by Sarah Lovett
And even generals were on the take.
"Bobby Dowd was a good cop—but unrealistic. He believed he could play the undercover game, that he could step in shit without getting it on his shoes."
Matt refocused on Vargas, took in the thought. He said, "The El Paso cops seem to believe Dowd's gone off the deep end—that he's just a cop with a junkie's problem. I get the feeling they"re treating his disappearance like an embarrassment."
"They're wrong. The kid's got a habit, but he's still got a code." Vargas shook his head. "He got popped because he knows something."
"How can you be sure?"
"Bobby called me just before he disappeared—he wanted a meeting."
"About Snow White?"
Vargas tensed. Matt caught the reaction and smiled. "So I lied," he said. "You left me in the middle of a fucking street war back there, friend."
"Tell me what you know."
"It was a quiet little project set up by the D.E.A. and assorted feds a few years back. Objective: the arbitrageurs." Matt took a long sip of beer. "The feds wanted to persuade some of the biggest money movers to flip snitch."
Matt knew about the project because he was a privileged member of New Mexico's law-enforcement community. New Mexico was the favorite stomping ground for arbitrageurs. They came in various flavors: retired real estate moguls from California, art dealers, former actors who'd been in three or four movies, has-been sports stars. Where better to launder drug money than in a state almost devoid of disclosure laws? Even the feds were powerless to probe too deeply when no state laws were violated.
Snow White had definitely been interesting—a project Matt might have enjoyed working. The arbitrageurs were the elite of the drug world. They were the guys who made drug money fly around the planet like a high-tech gaggle of geese. They moved billions of dollars, and their tools were laptops, satellite uplinks, money chips, dirty bankers—and brains. To stay in business, they had to be smart.
He closed one eye and turned to Vargas. "Dowd?"
"Bobby was part of the project. He was a straight shooter, hungry to climb, a regular mini G-man in a starched white shirt." Vargas sipped whiskey, nodding. "There was a lot of talk back then about the diaries—"
Matt shook his head and snorted. "Not the Tuna Diaries again. This has got to be the third time this week that old b.s. story's come up."
Vargas didn't move. "Maybe it's not bullshit. Maybe the diaries were part of Snow White. It's possible the feds had a source who was willing to trade. They couldn't ask for better leverage to use on the arbitrageurs. How else would they flip those guys?"
Matt finished his beer in one swallow, almost choking. "You know that for a fact?"
Vargas took too long to answer, and Matt groaned. "Let me guess, your fountain of information is none other than Bobby Dowd?"
"What I heard was Tuna destroyed the diaries." Vargas gazed up at the ceiling. "They had transaction numbers, dates, accounts—your money trail."
Matt gave another derisive snort. "What, no names?"
Victor shrugged. "I don't think Tuna is that stupid. But if somebody knew the game, eventually they would figure out the players, no?"
"Someone like Bobby Dowd?"
Victor's smile was cool. "That project was shut down tight. If you mention Snow White, don't expect so much as a fart from the feds."
Matt narrowed his eyes, thinking, unable to avoid inhaling the dense smoke that filled the bar like a toxic cloud. He didn't buy the story of the diaries—it was too fantastic. But he knew one thing for a fact: the feds would go to great lengths to protect a high-level snitch.
Victor motioned to the server for la cuenta just as the door to the Kentucky Club opened again. A group of young American girls entered. They weren't more than eighteen years old; freshmen from the University of Texas. With his eye on the giggling girls, Matt hardly noticed the tiny, dark-haired man who appeared at his elbow.
At a quick glance he looked seventy, but he wasn't a man, he was a boy; a street urchin, maybe eleven or twelve years old—scrawny because he'd been chronically malnourished. His hair stood up on his head in thatches. He was barefoot, grubby, missing several teeth, and his T-shirt displayed a monstrous creature with dripping fangs over a caption: I WAS BITTEN BY THE CHUPACABRA!
Before Matt had a chance to react, Vargas spoke in formal Spanish—Matt, the very important man I wanted you to meet—introducing the boy as Chupey. Vargas stood, scattering Mexican bills on the table. "Time to go."
RINGED WITH GLOWING torches, the disk-shaped Pottery House had the unearthly aura of a spaceship hovering over the foothills of New Mexico's Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Sylvia had heard about the house, but as she pulled up in the passenger seat of Rosie Sanchez's Camaro she had her first view of the Frank Lloyd Wright design. She was impressed, but she had other things on her mind.
She clutched a copy of the Albuquerque Journal in her lap; the front-page headline read: GIRL MAY FIND FATHER ON DEATH ROW. The article spanned six columns and contained information that could only have been released through Jim Teague or Noelle Harding. It read like a hybrid soap opera and political campaign, meticulously constructed to buy Wheeler a stay of execution. Without identifying the child, the story painted a tear-jerking picture of an orphaned and psychologically traumatized girl.
The mute girl is under the care of a prominent local psychologist and has been hospitalized for her own protection. According to a hospital source, the child's condition is ". . . psychologically based. . . a rare childhood-onset disorder." Harding's lawyer, the celebrated Texan "Big Jim" Teague, described the child as". . .a fragile waif. Your classic storybook orphan." He acknowledged that it will take weeks before paternity test results are known. A sample of Cash Wheeler's blood was taken while the inmate was still behind the bars of his death row cell. A private laboratory in Texas will perform the test.
Sylvia curled the paper and slapped it against her other hand. "Why aren't we moving?"
"What is this lambe doing?" Rosie shifted into neutral and let the Camaro idle behind the stretch limousine that hogged the driveway. "Why don't rich people drive short cars?" She honked her horn at the limo driver, a cocky kid who'd emerged from the oversized vehicle.
"Go around." Sylvia stretched out an arm, motioning in the direction she hoped to move. "Valet parking straight ahead."
"We should have brought Matt's troque," Rosie said. "How can you drive that monster?"
"Very slowly." Sylvia jammed the newspaper back inside her briefcase. "I want to leave my case in your trunk—don't let me forget it."
Rosie clucked her tongue as she nosed her car past the limousine toward a row of gleaming torches and young men in valet uniform. She muttered, "If they so much as scratch my paint . . ." She pulled the car to a stop, shifted to neutral, and set the parking brake. A teenaged valet was already eyeing the cherry-metallic Camaro greedily, as if he planned to take it for a spin.
Rosie climbed out, smoothed her skirt so it was only two inches above her knees, and took the claim ticket from the valet. She popped the car's trunk, smiling sweetly. "Scratch it and I'll sue."
Sylvia dropped her briefcase inside the trunk and slammed the lid shut. She shot the kid a sympathetic smile. As she passed him, she whispered, "She's got the best attorney in the state—a total cojone-buster."
Several golf carts were shuttling guests the three hundred yards uphill to the main house, but Sylvia and
Rosie elected to walk. Both women were breathless by the time they reached Pottery House. The main entrance began with a trellis-shaded gate and a brick path through an enclosed courtyard that served as the eye of the building's elliptical design.
Guests had spilled from the living area onto the courtyard's softly illuminated lawn. The muffled hum of social interaction hung in the air. Rosie accepted a glass of wine from a passing waiter. She pointed out the rose petals floating in the ornamental reflecting pool, then stopped to warm her hands at a massive outdoor Kiva fireplace. Sylv
ia entered the living room, stepped down brick levels, and found herself on the other side of the indoor-outdoor fireplace, where a second fire burned hospitably.
The space was at least thirty feet long, with latias and molded walls bare of ornaments. Across the room, outside one of three glassed arches, Sylvia thought she caught a glimpse of Noelle Harding. She felt someone tap her arm, realized Rosie had joined her, then looked back. Noelle had already disappeared.
Rosie's voice was abnormally subdued. She said, "Someone told me the house is almost five thousand square feet, they used about thirty thousand adobes, there's an underground garage, and a swimming pool out back that you can swim into from the house—"
A tall, slender man with gray hair and a clipped beard stopped gracefully in his tracks to say, "And we're not in El Paso."
"What?" Rosie looked intrigued.
The man's eyes sparkled. "Wright designed this house in 1941 for an El Paso couple. Some people say Frank was inspired by Stonehenge—"
Sylvia left Rosie and her talkative acquaintance and caught up with another wandering waiter. He held out a tray of wineglasses: "We're offering a plummy burgundy or a light, woodsy chardonnay."
"Woodsy chardonnay with Frank Lloyd Wright." She accepted the drink, then crossed the room to the glassed arches, which opened onto a walled verandah. The view was all deep canyon and distant lights. Sylvia moved to the opposite end of the verandah to avoid a romantic couple. The sound of laughter and faint music from an orchestra danced on the night air.
"If I have to convince one more rich banker to give a few dollars to charity, I'll jump off this balcony."
Sylvia turned to see her hostess standing on the threshold. Noelle was dressed in simple, light-colored silk, and her blond hair hung loose just below her slender shoulders. In silhouette she appeared thin to the point of fragility, but her voice was deep and mocking.
"Was the article part of your fund-raising drive?" Sylvia asked quietly.
Noelle stepped forward to stand next to Sylvia. She looked out at the canyon. "The story was necessary. I've been fielding calls from reporters since Sunday. Teague handled the interview. After he had a talk with the division head at the attorney general's office of appeals. The A.G.'s attitude is refreshingly cooperative."
"And the governor?" Sylvia remembered that Noelle Harding had strong supporters in the Land of Enchantment.
"You can ask him yourself. He's my guest this evening." She turned toward Sylvia suddenly. "Did we offend you with our crassness?"
"I took you to see Serena; I talked with you openly about her progress. Two days later, I open a newspaper and see my words attributed to a hospital source."
Harding's voice warmed with emotion. "I used you, yes. But public sympathy is shifting. There are whispers of possible commutation to life." She touched Sylvia's arm gently, then swung around as if the subject were settled. "I'd like to introduce you to some special people." She forged a path through the living and dining area, past an industrial-sized kitchen, and finally into an even larger room that opened on the swimming pool and deck. The pool lights gave off a soft blue glow. Sylvia followed, passing clusters of guests as they approached a busy freestanding bar. Arranged around the pool, musicians were playing soft Latin music.
As she walked, Sylvia caught snippets of party conversation.
"—according to you, Senator?"
"I heard she leases the house—"
"Peanuts or almonds?"
"That's Robert Redford? He's soooooo short."
Finally, Noelle entered another wing of the house. As they passed through a glassed hallway, she said, "I've been wanting to show you my work."
The sunken room was dimly lit and spacious enough to accommodate two dozen people with ease. Even in shadow, Sylvia recognized a senator, the governor, and Jim Teague's bulky frame. Teague was part of a group arranged in chairs around a nine-foot-high screen—the screening room.
Video images—professionally rendered—flashed across the screen: small children, undernourished, dirty, ill, or injured. Noelle Harding's voice narrated on tape: "This isn't some distant land, Asia, India, Africa; these children live along the border of Mexico and the United States of America. They survive in squalor, they go hungry, and they are deprived of basic educational services and medical care. Prosperity is just miles away, but they take no part in it."
The images changed: four young boys raced out of the shadows, chasing a train as it slowed on its tracks. The narration continued, "These children are forced to find income where they can—unfortunately, desperation may lead them to commit illegal acts. Many are recruited at an early age by members of the drug cartels. Once inducted, they owe lifetime allegiance to the drug lords."
The picture changed again; a man who looked like a politician spoke into a microphone: "We are fighting the drug armies with seismic sensors, cameras, infrared scopes, and always more money. But we're losing the war, my friends. And our foremost victims are our children, our future."
Sylvia felt breath on her neck, then she heard Jim Teague's voice: "I know you've looked over the case files. Are you always such a go-getter? So gung ho?"
Sylvia looked at Teague, and alcohol fumes hit her square in the face. "I'm sorry about last night's phone call."
He waved away her apology. "Find anything enlightening besides Jesús?" His laugh was short and caustic.
"I ran an on-line search of Children's Rescue Fund. That was enlightening."
Teague crossed his arms and turned so his body was square with hers. "Last year the Rescue Fund had an operating budget of one hundred and fifty million. If you throw in Harding Enterprises, it all adds up to more than a billion a year. That's not a monster to cross. I hope your search told you that much." He turned away.
Sylvia didn't answer. She pretended to return her attention to the video, glad for dim light. The lawyer had made her blush.
But now the video image grabbed her—Jim Teague in a group shot with Noelle Harding and two other men. She heard the voice-over: "In 1988, four citizens of El Paso formed the International Children's Rescue Fund. Their goal: to fight the exploitation of children—"
Sylvia turned to speak to Teague again, but he had moved back to his seat. In the flickering projected light, she felt his eye on her; she quickly glanced away. She had never considered that Teague might have been in El Paso with Noelle Harding.
She was startled when she felt fingers slide around her forearm. Rosie whispered, "Follow me."
Sylvia let her friend lead her out of the screening room—apparently undetected—and along a short hallway. As she stepped through a doorway, Sylvia protested, "Rosie, this is Noelle's room."
"I found out she and Deck Harding—her billionaire husband—are estranged, but don't worry, they worked out the money thing." Rosie's speech was loud and loosened by wine. "I think she's bopping Teague."
"Bopping?"
"Doing the nasty thang! Whatever. Look what I found!" Rosie scurried to a freestanding museum-sized glass case; small pieces of sculpture and folk art were on display.
She pointed to a figurine occupying the prominent space. It was roughly three feet high, cast in dark metal, a gruesome goddess: her skirt was made of snakes, a necklace of human hearts and hands encircled her shoulders, a skull's pendant hung from the necklace; blood gushed from her headless neck, spouting upward to form double rattlesnake heads.
"Coatlicue.'' Noelle Harding had quietly entered the room. "She's Aztec. As you can see, she has a thirst for blood."
Sylvia was embarrassed and startled, but she hoped her question sounded casual. "Did you find her in Mexico?"
"I didn't. She was a gift from Jim. And yes, I believe he picked her up on one of his junkets to Mexico City."
VICTOR VARGAS GUIDED the taxi along the river-frontage road, heading west. Matt occupied the backseat, posing as a fare. Chupey was invisible in the front seat; his head didn't top the dash. The paved road gave way to dirt, the glow of the city lights dimmed,
and the air was uncomfortably warm, even at ten-forty P.M. As they drove deeper into Anapra, the sprawling barrio that grew like a cancer on the western edge of Juárez, the dirt side streets were represented by numerals instead of names, then they were only eroded trails and, finally, ruts. Power lines ended abruptly with the main road; raw sewage flowed along rough acequias. The reflected haze of downtown softly illuminated the barren hills and the shanties that perched along their steep sides. The sounds of music, voices, and traffic drifted like a mist over the jumbled landscape. Children and dogs wandered the streets. Scrawny chickens roosted on abandoned vehicles. Every few blocks the taxi passed a local grocery or liquor store. Here the crowds were denser, as people had gathered to drink and pass the time.
Chupey sat high enough to guide Vargas along the maze of streets. His small dirty fingers pointed right, then left. After twenty minutes of winding, twisting navigation, the boy sat rigidly upright in his seat. "¡Aquí! La niña vivió aquí!"
Victor let the taxi roll past the house, braking to a stop about two hundred feet downhill. Matt got out of the car and rested his butt against the warm hood. The bad air, the border conditions, the trappings of poverty were all manifesting in a vague headache.
He looked up, across the street, to the residence Chupey had selected. It was set off the road, riding the edge of a ruined hillside maybe fifty feet above street level. A yard light set on a twenty-foot pole illuminated a section of the crumbling earthen wall and its foundation—hundreds of old tires. They were stacked like poker chips, jammed into the side of the hill, supporting however many tons of disintegrating clay.
A multiple-story structure—part adobe, part cinder block—occupied the space behind the adobe wall. Although the property was a ruin by middle-class standards, it appeared almost luxurious in the half darkness of the primitive surroundings. The wall probably enclosed more than an acre of property. Matt guessed it had been a prosperous villa many years ago, before the slums had overtaken it like a deadly virus.
Two portals—ground-level and second-story—ran the length of the main residence. Each verandah was enclosed by ten- or twelve-foot-high grillwork. A grilled exterior stairway descended the southeast wall from the second story. Another high fence enclosed the rooftop.
