badly.
Vincent took the rejection well. But that made sense—he undoubtedly interpreted it to mean “not now” rather than “not ever.” His ego wouldn’t allow him to see it any other way.
“There’s a lot more to a Senate campaign than meets the eye,” he told Veronica. “It’s ridiculously expensive. And it’s go-go-go, all the time.”
“I’m sure it is expensive,” said Veronica. “Do you need more help?”
“I do have a dinner coming up in Flagstaff. We have a lot of tickets left.”
“I’m sure Mr. de Sarcena would buy all of them,” said Veronica. “What else do you need?”
“We’ve given you plenty of cash already,” snapped Trace.
Vincent made a face at her.
“We can arrange more,” said Veronica, “if it’s important.”
“It might be useful,” said Vincent. He almost sounded reluctant to take it.
“If there is something else Mr. de Sarcena can do for you, please let me know,” said Veronica. “He’s always eager to help. Especially good friends who help him.”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think. I already appreciate his assistance so far. It’s been valuable. It adds up.”
Veronica tried prodding him a bit more, hoping for a more explicit quid pro quo indicating a bribe; there’s nothing like a long confession to make a policeman’s day. Vincent groused a little more about the great burdens he was under, but never got more explicit.
* * *
The guard at the front gate was wary when they pulled up. He had a sense something was going on—the “trustees” hadn’t appeared for their morning constitutional, a stroll around the inner perimeter of the prison. The shifts were due to change in a few minutes, though, which meant he was looking forward to going home and wasn’t likely to make too many waves.
He walked up to the first SUV. Mongoose rolled down the driver’s side window and thumbed behind him. As the guard approached the second vehicle, Vincent opened the window and stuck out his head.
“Fredrico, how are you?” said Vincent.
“Mr. Mayor? Good morning.”
“I have to see Serena. Is she here?”
“Hasn’t left that I know. In her office or her apartment.”
“Very good. These people are all with me.”
The gate was opened. The two SUVs passed through, heading for the administration building.
Not more than two minutes later, a pickup drove up. The guard went over to see what the driver wanted.
“I don’t want nothin’ from y’all,” said Tex, turning on his drawl for maximum effect. “But my friend here, he’s a greedy sumofabitch. But I reckon I’d say that of all Yankees.”
The guard looked up. Stoneman had scooted off the back of the pickup and snuck behind him. He nudged his Uzi into his ribs.
“I’m thinking that you might find it convenient to do as my friend asks,” added Tex. “I just don’t trust Yankees with guns.”
* * *
The administration office was empty. Vincent may have claimed that he was rarely here, but he knew the layout well enough to lead Veronica, Trace, and the boys down the hall to the private entrance of Serena Gomez’s apartment.
There was a bell. He rang it.
No answer.
“She’s probably sleeping,” said Vincent.
He rang again. Trace slipped back to the office and planted a pair of video bugs. I saw them come online and settled in for a good show.
“Damn. She must be doing an inspection or something,” said Vincent. “Or maybe she went into town.”
Vincent rang again.
In case you’re wondering, at that very moment, Gomez was in the back of a garbage truck parked on the sidewalk in front of a U.S. Marshal’s office in Bisbee. She was screaming her head off, though there wouldn’t be a soul close enough to hear until nine A.M.
The mayor rang the bell a third time, waited another ten seconds, then knocked as hard as he could.
“I’m damn busy,” he said when no one answered. “Really.”
“Maybe we should check with her assistant?” said Veronica.
“She doesn’t have an assistant.”
“There must be another guard or something.”
“Damn company managers are so frickin’ cheap I’m surprised they still have Serena on the payroll.”
“There’s no second in command?”
“Just a guard. Aw hell, let’s see if we can round him up. I gotta get out of here.”
They went back to the office. The deputy guard supervisor—he was the senior man Vincent was referring to—had just arrived and was looking for his boss. He was confused by the fact that there was no guard on duty at the front gate, and wanted to know what the hell was going on.
As soon as he saw the mayor, he held his tongue—the last thing the company needed was controversy.
The mayor didn’t really give him much of an opening anyway.
“Where is Ms. Gomez?” demanded Vincent as soon as he saw him in the office.
“I, I don’t know, Mr. Mayor.”
“Well, these people have important business. They’re here to pick up some prisoners.”
“Do they have paperwork?”
“There is no paperwork,” said Veronica. “They’re with the Mexicans who came in last night.”
“Oh.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” said Vincent.
“I thought it would be obvious,” said Veronica coldly. “Why else would I be here? You don’t have any real prisoners.”
“I could have taken care of this with a phone call, damn it. The Mexicans—take them all if you want. They’re leaving anyway.” He looked over at the guard. “Aren’t they?”
“We have a schedule.”
“Senor de Sarcena is very particular about these two,” said V
eronica. “We need to get them ourselves.”
“Look, I have a press conference this morning,” said Vincent. “I don’t have time to screw around with the illegals.”
Veronica said nothing.
“Well, go get these people for her,” Vincent told the supervisor.
“Uh, who are they?”
“Jose Garcia and a man named Gutiérrez.”
“That’s like saying Smith and Jones. Can you identify them?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Come on. We’ll go over to the barracks.”
Before Veronica could tell him he would have to figure out who they were and bring them to her, Vincent spoke up.
“I’ll go, too,” he said. “I need two people to work in my garden.”
“You trust illegal immigrants to work for you?” said Trace.
Vincent shrugged. “Most of them work pretty hard. And they work for peanuts. Why not? As long as they know their place.”
“They work for minimum wage?” asked Trace.
“Yeah, right,” said Vincent. “I don’t pay more than I have to. Why would I pay them minimum wage? Are you nuts?”
“You pay them in cash?”
“Don’t be stupid. God. As if I’d leave a paper trail.”
He walked toward the door. Veronica started to follow. Trace held her back.
“Listen,” said Trace.
There was a siren in the distance. Actually a pair of sirens. The country sheriff was escorting a task force of Border Patrol guards, assorted Customs agents, and a stray FBI supervisor on a raid.
“What the hell is going on out there?” said the guard supervisor, stopping at the door. Vincent practically ran into him. “Hey, what’s going on here?”
“Sit down, junior,” said Trace, slamming the guard supervisor into a nearby seat. He tried to get up; the next thing he knew he was lying on his back, his own gun pressed to his head. “You don’t really want to mess with me.”
Vincent looked on in disbelief.
“I think you may want to reschedule that press conference about your Web site,” Veronica said. “You’ll be too busy to deal with it.”
XIII
Having rambled far and wide, we now lay back and enjoyed the fruits of our various labors.
Not.
I would have been very glad to. But there were still plenty of loose ends to wrap up, starting with the questioning of Ms. Reynolds’s lover. I also had to figure out the best way of providing the secretary of State with my report on the nonexistence—cough-cough—of terror camps on the other side of the border.
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