"Bring it here," Kerney said. He took the photograph from the supervisor's hand and studied it. Carlos Ruiz's ugly, pockmarked face stared back at him.
"Can you run the investigation without me for a day?" he asked.
"Where do you think you're going?" Andy asked.
"Juarez. The art theft is just De Leon kind of caper. Ruiz's involvement cinches it. I need to find out where De Leon is and where the goodies are stashed. I'll need some money."
Andy bit his lip and thought about it. Kerney had tracked De Leon down before using a paid Juarez informant, and he knew the lay of the land better than anyone else.
"Okay," he finally said. "We got some confiscated drug funds you can use. I'll have you flown to El Paso on our plane. But get some sleep before you cross the border, and for chrissake be careful. De Leon will take you out if he has the chance. You hit him hard in the pocketbook on the White Sands case, and I don't think he's inclined to be forgiving."
"I'm leaving now," Kerney said. "Call the pilot."
***
After spending a night at an El Paso motel, Kerney got up early and took a taxi across the border to Juarez. He had the driver pull to a stop at Plaza Cervantine, a bohemian enclave for writers, artists, and community activists. Well away from the Juarez tourist strip, the plaza consisted of a mixture of apartment houses, cafes, artist studios, neighborhood businesses, and offices. Kerney paid the driver and stepped out of the taxi. A street vendor was opening his food cart for business. The rich smell of tortillas, beans, and dark Mexican coffee filled the air. The business signs, posters, and murals that peppered the walls of the buildings were a riot of hot colors: bright yellow, brash pink, and screaming orange.
The only other person on the plaza aside from the vendor was a man walking a dog. Wearing a wool scarf thrown casually around his neck, a beret set at a cocky angle, and a V-neck sweater, the man hurried his pet into one of the doors of a walk-up apartment building. Kerney followed a passageway through an office building to a courtyard cafe where several people sat smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee in the chilly early morning air. From the serving counter under the
landing to the second story he could hear the clatter of dishes and the chatter of kitchen workers as they prepared for the breakfast rush.
Upstairs, he found the office to the small weekly newspaper locked. He returned to the courtyard cafe, ordered coffee, and asked the server when Rose Moya usually arrived for work. He was told that she kept to no fixed schedule.
Rose had been a source of information for Kerney during the White Sands case, and put him on the trail to Enrique De Leon An investigative reporter, she had written a series of articles for her left-wing newspaper that exposed government collusion with the Juarez underworld.
While Kerney waited, the patio cafe filled with neighborhood locals, who flashed him inquisitive looks as they sipped cofiee and talked. The man with the beret came into the courtyard without his dog, and joined a group of friends at a nearby table. A lively discussion sprang up on the political importance of street theater.
Rose Moya arrived and Kerney intercepted her at the foot of the stairs. She wore pleated brown cord slacks and a ribbed off-white wool sweater, and carried a canvas laptop computer case. An attractive woman with high cheekbones and full lips. Rose looked at Kerney with serious dark
eyes.
"Senor Kerney," she said. "Surely you must know that Enrique De Leon will try to kill you if he
learns you are in Juarez."
"I will not be in Juarez long," Kerney said. "Please join me for a coffee."
Rose brushed her dark hair back from her forehead, searched Kerney's face, gave a quick glance at his table, and waited for more of an explanation. Behind Kerney the customers' chatter faded away.
"Is there a problem if you're seen talking to me?" Kerney asked.
Rose laughed sharply. "I do not have a death wish, Senor Kerney."
"Does my presence place you in danger?"
"Apparently Francisco Posada made it known that you reached him through me. I was questioned extensively after your visit by a high-ranking police official with ties to the Mafiosios. The meeting was cordial, but the threat was dear. It would be unwise for me to continue to cooperate with any norteamerican police officers or drug agents."
"Have the Mafiosios silenced your reporting?"
Rose forced a small smile. "Not completely, but I walk a fine line. They like to read about themselves. They expect to have their political assassinations reported--it reinforces the terror and fear they spread. And they enjoy articles about their wealth and influence as long as any account of government corruption is not too specific."
"Have you been instructed to report any contact by norteamerican agents or police?"
"Of course," Rose replied, looking over Kerney's shoulder at the cafe patrons.
"And if I don't, someone else will."
"Give me a few minutes to tell you why I'm here. If you cannot help me, I'll understand. Disclose everything to the Mafiosios' police official when you make your report. Hold nothing back."
"What do you want, Senor Kerney?"
"Enrique De Leon And this time I plan to get him."
Rose's eyes widened with curiosity. "You make an appealing offer. Buy me a coffee, and I will listen to your story."
At the table, Rose drank coffee while Kerney filled her in on the art theft and the facts pointing to De Leon complicity.
"De Leon enjoys stealing from norteamericanos," Rose said, touching the small mole under her right eye.
"He delights in it, and has been very successful over the years. Not once has he been charged with any crime on either side of the border."
"I understand that."
"If you truly wish to put De Leon out of business, you face much more difficult obstacles than before. He is virtually untouchable."
"Has he hired more bodyguards and goons?" Kerney asked.
Rose laughed. "Nothing quite so commonplace. In our last national election, several Juarez politicians won prominent government positions. They benefited from major Mafiosios' campaign financing. De Leon donated several million dollars and was rewarded with a minor cultural affairs appointment and a diplomatic passport."
"That's unbelievable."
"I thought you were better acquainted with our country, Senor Kerney. You can buy anything in Mexico. We have a fugitive ex-president living in Dublin who has millions of stolen dollars in a Swiss account. He cannot be touched; we have no extradition treaty with Ireland. At one time, he was compared to your Jack Kennedy. He turned out to be nothing but a common thief."
"So what is De Leon doing with his new diplomatic status?"
"Business as usual, only more so. I understand he is now investing in foreign real estate and buying into many maquiladora enterprises, businesses jointly owned by American and Mexican corporations."
"Is he going legitimate?"
"That, and diversifying."
"Do you have any specifics on his holdings?"
Rose shook her head. "I'm afraid not."
"Does he still use Juarez as his base of operations?"
"When he's here," Rose replied.
"Do you know where he is?"
"Traveling, I've heard, but I have no idea where. Allegedly he has houses in the United States, the Caribbean, Central America, and Spain. But he could be at his hacienda outside of Juarez, or at one of his ranches. He won't be easy to find. You aren't planning to go to the Little Turtle, are you?"
"No," Kerney answered.
"Is Francisco Posada still alive?" Posada was the information broker who had set up Kerney's first and only face-to-face meeting with De Leon. Kerney had finessed Posada into connecting him with De Leon by posing as a rogue ex-cop trying to smuggle valuable merchandise across the border. He had hooked Posada with some up-front money and the promise of a percentage from the proceeds.
"Barely. His niece now lives with him. She will inherit his estate. A private n
urse cares for him. I don't think it would be wise for you to try to see him."
"I learned that firsthand a while back," Kerney said.
"Does Juan Diaz still work for him?"
"The houseboy? No. He moved out and is now brokering for the contrabandistas in El Paso. He specializes in the low-end trade to avoid any conflicts with the drug jefes. He arranges buyers for smuggled cigarettes, liquor, cosmetics, and pharmaceuticals."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"He rents a cottage in a development near the Casa Grande Highway. He should be easy to find."
"Gracias," Kerney said as he slid five one-hundred dollar bills into Rose's hand.
"What's this?" she demanded warily.
"It's confiscated drug money taken from a Mexican smuggler," Kerney answered.
"I read your article on homeless refugees. Use the money to help some of them."
Rose's hand closed over the bills.
"Are you a policeman with a sense of poetic justice, Senor Kerney?"
"A character flaw, no doubt," Kerney replied.
"No doubt," Rose echoed, as she picked up the laptop computer case.
"Move quickly, Senor Kerney. I have a telephone call I must make."
"Will you say that you told me how to find Juan?"
"I believe that would be in my best interest."
* * *
"It is good to see you again, Senor Kerney," Juan said. "I owe you a great deal." He sat behind an expensive tubular-steel-and-glass desk, which held a computer and a laser printer. The rest of the home office furnishings consisted of a chair and love seat with plush cushions and bolsters, some sleek brushed-metal floor lamps, and a large Guatemalan folk art weaving on one wall.
Kerney sat in the chair across from the desk. "You owe me nothing, Juan," he said.
Juan's cottage was in a middle-class subdivision outside the Juarez city limits. The area had an Americanized look to it, with neatly tended houses on small lots. Juan no longer dressed like a domestic houseboy: His white linen costume had been replaced by a button down broadcloth shirt and a pair of twill slacks. The change in attire was a striking contrast that heightened Juan's full-blooded Indian features. His long, thick black hair was pulled tight against his temples and tied with a band so that it draped down the back of his neck.
"But you're doing well, I take it," Kerney added.
"Very well. And I have you to thank, in part, senor. The customs agent you put me in touch with was able to get me a green card. I now have an apartment in El Paso and, in return for information I pass along now and then, I cross freely over the border. It has made doing business much less complicated."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"How can I help you, senor?"
"I need to locate Enrique De Leon I want to know exactly where he is."
Even before Kerney had finished speaking, Juan shook his head.
"As much as I would like to, I cannot help you. De Leon is out of the country. He travels often and does not announce his itinerary."
"Does he fly out of Juarez?"
"No. El Paso. It is much less suspicious to the norteamericanos for him to do so."
"I understand he owns houses in many countries. Can you get me exact locations?"
"Your friend at Customs asked for the same information, and as much as I tried, I was unable to supply it. It is my belief that whatever property De Leon owns outside of Mexico is not in his name."
"You have no sources of information that you can tap into?" Kerney prodded. "There must be some information on his whereabouts floating around."
"Do you wish to have us killed, senor? De Leon has bought more than diplomatic immunity from our government with his riches. He now has former federal intelligence agents on his payroll. Simply asking questions could make us both targets for assassination. And if the former ruraks didn't murder us, either De Leon gangsters, the Juarez policia, or one of your corrupt Drug Enforcement Agency operatives surely would."
"That's not what I want to hear."
Juan raised his hands in an expression of helplessness.
Frustrated, Kerney changed the subject. "There may be a shipment of stolen art moving into Mexico sometime soon." Kerney handed Juan the inventory.
De Leon is behind the theft. Will you keep your eyes and ears open?"
"That, I will gladly do," Juan replied.
Kerney extracted an envelope and laid out three thousand dollars. Juan's long, dark eyelashes fluttered.
"You pay me more than my normal fee," he said, "and I have given you very little in return."
"Use what you need to buy information, and consider the balance a retainer."
"As you wish, senor."
"You may be questioned about my visit."
"Do you have a cover story you wish me to use?"
"Tell them about the art theft, but try not to disclose that I'm looking for De Leon
"I will do my best to maintain the confidentiality of our conversation."
***
The road to the Rancho Caballo clubhouse where the O'Keefie Museum fund-raiser had been held was barred by electronic security gates. Gilbert Martinez pulled to a stop next to the guard station. A young Hispanic male wearing a green sweater and khaki pants popped out of the small building, flashed Gilbert a big smile, and informed him that he needed a visitor's pass to get in. Gilbert flashed his shield in response. After a few minutes of bickering with the kid over whether or not he had the right to proceed with police business on private property, Gilbert got testy. He made dear the implications of interfering with an officer in the performance of his dudes, and the guard grudgingly opened the gate.
Gilbert drove a mile down a paved private road to the clubhouse and coasted to a stop, his mind disbelieving what he saw. The clubhouse had a two-story central core with single-story wings that stretched out on either side. At the front of the building, stone walkways wandered through landscaped rock gardens to a wroughtiron bridge that spanned a man-made pond. A flagstone driveway led to a portal reserved for valet parking.
Behind the clubhouse, the lush green of a fairway flowed up to pinon-studded hills. With a Spanish-tile pitched roof, the place had the feel of a Palm Springs resort. It was uncommonly glitzy looking, and the fact that Santa Fe had become just another trendy resort destination for the wealthy depressed Gilbert.
The sprinklers were on, pumping fine streams of water in arches over the golf course, and the grass glistened in the soft light from a hazy sun. As he parked and walked toward the entrance, Gilbert wondered what bureaucratic idiot had approved such a waste of water. Arid New Mexico survived on groundwater and snowpack runoff; it was not a commodity to be wasted on a rich man's playground.
Before he reached the entrance, the door opened and a stylish woman in her late forties stepped out to meet him. Her blond hair was carefully curled and tinted. She wore a long Santa Fe-style dress that accentuated her trim figure and a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots. She held a cellular telephone in her hand.
"I'm afraid we're closed today," she said, before Gilbert could introduce himself.
"I need to speak to the concierge," he replied.
"I'm the concierge," the woman replied with a casual glance at Gilbert's badge and ID.
"I can't talk to you right now. I'm very busy."
"I'd like to ask you about the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum benefit event held here last month."
"What do you want to know?"
"Who attended the function?"
"I'm sorry, I can't help you."
"Don't you keep a guest list?"
"Of course we do. But this is a private club. We don't release any information without the permission of the board of directors."
"Your cooperation would be helpful," Gilbert replied. "Could you bend the rules this time?"
"Certainly not," the woman said.
"If you want access to any information, you'll have to talk to our legal counsel. If your request is approved, I'll be glad to coop
erate with you."
"And who is that?"
"Cobb, Owens, and Mackintosh."
"Is there anyone else besides your lawyers who might be able to help me?"
"The staff at the Museum of New Mexico Foundation co-sponsored the event and sent out invitations to their members. You might want to talk to them."
"Would they have a complete list of all the guests?"
"Only the museum foundation members, I would imagine," the woman said.
"A blanket invitation went out to all Rancho Caballo residents through our monthly newsletter."
"I'm particularly interested in talking to a gentleman with a Hispanic surname. Supposedly, he owns a home here. He may be Spanish or Mexican." Gilbert consulted his notebook and read off the description Frank Bailey had provided him. "Do you know anyone like that?"
"As I said before, I'm afraid I can't help you."
Gilbert got the concierge's name, thanked her, and walked back to his car. Nothing about this case seemed to come easy. He checked the time. First, he would try the two women Roger Springer had admitted taking on late-night tours of the Roundhouse. He had been unable to reach either of them yesterday. After that, he would stop at the county assessor's office and get a listing of who owned lots and homes in Rancho Caballo.
He doubted that too many Hispanic surnames would pop up on the tax records for the subdivision.
Gilbert's interviews with the women confirmed Roger Springer's account of impromptu, innocent after hours tours of the governor's suite. But Gilbert came away with the sense that he'd heard a canned, rehearsed story from each woman. Neither had struck him as the type who would be thrilled by the opportunity to have just a private tour of the Roundhouse. He couldn't help but harbor the suspicion that Springer and the women might have had a completely different agenda for the late-night visits--like having sex on the floor in the governor's private office.
It wasn't all that kinky. Once, when investigating a report of fraud at a state agency, Gilbert had walked in on a manager who had forgotten to lock his office door while he was performing oral sex on his girlfriend.
Serpent's Gate - Michael McGarity Page 13
