Path to Justice

by Jim Dutton

  “I want to go down there. I’ll bring my agents.”

  “You can’t Nick. We have to comply with our international treaties and agreements with Mexico. We can’t have unauthorized law enforcement flooding into Tijuana. I was able to send a few more DEA agents to help with the search. Everything that can be done, is being done. They will find Pepe.”

  “Please have the DEA agents keep me informed. I will be at my office.”

  Nick’s head drooped. He began to nod off. A half dozen cups of coffee and updates every couple of hours weren’t enough to keep his eyes open.

  Jerry gently shook Nick awake. “The sun is coming up Nick. It’s 6:30. What do you want us to do?”

  “Any word yet?”

  “No. They have expanded the search. Every business and house within a mile radius of the kidnapping has been searched. They are canvassing known cartel body dumping spots from Tijuana to Tecate to Ensenada. It doesn’t look good.”

  “I’m not giving up hope. We’re going down there to help. I don’t give a shit about international treaties.”

  El Toro’s call came at two in the morning. “Chacal, I haven’t seen law enforcement out like this. It must be because of the American cop you snatched.”

  “Yes Sir. I heard from my state police contact that they have never been rousted in full force like this before. The gringos want their cop back real bad.”

  “They can make it tough on us if the American cop shows up dead. It’s bad for business. The message still gets sent for the state policeman. We can’t have them messing with our friends. Do away with him. Don’t hurt the American. Send a more subtle message. Lay him next to his dead Mexican colleague with a message to stay on his side of the border. Drop the bodies at La Bufadora by 5:00 A.M. That should get their attention.”

  John and Gretchen Sparrow wanted to see the famous La Bufadora in Ensenada before the crowds. The ocean bursting through the hole in the rocks with each wave was supposed to be spectacular. It was the first time that John and Gretchen had traveled abroad from their farm in Iowa. They were used to getting up early in the morning to feed their livestock.

  At 6:30, John pulled into the parking lot by the blowhole. They could see the spray erupting above the rocks from the parking lot. As they walked closer, they saw two dark shapes lying by the edge the blowhole. John crept closer and saw two bodies. Both were tied and gagged. One was lying in a pool of blood. His throat had been slit. The other man’s eyes were dancing about, reflecting fear and determination. The man had I.D. credentials open on his stomach and handwritten words in dark red across the chest of his white shirt, STAY ON YOUR SIDE OF THE BORDER.

  Gretchen came up. Her loud, high-pitched screams competed with the noise from La Bufadora. John removed the gag. Pepe gasped, “I’m an American police officer. Get the police!”

  Nick and the team were loaded to leave when Nick’s cell rang. “Nick, tourists found Pepe alive next to La Bufadora in Ensenada. His friend Nacho was beside him, dead. His throat had been slashed.”

  Tears came to Nick’s eyes. He couldn’t talk. Bea said, “Nick, are you still on the phone?”

  A few seconds past. Nick got ahold of himself. “Yes, I want to go there.”

  “He won’t be there by the time you arrive. A life flight helicopter is on its way to pick him up and bring him back to Scripps Hospital in La Jolla. Pepe should be there in 30 minutes.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much. I will be there when he lands.”

  Nick and the task force members were at the rooftop helo pad when the helicopter landed. Pepe was on a stretcher. Nick went to him as the medics were lifting him out of the copter. Pepe was hooked up to an I.V. and had a blood pressure cuff around his arm. Pepe reached out and grabbed Nick’s hand. “I’m alright Nick. I took a blow to the head, but the bleeding has stopped.”

  “Thank God. I always knew you were one tough son-of-a-bitch. There’s no way you’d die on me.”

  “Die on you and miss your cheapskate team party at the end on the year? No way.”

  The medics intervened. “We have to take Mr. Cantana to the emergency room. Although his vitals are fine, he did suffer a blow to the head. He may have a concussion.”

  Nick said, “Thank you. Pepe, I’m sorry about Nacho. He was a good man.”

  “I know. He won’t be forgotten.”

  “You and I have long memories, Pepe. One way or another the men who did this to Nacho and you will get their due.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nick looked at his watch, only 11:30 p.m. What a way to spend a Friday night, on a red-eye to Ottawa to meet with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police about the Baja Norte Familia cartel bringing drugs through Yaak to British Columbia. He kept thinking of Pepe. I’m so glad he is alright. Just a mild concussion and he is cleared to go back to work on Monday.

  With the three-hour time change, the plane should land at about 7:30 a.m., Canadian time. Nick’s legs were crunched into the seat ahead of him. Nothing like flying coach across country when you are 6 feet, 4 inches. No food except pretzels. Flying was more like taking the Greyhound bus. Pack ’em in and move ’em out. But what really pissed him off was that Ana was flying business class with all that legroom and warm towels to cleanse her dainty fingers after enjoying veal scaloppini, a berry tart and champagne. At least that’s what the menu showed that he had grabbed as he walked through the first class and business class sections. Nick was lucky to even get last minute approval. He didn’t think the AG’s Office would have signed off unless it had been a budget, red-eye flight. Ana, being with ICE, flush with federal funds, was flying business class because the agency allows the upgrade on any flights over five hours. Nick thought they must want to keep their agents fresh and at their best. Not so for the tag-along state attorney. He put aside his craven envy and realized at least one of them might get a decent night’s sleep.

  Ana was savoring her first bite of the veal, thinking about why Nick had chosen her over the other agents to accompany him to the meeting. She thought she was the logical choice, an agent with Immigration and Customs Enforcement, and this being a border operation with Canada. She still wondered if there might be more to it. Although irascible, close to 20 years her senior, and losing the fight to a middle-age paunch, there was something attractive about Nick. He had this commanding personality, brokered no fools, and seemed comfortable in his own skin. She wondered if her attraction to Nick had anything to do with her father, who had been 20 years older than her mother. Ana had adored her father. He was a quiet, thoughtful man, who immigrated to the United States from Germany after World War II. Her father died when Ana was 15. She still spoke to her father when she couldn’t sleep at night. She had better stop these mental meanderings. It’d be more fruitful to worry about whether her neighbor would stop by and feed Sneakers.

  Nick was lightly shaken awake by the blond stewardess with a southern drawl, “Going to be landin’, Sir. Please fasten yo’r seat belt.” Nick caught a glimpse of the western end of Lake Ottawa in the dawn’s light as the plane began to descend. The skyscrapers along the lakefront looked like a steel wall keeping the water at bay from the rest of Ottawa’s urban sprawl.

  The 35-minute taxi ride into their small hotel in old town Ottawa was uneventful. He let Ana pay the cabdriver, ICE could afford it. So much for old-fashion male responsibilities. He liked the hotel. It was built in the 1700s, was four stories tall, and used to be a bank building. The rooms were small, but had decent size bathrooms, and most importantly the bed had a firm mattress. Abbie C. had sweet talked the hotel proprietor into allowing them to check in early without paying for an extra night. Ana had a room down the hall. Nick told her that he’d meet her in the lobby at noon, after he caught up on a few hours sleep.

  Ana was sitting in the lobby when Nick appeared. He was wearing his Irish tweed sport jacket in honor of the British empire. It probably would irritate the p
olice officials of the French-oriented province. Oh well, can’t please everyone. Nick wasn’t feeling on the top of his game, languishing through a sleep deprived hangover. Some good French food and a glass of vin rouge for lunch would perk him up. Nick actually livened up a bit when he looked at Ana. She was doing her Sandra Bullock federal agent imitation, professionally dressed, but still looking sexy as hell. Nick said, “Aren’t those heels a bit high for walking on cobblestones?”

  “These shoes have seen me through a lot rougher times than a few cobblestones.”

  “Suit yourself. I thought we could go to lunch at a little French restaurant around the block, Cafe St. Elena. It’s known for its onion soup.”

  “Sounds fine to me Nick, lead on.” It turned out that Ana could navigate the cobblestones just fine. In a few minutes, Nick ducked his head to get through the old wooden door that led to an intimate dining area. A dozen tables were scattered on the tongue-and-groove, wood flooring. One table was free by the window that allowed most of the light to filter into the darkened room. At the far end of living room-size area, behind a bar, stood a middle-age woman with bright red hair, tied in back. Her head popped out from under the hanging glasses

  Her voice boomed, “Bonjour! Bienvenue!” Nick smiled at her and took a seat across from Ana. Madame Redhead weaved her way over to their table and handed each a menu.

  Nick said, “My apologies, we don’t speak French, just English.”

  “Quel Dommage! You won’t starve. The duck and spinach stuffed ravioli is good today.”

  Ana, quickly glancing at the menu, and seeing just a few words in French she understood, responded, “Bon, the ravioli for me”.

  Nick holding up two fingers said, “Make it two, and a half liter of vin rouge de maison. Plus, deux potages de l’oignon, sil vous plait.”

  “Merci, monsieur.”

  “Your French accent is worse than your Spanish accent. I hope potage means soup, I don’t want to be eating a potato and onion dish,” said Ana.

  “No worries Ana, a glass of fine red wine will relax you.”

  They each savored the red wine, smooth, not too heavy, perfect for lunch. Ana looked around the room and was delighted by the large, unfinished wood beams. There were three wood pillars placed between the tables, holding up the beams. It looked like they had been transported into a tavern from an old Robin Hood movie she watched as a child. She didn’t really feel like Lady Marion. And Nick was a far cry from Errol Flynn. But, he might pass for King Richard. There were copper kitchen items dangling from the beams, and whimsical paintings somehow tacked to the grey brick walls. She felt she was no longer in North America.

  The smells of onions, gruyere cheese, and French countryside herbs waffled up, the steaming soup immersed Ana in the moment. A layer of melted cheese and soaked slices of baguette hid the cooked onions in the broth beneath.

  Nick broke her sensory spell, “I read that the chef starts to prepare the soup the day before, allowing the sliced onions to simmer overnight in a large cauldron.”

  “Whatever they do, it works. This is absolutely delicious. The flavors blend so well, everything just melts in my mouth.”

  “Glad you like it Ana. I didn’t know it was going to be such a sensual experience for you.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me Nick.” Nick couldn’t leave that alone and as he tasted the onion soup, his mild imitation of Meg Ryan’s fake orgasm while sharing a meal with Billy Crystal in “When Harry Meets Sally” brought a smile to Ana’s lips.

  “Touche,” laughed Ana.

  Nick and Ana thought that the stuffed ravioli would be a disappointment after the soup. They were both surprised and lingered over the last few bites. “I never thought about moving to Canada before this meal,” said Ana.

  “Maybe if this case goes large, we can have a branch office here,” joked Nick.

  They were a few minutes late for their two o’clock meeting at RCMP. It was a modern complex, lots of glass interspaced with structural steel. Manicured grounds and a conglomeration of large metal statues, thrusting from the earth by the walkways, greeted them as they walked towards the entrance. RCMP had moved in a few years earlier, taking over the property from a high tech company. Nick thought how different this modern sprawl was from the old RCMP building in Toronto where he had coordinated with Canada’s lead federal law enforcement agency on a drug trafficking case in the nineties. He remembered going to the bar in the basement after the meeting and being served Irish whiskey by a Royal Mountie. Nick thought having a bar in a police building would be the ultimate morale booster for the rank and file. He imagined the outcry in the United States if a police agency had a bar in its station.

  Constable Edwards led them to a conference room on the third floor. It could comfortably seat 30 people and had state of the art audio and video equipment at one end. Nick and Ana were introduced to Inspector Cedric Harding, Sergeant Major Jeft Rosen, Corporal Sophie Beret and Criminal Intelligence Specialist Francois Prueur. Nick couldn’t help thinking to himself that none of the gentlemen looked anything like the Royal Mountie cartoon character, Dudley Do-Right, of his youth. Nick and Ana politely declined the offer of a veggie smoothie from the building’s fitness center. After the usual small talk and Nick reminiscing about the bar in the old Toronto headquarters, they got down to business.

  Inspector Harding said, “Sergeant Major Rosen will be overseeing the Canadian side of the operation and Corporal Beret will be in charge on the ground.”

  Nick replied, “Most of the agents for ground surveillance will be supplied by Homeland Security and Immigration and Customs Enforcement. We’ll also have air support on call, weather permitting.”

  “Excellent, we we plan to have an Aslak 350 helo on tap. It’ll be able to fly out of the airport at Cranbrook, British Columbia. It’s only about 30 miles from the Yaak border crossing,” said Sergeant Major Rosen. Rosen continued, “We looked over the reports and photographs you emailed us. We’re pretty much up to speed.”

  Nick inquired about whether RCMP had any positive hits on the photographs taken by Drury and Zack of the two persons who came twice from the Canadian side of the border for the duffle bag exchanges. Criminal Intelligence Officer Prueur replied, “Yes, it was the same two men both times. Low level thugs who came up from the States five years ago. One has a brother in the Mexican Mafia. The brother is currently housed in your federal lock-up in San Diego, awaiting trial on drug charges.”

  Nick nodded his head, “Impressive, you seem to know a lot about ‘guests’ in our facilities.”

  “We, like you, have our ways. All the information about the two Vancouver residents is contained on this USB-drive,” handing it to Nick.

  “Thanks Francois, I’ll trade you. Here are satellite photos of the border crossing to use as a reference to plan the surveillance operation. After 9-11, we can get just about anything on short notice.” About the only good thing to come out of 9-11, Nick thought.

  They pored over the satellite photos that filled the 10 foot by 15 foot screen. The photos showed the small logging road extending from either side of the border from the Yaak crossing. They discussed logistics: how many surveillance personnel on each side, where to place them, what vehicles to use and how to coordinate the two sides’ operations. It was decided that HSI would supply both international teams with the same radios that operated outside the frequency range of commercially sold equipment. Their transmissions would be scrambled and secure. It was agreed that RCMP wouldn’t use a helicopter for air support because it would be more apt to scare off the smugglers than one of the single wing Cessnas in RCMP’s fleet. They were also very cognizant of the need to get the surveillance up and running quickly. It was already the week before Thanksgiving, and the first snows often came by Christmas.

  They set 10 days from the meeting, the first Thursday of December, for the initial surveillance. Thursdays
were the days that the smugglers had met at the border in the past. On that Thursday morning, all of the surveillance teams would meet in Cranbrook, B.C., the closest airport to the border, for a briefing. Teams from both sides of the border would’ve already inspected their respective sides of the border for exact surveillance locations.

  They worked straight through for six hours, just stopping to gobble down pizza and salad delivered by a local Italian restaurant. The pizza was a thin-crust margherita, garnished with fresh basil. Nick made the acute observation between bites, “Not bad, they could franchise this pizza joint. All they’d need is Peyton Manning to pitch it.”

  Ana replied, “Your ugly American persona is showing.”

  “Someday Ana you will learn the difference between slightly veiled sarcasm and a heartfelt observation.”

  Cedric smiled, “I have tasted your Papa J’s. I will stick to the family run restaurant around the corner.”

  Finally, Nick said, “I give up, I’m exhausted. How about calling it a day?” Everyone agreed. The taxi got them back to their hotel just before nine.

  “Not to sound like a cliche, but do you want to come to my room for a quick nightcap?” asked Ana. “They have a well-stocked bar in the room.”

  “Good idea. I knew I liked you for some reason.” Sitting next to Ana on the couch, working on his second Jack Daniels, Nick couldn’t help but notice how attractive Ana was. Her brown hair falling to her shoulders, her large hazel eyes set off by high cheekbones and soft, olive-colored skin. And to be fair, he was also aware of the way her silk blouse clung to her breasts. The top two buttons were unbuttoned and it was driving Nick crazy.

  Ana turned to Nick, staring into his eyes, not saying anything. Nick whispered, “I thought women always had something to say.”

  “Only when the time is right. Is the time right Nick?”