Texas Sicario (Arlo Baines Book 2)

by Harry Hunsicker

  The Border Security Operations Center, nicknamed B-Sock, disseminated a large amount of information to law enforcement agencies across the state as well as to a number of federal organizations.

  “We even had eyes on him,” Throckmorton said. “He was traveling with an entourage, easy to track, so B-Sock sends a memo to the DEA, who in turn tells the Dallas police. Two hours later, the crew scattered like a busted covey of quail, everybody hightailing it back to Mexico.”

  We stared at the restaurant for a moment.

  “How many people know you and I are talking?” I asked.

  “Only me. Nothing written down, either.” He shifted in his seat and looked me in the eyes. “Can I count on you?”

  A moment passed, neither of us speaking.

  “Aren’t you getting tired of babysitting that drunk Mexican?” he asked.

  “Javier’s my friend.”

  “So you don’t miss being a cop?”

  I looked out the side window at the traffic speeding down the street but didn’t say anything. Part of me did miss working as a Texas Ranger, and he could no doubt sense it. The thrill of the hunt, spending your time on things that really mattered. Belonging to something bigger than yourself.

  Across the street, the four-door Maserati that had been parked in my spot earlier screeched to a stop by the curb, right behind one of the squad cars.

  Throckmorton grabbed a pair of binoculars from under the seat. “What have we here?”

  A very short man in a tan sport coat exited the driver’s side of the Maserati.

  “That’s Frank Vega.” I explained who he was and how Vega’s wife wanted to get the inside scoop on Sandoval’s murder, afraid her husband was in danger.

  Vega must have heard about the latest killing and decided to find out what he could on his own.

  “A criminal defense attorney.” Throckmorton spat out the words, using the same tone as if he were talking about a nun rapist.

  Like most cops, he despised lawyers, especially those who worked for people accused of committing crimes.

  Vega approached the yellow tape. One of the other plainclothes officers motioned for him to stay back. A conversation ensued, Vega waving his arms about, the cop shrugging every now and then. Vega continued to harangue the officer, finally touching him on the shoulder.

  Throckmorton chuckled. “That was a mistake.”

  An instant later, Frank Vega lay facedown on the ground, hands cuffed behind his back. A few seconds after that, the Maserati’s passenger door opened, and Quinn Vega got out.

  “Yowza.” Throckmorton kept the binoculars pressed to his eyes. “That’s a spicy enchilada.”

  “Why don’t you tell Ross to cut Vega loose?”

  He lowered the binoculars. “Now why would I want to do that?”

  Because Frank Vega getting arrested would only muddy the waters. Because even though he was an arrogant prick, going to jail wouldn’t make him less so. Because Quinn Vega seemed like she’d been through the wringer of late, and I didn’t think this would help her emotional state.

  I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I opened the door and started to exit the vehicle. “Fine, I’ll take care of it.”

  “Ah, I get it.” He smiled. “Damsel in distress, Arlo Baines saves the day.”

  I stopped with one foot on the pavement, a wave of anger washing over me, the son of a bitch more right than I wanted to admit.

  “Before you skedaddle, let’s talk about the fingerprints on the beer can,” Throckmorton said. “Or did you forget about those?”

  I hadn’t forgotten. That topic was number one on my to-do list . . . just as soon as I extricated Frank Vega from his current situation.

  “Guy’s name is Alphonso Alvarez,” Throckmorton said. “Goes by Fito.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s a cop.”

  - CHAPTER TWELVE -

  I gripped the side of the Suburban’s door, stared at Throckmorton.

  “A cop?”

  “Del Rio PD.” He paused. “Currently taking a leave of absence.”

  Across the street, Quinn Vega was yelling at the plainclothes officer while her husband lay facedown on the pavement.

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “Leave of absence?”

  “I don’t know. And that’s not making me a happy camper.”

  Ross, hands on his hips, was now speaking with Quinn. The other plainclothes officer pulled Frank Vega from the ground.

  “I thought you were gonna help that human skid mark,” Throckmorton said.

  “In a minute. Tell me what else you know about Fito.”

  “That’s all I got. Whatever happened down there, it’s buried deep.”

  He looked like he had more to say. Instead he stared at the seafood restaurant and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

  “You’re holding back,” I said. “What else do you have?”

  “I used a terminal at the DEA office to run a check on the guy. Now my username and password won’t work.”

  The other plainclothes officer led Vega to a squad car, Quinn watching helplessly.

  “Don’t leave without me.” I shut the door and headed to the crime scene, threading my way through the traffic.

  Quinn Vega had her back to the street, talking to Ross.

  Ross looked at me over her shoulder and said, “You again?”

  “Is that really necessary?” I pointed to the squad car with Vega in the back.

  “Second one of my crime scenes in two days you’ve shown up at,” Ross said. “That’s getting kinda weird, don’t you think?”

  “Arlo, please.” Quinn touched my arm. “Can you help? They’ve arrested Frank.”

  I spoke to Ross. “Cut him loose. Vega’s just upset. He didn’t mean any harm.”

  “Upset, was he?” Ross arched an eyebrow. “You want to know how many cases I’ve watched circle the toilet because of Frank Vega?”

  The other plainclothes officer came up behind his partner. He crossed his arms, stared at me.

  “OK, we’ll play it your way,” I said. “Vega assaulted your guy. I was a witness. Let’s call the DA right now and get charges filed.”

  Quinn’s face drained of color. Ross and the other officer didn’t say anything. Their eyes narrowed.

  Transporting Frank Vega to the county jail, filling out the paperwork, getting an assistant district attorney assigned to the case—all of that would take hours, time both investigators would rather spend working on the new murder.

  A few moments passed. The other detective whispered in Ross’s ear. Ross whispered back. Then he looked at me. “You’re a piece of work, Baines. Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “What’s happening?” Quinn asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “Wait in your car,” I said.

  She looked at me and then at the two homicide detectives. After a moment, she walked back to the Maserati and got in the driver’s side.

  The other officer muttered under his breath but headed toward the rear of the squad car.

  “Happy now?” Ross asked.

  “Tell me about the new murder. Is there video?”

  “You really think I’m giving you anything?”

  “We’re on the same team,” I said. “We both want to find whoever killed these men.”

  “Go back and play cowboys and Indians with your Texas Ranger buddy. I’m gonna count to ten, and if you’re still here, I’ll trade you out for Vega.”

  I wondered if Ross could be the leak. He’d been a cop for nearly three decades, exposed to every kind of corruption imaginable. Had someone gotten to him?

  “Was it the same caliber as Sandoval?” I asked. “Just tell me that.”

  “I’m not kidding, Baines. Get the hell out of here.”

  Inside the Suburban, Throckmorton turned the AC to high while I wiped sweat off my face. Across the street, Vega’s Maserati pulled away from the curb and sped off as Ross stood watching us.

  “He’s giving me
the freeze-out.” I related what happened.

  Throckmorton pointed to the glove compartment. “In there. Something for you.”

  I twisted the latch, looked inside.

  On top of the instruction manuals for the SUV lay a folded sheet of paper.

  I opened the paper and saw a picture of a picture, an image on a screen that appeared to have been taken with a cell phone.

  This wasn’t anything official, like the photo of Sandoval’s place.

  The picture captured a list of names, fuzzy and indistinct, Hispanic-sounding, all men, handwritten on a sheet of lined notepaper. There were seven of them, the third from the top Alejandro Sandoval. The fourth was the owner of the restaurant.

  “Those mean anything to you?” He put the SUV in gear, pulled on to the street.

  “The two dead ones, Alejandro Sandoval and the restaurant guy, do. Who are the rest?”

  He didn’t reply, stopping at a light.

  A paletero man pushing an insulated cart filled with Popsicles and ice cream bars trudged across the intersection. A homeless guy shuffled along behind him, holding his pants up with one hand, the other pointing skyward like he was Moses leading the Israelites across the Red Sea.

  “Where’d you get this?” I asked.

  “The DEA, the working-together thing, spirit of cooperation—that’s not going so well.”

  I realized he was talking about more than just his log-in info not working.

  “It rarely does.”

  “I’m getting the deep freeze, too,” he said. “Probably didn’t help when I started nosing around after your boy Fito.”

  “Sorry,” I said, not sorry at all.

  “Nearest I can tell, the feds had somebody undercover with either the Vaqueros or one of their competitors. Whoever the guy was, he sent that picture to his handler. I managed to get a shot during one of the last briefings they let me sit in on.”

  I looked at the list again. The name after the owner of the restaurant was Juan Gonzalez, the Mexican equivalent of John Smith.

  Horns honked behind us. The intersection was clear.

  “The guy above Sandoval, he’s the victim in Hillsboro.” Throckmorton pressed the gas. “The one above him has the same name as a mechanic in South Dallas who was shot two weeks ago.”

  “It’s a hit list.”

  “Apparently. Either people who work for the Vaqueros or are in their way somehow. Maybe they’re with another organization.”

  “What happened to the undercover guy? He still a viable source?”

  A pronounced silence.

  “I got two months to go,” he said. “Then I’m pulling the plug on the DPS.”

  “Good for you. Now tell me about the undercover guy.”

  “I want to stop this narco bullshit. Keep it down south where it belongs.” He paused. “Whatever it takes.”

  I waited. He wouldn’t be the first law enforcement officer willing to bend/break/mutilate the rules for the greater good.

  A DPD squad car, lights flashing, sped down the street toward the seafood restaurant.

  “Little village south of Nuevo Laredo,” he said. “A few days after that picture arrived, the army found the undercover guy nailed to a cross in the town square.”

  Neither of us spoke for a couple of blocks.

  “They figured it took him half a day to die.” He pulled into the Aztec Bazaar’s parking lot and stopped by the front entrance. “I’ll be in touch.”

  I found Javier sitting at the bar, a half-empty bottle of Modelo in front of him.

  “Where has my gringo friend been today?” He took a long drink.

  “There’s been another murder.”

  “La Cocina de Mariscos.” He twirled the bottle above his head. “The talk of the bar.”

  “How well did you know Sandoval?” I asked.

  He didn’t reply. His eyes narrowed.

  “Is it possible that he was a narco?”

  “No. He was a good man.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He took another drink. “These days, I am not sure about anything. No one but God knows what lurks in a man’s soul.”

  I took the bottle from his hand, placed it out of reach. “No more preaching about the human condition. Sandoval and the guy who owned the restaurant. Could they be part of a cartel?”

  He cocked his head. “Why are you asking me this, Arlo?”

  I told him about Throckmorton and the DEA, how there’d been a series of murders, seemingly innocent people except that they appeared to be affiliated with the Vaqueros. Or maybe a competing organization. Or just innocents caught up in events they never saw coming.

  “You’re going to work for the police again?” His tone was thick with disdain.

  “Somebody’s out there killing Mexicans. People like you. I’d want to find out who.”

  “People like me?” Anger flashed in his eyes. “You think I’m a narco?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He didn’t respond for a few moments. Then he said, “This Throckmorton person. He’s the man who was in here last night, the Texas Ranger?”

  I nodded.

  “Why do you want to be part of that again?”

  I didn’t answer. He wouldn’t grasp something I had trouble putting into words myself.

  “While you have been with your policía friend, have you learned anything about Fito?”

  This was a tricky juncture, Fito’s real identity. There was little sense in getting Javier more stirred up, so I decided to lie to my friend for the first time.

  “Not yet.”

  A moment of silence. Javier stared at me, his expression blank.

  “Where’s Miguel?” I asked.

  “The office. Torres showed up a little while ago. They’re going to see a movie later.” He motioned to the bartender for another beer.

  Thank God for small favors and tough old marines like Javier’s neighbor.

  I said, “Don’t drink any more today, OK?”

  The bartender, eyebrows raised, held a fresh beer in his hand and looked at his boss. Javier was drinking more than usual, and his level of moroseness seemed to be higher than normal.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Miguel shouldn’t see you drunk. It’s bad for business. I don’t want to watch you commit slow suicide . . . Pick a reason.”

  He waved off the bartender, who put the bottle down behind the bar.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked.

  “I told you yesterday.” He pushed the beer away. “Evil is headed our way.”

  - CHAPTER THIRTEEN -

  I sat in my pickup and entered Alejandro Sandoval’s home address into my phone’s GPS.

  Miguel and Torres stood by the main entrance to the Aztec Bazaar, customers coming and going around them.

  I waved at Miguel.

  He waved back and gave me a weak smile. Then he and Torres went inside.

  I cranked the ignition and pulled out of my parking spot. Twenty minutes later, in the far southeastern part of the city, I turned off Lake June Road and onto a narrow residential street.

  Pleasant Grove was not far from the Great Trinity Forest, a large wooded floodplain noted for its abundance of wildlife and places to hide bodies. Maybe that’s where the “grove” part had come from, all the trees. I was drawing a blank on the “pleasant” part, however.

  The neighborhood was one of the poorest in the city, making the area around the Aztec Bazaar look like Rodeo Drive in comparison. Little in the way of jobs or other economic opportunities, lots of gang activities and street crime.

  Alejandro Sandoval’s house sat behind a small strip center that contained a place that made payday loans and a furniture rental store.

  The one-story home—a FOR SALE sign by the curb—was small but well kept, brick painted a pale gray, the lawn freshly mowed, a few flowers in the beds. Vehicles filled the driveway that ran along the side of the house, the last one a
navy-blue Suburban with Mexican license plates.

  I parked near the end of the block by a house with plywood over the windows. Two elementary-school-age girls played in the dirt that passed for the front yard.

  Directly across from where I parked was an elderly Toyota Camry, the front windows rolled down. The car was in such a place that it offered a clear view of the Sandoval house.

  A Hispanic man in his twenties sat behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette, his neck and face streaked with tattoos. He was skinny, bony shoulders prominent because of the wifebeater T-shirt he wore.

  He watched me get out of my truck, never breaking eye contact, a sneer on his lips.

  Gangbanger 101—show how tough you are without lifting a finger.

  I ignored him and headed toward Alejandro Sandoval’s home.

  On the front stoop, I could hear the sounds of people inside, the murmur of conversation, the clink of plates.

  The door opened before I could knock, and one of Sandoval’s sons appeared in the entryway. The younger one, about fifteen as I recalled. His eyes were red like he’d been crying.

  “Mis sentidas condolencias,” I said. My deepest condolences.

  He stared at me blankly.

  “Is your mother here?” I asked. “Está tu madre aquí?”

  A woman appeared behind him.

  Delores Sandoval, Alejandro’s widow.

  I remembered her as an attractive woman in her early forties, dark hair shiny like in a shampoo commercial. Now she looked old before her time. Her face was puffy, deep lines around her eyes, skin an unhealthy pallor, hair dull and lifeless, streaked with gray.

  She told her son to go inside, then looked at me, waiting.

  “Señora Sandoval,” I said. “Yo trabajo en el Aztec Bazaar.”

  “I know who you are.” She spoke without an accent, her English flawless, unlike her late husband.

  “Please accept my sympathy for your loss.”

  She worked as a schoolteacher, first or second grade, as I recalled. She possessed a certain amount of refinement, something that had stood in contrast to her blue-collar husband.

  The attraction of opposites, one of life’s great mysteries.