“The New York subway attack.”
“Yes. A dramatic escalation. They were telling us to stay in the deal or else.”
“The deal’s that good.”
“You know it is. The sweetheart deal of the century. Our last president guaranteed them a path to the bomb in ten years. Gave them one-point-eight billion in small bills. Three different currencies. Dollars, Euros, Swiss Francs. The currency markets are so unstable. We probably paid for that damn tunnel.”
“A joint venture of sorts.”
Stein nods. “It must be. The Quds and the cartels have put up most of the financing. If you’re right, Bledsoe put up the land and cover for the operation. The Quds smuggle terrorists, the cartel smuggles everything else.”
“We digress. What led you to Salem?”
“We were all over that subway attack like stink on cheese. They made their first mistake. The battery in one of the bomb assemblies survived the explosions. We traced it to the general store right here in Salem.”
Stein smiles and tips her head toward main street.
“You got lucky,” I tell her.
“I boarded the first plane to El Paso. Drove into town Friday morning and heard a rancher had been murdered days before.”
Stein arrived mere hours before I did. “There are no coincidences.”
“No.” Stein fixes me with a cold stare. “There aren’t. One phone call, and I was seconded to the DOJ, in charge of the federal investigation.”
“All that, and you can’t get a warrant.”
“Political correctness, Breed. It’s a new world.”
“So?”
“Greyhound won’t allow the Border Patrol to search its buses. The ACLU and migrant rights groups are filing lawsuits all over the country. The constitutionality of searches is being challenged. Racial profiling, violation of the Fourth Amendment. One of those cases will go to the Supreme Court. That’s why we can’t search trucks leaving Bledsoe without a warrant.”
“What do they want us to do, fight a war with one arm tied around our balls?”
Stein raises her eyes to the ceiling. “Breed, please. We have to navigate the new reality. If I am turned down, I will lose credibility with management.”
“That’s bullshit, Stein.”
“Breed, I’ve spent ten years sucking cock and dealing with sexist crap you cannot imagine. This is my break. Forgive me for not wanting to fuck it up.”
Stein’s vulgarity shocks me. “We have a deal. I expect you to make good.”
She takes out her notebook and Montblanc. Makes notes. “And I shall. I will need help from you and Sheriff Garrick.”
“He’s out of his depth.”
“Of course he is.” Stein frowns at her notes. Her penmanship is immaculate. “With you and me to guide him, it won’t be a problem. He has the local relationships.”
Stein puts her pen down, explains her plan.
“It could work.”
“Thank you.”
“I have something else for you.”
Stein lifts an eyebrow.
I reach into my shirt pocket and take out a small plastic bag. Inside, the gleaming nine millimeter shell casing. I push it across the table. “A gesture of good faith.”
“Is that what I think it is?”
“That’s from the round that killed Keller. I’ll bet the killer’s prints are on it.”
For a long moment, Stein contemplates me. She takes the shell casing and puts it in her pocket.
“All right, Breed.” Stein gets up. “Let’s go.”
21
Salem, 1030 Hrs Wednesday
“I want to see this crime scene myself,” Garrick says.
Stein and I sit across from the sheriff. He sits behind his scuffed desk, leans back in his squeaky wooden recliner. My eyes take in the dented metal filing cabinets, the gun rack, the trophy wall, the photographs. Once again, I feel like I am facing a caricature of a sheriff. A man from a bygone age. He is the kind of man I would go hunting with, the kind of lawman Salem County needs.
“After we visit Bledsoe,” Stein tells him. “We don't want activity on that hilltop to stir things up.”
“I don’t know.” Garrick strokes his chin, stares at me. “What were you doing up there?”
“I tried to put myself in Keller’s place. Do what he did, go where he went. Those hills are the only high ground south of the Lazy K. They also overlook Bledsoe. Keller may have been surveying his land. Looked the wrong way, saw something he shouldn’t have seen.”
It’s a flimsy story, but I have Stein and the truth on my side. The bottom line is... it’s more important what I know than how I know it. The more I shove it in people’s faces, the more likely I am to provoke a reaction.
“You stayed up there all night.”
“Yes. Keller must have seen what I saw.”
“This isn’t enough for a warrant,” Garrick says. “The judge will throw us right out of court.”
“We’re not asking for a warrant.” When she wants to, Stein can be smooth as silk. “No respected American businessman would have a tunnel to Mexico built right into his factory. Yet Mr Breed, poking around the hills, saw what he saw.”
Garrick snorts. “What he thinks he saw.”
“Exactly.” Stein leans into the sheriff for emphasis. “We are humoring him and politely request Bledsoe do the same. When Breed sees the plant is innocent, this will all go away.”
“This is West Texas, Miss Stein.” Garrick folds his hands behind his head and leans back. The recliner squeaks. “Folks around here don’t take kindly to people who invade their privacy.”
“Even the law, Sheriff?”
“Especially the law. I won’t be any more welcome over there than you will.”
“You won’t help us.”
“I didn’t say that. All I’m saying is… I’m not the man to make the call.”
“Who is?”
“The mayor’s right close to Paul Bledsoe. They both belong to the same clubs in El Paso. Chamber of Commerce and all that.”
“Will he make the call?” Stein asks.
“Let’s find out.” Garrick reaches for his phone.
“Wait,” Stein says. “He’s not to know more than we intend to tell Bledsoe.”
“Breed saw something, we think he’s nuts, let’s humor him.”
“That’s about it.”
Garrick looks me in the eye. “I won’t be lying. Breed, the heat’s gone to your head. I think you’re seeing things.”
I shrug.
The sheriff puts his phone on speaker and dials a number. Posner’s hearty voice rumbles from the box. “Well, well, Sheriff Garrick... wants to speak with me. What can I do for you, boy?”
Garrick gives Stein a look that says, You owe me for this.
“Mayor,” Garrick says. “You are on speakerphone. I got Agent Stein and Mr Breed with me. We got us an issue.”
“An issue. My, my. Tell me all about it, Sheriff.”
Garrick details our request.
“Sheriff, you done taken leave of your senses. Breed, what kinda Mescal you been swilling out in them hills. You get the worm, boy?”
I suppress a smile. Watching these two old boys thumping their dicks amuses me. If only the stakes were not so high.
“Mayor,” Garrick cuts in. “If you persuade Paul Bledsoe to give us a tour of the plant, I am sure this will all go away.”
“No promises, Sheriff. I’ll call you back.”
Garrick disconnects the call.
“I’ve done my part,” Garrick says. “What do you expect to achieve?”
“There is a tunnel under that plant,” I tell him. “We are going to look for evidence it is there. We are going to find where they are hiding it.”
“If we find nothing, y’all will let it go.”
“No promises, Sheriff.” Stein shakes her head. “It depends what we find, and what the circumstances are.”
Garrick looks miserable. He was enjoying Salem
County until Keller’s murder disturbed his quiet life. I doubt he writes many traffic tickets.
“In what sort of business does Martin Posner engage,” I ask the sheriff.
“He’s made his money,” Garrick says. “Partner in one of the biggest law firms in El Paso. Moved out here years ago for the peace and quiet.”
Posner has a lucrative career. It makes sense that he would enter local politics in the town he decided to make his home.
We stare at each other for fifteen minutes. The phone rings. Garrick punches the speakerphone. “Garrick.”
“I’ve spoken to Bledsoe, and he wasn’t happy.” Posner pauses for effect. “Afraid I had to throw you under the bus, boy.”
Garrick grits his teeth. “Will he do it?”
“Be outside the plant at one o’clock. Bledsoe will show you around personally. Sheriff, you owe me.”
“Thank you, Mayor.”
Posner laughs from deep in his belly. “Don’t thank me yet, boy. You don’t know what you owe.”
22
Bledsoe, 1300 Hrs Wednesday
I stop Keller’s Ford next to Garrick’s Jeep in the Bledsoe parking lot. We’re at the back of an ocean of cars, two hundred yards from the fence. Next to me, dark hair in a bun, Stein stares at the plant through designer sunglasses.
“Any thoughts before we go in?” Stein asks.
Garrick dismounts, hitches his belt, and waits for us to join him.
“I think we should go in with independent eyes,” I tell her. “Neither of us should prejudice the other. We can compare notes after.”
I open the driver’s door and step onto Bledsoe land. My boots crunch on gravel. Sticky with sweat, I follow Garrick to the plant’s east gate. Dressed in her signature black pantsuit and designer glasses, Stein walks beside me. She wears sensible, flat-heeled dress shoes, polished glossy black. The faintest touch of dust is visible at the edge of her soles. I imagine her sitting in her hotel room, wetting a finger and swiping the shoes clean.
Two security guards wait at the gate. Garrick signs a log, and one of the men leads us to the main building. Two refrigerated eighteen-wheelers stand parked at the loading bay. Scores of pallets are disappearing into their gullets.
The guard takes us to the office block and leaves us in the reception area. The decor is clean and modern. White walls, white leather sofas, broad glass coffee tables. There is a desk with two attractive Latina receptionists. They offer us seats, bring us tall glasses of iced water. I’m struck by their understated sensuality.
Handpicked.
Bledsoe makes us wait half an hour. An obvious power play. Comes downstairs looking exactly as he appeared last night. Stetson, crocodile boots, jeans, brass rodeo belt. His embroidered western shirt is fastened at the throat with a bolo tie. Black cord, silver bolo tips, a turquoise stone set in a silver arrowhead.
Garrick shakes Bledsoe’s hand and introduces us. I’m surprised by the man’s flaccid grip. His baby-soft hands. I say nothing, wait for him to make the first move.
“Mr Breed,” he says. “Mayor Posner says you think you saw something unusual last night.”
“I saw young Mexican girls loaded into one of those trucks.”
The receptionists occupy themselves with matters on their desks. The state of their fingernails. Their ears are cocked, straining to hear every word.
“We did load a shipment some time before sunup,” Bledsoe says smoothly. “You may have seen some of our staff taking inventory of the contents. We take inventory and check the temperature before a truck is factory sealed. The seal is not broken until it arrives at its destination.”
“I know what I saw. They didn’t look like staff. Neither did the three men who joined them.”
“How far away were you, Mr Breed?”
“Half a mile. Up on that hill.” I step to the wide picture windows of the reception area and point to Mirasol’s lookout.
“Well, that’s quite a ways, Mr Breed. At that distance, how can you be sure?”
“I used binoculars.”
“I see.” Bledsoe looks skeptical. “What were you doing up there at such an hour?”
“I was hiking in the hills and got lost. If you hadn’t turned on the lights, I’d still be up there.”
Bledsoe looks at Garrick, then at Stein. “Mayor Posner assured me this was an informal visit. You have no warrant, and you are looking for nothing specific. Under those conditions, I agreed to show you around.”
“We’d sure appreciate it, Mr Bledsoe.” Garrick strives to convey the right amount of obsequiousness.
Bledsoe looks at me. “Mr Breed, you didn’t see what you think you saw. No hard feelings. I’ll take you on a private tour of our plant. It’s brand new, and we’re right proud of it. Fair enough?”
The man steps to the reception desk without waiting for my reply. He singles out one of the girls. “Have Frank meet me at the restraint line in twenty minutes.”
“Yes, Mr Bledsoe.” The young girl’s accent sounds like Mirasol’s.
Bledsoe smiles and the girl lowers her eyes.
“Let’s start in the loading yard,” Bledsoe says. He opens the door and we step into the heat.
“We employ around two thousand people in this plant.” Bledsoe sweeps his arm like a Roman emperor. “That’s more than half of Salem’s population.”
We walk past the two eighteen-wheelers. The air spilling from the loading bay is chilled, a stark contrast to the hot air that surrounds us. The cool breeze brushes my cheek. It smells like plastic and packaged food.
“I think we’ll skip the loading bay,” Bledsoe chuckles. “Reckon Mr Breed got an eyeful last night.”
On the other side of the loading bay are the holding pens and east fence. Beyond that, the foothills and Mirasol’s lookout. Between the pens and the fence is another gravel yard. The space is empty.
“The cattle arrive in trucks,” Bledsoe explains. “They back up to those gates, and the cattle are loosed into the holding pens. They run down a chute with a slip-resistant surface. We treat those animals with tender loving care, let me tell you. Don’t want no bruising. Don’t want to waste no meat.”
Bledsoe leads us toward the factory building, points out features of the pens. Water pipes are suspended over the chutes. They are used to shower and disinfect the animals before slaughter.
“The animals come through the chute and into our restraint unit,” Bledsoe says. “This is where we stun them.”
He opens a door and we enter the building. Workers in white coats and helmets recognize him. Careful to stay out of his way, they go about their work.
Next to the cattle chute stands the blond cowboy I met this morning. He’s wearing the same clothes, but has a red kerchief tied around his neck. Must have quite the bruise. Wonder if he talks.
“Frank,” Bledsoe greets him. “Good to see you. This here’s Frank, my right hand.”
Frank shakes our hands, saves me for last. I prepare myself for a crushing grip, find his handshake dry and firm. His eyes are malevolent.
“Explain the stunning process to our friends,” Bledsoe says.
“Yes, sir.”
Frank ushers us to a raised wooden platform. “Y’all want to see, you have to come up here.”
We climb the steps and line up at a rail constructed of two-inch lead pipe.
My mind races.
Bledsoe and Frank knew Mirasol had been asking questions. Probably turned in by one of the Latinos she approached. This morning, Frank did not know me. Now he does, and they know Mirasol and I are associated. We’re both in danger.
“The cattle come through one at a time,” Frank says. “That there is the restraining device.”
Two men stand on either side of a narrow pen at the end of the chute. A contraption of bars and levers sits at one end. A cow sticks its head into the pen, and one of the men pulls a handle. The restraining device closes on the cow’s neck, holding it tight.
“The animal is restrained. We don’t
waste no time—watch.”
The second man reaches down with what looks like a nail gun. Presses it flat against the forehead of the animal and fires. The animal slumps.
“That there’s the stunning device,” Frank drawls. “See, that gun there destroys a steer’s brain.”
Frank turns and leads us down a flight of steps on the other side of the platform. “That all right, Mr Bledsoe?”
“You can go, Frank.” Bledsoe smiles. “I’ll take it from here.”
I’ll bet you will.
I watch Frank go. Bledsoe could have handled that demonstration himself. He wanted Frank to identify me. Of course, Frank’s buddy is undergoing reconstructive surgery.
Bledsoe turns to Stein. “Hope y’all ain’t squeamish, miss,” he says. “I promise you from here on, these animals ain’t feeling no pain.”
We’re indoors, and Stein has not removed her sunglasses. If Bledsoe is unnerved, he gives no indication.
Men with long knives stab the cattle in the chest to sever the arteries leading from their hearts. “Stunning destroys the animal’s brain,” Bledsoe explains. “This process kills the animal.”
The process of slaughtering cattle is interesting, but not what I came to learn. “You said this plant is brand new.”
“This is part of the original plant,” Bledsoe explains. “We expanded the production lines towards the back of the building. Doubled the processing capacity.”
“How could you double the processing capacity,” Stein asks.
“We added a second stunning line. I’ll show you.”
The cavernous plant is dominated by conveyor belts and meat hooks. We watch as carcasses are skinned, gutted, and sawn in half. Spinal columns are removed in compliance with Mad Cow Disease regulations. There is no escaping the sickly sweet stench of gore.
We move deeper into the plant. By now, we are very close to the Rio Grande. We are in a large room where two uniformed men in blue coveralls are marking carcasses. Marked carcasses are pulled aside and dragged to a separate chamber.
Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) Page 10
