The Sienna Sand

by Jeff Siebold

  “Was torture involved?” asked Zeke, amused.

  “Well, I like to think they were going to cooperate anyway,” she said.

  * * *

  The small Mexican man had been sitting in the Border Patrol’s interview room for two hours, chained to the metal table. He wrung his hands and put his head down on the table. He picked his head up and looked at the mirror, and then wrung his hands again. He had been apprehended in the kitchen by the Border Patrol team.

  Zeke said, “He’s the driver. Probably the leader. I’d like to chat with him first, if that’s OK.”

  CPA Peterson nodded. “I think so.”

  Zeke opened the door to the interrogation room and walked in. He stood for a moment inside the door, looking at the van driver. Then he said, “Creo que estás en serios problemas.”

  The small man looked at Zeke but didn’t speak. He looked away nervously.

  “Serios problemas,” said Zeke again, still standing.

  The man shook his head, but didn’t say anything.

  Speaking Spanish with a northern Mexican dialect, Zeke said, “You don’t think I’m talking about the police, do you? Or the border patrol?”

  The man looked at him.

  “No, much more serious than that, my friend.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Well, there are a number of things that could happen now,” said Zeke, thoughtfully. “And none of them are good for you.”

  The small man looked at Zeke and then looked away.

  “That’s exactly what you’re thinking, isn’t it,” said Zeke. “You screwed up. Your boss won’t put up with that. You’re pretty much a dead man walking.”

  The man was mute.

  Zeke said, “I can’t think of a scenario that ends with you living.”

  The man shook his head, still looking away.

  “You lost a million and a half dollars worth of cocaine, my friend. And you’ve compromised two safe houses and a freight transfer terminal. They can’t be used again. In fact, the U.S. Government will seize them and auction them off,” said Zeke.

  The man looked at Zeke. He clearly hadn’t thought this through.

  “Not to mention that your two friends are begging to talk to us. They say you’re the boss, and they just signed on as muscle, to carry the mortar and the drugs. Actually, they said they didn’t know drugs were involved. They both said you’re the one with the connections and the plan.”

  Finally the small man spoke. “I’m not afraid of your prisons. Our gangs run your prisons. You can’t do anything to hurt me.”

  Zeke nodded amicably. “No, you don’t understand. We’re not going to arrest you. We’re going to deport you. Straight back to Mexico.”

  * * *

  The multi-jurisdictional team included two Border Patrol agents, three Sheriff’s Deputies, two Calexico police, Zeke, Kimmy and CPA Peterson. In a coordinated effort they approached the East Rivera home from all sides. It was three-thirty in the morning. Peterson waited until all of the personnel were in position and signaled to one of the Deputies, who breached the front door with a small battering ram.

  The door folded in immediately and the officers filed into the house quickly, single file. Others waited outside in case anyone tried to sneak out during the raid.

  “On the floor,” called one of the Border Patrol agents who had entered a bedroom half way down the hallway. “Get on the floor! Ponte en el suelo!”

  Another agent, brandishing an assault rifle, ran into the bedroom behind him. From further down the hallway came cries of “Clear!” “Clear!” “Clear!”

  In the end, one man was arrested and taken to County jail. His identification indicated that his name was Rogelio Camero. Zeke recognized him as the driver of the red Kia they had followed to the freight terminal.

  * * *

  “I doubt that you knew what you were getting into,” said Zeke, still speaking Spanish with his northern Mexican dialect. “I mean, how would you know about automatic rifles and mortars and such?”

  The man sitting across from him was, in Zeke’s estimate, the least intelligent of the three mortar operators. He was young- maybe eighteen or nineteen- and he claimed to have been hired “just to help move some equipment.”

  Zeke had mentioned the likelihood that he would be released and immediately deported, and now the young man, Carlos, was shifting anxiously in his chair. A light sweat had formed across his forehead.

  He was responsible for the cocaine, and then he lost it, thought Zeke.

  Zeke played the good cop. “So I know you want to help us, Carlos. That would be better than trying to explain why you lost the guns. And the drugs. And the mortar.”

  Carlos looked around the room, searching for a way out. “No, no I didn’t lose them,” he said, perhaps practicing the explanation. “I didn’t, it was Paco. He was in charge. Paco organized everything. I just did what he said.”

  Still looking at the door, he was willing it to open and release him.

  “Who are you afraid of, Carlos?” asked Zeke.

  The boy shook his head.

  “We can’t help you if we don’t know. Who were you working for?”

  Again the boy shook his head. Then he closed his eyes, shutting out his surroundings. He said, “No. No.”

  “Let me tell you what I know, then,” said Zeke. “Most of it is pretty obvious.”

  The boy, eyes squeezed shut, continued to shake his head in a slow, negative rhythm.

  “You and Enrique and Paco were hired to do some testing of the mortar, to see if it worked as well as someone thought. Paco was in charge, and you and Enrique were supposed to carry the equipment to and from the launch sites. Right so far?”

  No reaction from the boy.

  Zeke shrugged. “Then Paco hired Rogelio Camero to act as the receiver of the drugs. He set up in Calexico and received the projectiles using a laser guided system.”

  The boy opened his eyes.

  “But Paco wasn’t sure he could trust Rogelio with everything,” Zeke said, forging ahead. “So he arranged for you to meet him at the freight transfer terminal so he wouldn’t know where you were staying. So he couldn’t give up your workshop.”

  The boy was quiet now, but listening.

  “You fired the projectile, testing for distance and accuracy. You fired several on nights over the past few weeks, watching also to see if anyone noticed. To see if there’d be any repercussions or interest from the police. Or the Border Patrol.”

  The boy gave a single, slight nod. It was a subconscious movement.

  “Then, after testing different launch locations and practicing assembling and disassembling the equipment, cooling it after firing, and probably testing different payloads for optimum weight and such, you started sending the real thing over the wall. Last week.”

  Carlos looked stunned.

  “And the three of you made a practice run with a payload of cocaine. Who’s cocaine was it, Carlos?”

  The boy looked down, breaking eye contact. Nervous and afraid.

  “If you don’t tell me, you’re likely to end up dead,” said Zeke. “Who is it?”

  Need to push him harder, thought Zeke.

  “I cannot say. They will kill me,” said the boy.

  “They will do that anyway,” reasoned Zeke. “You failed in your mission. You lost millions of dollars worth of drugs and equipment. And you’ve been detained for several days, talking with the Border Patrol. Do you think they’ll let you live?”

  The question hung like a noose in the air.

  Then Carlos said, “Tatouage. It is Tatouage.”

  * * *

  “Tatouage,” said Peterson. “That’s a name we’re not familiar with.”

  Jose Garcia, also in the room, said, “Yes, this is troubling.”

  Zeke thought for a moment. “The cartel has been up for grabs since they arrested the leader, Manuel Rodriguez. Could someone have slipped in and taken control?”

  They w
ere sitting in Peterson’s office, discussing the operation. Once Carlos had indicated that the cocaine belonged to Tatouage, he refused to say any more. The boy seemed to realize that he had put himself in a corner. They’d returned him to his cell.

  “Our men have an eye on the cartel,” said Garcia with a high level of confidence. “No definitive leader has emerged, as of yet.”

  “Perhaps he keeps a low profile. Or he isn’t ready to declare,” said Zeke.

  “Declare?” asked Peterson.

  “He could be running the operation through a straw man, someone who looks like the leader, but isn’t really,” said Zeke. “Or he could be the straw man and is deceiving everyone. Perhaps that’s why he uses an alias.”

  “Tatouage,” said Peterson.

  “Yes, French for ‘Tattoo’,” said Zeke. “An unusual nickname.

  “But from what the boy told you…” Peterson continued.

  “The cocaine belongs to Tatouage. And our three mortar boys are scared to death of him.”

  * * *

  “This is a nice surprise,” said Tracy Johnson as she pulled her Audi A7 away from the curb and out of the ATL airport arrivals lane. “How long can you stay?”

  “Just for a day,” said Zeke. “I’m back from Calexico and had a connection here.”

  “That’s a convenient coincidence,” said Tracy, sort of under her breath.

  Zeke said, “Well, I know you have to work, and I’ve got to get back to D.C. for the Cumberland prison investigation, but I didn’t think one night would be a problem.”

  “Certainly not,” said Tracy, “just the opposite. I was thinking I’d end up watching ‘Friends’ reruns tonight. Or maybe a movie.”

  “Well, I don’t mean to interrupt. We can watch whatever you’d like.”

  “Well, now that you’re here, my plans have changed. I vote we start with dinner and drinks.”

  “Sure, where are you thinking?”

  “I live in one of the most vibrant towns in the southeast,” Tracy teased. “We should be able to find somewhere to go… I know, we’ll eat at The Vortex tonight.” She said it with some finality.

  “Good choice. Suits me,” said Zeke. “I’m just glad you didn’t have plans tonight…”

  “You’re lucky, mister. If you’d dropped by yesterday, you’d have been out of luck.”

  “You had plans yesterday after work?”

  “Yep. Last night was my gun range night. You’d have been waiting around the airport for a while…”

  “I’d wait,” said Zeke. “It’s always worth it.”

  * * *

  “The Vortex was a weird place, but a good choice,” said Zeke. “Especially the pork sliders.”

  “…and the Cosmopolitan,” Tracy said, then corrected herself. “I mean Cosmopolitans, plural.”

  They’d just arrived back at Tracy’s Midtown Atlanta condominium. Zeke rolled his carryon bag against a wall in the living area and turned and took Tracy in his arms, looking deep into her eyes for a moment. Then he kissed her gently. She kissed him back, softly, and then with more urgency.

  “Yum,” she whispered. “You taste like pork sliders.” And then she kissed him again.

  * * *

  “So we’re officially an item,” said Zeke. “I like that.”

  “Ever since you said the ‘L’ word, everything has changed. Everything’s even better,” she said.

  They were sitting on the loveseat on the balcony of Tracy’s condo, wrapped in colorful bathrobes and watching as the sun slid brightly down the side of a nearby office building. Tracy had worked her way under Zeke’s arm and her head lolled comfortably on his shoulder.

  “What’s not to love?” asked Zeke. “About you, I mean.”

  “I know, right?” she whispered. She turned her head and kissed him gently.

  He kissed her back. When they broke apart, they were both smiling.

  “You’re back to D.C. tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I have a meeting with Clive, then I need to get back to the prison.”

  “Are you making progress there?” she asked.

  “Hard to say,” said Zeke. “I think we’re getting more information, which we’ll use to try to identify the key players.”

  “The ones who killed the inmates?” asked Tracy. “Why do you think they did that?”

  “We haven’t found the motives yet,” said Zeke. “Carl, our operative on the inside, says no one is talking about it. It may be gang related.”

  “Which gangs are in Cumberland?” asked Tracy.

  “The BMF has a presence. So do the Devil’s Disciples and the Latino Mafia.”

  “BMF?” asked Tracy.

  “Black Monkey Family,” said Zeke. “It was founded in a California prison by a Black Panther and has spread across the country over time. Prison officials call the gangs a ‘security threat group’ and in reality, they help keep order in the prison.”

  “Well, be careful in there,” said Tracy. “I need you back when you’re done.”

  Chapter 10

  The room was full of noisy people, almost all women, talking loudly between the tables. They were seated, waiting for visiting hours to begin.

  The visiting room at FCI Cumberland was a large, square room filled with tables and benches that were attached to the concrete floor. Guards were stationed in the corners of the room, and others monitored the area through glass windows and cameras.

  A buzzer sounded. The visitors looked toward the metal door that opened admitting a single-file line of inmates. Each looked around the room for a moment, found their visitors and broke from the line in a practiced motion. Hands showing. No quick movements, no cause for alarm.

  Carl Turow, now Carl Townsend, spotted Kimmy almost immediately and walked to her table. She nodded to him and he sat on a bench across from her.

  “How’re you doing?” he said.

  Kimmy leaned over the table to kiss him. “Best as I can,” she said, playing the girlfriend. “How’re things in here?”

  Carl eased up out of his seat to reach Kimmy. They kissed.

  “Hey, no touching,” said a guard.

  Carl lifted both hands slightly in a sign of concurrence. “OK, OK,” he said, and sat back down on the bench.

  * * *

  Zeke Traynor clipped the plastic-coated ID badge to his shirt pocket and pulled in through the front gate. He was driving a panel van with a food service name and logo on the sides.

  The gate closed behind him. Straight ahead, another rolling access gate was shut tight.

  “Can I see your driver’s license?” asked the guard. He was thick, with a bull neck and a permanent scowl on his meaty face. A second guard with a shotgun stood just ahead, inside the gate Zeke was facing.

  Zeke handed the ID Badge and his license to the guard, who turned and compared that information with something on a computer screen in the guardhouse. He came back out.

  “I haven’t seen you before,” said the guard. It was said as a challenge of sorts.

  “The company transferred me in last week,” said Zeke, calmly. “It was a promotion, really.”

  “Where from?” asked the guard, losing interest. He put Zeke’s ID and license in one hand and handed them through the open window.

  Zeke took them and said, “New York State. I worked the Gowanda Correctional Facility and the Collins Correctional Facility. They’re side by side.”

  The guard said, “Never heard of them.”

  “They’re a few miles south of Buffalo. Not far from the western Pennsylvania border,” Zeke said. “I’m glad to be out of those winters, I’ll tell you.”

  The guard made a sweeping motion with his arm, the gate in front of Zeke opened, and he drove through.

  * * *

  Zeke parked his van in front of the correctional kitchen and went in search of Corporal Eric Quinn, who was in charge of the facility.

  Inside the brick building Zeke signed in with the guard at the entrance and found Quinn overseeing lu
nch preparation in the kitchen.

  “Eric Quinn?” asked Zeke. The man looked up, preoccupied, and then nodded his head.

  “I’m Zeke Traynor, your new representative with Custom Foods. Good to meet you, Corporal.”

  Zeke handed the man a business card.

  Quinn said, “You have much experience with this sort of operation?”

  “I do,” said Zeke. “I ran a cook-chill factory in Upstate New York for six years.”

  Quinn nodded. He was a red-faced man of about fifty with curly brown hair and a sour expression.

  “You’ll be taking over here for Ronnie Knox, then,” said Quinn.

  “I will. They moved Ronnie over to purchasing. A headquarters job.”

  “They figure that’s a promotion?” asked Quinn. “To be working so close to the bosses?”

  “He’s gotta get his ticket punched. You get to a certain level, you’ve gotta do a stint at headquarters or you stagnate and they pass you over,” said Zeke.

  “You’ll be working with trustees, mostly. And prison help,” said Quinn.

  “Suits me,” said Zeke. “Where’s my office?”

  * * *

  “There seems to be a brisk trade in cigarettes inside,” said Zeke.

  “Even though it’s a non-smoking facility?” said Clive.

  “Even so,” said Zeke.

  Kimmy was with them in Clive’s office, having returned from the Cumberland prison and her visit with Carl. Zeke had just reported on his introduction to the correctional kitchen facility.

  “What’s the source?” asked Clive. “Do we have any insight yet?”

  “Our guess is that there are several sources,” said Zeke. “It’s not unusual in a prison to have contraband or weapons brought in by the guards.”

  “I could see that. But what’s their motivation?” asked Clive.

  “There are a number of things,” said Zeke. “Some do it purely for profit. A pack of cigarettes sells for $200 or more inside. You can buy them at a c-store for, what, five bucks?”