Spanish Dagger

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “They’re supposed to, but it doesn’t always work that way. This afternoon, while I was on the phone with you, I got a call from somebody who identified himself as a task-force agent, saying that they had an undercover man in the area and giving me his location. Cabin 37, at the Pack Saddle.”

  So that was how she knew where Tyson was staying. “Did you pull your guys off his tail because of that phone call?”

  She shook her head disgustedly. “No, they managed that cute little trick all by themselves. I guess it’s time we had a refresher course on surveillance.”

  I gave her a questioning look. “Think maybe Tyson himself made that call?” It would make sense. He’d spotted the tail and figured he’d better give himself some cover.

  “Could be. I tried to verify Tyson’s status before I headed out to see him, but I hit a snag. The DPS captain responsible for this particular task force is out sick. I couldn’t reach the Bitter Root commander, and nobody in their office seemed to know anything about Tyson being here. Which isn’t unusual, I suppose. Those cowboy outfits are pretty loosely organized, without much command and control.”

  “So we’re not sure whether Tyson is who he says he is.”

  “That’s how I read it. He’s been here in Pecan Springs for about ten days. He said he got in touch with Colin because Colin was here on a similar assignment from the Drug Enforcement Administration. Said he wanted to compare notes.” She coughed. “So he told me, anyway. Obviously, he fed Hark Hibler a different line. He told Hark it was the FBI.”

  “Colin was with the DEA?” I asked sharply. “Have you been able to confirm that?”

  If true, it straightened out Colin’s twisted back story, suggesting that his jail time was a cover designed to legitimize him for another job. It also challenged Marcy’s reading of the situation. Maybe. Things are not always what they seem. There’s nothing except good sense, good training, and a strong personal ethic to keep an undercover narc—a DEA officer, task-force agent, or deputy sheriff—from working both sides of the street.

  She shook her head. “I put in some calls right after we found Colin’s body, but I haven’t heard anything back yet. Now that I’ve heard Hark’s story, I’m inclined to discredit both versions. Tyson doesn’t have any credibility at all, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Did you ask him whether he had any ideas about who might have killed Colin?”

  “I did. He said no.” She frowned. “But I think he’s lying. Some of the guys who sign on to work with these task forces are no better than mercenaries, and some are bad actors with sticky fingers. They deal with large amounts of cash and drugs. And the assets they seize—”

  She gave me a questioning look. “Am I telling you something you don’t know, or is this old stuff for you?”

  “After Tulia, most Texans know something about it,” I said.

  Tulia is the tiny West Texas town where a 1999 drug task force sting netted forty-six alleged dealers and users. Forty were black, nearly 20 percent of the town’s black population. A single officer’s uncorroborated testimony—no audio or video surveillance recordings, no supporting testimony from other officers—resulted in sentences up to ninety-nine years. But the whole thing was bogus, from beginning to end, and eventually, the governor pardoned almost all of the defendants. The rogue cop—who was under indictment for theft in another county when he was hired as a narc—was convicted on a charge of aggravated perjury. And the counties and cities belonging to the Panhandle Regional drug task force had to collectively cough up a six-million-dollar civil rights settlement, to be shared among the forty-six defendants. The scandal, which made headlines all across the country, focused national attention on narcotics enforcement in Texas. Whether it changed any questionable practices is debatable, although it’s had one stunning effect: cities and counties are now on notice that they can be held financially liable for the malfeasance of the regional task force to which they belong. In Texas, mention Tulia and watch everybody shudder. It’s a true tale that no one wants to see repeated.

  “I know that the assets a task force seizes during a drug bust go into its pockets,” I went on, “rather than into the city or county general revenue funds. Remember the instant soup bust?” In the late nineties, a task-force agent interdicted a truck loaded with instant soup. It was loaded with ten million dollars of contraband drug cash, too. The task force got nearly eight million of it. “This kind of thing obviously creates some friction between the local authorities and the task force,” I added.

  “Who could forget the instant soup bust?” Sheila replied ironically. “Yes, of course there’s friction. Over in East Texas, one of the regional task forces withheld information about a drug ring from the county sheriff—a man I knew and respected. They staged a bust, the neighbors called the local cops, and in the confusion the sheriff was shot and killed. It wouldn’t have happened if the task force had brought the local officials into the loop. Instead, they did it all on the QT. They wanted to make the arrests and seize the assets without splitting the take with the county authorities.” She shifted uneasily. “Something like that could be coming down here.”

  And that was assuming that Tyson was a legitimate task force agent, which might or might not be the case. This whole thing was so twisted that it was impossible to know what was true, what was false, who was crooked, who was straight. All we had were plenty of suspicions—and two dead bodies.

  I tilted my head, listening. Outdoors, Rambo was barking again, a note of urgency in his voice. Under the table, Howard had raised his head, too.

  “So you think Colin was killed because of Tyson?” I asked.

  “You bet I do,” she said bitterly. “I think Tyson blew Colin’s cover, inadvertently or deliberately. Which amounts to the same thing in the end. Either way, Colin is dead.”

  “Why? Why would he do that?” I thought I knew what she was going to say. I was right.

  “If Tyson’s legit, he could’ve wanted to keep the DEA from participating in the bust. If he’s not legit, he did it to further his own criminal interests. But this is just a hunch. Nothing I can prove—yet.”

  “You have witnesses who will testify that Tyson illegally entered Ruby’s house and took evidence pertaining to a murder investigation,” I pointed out. “And that he attempted to enter Colin’s house.” Ordinarily, you wouldn’t expect a law-enforcement officer to do such things, but under cover narcs don’t always observe the niceties.

  “Yeah.” She smiled grimly. “I’m saving those. I intend to surprise that joker with a search of his cabin just as quick as I can get a warrant. I would’ve had it tonight, but Judge Porterfield is out of town. I want that box. I want to know what’s in it, and how it bears on Colin’s murder.”

  “And what about Sanchez? Do you think Tyson had anything to do with that?”

  “Not directly, probably. But once Colin’s cover was blown, it would’ve been easy for anybody to figure out how Colin and the Sanchez woman were connected.”

  “Which was how?”

  “I suspect that Sanchez was a member of the drug ring. What Marcy Windsor overheard confirms that Sanchez was making her own private deal on the side. She could’ve been killed because somebody was afraid she was going to turn informant.”

  “She already had.”

  Sheila looked at me. “How do you know?”

  “Because Marcy said Sanchez mentioned leaving a sample with Colin. Didn’t you pick up on that?”

  “Of course. But Marcy heard wrong, or Sanchez lied, or Colin got rid of it, or somebody else beat us to it. There was no dope in that house. No pot, no crack, no cocaine, nothing. The place was searched top to bottom.”

  “It was there. I found it.”

  A silence. Then: “You found…what, precisely?”

  “Precisely, I found three pots of yucca and one of agave. Right where Sanchez left them. You’ll probably find her fingerprints on those pots.”

  “Yucca?” She stared at me, uncomprehending.
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br />   “Spanish dagger, although it goes by other names as well. You know, those spiky plants that Carole and I were harvesting when we found Colin’s body. There were three pots of yucca in his backyard, not to mention a beautiful agave. You were standing right beside them when I showed you that note. They—”

  “I know what yucca is, damn it,” Sheila said crossly. “You’re not trying to tell me it’s some sort of drug, I hope.” She eyed me. “It isn’t one of those weird herbal things you’re always talking about, is it? Can you smoke it? Do you mainline it? Does it—”

  “No. Stop. I’m telling you. It’s not the yucca, it’s what’s under the yucca. There’s a Baggie of cocaine—maybe three, four grams—inside one of those five-gallon plastic pots. Tip out the plant and you’ll find it. Although,” I added sternly, “if I’m ever asked about this outside this room, I will lie. I will swear I never saw anything in those pots. The penalty for perjury is a lot less than the penalty for possession.”

  “Possession?” Sheila was aghast. “You didn’t actually take that stuff, did you?”

  I blushed. “Well, I—”

  “China Bayles, have you lost your freakin’ mind? What kind of a damn lawyer are you?” The dumb kind, I wanted to say, but Sheila was going on, her voice rising. “Are you trying to get yourself arrested for possession? You should have left that shit where it was and called me. I would have sent an officer to get it. Hell, I would have come myself!”

  “I know, I know. It wasn’t very smart. But if I hadn’t taken that stuff when I did, your buddy Tyson would have it in his hot little hands at this very moment. I was checking out those pots to confirm my guess when I happened to look up and see his blue van cruising down the alley. I had every intention of calling the cops, and I certainly didn’t have any desire to get busted. But I figured that keeping Colin’s stash safe from rogue jump-out boys had high priority.”

  She gave me a hard-eyed look. “Did anybody see you?”

  “Crazy Zany, next door. The one with the bazookas. I told her I was repossessing landscaping materials that hadn’t been paid for.” I omitted the bit about leaving my address. The less said about that stupid stunt, the better, especially since Tyson hadn’t shown up.

  “Crazy Zany? Bazookas? Repossessing?” Sheila shook her head darkly. “I’m not believing this,” she muttered. “I am flat not believing it.”

  “I’ll show you.” I pushed my chair back. “Let’s go outside.”

  Her face was tense, her mouth compressed into a thin, hard line. “You’ve got it here?”

  “Well, not here, exactly. That is, if by ‘here’ you mean in the house at this address or on the real property at this physical location. But—”

  “Cut the lawyer talk,” Sheila growled, low and level. “I want to see it.”

  “Well, come on, then. I’ll show you.” I led the way down the hall and into the darkened kitchen and put my hand on the backyard light switch. But I didn’t turn it on. I didn’t open the door, either. Beside me, Howard lifted his nose, sniffed twice, and growled deep in his throat, the thunderous basset growl he summons to warn unauthorized persons and other beings who might be invading his territory. Rambo was going crazy, barking up a storm.

  “What’s happening out there?” Sheila asked uneasily. “Why is that dog barking?”

  I took a deep breath. “Might be Tyson,” I conceded.

  “Tyson?” she exclaimed incredulously, peering at me. “What the hell would he be doing here?”

  “He’s probably looking for that cocaine,” I said sheepishly. “I left my business card with Zany Sanders. Not a very smart idea, I admit, but the best I could come up with under the circumstances.”

  “Huh!” Sheila snorted. “If that’s your best, I’d hate like hell to see your worst.”

  I frowned. “You said Judge Porterfield is out of town. Even if Tyson is a legitimate task-force agent, he can’t have a warrant.”

  “Yeah,” Sheila said, “but if he saw you taking those pots or thinks that they’re in your car, he’s got probable cause to search the vehicle. That is, if he’s an officer.” She squinted at me. “Are they?”

  “There are…pots in my car,” I admitted.

  “Hell’s bells, China. You are in serious trouble, and there’s nothing I can do to help. If Tyson finds that cocaine in your car, he’s going to charge you—if he’s for real. If he isn’t, he’ll just try to take it.”

  “Sounds like a pretty good test to me,” I said cheerfully. “Are you armed?”

  “I will be, if I can find my bag. Turn on the kitchen light. No, don’t,” Sheila corrected herself. She glanced around the kitchen, saw her bag on one end of the counter, and took her gun and a pair of handcuffs out of it.

  “We’ll split up,” I said. “I’ll go out the front door and around the house to the dog run and let Rambo out. He doesn’t seem very aggressive, but maybe he’ll distract the man. Give him something to think about, if nothing else.”

  “Sounds damned aggressive to me.” Sheila was checking her gun, all business now.

  “Ruby says his bark is worse than his bite. Turn on the yard light and come out when you hear me yell.”

  “No way.” Sheila scowled and put her hand on the doorknob. “You’re staying here, China. This is my job. I’ll handle it.”

  “Yeah, but it’s my territory. You’ll put your foot through a flower pot or something. And with Rambo loose—”

  That gave her something to think about, but it didn’t stop her. “This guy is probably armed,” she protested. “You’re a civilian. You could get hurt. You could—”

  “Forget it, Smart Cookie,” I said firmly. “My house. My rules.”

  I didn’t give her any more opportunity to object. I turned on my heel and went down the hall to the front door. I was opening it when I saw McQuaid’s newly purchased antique Remington shotgun, standing in the corner. It wasn’t loaded, but it looked mean as hell. I wanted very much to take it with me—I felt vulnerable going out, unarmed, into the dark. But McQuaid’s ammo is always locked up in his workshop with his gun collection. And it’s dangerous to carry a gun you don’t intend to fire. Reluctantly, I left it behind and went out onto the porch.

  The rain had stopped and the air was cool and April-sweet. A fugitive sliver of moon flirted with luminous clouds and the trees smelled of freshly washed leaves. Rambo had momentarily stopped barking. In the silence, I could hear the soft, inquiring whoo-hoo-hoo of a great horned owl, far down by the creek, and something small and fleet of foot scampered through the flower bed. I could hear the beating of my heart, too, much louder than usual. On another night, I would have found the darkness irresistible, the scents and sounds and sights enticing. I would have sat down on the porch steps and leaned against the pillar and looked up at the moon. Now, I was wishing for broad daylight and McQuaid, who is a very big guy and doesn’t take backtalk from anybody, especially an armed undercover narcotics agent who may or may not have a warrant.

  I stood on the porch for a moment, peering through the shadowy darkness. Our house sits at the end of a long gravel lane that leads to the county road. The car Sheila had borrowed, not a squad car but a nondescript black Ford two-door, was parked in the circle drive in front of the house. I couldn’t see my Toyota—it was around back, on the kitchen side of the house. There were no other vehicles, but I thought I could see the dark shadow of a truck or van just beyond the curve in the lane, about thirty yards away. Tyson, if that’s who was sending Rambo into violent paroxysms, had parked and walked.

  I stepped off the porch and made my way to the left, around the corner of the house on the side away from the driveway, then toward the back. Since I’d had the foresight to close all the blinds and drapes, only an occasional glint of light shone through the windows. I had weeded the flower beds along the house often enough to know every inch of them by heart, which was a good thing. It was very dark, with only a fleeting peek-a-boo glimmer of moonlight to light the way.

  I swal
lowed. The cloud shadows were disorientating. The owl called again, nearer now: the voice of impending death, many think, although of course that’s only a superstition. Nobody really believes that stuff anymore. But still, maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all. Maybe I should have stayed in the kitchen and let Smart Cookie go out and arrest Tyson for trespassing, before he could try to arrest me for possession. Or maybe it wasn’t Tyson at all, but somebody with an even more sinister motive, although I couldn’t at the moment think who that might be.

  Rambo was barking again—growling, snorting, threatening noises that made him sound meaner than a junkyard dog and as unstoppable as a Sherman tank. His bite didn’t need to be very bad, I thought—his bark was terrifying enough to give most prowlers pause. Inside the house, inspired by Rambo’s uproar, Howard Cosell had lifted his throaty basset bass to join the chorus. Together, they sounded like a dozen devil dogs in full voice.

  I crept to the back corner of the house and peered around it. The backyard was very dark, although I could see Rambo’s menacing, fast-moving shadow in the dog run. He was racing back and forth, rattling the chain-link fence, barking maniacally. The fur was stiff along his spine. He sounded totally wild, flat-out fierce, and utterly dedicated to the task of tearing an intruder, any intruder, limb from limb. If I’d been the intruder, I would’ve been quaking in my Birkenstocks. I wasn’t, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t scared. The fact that Ruby believed this dog was a cream puff or that he had treated me with civility this afternoon didn’t mean very much. Excited as he was, it was entirely possible that Rambo would tear me limb from limb. I looked in the direction of the driveway where my Toyota was parked. I saw a dark figure open the driver’s door, saw my trunk lid pop open, heard steps on the gravel as he went around to the back of the car. Sonuvabitch, I thought, suddenly fired with an unreasoning anger that drove out my fear. Tyson didn’t have my consent to a search, and I hadn’t seen any warrant. I grinned maliciously. Yeah. His prints would be all over my car. Sheila could charge him with attempted grand larceny auto.