Buffalo’s comments in the kitchen had amped Pescatore’s paranoia to full volume. So Junior had wanted to give him up to the Mexfeds as a fall guy. But Buffalo had made it sound like he had stood up for Pescatore. Buffalo was his protector, believe it or not. Not totally reassuring after seeing him go off on Pelón, who had disappeared. Had they whacked Pelón just for talking shit? It made things easier for Pescatore as far as hanging on to the cell phone.
Junior’s voice startled him; Junior stood at the ropes shouting. Except for the swear words, his Spanish sounded different than that of the homeboys or the aliens at The Line. More Mexico City than TJ, ideal for bossing around servants. Between croaks for oxygen, Junior berated an older Mexican bodyguard for bothering him. The bodyguard extended a phone at him plaintively, saying it was the third time the Senator had called long distance from El D.F., urgente.
Junior spat out his mouthpiece, extended his arms to his sides and waited. He gave Mr. Abbas a frown that said: This is the kind of shit I put up with from these mopes. Mr. Abbas nodded sympathetically.
A hunched trainer in a warm-up suit scuttled through the ropes and set to work removing Junior’s gloves and helmet. The bodyguard clambered up to hold the phone to Junior’s ear.
Once the gloves were off, Junior roamed the ring with the phone. Pescatore caught fragments of the conversation, mainly Junior cursing and telling his uncle to calm down. At one point Pescatore understood him to say: “Everything’s fine here. Stop whining and handle your part. And tell those guys to stop worrying like little sissies. I don’t care. Reevaluate the relationship? That’s funny. Tell them careful or we reevaluate relationships. One by one. No, that’s exactly what you tell them. Stop calling me every five minutes.”
End of conversation. Sitting near Pescatore on the bleachers, Buffalo sighed heavily. Junior tossed his head, geysering sweat. He pasted his hair back with his fingers and leaned on the ropes.
“Yo big man, whassup?” Junior’s English had barely any accent at all. Pescatore remembered that he had spent time at colleges in the States. He sounded like a frat boy talking street.
“This and that, you know,” Buffalo said.
“What’s the matter? Still pissed at me?”
Buffalo seemed both proud of and uncomfortable with Junior’s public admission that Buffalo was authorized to get pissed at him.
“You know I ain’t,” Buffalo said. “You know I’m just watchin’ out for you.”
“Enough. My uncle is whining like an old woman. I know what I’m doing.”
“OK.”
“The bitch wanted drama, Buffalo.” Junior cocked back his head to squirt water into his mouth from a plastic bottle. He spat emphatically onto the canvas. “We gave her drama.”
Buffalo nodded.
“You should think like Khalid,” Junior said. “He understands this stuff. Psychology. He said, it’s your territory, you make a statement—”
“I heard what he said,” Buffalo grumbled. He eyed Abbas, who had perked up at the mention of Khalid.
Junior noticed Pescatore.
“Who’s this vato?” he asked.
Pescatore got up.
“This is Valentín,” Buffalo said.
“The gabacho who was in the Migra? Who smoked the highway patrolman?”
“Sí-mon.”
Pescatore made his way down the bleachers. He thought to himself that it gets to a point where fear becomes comfortable, like a coat you never take off.
He went up on tiptoe to shake a thick and extremely wet hand. The agitated eyes regarded him from within layers of chin and cheek. From this angle above Pescatore, Junior looked like a malevolent man-child appraising a small animal.
“Valentín used to do some boxing hisself,” Buffalo said.
“Really,” Junior said. “The pride of the Border Patrol. You want to go a couple of rounds? How long you think you’d last with me? How long you think you’d last with him?” He jerked his head at Kid Avila, who lounged in the far corner. “Thirty seconds? Fifteen seconds? That would be the last Mexican you ever chase, my friend.”
There were chortles. Pescatore remained soldierly, remembering Buffalo’s admonition.
“Ready to go a few rounds?” Junior insisted.
“Hey, you’re the man.” Pescatore imagined himself flattening the tanned nose, which looked like it might have gotten a tweak from a plastic surgeon, with a short straight right. “You’re the one helped me when I needed it, you and Buffalo. Say the word and I’ll get in the ring with you, him, Julio César Chávez, you name it.”
Junior’s smirk, and Buffalo’s body language, made him think that it had been a good answer.
“Maybe later,” Junior said. “I’m still giving the champ his workout.”
Junior tossed the phone in the general direction of the older bodyguard. The trainer came forward to gird him into the mouthpiece, helmet and gloves. This time, Kid Avila played punching bag. Junior went after him like it was Round 12 in Madison Square Garden.
Pescatore drank deeply from the ice-cold Coke. He shivered in the air-conditioning. He wondered if he had a fever. He was woozy, but seeing things with febrile clarity. Here he sat a couple of yards from the boss of the organization Isabel had assigned him to infiltrate. You couldn’t get closer to the fire without getting burned. The murder of Araceli Aguirre had jolted him awake. It was like coming out of anesthesia. And his call to Isabel had given him purpose. No more cringing and getting high, no more scheming about escape. He was on a mission.
He imagined Isabel waiting for his next call. He saw her on the balcony where they had eaten breakfast, staring out at the lagoon, worrying about him. He had to hear her voice again. Now that she was looking out for him again, he felt ready to take on fat-ass psycho Junior.
Pescatore chafed and brooded. He listened to the leather thudding in the ring, the chorus cheering Junior. He watched Junior bulling Kid Avila back into a corner. Junior built up a windmill rhythm. His furious staccato humming punctuated his punches.
This guy is bad news, Pescatore thought. He belongs in the zoo. But for the time being, I better look like I’m getting with the program.
“That’s it,” Pescatore called. “Use that right. Way to hit, homes, way to hit!”
14
THE NIGHT AFTER THE ASSASSINATION, Mauro Fernández Rochetti gave Porfirio Gibson an exclusive television interview.
It was a live feed to Mexico City to start the nightly national news. The homicide chief wore a gray suit and navy-blue tie. His silver hair was combed in crisp waves and ridges. He sat in a high-backed leather chair with his hands laced together on his desk. He looked grave and in charge.
“This individual who is our deceased suspect, César Oscar Ontiveros, worked for the Colonel in the prison,” Fernández Rochetti said. “A flunky. A servant. And a thug of the lower depths. Arrests for drugs, petty offenses. When the Colonel escaped from the prison, he brought César with him. César was as devoted as a dog.”
Gibson hunched earnestly in front of the desk. “And isn’t it true, Commander, as we reported exclusively today, that César Oscar Ontiveros blamed Araceli Aguirre for the Colonel’s death? That he had become obsessed with her?”
Watching television in the Diogenes Group headquarters, Méndez slouched in his chair. Porthos and Isabel Puente slumped as well, as if weighed down by so much deceit and perversity. Athos sat with his forearms on his thighs, his cap in his hands.
“Absolutely correct, Porfirio,” Mauro Fernández Rochetti said. “Araceli Aguirre had given the Colonel the strange, unrealistic impression that her human rights commission could somehow save him from the very serious charges against him. The Colonel believed her. When he was killed, César was heartbroken. He felt Señora Aguirre’s betrayal set in motion the events leading to his boss’s death.”
“So it was revenge. The classic motive of the underworld. ”
Puente, her ankles crossed in suede boots, crossed her arms as well. She gave M�
�ndez a quick look and said: “What a duo.”
Mauro Fernández Rochetti narrowed his eyes. “I think that’s a very accurate analysis. And don’t forget César was a violent young convict, unbalanced. He had drugs and alcohol in his system at the time of the murder.”
Gibson asked why the Diogenes Group had arrested the two state police detectives who had killed the assassin.
“My officers have been kidnapped by the so-called Diogenes Group,” Fernández Rochetti said tightly. “They intervened heroically and killed the assassin when he confronted them. They deserve medals, yet the Diogenes Group has put them in custody for some bizarre reason. It is an aberration. They are political prisoners.”
Gibson referred to a notepad. “I’ll read you what Licenciado Méndez, chief of the Diogenes Group, said yesterday: ‘The state police will never solve this murder. They will never investigate the only two places they should investigate: the office of the chief of their own Tijuana homicide squad and the headquarters of Multiglobo Productions.’ What is your comment about this very serious insinuation, Commander?”
Fernández Rochetti squared his shoulders and showed a flash of tongue.
“Two points, Porfirio, if you please. Number one, it’s easy to make accusations without proof. There is proof for everything I have told you. Second: I have been a policeman for thirty-seven years. Not one or two years. Thir-ty se-ven.” Soft pats on the table accompanied each syllable. “I’ve never been a newspaperman or a political agitator. Only a policeman. And I have learned that police work is bittersweet. I always try to emphasize the sweet and eliminate the bitter. A real policeman can’t afford to get hysterical at a moment like this. That’s my advice to Mr. Méndez.”
After the interview, the anchorman and anchorwoman in Mexico City made comments about how bad things were at the border. How all Mexicans hoped the authorities would pursue the case to its ultimate consequences. Then they moved on, having dedicated an entire seven minutes to the assassination without once mentioning the name Ruiz Caballero.
“Alright.” Méndez silenced the television. “So much for the bullshit official version.”
The phone rang. Méndez mouthed the words “The Secretary.” The man in Mexico City had seen what he needed to see of the evening news.
“That Mauro Fernández Rochetti is certainly a foul specimen, is he not, Leo?” the Secretary said.
Vivaldi was audible in the background. Méndez imagined his boss sipping a brandy in his study. Getting no response, the Secretary continued: “I am working hard for a decision at the highest levels to remove the case from the state police and designate the federal police and the Diogenes Group as the investigative agencies on the assassination.”
“The federal police? You would trade one traitor for another.”
“I thought the federal police had been comparatively neutral.”
“Only more passive.”
“In any case, I’m afraid it may take a while. The Ruiz Caballeros are spreading around money and pressure. The Senator’s allies are protecting Junior and the state police. Any progress with your prisoners? I’m feeling heat to surrender them.”
“No. I don’t think there will be unless we use old-fashioned methods. But our northern friends”—Méndez glanced at Isabel, who nodded—“are still ready to move forward with the indictments. And any technical assistance we need. I think there’s no doubt we can establish that the state police engineered the assassination and then got rid of the assassin. It’s not a question of proof. It’s a question of political will.”
“For the moment, Leobardo, I can only repeat how important it is to keep a cool head. Go slowly. Start at the bottom and work our way up. It’s a delicate moment.”
“Yes sir,” Méndez said, bridging his eyes with a hand to his forehead. “Slowly. Start at the bottom and work up.”
“Exactly,” the Secretary said. He hesitated. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. Take care of yourself.”
Méndez hung up and sipped coffee. He asked Athos: “Do we have a surveillance team on Junior?”
“Yes.”
“I want to be on top of his movements at all times. Review the plans for capturing him.”
Puente sat up and said: “Leo, did I hear you talk about going slow?”
Méndez patted the phone as he would a pet. He gave her a ragged smile. “I was imitating the Secretary, actually, and lying through my teeth. I have no intention of waiting any longer. Maybe if I had lied sooner, Araceli would still be alive.”
Athos and Porthos looked pained. Méndez raised a hand, cutting off Puente.
“I’m serious,” he said, hearing his voice shake. “I miscalculated badly. I was wrapped up in my own fuzzy ideas. I thought I would be the target. I never thought they would go after someone so popular, a human rights official, a woman. It’s a barbarity, it violates all the codes. But I should have seen it coming.”
“Licenciado, all of us were caught off guard,” Athos said.
“It won’t happen again. We have our arrest warrants, signed by a brave federal prosecutor in Mexico City, and our evidence. As soon as you say the moment is tactically sound, Athos, we grab Junior.”
Athos nodded contentedly. Porthos’s grin was awed. Puente looked preoccupied.
Méndez regarded her deadpan. “What? You think it’s impossible?”
“No,” she said. She took a deep breath. “I want to tell you something. It complicates the situation, but it could help. Valentine finally made contact. He’s OK.”
“Ah.”
“He’s inside, Leo. He’s with Junior’s entourage and he’s ready to help us any way he can.”
Puente went on to explain the series of events that had propelled the fugitive Border Patrol agent into a position of trust with the Ruiz Caballero triggermen. Méndez leaned back in his chair, his eyes almost closed, trying to appear impressed. He didn’t trust Pescatore. He thought Isabel’s faith in him was naive and risky. He didn’t understand whether it was hidden talent or clumsy gringo luck that kept the young agent alive.
“Isabel, that’s all very interesting,” Méndez said when she had finished. “But you’ll forgive me if I have grave doubts. The fact that Pescatore has fallen in with Araceli’s murderers does not change my opinion of him.”
“He has taken an incredible risk in reaching out to me, Leo,” Puente said. “Don’t you think that proves his credibility?”
“Not if it is a trap.”
“I know him. He’s not that slick an operator. Not with me.”
“Don’t misunderstand me, I am very happy for you that he—”
“Happy for me?” Puente leaned forward combatively, her stare hardening. “What do you mean? It has nothing to do with me. You should be happy for all of us.”
Méndez raised a hand defensively. This was no time to get into a battle. They needed each other too much. “That is what I meant. I am happy he has stumbled into the right place at the right time.”
Later that night, Puente let Mendez listen in on Pescatore’s next call. Pescatore was apparently hiding in a bathroom, whispering into the cell phone. The details convinced Méndez that the kid really was inside Junior’s entourage as he claimed. Pescatore sounded sincere, for whatever that was worth. Puente kept the conversation brief, telling Pescatore what they needed. But there was an undercurrent of intimacy in the way she talked to him: her eyes down, her mouth close to the phone, her voice husky. There is no doubt whatsoever that something happened between these two, Méndez told himself. Let’s hope for the love of God that it hasn’t affected her judgment.
The next day, a team of undercover Diogenes officers shadowed Junior. He rode in a five-vehicle caravan to have lunch at his favorite seafood restaurant in a mini-mall in the Río Zone. He stopped afterward for drinks in the lounge of a twin-towered hotel. He was showing himself in public, making a statement that he had nothing to fear.
But Junior stayed home that night. While they waited for a call from Pescatore, M
éndez dozed at his desk with his head propped on his arms. A disc on his computer soothed him: Billy Strayhorn playing solo piano. Méndez had insisted that Puente rest in the adjacent sleeping quarters. At 3 a.m., she hurried into his office, shirttails out of her jeans, hair tousled, listening to her phone as she snapped her fingers to get Méndez’s attention.
After she hung up, Puente briefed Méndez. Pescatore had reported that Junior’s people had relaxed. The word had come from Senator Ruiz Caballero in Mexico City not to worry. The heat would be off soon.
“Really,” Méndez growled. “That might explain why the Secretary didn’t call tonight.”
Puente stifled a yawn. “Valentine said Junior’s in a terrible mood. A woman wanted him to see her. Natalia?”
“Natasha,” Méndez said. “Did he say anything else?”
“Buffalo convinced Junior it was better not to go. And Junior didn’t like it. Who’s Natasha?”
“The wife of an old man with money.”
“Pretty?”
“She was Miss Rosarito or something. Junior has a house in Colonia Postal he uses for their get-togethers.”
“How romantic.”
Méndez knew the rhythms of Junior’s moods and appetites. From the moment he heard the name Natasha, Méndez had the instinct that he was going to get his chance. The next morning, Méndez ordered Athos to plan the operation for Colonia Postal, a quiet neighborhood in the hills east of the San Ysidro Port of Entry. Athos established a command post in a house across the street from Junior’s love nest. The owners were out of town; Athos took over the house in the name of police business. He persuaded the maid to spend the night elsewhere. He gave her money for expenses and sent her off with a chaperone, a female officer of the Diogenes Group.
The message from Pescatore came Sunday evening: “Natasha tonight.”
Méndez and Puente hurried to the command post. To reach it they parked on a street downhill and crept through an alley and the backyard.
“A good location for what you have in mind,” Puente said, peering out of the darkened living room window. Lined with stucco houses, the long street curved up a hillside. It was not an ostentatious neighborhood; Junior’s hideaway was one of the larger homes. The feebly lit street seemed particularly lifeless on the weekend. Crickets creaked in purple ivy.
Triple Crossing Page 22
