by Andrew Gross
“I’m not a reporter,” I said. I waited for the click, but there was none. “Curtis was. And now he’s dead. He was killed. Ten days ago in New York. I don’t know if you know. In a hotel room. By—”
“I watch the news.” He cut me off. “I know what happened. And what happened ought to make it pretty clear to you, you shouldn’t go around asking similar types of questions. Now this conversation is over, whoever you are. Do not bother me again. Don’t call me here. Don’t call me at home. Don’t bother my family. If you do, I’ll be calling the police. This is a small town, and I’m very well connected in it. Just get yourself out of town. Do you understand?”
This time I did hear the click, my heart plummeting with it. I turned to Lauritzia.
“I could hear the whole thing,” she said. “He sounds like a dangerous man. Maybe he’s right. Maybe we should go back.”
“To what, jail? And what for you—hiding?”
“If you call again, he could get the police on you as he said, and then what happens? Even worse . . .”
“We’ve come this far. I need to talk to him. Besides,” I said, putting the car in gear, “next time I’m not going to call.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
The heavyset man with the goatee in the poplin suit and white linen shirt stepped up to the passport control booth at the Denver International Airport. He nodded politely to the blue-shirted officer there and put his Guatemalan passport through the glass.
José Maria Rivera.
“How long do you plan to spend in the United States, Mr. Rivera?” the immigration officer inquired, looking up and eyeing him through the glass.
“Around ten days. I’m doing some business in Colorado,” the portly man said.
“What kind of business?” The immigration official flipped through the green passport, which indicated that the person in front of him was a very worldly man. There were stamps from Germany and the United Kingdom. Honduras, Argentina, and Brazil. Even from the United States several times.
“I’m in real estate. I represent a buyer in Central America who is looking at an investment here.”
“Yet you came in from Mexico?”
“My son is studying medicine there. In Mexico City. I try to visit when I can.”
The officer nodded and ran the document through the scanner, tapping into the shared databases of Homeland Security, the FBI, and Interpol. Not a single bead of sweat ran down the traveler’s face. Why should it? He had been through these interviews routinely under a number of different aliases. And they say that the U.S. border with Mexico is porous, he said to himself, chuckling. The easiest way to get in was to go right through the front door.
“My neighbor’s son is studying to be a doctor,” the immigration officer said with a sigh. “Mine . . . can’t figure out what he wants to be.” He leafed to an open page in the passport and gave it a stamp. “I hope your business goes well,” the official said, and pushed it back through the glass.
Eduardo Cano smiled and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
“And welcome to the United States.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
We couldn’t hang around Lasser’s place forever without attracting attention. So we crossed the road to another company’s parking lot that gave us a view of the road.
I was hoping Lasser would come out to lunch. He never did.
Around 3:00 P.M., Lauritzia began to complain about feeling weak. Maybe from the drive out or the altitude—we were at eight thousand feet. So I ran her back to the motel to lie down. When I got back, Lasser’s Audi was still in its space. Around five, it began to get dark. Employees started to leave. I was still annoyed and frustrated that my call had gone so poorly.
My prepaid cell phone rang. Other than Lauritzia, there was only one person who had the number. It was almost seven back home.
“How’s it going?” Harold asked.
“It’s going,” I replied halfheartedly. I told him about my botched call. “You find out anything I should know?”
He was continuing to look into Lasser’s affairs, trying to confirm the gun transactions to Mexico.
“I have someone digging into the General Accounting Office records in Washington. According to what he’s found, Apache Sales and Marketing has been an approved government vendor for some twelve years. It was started by his father, selling to Indian reservations. He died in 1995. Then they opened up on the border and began doing consumer goods sales to wealthy Mexicans who came across the border. It was like a boom town back then. They would come over for the day and pay cash for Sonys, Samsung. Washers and dryers. Brands that were three times as expensive down there. They would literally back up trucks. It was a gray-market kind of thing, and both governments just looked the other way. Then in 1994 the North American Free Trade Agreement was enacted and that was the end of all that. These brands could now all sell direct without the punishing tariffs. Apache is a private firm, so actual numbers aren’t available, but in 2008 and 2009, the GAO lists several million dollars a year done in business with the U.S. government.”
“How many millions?”
“Two point five in ’08. Three point seven in ’09.”
“That is a lot. Any chance you happened to find invoices that list the items sold?”
“That’s the thing . . . They were transacted as business loans. To build trade with what they called ‘enterprise zones.’ Which would likely be Indian reservations . . .”
“But you’re thinking those were black-market guns that illegally crossed the border?”
“Could be. Transshipped from companies like Remington and Colt. Apache also lists some European manufacturers who make these high-velocity pistols they call cop killers.”
“Over six million dollars is an awful lot of weapons,” I said.
“And that’s at wholesale. Double that to get the retail value. And it’s only the tip. There’s also something called ‘ghost inventory.’ ”
“Ghost inventory?”
“Since 2008, the government figures some sixty-two thousand firearms have gone missing from U.S. gun retailers. They just fall off the books, but it’s obvious where they go. According to my source, it’s estimated that some two thousand guns, from AR-15 submachine guns to Barrett fifty-caliber rifles to these five-by-seven-millimeter pistols they call ‘cop killers,’ are smuggled across the border to Mexico literally every day.”
“I thought these things all fell under some kind of government scrutiny?”
“On the contrary,” Harold said, “this is all happening with tacit government approval. We already spoke about Fast and Furious, which was this program that put U.S. guns in the hands of Mexican cartels in order to trace them if they were later used in crimes. Lasser might well have had a hand in that . . .”
“But Harold, what I don’t understand is, if Lasser was secretly shipping arms to Mexican cartels with U.S. government approval, both Washington and the cartels were his partners. What could he have done to Cano that warranted getting his daughter killed?”
“I thought that’s what you were there to find out,” he said with a grim chortle.
“Hold it a minute!” My blood snapped to attention as the door to Lassiter’s building opened and Lasser finally came out. He stood at the entrance, chatting for a while with two other men, who looked to be employees. They walked Lasser to his car, continuing the conversation. “Our boy’s about to leave. I’m going to follow him.”
“Just be careful, Wendy. The more I find out on this, the more anxious I am that you’re there. These people have a lot to hide.”
“I promise. I’m not trying to be a hero,” I told him. “More later.” I hung up.
The three kept talking around Lasser’s Audi. Nothing suspicious. It was probably nothing more than a billing thing, or how to speed up shipments out the warehouse.
Finally Lasser opened the door. There was no chance to get him alone. The two others waved good-bye, and Lasser climbed into his car. He turned on the i
gnition and started to back out.
I started up the Toyota and put it into gear.
The Audi pulled out of the lot and onto the main road that wound through the large office park. I waited until he went by, then pulled out of the lot across the street and blended in, several car lengths behind. I knew I had to keep my distance. A few other vehicles from Apache’s lot had pulled out after me. I let a Jetta get in between us. Lasser’s white Audi was hard to miss.
I had no idea where he was heading, but I decided to follow. If he was heading home, I resolved to find the courage to knock on his front door. I wondered if his wife knew the truth about their daughter. Why she’d been killed. I wondered if she even knew Lasser was involved in shipping guns down to Mexico.
Eventually Route 17 fed back into 160, the main thoroughfare that led into town. Traffic was steady, even all the way out there, with the afternoon rush. Lasser headed toward town. I had to speed up at a light or two just to keep up—I wasn’t exactly a pro at this—or else I would have fallen too far behind and lost him.
He drove back into central Gillian, with its dark main boulevard and closed-up movie theater and empty storefronts. Three cars ahead, Lasser pulled into a turn lane, signaling left. The traffic arrow was already green; I’d let a couple of cars get in between us, and one of them drove at a snail’s pace. Lasser’s Audi sped away. Finally I swerved around just in front of a large truck as the light turned yellow. All I needed was to get stopped by a cop here. It would be over! But if I missed the light, I might well lose him. I held my breath and glanced around as I sped up after him. No flashing lights. I was okay.
Continuing on 160, I picked him up again, a hundred yards ahead. The light had thinned, and it was hard to make vehicles out. Finally he pulled down a road and I saw him make a right into a restaurant parking lot. The Sandy Dunes Brew Tap. I let a few seconds pass and turned in after him. Lasser parked quickly and literally went right past me on his way in, not even giving me a glance as I drove by.
I parked in a corner of the lot and waited a couple of minutes, steeling my courage. I finally said the hell with it, and got out of the car and went into the bar. It was a large, barnlike structure, and it was clear this was the after-work meeting place for people in town.
The place was crowded. I hung on the landing, trying to pick out Lasser in the crowd. The pretty hostess smiled at me. “Dining with us tonight?”
“No.” I shook my head. “Waiting for someone. I think I’ll just head up to the bar.”
“Margaritas are two for one tonight.”
“Thanks.” Just what I needed. The last margarita I’d had had gotten me into all this!
The bar area was crowded and filled with smoke; clearly the antismoking laws hadn’t made it out this way. I squeezed through a few groups and managed to find an opening amid the crowd: mostly people in T-shirts and jeans, the occasional cowboy hat. I found a spot at the frosted-glass partition separating the bar from the dining area. There were a few TVs with sporting events on over the bar. I looked around for Lasser.
I didn’t see him at first. The place was large, with several different levels. A massive copper brew tank and other equipment glistened behind a glass wall. For a moment I felt the sensation that I’d been duped, that Lasser had merely gone in and slipped out a rear entrance, knowing he was being followed. Or that he was staring at me from somewhere.
But then I spotted him in the crowd. With another guy—prematurely gray, in a blazer and jeans. They’d pulled up a couple of beers and found a table away from the bar. At some point, through the maze of faces, his gaze seemed to center on me.
I shifted out of his angle of sight.
It looked like any normal conversation. The guy could have been a business contact or a contractor looking to do a project, or even some golfing buddy from his club. I squeezed my way up to the bar and caught the eye of the bartender, a good-looking guy in a white polo shirt with the restaurant logo embroidered on it. He definitely looked like he was in training for something.
“What’s on tap?” I asked above the noise. A lemon-drop martini would have been nice—it had been ten days since I’d had as much as a glass of wine. But I wanted to stay on my game.
He listed the beers—there were a lot of them. I went for something called Fat Tire out of Aspen, and when it came, it was a deep amber and frosty and cold. “Start a tab?”
“Not tonight.” I pulled out a few bills and left them on the bar.
He waved thanks.
I took another sip and went back to my spot, one eye on Lasser, who shifted in and out of view, blocked by the people at the bar. A chubby guy in a sport jacket and cowboy hat swiveled around and raised his glass to me. “Evening . . .”
I smiled.
If the situation wasn’t so nerve-racking, I might’ve laughed over it being an almost identical situation that had put me in this mess, but with a decidedly different-looking guy. I lifted my drink in return, just enough to thank him, and to indicate I wasn’t interested. I only imagined how I looked, in my blue pullover fleece and my hair pulled back, and not having primped myself in ten days.
I shifted back and tried to relocate Lasser, hoping that when he left, I might be able to find him alone.
But he seemed to have found me.
Our eyes connected—just for an instant. Just enough to tell me he was aware he was being watched. I pulled away, my heart picking up crazily.
He got on the phone.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
I suddenly felt a rush of nerves all over me. Like I was no longer in control. Like I’d been discovered and had to get out of there now.
I took a last swig of beer and edged my way through the crowd toward the entrance, pushing back the feeling that Lasser had gotten up as well and was about to tap me on the back at any second and send my heart through my throat. I stepped up onto the landing and allowed myself a quick glance around. But he wasn’t there.
I went past two new people coming in and found my way outside. The film of sweat that had built up on my neck began to recede. Maybe I was just a little jumpy, but I still hadn’t accomplished what I came here to do. I looked around for his Audi, deciding I’d wait and catch him at his car. I blew out a breath and fanned myself with my hand.
It was one of those crisp Colorado nights with a million stars. It reminded me of all the times Dave and I had spent out there skiing at Snowmass or Beaver Creek. I heard the sound of rushing water nearby and went to the wooden railing at the edge of the lot to take a look. It turned out to be about ten feet or so above a river, probably the Rio Grande. I felt cold spray on my face as I leaned over.
Suddenly someone grabbed me from behind.
Whoever it was took my arm and wrenched it around my back. My heart almost shot up my throat. I was certain it was Lasser—that my fears hadn’t been as crazy as I thought—but it wasn’t. It was an older guy, a rolled-up ponytail, a white western shirt and jeans. Tobacco on his breath.
I felt the chilling sensation of something cold and metallic pressed into my neck.
“Don’t you scream, honey. Don’t you even make a sound. I’ll break your neck right here and toss your body into that river there, and, I promise, no one’ll have as much as a thought you were even here until they find you next spring.”
He turned me around and dug those gray, metallic eyes deep into me, and I didn’t doubt for a second he’d do exactly what he said.
My heart thumping, I just nodded. “Okay.”
“Good. You’re quite the ticket, aren’t you, darlin’? Which would make it all the harder what I’d have to do. But I will. Be sure of that. The problem is, some of us don’t know what a fine-looking specimen like you is up to all alone in town here. But you’re gonna tell me, aren’t you?” He still had the gun dug under my jaw. “You’re gonna tell me or I’m gonna do something I’m not inclined to do. You’re understanding me, aren’t you, darlin’?”
“I’m here to see someone,” I said, my nerves akim
bo. “They’ll be here at any second. Put a hand on me, and I’ll scream.”
“Scream all you like.” He grinned, two wide gaps in his smile. He forced me to the far side of a red pickup truck, blocking us from view. “Go on, but the first sound you make that isn’t what I’m hoping to hear, there’ll be a bullet through the top of your pretty little brain, and the poor fella who owns this Ford here ain’t gonna like what it looks like when he comes back from his meal.”
I nodded, trembling. “What do you want?”
“What I want, darlin’, is to turn you right around and show you how the deer and the buffalo roam. But what I’ll settle for is what is it you want here from Mr. Lasser? And what is it you claim to know ’bout his little girl? And mostly, just why the fuck is any of it your business in the first place?”
My hands braced up against the cool side of the truck he had me up against. “I need to speak with him,” I said. “Lasser.”
“Mister Lasser, I believe you’re meaning. Say it again, but right this time. We pay attention to our manners out here.”
“Mr. Lasser,” I said, staring into his hard, cold eyes.
“You a reporter? Some kind of investigator maybe?”
I was so scared I could barely answer. Just shook my head.
“Police? Maybe the feds? C’mon, honey, I know you’re not out here to see the dunes.”
“If I was with the feds, don’t you think you’d be facedown eating dirt in the parking lot by now with a gun against your head?”
He dug the gun deeper under my chin. Terrifying me. “God help me, lady, it’s gonna take just one second for me to take you out of this world, and it won’t even be on the list of the worst things I done today . . . No, by the way you’re shaking, I suspect you’re not a cop. But I am gonna have to check it out anyway, you understand? Just to be sure . . .”
He put his hand on my butt, groping the pocket of my jeans as if he was looking for some kind of ID. If this bastard’s name wasn’t Clem or Earl or whatever, his folks had missed a world-class naming opportunity. He brought his hand to my front, letting his arm brush palpably against my chest, all the while just smirking with his bright eyes to let me know he was enjoying it. He dug under my top, looking for a wire or maybe for some ID. I was too scared to even flinch. I just looked back in his eyes in helpless anger, breathing heavily, his fingers lingering on my bra. Even in the dark, his eyes had the gleam of a coyote and his dead smile convinced me he’d do what he said.
