Anita dismissed him with a wave. “Yes. I’m inside the restaurant, but I don’t know if I can do the standup. The cops just arrived.”
Hernandez jumped up and tried to grab Anita’s cell phone, but she swatted his hand. “Stop it,” she snapped, holding the phone at arm’s length and confronting Hernandez. “I’m Anita Alvarez with Channel 7 in El Paso. This is my news director. I need to talk to him.”
Hernandez wrestled the phone from her hand and spoke into it. “Who is this?” he said in heavily accented English, then paused to listen. “She is now part of a murder case. I am sorry. She cannot talk to you now. Adios.” He turned the phone off and slipped it into his pocket.
“I’m a U.S. citizen,” Anita protested. “That’s my property. You don’t have a right to do that.”
Hernandez held a finger to his lips. “You are on Mexican soil now. You stay until I tell you that you can go. Comprende?”
“What did I tell you?” Dawson said with a shrug.
Anita rolled her eyes.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, they sat at a table in the room adjoining the crime scene, sipping cold coffee. At least the waiters were being civil, even if the cops weren’t. Two policemen in black stood guard, leaving them to listen to the shuffling of feet and the quiet talk of investigators.
“I need my phone,” Anita mumbled, glancing at her watch: 9:09 p.m. Time passed all too slowly, and all too quickly. “I need to get ready for the 10:00 p.m. broadcast.”
Dawson was about to offer his when they heard shouting at the entrance to the restaurant. A knot of photographers rushed in. One paused when he saw Anita.
“Brad, give me your phone,” she said. “They’ve taken mine.”
Her cameraman was blond and buff, about thirty, and wore a tight-fitting T-shirt and jeans. He tossed his phone to her while the police guards were distracted by the gaggle of photographers. The two guards had turned toward the crime scene and Dawson and Anita followed them into the crowded room. Cameras clicked and television strobes lit the dead with a harsh glare. El Guapo’s face was blue-gray, his shirt dark with dried blood. Hernandez knelt beside the corpse, looking on as if El Guapo were his hunting trophy.
“The cops are going to get as much mileage out of this as they can,” Anita said. “They’ll try to take credit for the death of El Guapo.”
After posing, Hernandez barked and his black-clad cops pushed the photographers out. Her cameraman was sandwiched among them. “We have the truck out there, so we can go live,” he said before he was shoved along.
“Wait outside as long as you can. I’ll try to get out.”
Hernandez was again in their faces, eyeing them warily, then sat wearily in a chair and gazed at Dawson. “Please, tell me what happened, from the beginning.”
“We were in this room when the shooting happened,” Dawson said. “We didn’t see it. But we heard it.”
“What about that?” Hernandez said, waving at the bullet-pocked wall.
“They didn’t like the décor.”
Hernandez scowled. “Is that all?”
“We’re reporters,” Anita said.
“So what?” Hernandez said, glancing at her.
“We have stories to file,” Dawson said. “I’m with the Washington Herald.” He handed him a business card. Hernandez looked it over casually and put it in his shirt pocket.
“Are we going to be able to go, or not?” Anita asked.
Hernandez waved abruptly for her to stop. “Like I told you, you are on Mexican soil now.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Anita said.
“It is all very simple, Colonel Hernandez,” Dawson continued. “We arrived about 7:30 for dinner. We were seated and served drinks when we heard men running. They opened fire from the doorway. They sprayed this room as well. We dove to the floor, and I tipped the table over for protection. Then it was over.” Dawson glanced up at the police videographer who was again filming him.
“What were they dressed like?”
“Black masks, black shirts, camo pants.”
“Was anything said?”
Dawson shrugged. “ ‘El Guapo is dead.’ ”
Hernandez looked at Anita.
She nodded. “That’s it. There’s nothing to add.”
Hernandez frowned, unconvinced. “We will need to have a written statement from each of you. But we can do that later. I will let you both go for now, but I will expect your full cooperation. Do you understand? If I do not get it, you will be arrested if you are found on this side of the border.” He took Anita’s phone from his pocket and handed it to her. “You are free to go.” He dismissed them with a wave.
“Colonel Hernandez,” Anita said. “I’d like to get a statement from you. What do you think of this killing? Who is responsible?”
Hernandez looked pained. “No statements! We are investigating.” He stood and turned back to the crime scene.
Chapter 15
Rancho la Peña, New Mexico
Dawson squirmed in his chair at the office desk while watching Anita on the flat screen. She turned slightly to the camera as she stood in front of a large mansion in Juárez.
“Carlos Borrego, the heir-apparent to the Borrego cartel, told me that the family is cooperating with Mexican police to track down the killers of his father, Don Diego Borrego, widely known as El Guapo. Carlos Borrego insists that his father’s death had nothing to do with drugs, but instead was over long-standing conflicts with business competitors. He demands that the killers be brought to justice.”
Dawson laughed. How could the son of Mexico’s most famous drug lord claim that his father’s execution was not related to the drug wars? Juárez was the epicenter of drug trafficking and violence. Did Carlos expect anyone to believe him? Yeah. He did. And Anita had just relayed his message. Didn’t even question it.
The television anchorman came on. “Does the killing mark the beginning of a new chapter in the Juárez drug wars?” he asked Anita.
“The killing that has plagued Juárez has been a battle to control drugs that flow north across the border,” she replied. “That battle has been between the Zapata, Borrego, and Sonora cartels. The president of Mexico has committed thousands of soldiers to fight crime in Juárez, but it hasn’t made a noticeable difference. Many attribute that to the systemic corruption that plagues the Mexican government, police, and military.”
“What does that mean for the future?” the anchor asked.
“It does not look good.”
Dawson turned the volume down and leaned back in the large leather chair. He hesitated to call Frankel, who only days earlier had told him to take time off, tend to family business, and return when the time was right.
But he’d been a reporter for two decades. Can’t stop now. His father had been buried amid more than enough pomp and circumstance. Dawson sensed that there were details about Sam and Rancho la Peña that he didn’t want to know. Not yet, anyway. For the time being, he thought, ignorance is bliss. Dawson flipped through the pages of his notebook, reviewing the notes he’d instinctively scribbled at the restaurant. Enough for a story. Yeah. This is my life. Dawson reached for his phone and dialed.
After two rings, Frankel answered. “Dawson. How are you?” He sounded as if he almost missed him.
“I have a story for you.”
“The Borrego murder? Forget it. The news agencies are loaded with it.”
Dawson’s stomach tightened. “I was there.”
“Hmmm.” Frankel fell silent, then sighed noisily. “Even so, you need to take time off. Clear your head.”
“My head is clear. That’s why I called.”
“Your father’s been dead less than a week.”
“Think about this. The region’s biggest land developer, who happened to be my late father, and the head of what was Mexico’s most powerful cartel are killed within days of each other.”
“You think the events are connected?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“You’re too close to this.”
“That’s why I want to do it.”
“When you sat in my office and told me about your father’s murder, you were distraught. You have some grieving to do, Dawson. It takes more than a few days.”
Dawson groaned, holding back his anger, then said, “I thought you’d be happy to get a really good story.”
“I’m happy you called. I don’t need a story—and you need to relax.”
“This is how I’m going to process my father’s death. Okay?” Dawson paused, lowering his voice. “There was a lot of unfinished business between my father and me. It will never be finished unless I can do one thing—find out who is responsible for his death.”
“Let the police do that.”
Dawson sighed. “I wish I could. But life along the border can be complicated. There’re a lot of reasons why the facts can get buried very quickly.”
“What are you saying? The authorities can’t do their jobs?”
“I’m saying that it’s complicated. Madsen has already been down here for my father’s funeral and a congressional field hearing. Two of the biggest players in the area have been killed.”
“You’re saying that Madsen’s connected? That’s serious, Dawson. I’d be careful about making that kind of insinuation.”
“I don’t know what’s going on. But my gut tells me if we rely on the feds, we’ll never know the whole story.”
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to do what journalists do.”
Frankel sighed deeply and noisily. “Suit yourself.” He fell silent, but didn’t hang up. “You know, we once were a leading national newspaper. But no more.” His voice was tinged with nostalgia. “I guess we could use a good, strong story from the border region.”
Dawson knew that Frankel lived and died on news stories. Frankel liked to say that journalism was not a profession, but a way of life. “Thanks.”
Frankel groaned. “Send it when you’re ready.”
* * *
With aching eyes, Dawson stared at the bright screen of his laptop. He tilted back and squeezed them shut, massaging them with his fingertips. He shook his head and gazed into the darkness. The last time he’d looked up from the screen, it had been light outside. Where had the time gone? He glanced at his watch. He was late, way past deadline, but the editors knew the story was coming. And the best part about filing late was that it gave editors less time to mess with it.
Dawson reread what he’d written, his lips moving inaudibly while he massaged the taut muscles of his neck, then turned his neck from side to side. He picked up his baseball, tossing it distractedly a few times as he read, then put it back, reaching for his glass. Empty. Cursing under his breath, he twisted the top from the tequila bottle and refilled the glass. He took a sip, his eyes returning to the screen, then sent the story with a click of his finger.
Chapter 16
Juárez, Mexico
Blind rage was useless. Carlos Borrego knew that. Yet, the impulse to avenge the death of his brother and father burned hot. He knew who had killed the man and he had a plan to get his revenge. But the plan’s execution demanded a cool head—all the way to the end. They would pay. They all would pay, and they would pay dearly.
Anita Alvarez had said the right words with the right tone, Carlos thought, watching her broadcast as he sat in the spacious room on the third floor of his house in Juárez. He smiled at his ingenuity. It was all about image. He had learned that while working his way through the Master of Business Administration program at the University of Southern California.
“Savages,” he muttered. That’s how the arrogant Americans looked at the Mexican drug cartels. Carlos’s stomach soured. His professor had told him that if you tell a lie often enough, eventually it will be believed as the truth. People don’t want to know the truth. Especially if it cuts close to the bone. Carlos clenched his jaw at the thought.
He was going to change how the world viewed the Mexican cartels. They were legitimate international businesses, just like other multinationals. Provided a service and product that the public demanded. That the product was illegal was an arbitrary designation. It made the cartel’s distribution systems and sales, by necessity, more discreet. Yes, that’s right, Carlos thought. Discreet. High profit margins, brutal and bloody competition. One had to be ruthless.
What he had told Anita was, at its heart, true, Carlos told himself. Don Diego had been killed over long-standing business rivalries. Not drugs per se.
Carlos used a silver razor blade to shave powder from a golf ball-sized lump of pure cocaine. He chopped through the powder until it was a fine consistency. He tapped the blade on the small mirror, then shaped the white powder into two small lines. Holding the silver tube to his right nostril, he sniffed up the first line and held his breath for a moment. He exhaled and repeated the action with the second line, snorting it up his left nostril. He wet a finger, then wiped up the residue from the mirror and rubbed it on his gums. They immediately went numb. He sighed deeply and sat back, massaging his nose. He smiled as the cocaine quickened his pulse, made his mind alert.
Mi amigo, cocaine. It had been that way since when? He couldn’t remember. Since he was a teenager, he figured. He’d had access to any drug he wanted, but always came back to cocaine. Marijuana made him spacey, forgetful, lethargic. Heroin put him in another world, a dream world. He couldn’t function under heroin. All his troubles, all his worries disappeared into a magical mist. Cocaine woke him up, put him in high gear, sharpened his senses. Carlos laughed. His cocaine was pure. It wouldn’t wreck his body like the diluted stuff others used. No. He would survive. And he would thrive.
Carlos crossed the room to the bar and pulled a bottle of Dom Perignon 2003 champagne out of the small refrigerator below the counter. He twisted the wire, pulled the mesh and foil from the bottle, and worked the cork free. As he held it with the palm of his hand, it sprang from the bottle with a soft “pop.” He poured the frothing liquid down the side of a wine glass and watched the champagne bubbles recede.
His anger flared. Don Diego and Vincente gunned down like dogs. He brushed the wetness from his eyes and blinked. “Papa,” he said softly. I did whatever you asked. I went to school in America. I did well. But Vincente was always your favorite. You sent Vincente on all of the important business. Bogota, Caracas, and Mexico City. I got the leftovers. Carlos drew a deep breath and let a smile return. Now it’s mine. All mine.
The painted visage of the Virgin of Guadalupe looked down at him from a painting on the wall. He crossed himself three times. Don Diego and Vincente had gotten sloppy. They’d made mistakes, mistakes he would avoid. It’s my turn now. The other cartels will come after me, thinking that because I am young, I am weak. There is much to be done.
My two sisters? He grunted in disgust. They live in Mexico City. They shop and party. As long as money is in their bank accounts, they’re happy. Let them stay there and stay out of the way.
Still, there’s Anita. There’s always been Anita. Now I need her. We were so close when we were children. But now? We’ve become too distant. It’s been so long since we have talked, really talked. But now it’s different. I have something. I am el jefe, the boss. She’s part of the plan now and she’ll come along happily.
Carlos lifted the glass and drank deeply.
Chapter 17
Chihuahua, Mexico
Dawson strapped himself into the tight leather seat of the commercial twin-engine plane. He gazed across the tarmac as the aircraft swung onto the main runway of the Juárez airport. The turbo props screamed as the plane lifted off the pavement and bounced into the air.
He gazed at Anita’s profile as she mashed herself against her seat, her knuckles white as she clutched the armrests. Her cameraman, Brad Austin, whom he’d just met, sat across the narrow aisle gawking at the stark and dusty desert that gave way to occasional patches of clouds.
“Thanks for l
etting me tag along today,” Dawson said to her.
Anita opened her eyes. “I hate small planes.”
“Relax. We’ll be in landing in Chihuahua in no time.”
She exhaled and shook her head. “I can’t.”
“You’d rather drive for four hours?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever.”
“I liked that piece you wrote in the Herald yesterday,” she said with a swallow, trying to change the subject.
“I had to come up with something fast because of your story.”
“My story?” Anita smiled slightly.
“When the network picked up your story, I had to do something different.” His first-person account of the El Guapo killing had come to him quickly and it felt good. If for no other reason than just to be writing again. Therapy.
Dawson closed his eyes, and soon dozed. Moments later, it seemed, he opened his eyes as he felt the plane tilted. He glanced out the window to Chihuahua City, the crusty city at the foot of the Sierra Madres. El Guapo’s birthplace, Anita had told him, and where the cartel boss wished to be buried. Dawson knew the town’s true favorite son was Pancho Villa. Villa, the legend. In 1916, Villa attacked the remote border town of Columbus, New Mexico, then retreated. U.S. General John “Black Jack” Pershing chased Villa’s army around northern Mexico for a year, then quit. Villa was never caught. Rather, he died from an assassin’s bullet. A century later, El Guapo had been cut from the same mold.
Dawson, Anita, and her cameraman stood on the tarmac as the camera equipment was unloaded, then carried it inside the small airport to clear Customs. A handful of uniformed guards greeted them, glaring while grasping assault rifles.
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