Texas Sicario (Arlo Baines Book 2)

by Harry Hunsicker

  “Thank you.” She nodded once.

  “Forgive this intrusion, but would you be able to talk to me for a few minutes about your husband’s death?”

  Her lips pressed together, a frown creasing her face.

  “That’s always been a safe neighborhood,” I said. “The police, well, you know how they are. Sometimes regular people have to do what they can to make sure no one else gets hurt.”

  She stared at me for a moment and then stepped aside, holding the door open.

  The entrance went straight into a small living/dining area. Shag carpet, wood-paneled walls, overstuffed sofas facing a television.

  Every seat was filled with people, mostly women. Some were talking softly; some were eating. They all stopped what they were doing and stared at me. Sadness filled the room like smoke in a tavern.

  Delores Sandoval pointed toward the rear of the house. “Let’s go to the back.”

  I followed her into a kitchen outfitted by Montgomery Ward sometime in the seventies. Formica countertops the color of avocados, a harvest-gold refrigerator, worn linoleum flooring.

  The room smelled like food and coffee. Platters covered a small table in a breakfast nook—tamales, a ham, pasta salads, brownies, chips and salsa.

  The son who had answered the door was there with several men, two of whom I recognized from the tire store. They all looked at me but didn’t speak.

  A door leading to the rear yard was next to a washer and dryer on the far wall.

  I pointed to the door. “Perhaps we could go outside? Find somewhere private to talk.”

  Delores shook her head. “It’s best if we stay here.”

  The son said, “Mama, are you all right?”

  She nodded. “Go check on everyone in the living room.”

  The son glared at me but did as he was told, the other men trailing after him. When they were gone, Delores motioned for us to sit at the table covered with food.

  “Do you know about my family?” I asked.

  She frowned, shook her head.

  I told her about my wife and two children, how they were murdered one afternoon at the home we shared. How I felt at the time, the numbness giving way to grief, a pain I still carried with me to this day.

  “I thought you wanted to talk about the neighborhood,” she said, “not grief.”

  I decided to be direct. “I’m sorry to do this now, but I need you to tell me about the house in Denton County.”

  She rolled her eyes, a look on her face somewhere between amusement and disgust.

  “What a question,” she said. “You Americans talk about how you like people getting ahead, but when a Mexican does just that, there must be something illegal going on.”

  “I never mentioned anything illegal.”

  “There was no need,” she said. “I understood what you were implying.”

  “Where did the money come from for the house in Denton County?”

  “Alejandro Sandoval was a good man. A good husband.” She paused. “My father gave us the money. He has a construction company in El Paso.”

  She seemed exasperated. Her tone had become shrill.

  I made a mental note to have Throckmorton do a deep dive on her family.

  “I suppose you think every Italian is in the mafia?” she said.

  “Not at all.” I paused. “But there’s a saying about smoke and fire. Perhaps you’re familiar with it.”

  A moment passed.

  “The next block over is gang territory,” she said. “They sell drugs openly. My children have to walk to school and see that every day.”

  I waited.

  “We wanted to get away from that.”

  The sign in the yard. I wondered if they were moving to the Denton County house or somewhere else.

  “Do you think the gangbangers on the next block killed your husband?” I asked.

  She pinched the bridge of her nose, chest heaving, the effort of holding it together obvious. Tears welled in her eyes, and she began to cry.

  I stood and walked to the sink, feeling like a big, steaming pile of shit for questioning her right now. As I filled a glass with water, I glanced out the window overlooking the backyard.

  Two Hispanic men in their thirties stood on a small patio at the rear of the yard. The men wore polo shirts and expensive-looking jeans. They were on either side of Alejandro’s older son, Ernesto, a senior in high school, the man of the house now.

  The two individuals carried themselves differently from the group of mourners assembled in the living room. They weren’t grieving. They were there for business.

  One of the men had a birthmark on his cheek, a dark splotch about the size of a matchbook. He handed Ernesto a beer. Another patted him on the shoulder.

  I took the water to Delores and sat back down, grateful for the heft of the Glock in my waistband.

  She accepted the glass and took a long drink.

  “Who are the men in your backyard?” I asked.

  She put the glass down, crossed her arms again. “I’m not part of any of that.”

  “Any of what?”

  No reply.

  “Are they business associates of your husband’s?”

  She didn’t say anything. After a moment she nodded, a glum look on her face.

  “Tell me about them,” I said.

  “He wanted the best for his family. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Those men. They needed someone to handle their, uh, tire business.”

  “Of course,” I said. “They look like the kind of people who take a lot of pride in their vehicles.”

  We were both silent for a few moments. No noise in the kitchen except for the refrigerator humming.

  “I know what Alejandro was involved in was wrong.” She looked toward the back door. “But there was so much money. How could he turn that down?”

  Because money wasn’t free. The more that was on the table, the higher the risk. Ask any hedge fund manager. Or cartel boss.

  “Do you think those men outside had anything to do with your husband’s murder?”

  She shook her head, then pursed her lips like she was choosing her words with great deliberation. “They were always nice,” she said. “Pleasant and respectful.”

  I was sure they were. Pablo Escobar was supposed to be a great guy to pal around with, too, at least until you crossed him.

  “Did Alejandro ever have any disagreements with those men?”

  “No. Never.”

  I believed her. Somehow I didn’t see Sandoval doing anything to mess up the money machine. Certainly nothing like skimming or otherwise screwing over his bosses. He was a straight arrow, at least by the standards of people who get in bed with drug smugglers.

  “They told me it was a mugging,” she said. “Just a random crime.”

  Of course they did. Because they wanted to keep a lid on this as much as anybody.

  She took another drink of water, holding the glass in two hands like it might drop.

  “Do you know about the other murders?” I asked.

  She frowned.

  “Several people have been killed under circumstances similar to your husband.” I paused. “People who were perhaps affiliated with the same organization.”

  Her eyes grew wide.

  “Your sons,” I said. “Are they involved, too?”

  Her face turned pale, breath coming in deep heaves.

  I put one of my cards on the table by a bowl of queso. “That has my cell number. If you want to talk, give me a call.”

  “Are my children in danger?”

  “What do you think?”

  She covered her mouth with one hand and looked toward the back door.

  - CHAPTER FOURTEEN -

  I left Delores Sandoval in the kitchen. Nodded goodbye to her youngest son in the living room, exited the front door.

  The Toyota from the end of the street was parked in the driveway now, blocking the sidewalk. The gangbanger
stood by the front, arms crossed.

  He had a friend with him, Fito, which didn’t surprise me at all.

  “Howdy,” I said. “What’s up, muchachos?”

  Fito pointed to the Toyota. “Let’s take a ride.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t make this hard.” He massaged his thumb. “You don’t want to piss me off any more than you already have.”

  “Then why don’t you go back to Del Rio, and we can avoid the whole issue.”

  He furrowed his brow like he was processing the fact that I knew where he was from.

  “You work for the Vaqueros?” I asked. “Or someone else?”

  The gangbanger took a deep breath, eyes wide. Fito sighed like a parent does with a toddler who won’t pick up his toys.

  “You and me,” he said. “Ever consider we might be on the same page?”

  “Not for a moment.”

  “I’m an investigator.” He paused. “Like you used to be.”

  “So who are you working for, Mr. Investigator?”

  “That’s not how this goes, you asking me questions.”

  My truck was five houses away. A twenty-second walk, if no one was chasing me.

  “These were honest, hardworking people who were murdered,” he said. “My employers just want to find out who’s responsible.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I was close yesterday,” he said. “Damn shame. Alejandro, he was a good man.”

  I thought about the three people in the Sandoval backyard. “Do your employers wear polo shirts and fancy jeans?”

  “Those guys? Strictly middle management. My boss is not based in this area. Yet.”

  Behind me came the screech of a door opening, followed by the sound of voices. The voices trailed off, and two women appeared in my peripheral vision, walking at an angle across the front yard, trying to avoid our little confab.

  “The thing is,” Fito said, “we got too many cooks in the kitchen. You coming here, muddying the waters, asking questions.”

  The women strode down the sidewalk, glancing over their shoulders as they went.

  “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he said. “You and me are going somewhere private. You’re gonna tell me why you’re so interested in what’s going on and what you’ve found out so far.”

  I reached under my T-shirt and pulled the Glock from my waistband, aiming the muzzle at his face.

  “I’m leaving,” I said. “That’s what’s gonna happen.”

  “You think one gun’s gonna get you out of this mess?”

  Down the block, the two women got into an old Chevy Blazer.

  Whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop.

  The vehicle’s alarm triggered, distracting my attention for a nanosecond, which was long enough for Fito to produce a gun and point it at me.

  “You almost broke my thumb yesterday,” he said. “Don’t give me another reason to shoot you. Get in the car.”

  The gangbanger pulled out a pistol as well, and now it was two against one.

  I weighed my options, tried to divine if either one of them would actually fire at me on a residential street in the middle of the afternoon.

  “Think about Miguel,” Fito said. “Do the right thing for the boy. Get in the car.”

  I tightened my grip on the Glock. My vision turned red at the edges, stomach churning.

  Fito grinned. “Ooh. Struck a nerve.”

  “I told you to leave the boy out of this.”

  “You even know his last name?” he asked.

  “Ortega. Miguel Ortega.”

  “And you know about his parents?”

  I didn’t answer, just kept the gun aimed at his face.

  “Did you know that after they died, he ended up with a gang who did work for the organization based in Sinaloa?”

  The missing weeks before we’d found him in the Dallas bus station. He’d been with another cartel.

  “Maybe you figured that out,” he said. “But I bet you didn’t know that they used him as a shooter.”

  The muzzle of my gun wavered as the air around me turned cold. The street looked different all of a sudden, alien, the colors and shapes wrong.

  “People don’t pay attention to kids.” Fito chuckled. “In and out, bang-bang, you’re dead.”

  Maria was right. The bad always corrupted the good. Water seeking a path down. It was the nature of things.

  “He ever spends the night with you, I’d sleep with one eye open,” Fito said. “That boy’s a killer. Now drop your weapon and get in the car before I shoot you in the knee.”

  A black Suburban appeared, coming from the end of the block where the women had accidentally set off their car alarm. I hadn’t noticed, what with the two thugs aiming guns at me and my mind trying to process what I’d just learned about Miguel.

  Throckmorton’s rig.

  The Suburban stopped in the middle of the street, right behind the Toyota.

  Fito and the gangbanger lowered their guns slightly, their attention split between the big SUV and me.

  Throckmorton got out and ambled around the front of his vehicle, hand resting on the butt of his pistol, badge gleaming in the sun.

  He said, “Put the guns down, amigos.”

  The gangbanger looked at Fito. A moment later he knelt and placed his pistol on the pavement, standing up with his hands raised.

  Fito turned his head and spoke to the Texas Ranger. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  “Lower your weapon.” Throckmorton popped the safety restraint on his holster. “I’m not fooling around here, comprende?”

  “I’m a police officer,” Fito said.

  “Good for you, señor.” Throckmorton unholstered his pistol, a stainless-steel Colt 1911. “Now do like I told you.”

  Fito glared at me. He licked his lips and lowered the gun to his side.

  I stuck my Glock back in my waistband and picked up the gangbanger’s piece. I reached for Fito’s gun with my free hand but stopped when Throckmorton said, “Not him.”

  Fito smiled.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” My hand was poised a few inches from Fito’s weapon.

  “Get in the truck, Arlo.” Throckmorton nodded toward his Suburban.

  “Yes, Arlo.” Fito continued to smile. “Get in the truck.”

  I gripped the gangbanger’s weapon so hard my knuckles hurt. It would be so easy. Raise the gun, squeeze the trigger, one round right through Fito’s eye.

  He must have sensed my thoughts because he stopped smiling and took a step back.

  Throckmorton said, “Quit jacking around, Arlo. Just walk away.”

  My vision blurred. I remembered the last Christmas with my wife and children—the tree, the presents, the brisket on the smoker in the backyard.

  The gun felt hot in my hand.

  I raised the weapon.

  “Arlo.” Throckmorton moved a step closer. “Put the gun down and get in the damn truck, now.”

  Fito’s eyes widened as his face paled.

  I lowered the weapon, never breaking eye contact with Fito. After a moment, I strode to the Suburban and jumped in the passenger seat.

  Cold air blasted from the AC vents. I shivered, my clothes soaked with sweat.

  An instant later, Throckmorton hopped behind the wheel, yanked the transmission into drive. I could see Fito and the gangbanger on the sidewalk watching us.

  Throckmorton jammed on the gas. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “Why didn’t you arrest them?”

  He swore, sped past my pickup, tires screeching as he made the turn onto the cross street.

  “Miguel,” I said. “Did you know?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I stared out the window without seeing anything, the gangbanger’s gun still in my hand.

  “We need to talk,” Throckmorton said. “This is getting sticky.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your boy Fito. He’s working for t
he DEA.”

  - CHAPTER FIFTEEN -

  Throckmorton pulled in to the parking lot of a liquor store a few blocks away, slapped the transmission into park.

  “What do you mean he works for the DEA?” I asked.

  “Fito Alvarez is something called a ‘specialized intelligence resource,’” he said.

  The term sounded like a fancy name for a paid informant.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Throckmorton arched an eyebrow. “What do you think it means?”

  I related what Fito had just told me, how he was investigating the murders as well, apparently for the Vaqueros, which meant the killings were the result of a turf war like Throckmorton had thought.

  “So he’s playing both sides,” Throckmorton said. “Wonder whose team he’s really on?”

  I took his question to be rhetorical. It didn’t take a degree in psychology to grasp that Fito’s ultimate loyalty lay with the cartel, the highest bidder, an organization that lost more money in a week to termites and silverfish than the average police officer earned in a year.

  We were both silent for a few moments. My limbs felt heavy as the adrenaline bled from my system.

  “Came awful close to punching that guy’s ticket back there,” Throckmorton said. “You better double up on your blood pressure medicine.”

  I could still see Fito’s look of surprise as he realized how close I was to shooting him. So much for choosing not to be angry.

  “Do you know anything else about him?” I asked. “Like why he’s not in uniform down in Del Rio?”

  Throckmorton shook his head. “And I’ve asked. One too many times.”

  A guy in a blue work shirt with a Jiffy Lube logo on the breast emerged from the liquor store carrying a brown paper sack. He eyed the Suburban and then got into an old Camaro.

  “A suit from the Justice Department came to the office,” Throckmorton said. “Got all up in my business, wanting to know why I’m so interested in Detective Alvarez. I told him the guy was trying to date my niece, which I think he believed for about a millisecond.”

  It was easy to understand why the feds were touchy about Fito. They obviously knew he was working for the cartel in addition to being on Uncle Sam’s payroll. They no doubt rationalized the arrangement in their usual fashion—he would lead to a bigger fish.

  The problem with the “bigger fish” theory was that it so seldom panned out. Also, there was the issue of what would happen if knowledge of their arrangement ever became public. Fito’s résumé would not play well at a senate subcommittee hearing.