Triple Crossing

by Sebastian Rotella

  “So many bloodhounds,” Méndez said to no one in particular.

  The Tijuana homicide squad had detained two men. The prisoners sat on the hull of an upside-down rowboat near a cement outhouse. Their hands were cuffed behind them. They looked like migrants or transborder vagrants, one in a ski cap and ratty sweater, the other obscured by unkempt hair. The prisoners bent forward, their heads almost between their knees. Two homicide detectives stood behind them smoking cigarettes and talking about Porfirio Gibson’s latest TV show. Whenever a prisoner straightened a bit, the younger detective, who wore a bulletproof vest over an Oakland Raiders sweatshirt, lowered his voice an octave, snarled “Head down, puto,” and returned to the conversation without missing a beat.

  Méndez shook his head. He approached Porthos. Méndez’s deputy had worked for the state homicide squad for five years. He had finally gotten sick of being turned down for promotions while turning down bribes, so he had defected to the Diogenes Group.

  “What do you think?” Méndez asked.

  His mountainous back toward the homicide detectives, Porthos talked through his teeth. Rain dripped off his beard.

  “If I believe my ex-comrades, the Colonel and Rico shot it out with the Border Patrol and lost.”

  “It doesn’t make sense to you,” Méndez said.

  “Not entirely.”

  “You wonder how the Border Patrol managed to shoot him seven times exclusively in the back.”

  “For example.”

  “You wonder why the Colonel didn’t just surrender. He could have asked for political asylum. And he wanted to cut a deal with the gabachos.”

  “Ah, Licenciado, now you are getting too political for me.”

  “And the so-called suspects?”

  “Please, Licenciado. A pair of sad little drunks who were waiting out the rain with a bottle. This way Fernández Rochetti can tell the press that suspects are being questioned.”

  “Standard procedure, eh?”

  “The script for this one is already written. The neighbors in the apartments near the bullring told us the homicide squad arrived before the shooting was over. ”

  “A Mauro Fernández Rochetti Production.”

  “Totally.”

  The homicide squad had automatic jurisdiction because murder was a state crime. Méndez would try to elbow his way into the case. But the crucial investigative momentum was on the side of Mauro Fernández Rochetti, a master at shaping evidence to the version of the facts he felt appropriate.

  Looking up into Méndez’s stare, the homicide commander raised bushy eyebrows in greeting.

  And now for some hostile banalities, Méndez said to himself. He made his way around the corpse, wet sand seeping into his shoes.

  “Good evening, Commander,” Méndez said.

  “Good evening, Licenciado.” Fernández Rochetti sounded wary. “How can I help you?”

  “Well, one of our investigations is involved. We’ll need a complete report from you.”

  “Of course,” Fernández Rochetti said, smiling not quite enough for his tongue to emerge from its lair. “You were so interested in the Colonel.”

  Méndez glanced at Chancho. The cop in the cowboy hat held the umbrella over his chief with stolid determination, as if demonstrating proper umbrella-holding technique.

  “You’ve got everything all figured out already, I suppose?” Méndez said, trying to mimic Fernández Rochetti’s amiable scorn.

  “It seems pretty clear,” Fernández Rochetti said. “The Colonel got desperate.”

  “I never thought of the Colonel that way.”

  “The Colonel was not as smart as he thought. He realized how foolish he had been, making wild accusations about heavyweight people. He organized that butchery today at the prison, broke out and made it as far as you see him.”

  “Your people arrived very quickly. I imagine they saw something?”

  “Just cadavers and agitated Americans.”

  Méndez noticed Athos, impassive under his black uniform cap, off to one side trying to get his attention. Athos had his AK-47 slung over his shoulder. Méndez had not seen him without the assault rifle since their first visit to the Colonel the month before.

  “A pleasure as always, Commander,” Méndez said. He turned to Athos, who pointed at a red Volkswagen Jetta parked above them in the cul-de-sac.

  Méndez made his way among rocks and climbed wood steps built into the dune. His cell phone rang in his leather jacket, which the rain was discoloring.

  “Slaving away, Don Leo?” Isabel Puente sounded as if she were whispering into her phone beneath a cupped hand.

  “Where are you?”

  “Close. But on the other side, of course.”

  Méndez stopped climbing and looked down at the gap in the fence, where riot-helmeted Border Patrol agents exchanged glares with Mexican federal officers, toe-to-toe at the line in the sand. He looked past the body of Rico enveloped in his leather coat, the green lump of the Border Patrol agent’s body, and clusters of U.S. investigators in yellow slickers near the Wrangler parked on the beach. He did not see Puente.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “That’s a question that could be interpreted the wrong way.” Her laugh was like a chime.

  “An innocent question, I swear.”

  “You can’t see me, I’m in the parking lot with the bosses,” Puente said, eager and conspiratorial. “Listen, we have to talk. Everything is falling into place, believe it or not.”

  Méndez reached the top of the steps. A breeze spattered drops in his face. Araceli Aguirre’s driver stood by the parked Jetta. Aguirre sat in the backseat. She leaned her head back, stretching her neck. When she saw Méndez, she blew him a glum kiss.

  Me and these formidable woman partners I’ve got, Méndez thought. If I were a gangster, I would worry more about them than the Diogenes Group. What had the Colonel said about Araceli? Tough as a soldier. And the Colonel hadn’t gotten to know Isabel Puente.

  “From this vantage point, it looks more like everything’s falling apart,” Méndez said into the phone.

  “Don’t be gloomy,” Puente said. “Can we get together in about three hours? It will be worth it.”

  “Where?”

  “The same place as the last time the Colonel caused a commotion.”

  “Done. Thanks.”

  Méndez hung up with Puente. He got into the back of the Jetta next to Aguirre. After a while, he said: “You must have been at the prison all day.”

  Aguirre removed her glasses, rubbed the bridge of her nose. He tried to remember when he had seen her look more tired and depressed.

  That morning, the Colonel had taken his usual brisk exercise walk around the prison yard. The tape from prison surveillance cameras that the guards rewound for Méndez afterward showed the Colonel striding stumpy-legged in his warm-up suit, accompanied by his pit bull and Rico. Then the Colonel repaired to his quarters.

  The diversionary gunfight broke out around noon. The video showed two hit men in cowboy hats passing a joint back and forth as they advanced through the crowd at the Sunday basketball game, tossing away the joint, pistols coming out. A narco slurping an ice cream bar got a fusillade in the head.

  By the time Méndez and Aguirre arrived at the prison, there were barricaded snipers, cell-block fires and melees provoked by gangs of addicts whom the Colonel’s men had furnished with drugs. The Colonel, Rico and the Colonel’s servant, César, were long gone, ushered out a loading dock to a waiting convoy of sport utility vehicles. César was still missing. Méndez and a federal police chief ordered the arrest of the warden and his deputies. The federal police had escorted Aguirre into the prison. She had gone among the inmates, convincing the foot soldiers to return to their cells, negotiating with and browbeating the ringleaders with the help of their wives. She had eventually restored a semblance of calm.

  “Araceli,” Méndez sighed. “Are those tears for the Colonel or for us?”

  Aguirre looked
up with a flash of ferocity, replacing her glasses.

  “Because if they are for the Colonel,” he continued, “let me say you did everything you could for him. And I imagine he appreciated it, in his way. What he did in the end was in his nature. Astorga was the kind of man who sees any sign of humanity or trust as a weakness to be exploited. He couldn’t help himself.”

  “Perhaps you and I can convince ourselves we did everything we could for him,” Aguirre said, looking at the silver-blue fortress of clouds over the ocean. “But as far as I’m concerned, your boss might as well have pulled the trigger.”

  “Not to defend the Secretary, but I know for a fact that he was trying to get the Colonel transferred to another prison. As you wanted.”

  “Please, Leo, let’s not be infantile.”

  “Things don’t move that fast, believe it or not. Even for the Secretary.”

  “The Colonel said it. After he gave his testimony, he told me: ‘Now it’s up to the Secretary. After what I just did, he should send a helicopter and take me away. If he doesn’t, I’m a dead man.’ ”

  The escape had been a shock. A week earlier the Colonel had kept his promise and given sworn testimony in the prison to Méndez and a federal prosecutor. He had mainly talked about cases with which they were already familiar. He had made brief and general accusations about the Ruiz Caballeros. Then he cut off the session, saying he would continue only after his transfer to a new prison.

  “What’s happening down there?” Aguirre asked.

  “A mess,” Méndez said, thankful that she had held fire on the subject of the Secretary. “The Border Patrol says nothing. The state police are tainting the evidence. The federal police seem mainly interested in the issue of imperialist aggression against our national sovereignty.”

  “What’s the hypothesis?”

  “Well, there’s the Fernández Rochetti version, which I reject automatically: The Colonel escaped on his own and got himself killed playing Pancho Villa with the Americans. Another possibility: The Colonel convinced Junior the best way to shut him up was to help him escape. Then Junior double-crossed him. And of course, there are many others who despised the Colonel and wanted him dead. What doesn’t make sense is the shoot-out with the Border Patrol.”

  “I wonder if there will come a day in this city when crimes have less than a dozen possible intellectual authors,” Aguirre said.

  “If that day comes, you might as well move to Ohio or somewhere, because your services won’t be needed around here anymore.”

  Aguirre rolled her high shoulders, shaking off her mood.

  “Alright,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I’m going down there.”

  “Araceli, I really don’t think that’s necessary. You’ve had a long day.”

  She leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, and opened the door.

  “I owe it to him,” she said. “He was counting on me to save him. No?”

  “But it’s raining,” Méndez protested, pulling out his radio. “Athos, Doctora Aguirre is coming down to the beach. Send someone up here with an umbrella. Confiscate Chancho’s if necessary.”

  Aguirre managed a weak grin. “You realize that, in a way, all of this helps us. It raises suspicions. It shows that the Ruiz Caballeros are scared.”

  “I suppose that’s good.”

  “Coming?”

  “Not for long. I have a meeting on the other side. I think I’ll have something to tell you tomorrow.”

  When Méndez returned to his headquarters, he received a phone call from Mexico City. The Secretary, who was on a trip to Sonora, had heard about the shoot-out. The Secretary had decided to stop in Tijuana and wanted Méndez to meet with him the next day.

  It was 2 a.m. when Méndez, Athos and Porthos climbed into the Crown Victoria. Porthos drove. A carload of Diogenes officers followed them as far as the port of entry, where they crossed into San Diego.

  The traffic on Interstate 5 was fast and sparse. But the center median of the freeway was full of illegal immigrants trudging north. Méndez rested his head against the window in the backseat. He watched the ghostly army on the march. Headlights swept the immigrants. The concrete gleamed wet and black beneath their boots and gym shoes. His countrymen covered their heads with hoods, baseball caps, newspapers, plastic bags. Or they simply hunched their shoulders, impervious to the rain, the fatigue, the roar and hiss of metal monsters rushing by a few feet away. The immigrants knew the freeway median was a reasonably safe limbo in some ways: no bandits, no Border Patrol, no rough terrain. Just put one foot in front of the other. Pray the cars stay in their lanes. Try not to think about the moment when you’ll have to sprint across this cement deathscape hauling your wife, your kids, your worldly possessions. Maybe the moment can be postponed indefinitely. Maybe you can just keep walking north and the freeway median will take you where you want to go.

  Sliding along the edge of sleep, the ragged parade blurring and dissolving on the other side of the wet glass, Méndez thought about the Mexican presidents who gave speeches lamenting the exodus of illegal immigrants from the country. The presidents said the bravery and determination of the immigrants made them Mexico’s best and brightest. Méndez had melodramatic visions of hauling the Mexican presidents across the border and exacting poetic justice at gunpoint, forcing them to run with the best and brightest on the freeway in the rain.

  Fifteen minutes later Méndez and his men arrived at Isabel Puente’s condominium complex, which overlooked a bay near SeaWorld in the Crown Point area of San Diego. There was a guardhouse, walls topped with cameras. They walked into a five-story building with a faux-Mediterranean tiled roof, Moorish archways and curved balconies.

  Méndez had visited Puente’s home once before, in October, during the days of vertigo that followed his arrest of the Colonel. Her invitation had surprised him. Puente had shared case information with him about the Colonel. And she played him a tape from what she called a “U.S. military subsource wiretap”: a conversation between a San Diego drug dealer and a Tijuana police detective about a rumored plan to kill Méndez. On that day he had realized she was a friend as well as an ally.

  Athos and Porthos hung back respectfully as Isabel Puente opened the door to her fifth-floor apartment. She practically bounded into the hall. Her hair was tousled and damp. She wore jeans, a denim blouse, gym shoes. Her smile and her voice were exhilarated.

  “Listen, Leo, this is delicate,” she whispered, her fingers digging into his arm. “I’ve got Valentine Pescatore in there, the Border Patrol agent. You know.”

  “The star informant.”

  “El mero. He was involved in the shooting. Right in the middle of it. He’s going to tell you the whole thing. But he’s not happy about it. ”

  The cobwebs of sleep evaporated from Méndez’s eyes.

  “Another thing,” Puente continued, rapid-fire. “He speaks Spanish, but I think he’ll be more comfortable in English. Alright?”

  “Fine with me,” Méndez said with a mock bow. “Your house, your rules.”

  “No, please, it’s your house, you already know that. All of you,” Puente said, flashing a high-voltage smile over her shoulder at Athos and Porthos, who stammered their thanks.

  The apartment was long, high-ceilinged and divided into three step-down levels. At the end of the living room, glass doors to a balcony overlooked a marina, city lights shimmering on the water, the low forms of moored sailboats. The furniture was dark and minimalist, the carpet thick and spotless. Except for a table full of family photos and a framed pop-art relief of old Havana by an exile artist, Isabel Puente’s home could have been a chic hotel suite.

  Total solitude, Méndez thought. He had once read a line in a novel about how Americans pursued loneliness in myriad ways: they lived alone, drove alone, ate alone. He remembered weekend cross-border excursions with his wife and son to the supermarkets and home-supply stores of Chula Vista and San Ysidro. He remembered commenting with his wife on the con
trast between the shopping rituals. The solitary Anglos hunched behind their carts; the Latino families were boisterous platoons of children, grandparents, cousins. He thought ruefully about his own home in Playas de Tijuana, which after four months seemed big in a way he had never thought possible: the silent kitchen, the dusty toys. His home had acquired its own musty air of disuse. He had known the job with the Diogenes Group would be tough, but he hadn’t imagined it would turn him into an American.

  Puente led them into a breakfast nook. A youthful Border Patrol agent reclined behind a rectangular marble-topped table, leaning his head against the wall. The agent’s short-sleeved green uniform was bedraggled. A stain on his shirt appeared to be dried blood.

  “Valentine, this is Leo Méndez, the chief of the Diogenes Group. And Comandantes Rojas and Tapia,” Puente said. “Gentlemen, this is Agent Valentine Pescatore.”

  The agent half rose. He was younger, darker and shorter than Méndez had expected. He had muscular biceps and shoulders and black curly hair. Puente had told Méndez that her informant was of Mexican and Argentine descent. He could have passed for either, but his looks were more South American. With his compact bulk and wide, edgy eyes, Pescatore reminded Méndez of a rookie soccer player or prizefighter, boiling with youth and nerves and aggression.

  “A pleasure, a sus órdenes,” Méndez said, shaking hands vigorously. “Thank you for seeing us.”

  “How you doin’?” the agent responded, his voice throaty with street inflections. “I heard a lot about you. I thought it was gonna be one-on-one, though.” He nodded curtly at Athos and Porthos without offering them his hand. “I didn’t know you were gonna bring the whole team.”

  Athos and Porthos stiffened. Méndez had never heard Athos say anything more than “Ten-four” and “Nice to meet you,” but Athos understood his share of English. And Porthos had gone to high school in Inglewood, California. Méndez tried to think of a diplomatic response, but Puente spoke first. She put a hand on Pescatore’s forearm, patient and steely.