Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (66 page)

Everyone in the car laughed, expect Ned and El Chango. Ned looked over at him, in part to judge what his own reaction should look like. El Chango did not look good. He was staring intently at nothing. There were beads of sweat on his face even though the air-conditioning had cooled the inside of the big truck. He was visibly shaking when the Suburban stopped at the next intersection.

Ned looked around outside. The Suburban had stopped at a roadside melon stand. From his own experience, Ned knew that many people in Sonora really value farm-fresh food, and he had come to enjoy it as well. Watermelons were particularly appreciated in the hot, desert region. There were three men at the stand. Two were sitting, and the other had approached the SUV to speak with the man in the front passenger seat.

As the window rolled down, El Chango pulled his handgun from under his seat and pointed it at the head of the tall man in the front seat. He squeezed the trigger. Nothing but the tap of metal on metal. He swung the gun around and aimed at the driver. He pulled again with the same result. Realizing that his gun wasn't loaded, El Chango dropped it, opened his door and ran, stumbling when he hit the ground.

The driver and the tall one quickly ran after him. The melon-stand guys ran in the other direction. Since both sides of the road were bounded by steep, scrub-covered hills, El Chango had no choice but to run along the road the way that they had come. His pursuers bounded after him. Suddenly, the driver stopped, raised a handgun, and fired. He missed. El Chango ran more frantically, with his hands on the back of his head. The tall character stopped running and fired. El Chango fell to the ground. As he was stumbling back to his feet, he was hit again. Ned could see from how his neck snapped that it was a headshot and realized that El Chango was not going to get up ever again.

The driver turned and returned to the car. He stuck his head in El Chango's still-open door and asked El Vaquero Loco what he should do with the body. “Leave it there, put a sign on it,” his boss ordered in an annoyed tone. “And close the fucking door, the noise is bothering me.”

The driver then opened the truck's tailgate, and took out a bright green sheet of cardboard, some string, and a Sharpie. He wrote something on the cardboard, then took it over to El Chango's body and tied it to his finger.

As he was returning, the two men in the backseat were joking about how stupid Mayans were and how El Vaquero Loco had bet the other guy that El Chango would never work out and that he now owed him 100 pesos. When the other two men were back in the car and the laughter died down, El Vaquero Loco asked Ned: “Okay, El Espagueti, what did El Chango do wrong?” All the men laughed again.

Ned did his best to grin. “He did not do what you said for him to do.”

El Vaquero Loco grinned widely. “Yes, that is exactly right.” They sped off for Nogales. The guys in the front seat waved as they passed by the out-of-breath watermelon salesmen, sitting by the side of the road.

* * *

Meloni had called O'Malley and Tovar in for a discussion about the state of the case. He had read their reports from their respective trips and other investigations and wanted to brainstorm before making his next move. He especially wanted to hear from O'Malley. She had not told him anything about her recent investigations into Aiken's and Andersson's pasts. It was almost like, he feared, she was conducting a separate investigation. Over coffee and biscotti, they discussed what they already knew. Meloni opened the session. “So what do we know about Ned Aiken?”

“Not a whole hell of a lot,” said O'Malley. Meloni wondered if she was withholding information.

“Oh, come on,” Meloni encouraged. “We know he joined the Sons and bailed on them after the raid. We know he had a terrible job and was useless at it. We also know he found his own job, a better job, and did quite well. What about his boss, Andersson?”

“Andersson's story totally checks out,” said Tovar, oblivious of the tension between the other two officers. “State department, local cops, immigration, I have been back and forth over this guy's records and there is nothing to indicate he has done anything wrong.”

O'Malley smirked. “Except that he just happened to employ a guy who disappeared the same day his agency contact was murdered, watched two people get murdered at a conference, and took possession of a small child that we were told had been in company with our missing perp.”

“Suspect,” Meloni corrected. “But you are right, Andersson can't be as clean as his record indicates—it's impossible to do big business in Eastern Europe without some connections. He's smart, but I'm sure something will come out if we look under enough rocks.”

“Yeah, and Sophia didn't instill me with a ton of confidence on that front, either,” O'Malley answered. “I could see Aiken wanting to give her to Andersson—he's a family man with good standing in the community—if he cared about the girl at all, he would know to drop her with the boss.”

“Indeed, but why would Ailken care about the girl? How did he come in contact with her in the first place?” Tovar interjected. “It's clear she was being sent over here against her will . . .”

“But why?”

“Lots of perverts out there,” Meloni said with a quick glance at O'Malley. “You should know that better than either of us.”

O'Malley was angry that her new boss would bring up her bungled child porn case. “Okay, let's say that's why she was kidnapped and smuggled,” she said, trying not to sound annoyed. “What would Aiken be doing with that element—he's a Midwestern biker not an international man of mystery.”

“A former Midwestern biker who just happened to work in shipping and receiving for a company that contracts work all over Eastern Europe,” Meloni pointed out. “He had almost unlimited access to bad guys when you really think about it—anyone could have made him an offer.”

Tovar agreed. “He certainly was ambitious,” he said. “Raced through the ranks of the Sons in record time then re-established himself in the legit world, without our help, while under protection.”

O'Malley snorted. “Maybe we gave him too much help.”

After a brief discussion about who Ned knew and how, Meloni brought up the key piece of evidence he thought could connect all the threads together—the Indian.

O'Malley agreed. “Bikers often love their bikes, and he put a lot of money and effort into that one.”

“But he gave it up the second he got a luxury car,” Tovar pointed out.

“And stole it back soon thereafter,” O'Malley one-upped him.

“Yeah, not the brightest plan,” Tovar said. “Not many people can even start, let alone ride, one of those things, so he very likely did steal it. If he still had the key, why did he get rid of it in the first place?”

Meloni agreed. “And the bike was ancient. Those things always need parts—Tovar, can you track down all the Indian parts wholesalers and retailers, see if anyone has bought anything for that particular make and model?” Tovar agreed.

“You're right,” O'Malley said. “He is an idiot. Keep in mind that he's the guy who tried to flee into Canada in a rental car. With a woman.”

That comment struck Meloni with another possible line of inquiry. He had forgotten about Aiken's attempted escape into Canada. And he had forgotten about the woman. Ned wasn't alone in that rental car. After questioning she'd been deported to some obscure Eastern European country . . . he tried hard to think of the name. He had to track her down. He'd put Tovar on it because of his experience with international investigations. O'Malley would look for the bike.

* * *

At the edge of the city, the Suburban pulled into a Pemex gas station. Pemex was the government-run petroleum company and their green-and-red filling stations were everywhere in Mexico. Ned instinctively glanced at the car's gas gauge, it was three-quarters full.

El Vaquero Loco handed Ned a small paper bag. “Here, take this to the man inside; make sure you give it to Ivan, not Pedro,” he told him. “You, Guason, go with him.” The guy in the front passenger seat, the tall one who had shot El Chango, nodded and got out of the car. Ned idly wondered why his nickname was regional slang for “lazy.” As instructed, Ned got out of the car and walked with Guason to the gas station's store.

Inside there were two men: one sitting and reading a magazine, the other manning the cash register. Guason slapped Ned on the back and told him to get on with it. Ned looked at the man behind the till, whose left hand was missing, and asked if he was Ivan. The man just sighed, raised his good hand and pointed at the man with the magazine. Ivan looked up from his magazine and asked Ned what he wanted. Ned handed him the bag. Ivan looked surprised, and looked inside the bag. He made a questioning look at Ned and looked like he was about to speak when he caught sight of El Guason. He then smiled and nodded. He took the paper bag into a back room with a door marked “Employees Only,” returned with a plastic shopping bag full of Mexican currency, and handed it to Ned. Ned thanked him and Ivan laughed. Pedro sighed.

Ned and El Guason left the little store and started toward the Suburban. El Guason spotted a pair of cops sitting in a bright white Sonora state police car behind the Suburban and, to Ned's utter confusion, walked over to them, motioning Ned to come with him. The plastic shopping bag was translucent and stuffed with cash. There was no way Ned could hide it. “Hello, officers,” El Guason said to the cop on the passenger side. “You know why I like a fat cop?”

The officer, who was pretty heavy, was angered and obviously insulted but also intimidated, and just grunted. El Guason answered anyway. “Because he's always hungry and he can't chase you,” he said. “Espagueti, give these nice officers something for their time.” Ned didn't know exactly how much money he was supposed to give the cops, so he just pulled a bill out of the bag. It was a 500-peso note. He handed it directly to the fat cop who just nodded.

Once inside the Suburban, Ned noticed the police car pull away. “He was okay,” El Guason told El Vaquero Loco. “He was calm, handed the product over, took the cash, didn't freak out.”

“How much did you give
la chonta
?” El Vaquero Loco was addressing Ned directly. He used a slang term for cops that translated literally to “wanker” that was not common in Sonora, but Ned understood it anyway.

“Five hundred.”

“For both?” El Vaquero Loco smiled broadly. “Espagueti, you are a natural.” The men in the car laughed. El Vaquero Loco told him they would have a party when they got back to the ranch. “Just a few more stops,” he assured him. “Now that you know how things work, you can do this by yourself—make lots of money.” Ned tried his best to smile.

“Don't worry, my gringo friend,” El Guason said. “You are one of us now—you are safe.” Ned only felt more frightened.

* * *

O'Malley came into Meloni's cubicle and threw down a file folder. “I have a small amount of good news and a great deal of bad news,” she told him.

Meloni rolled his eyes and sighed. “The good news is?”

“I tracked down the file on the woman who was with Aiken when he tried to flee the country,” she answered. “Her name is Daniela Eminescu and she's a Moldovan national, since deported.”

“And we know where she is?”

“That's the bad news,” O'Malley said. “We don't. Moldova is one of the poorest and worst-run countries in Europe, a very easy place to disappear into.”

“We have people there?”

“No, but the CIA has plenty—just look at the location, it's Moldova, a former Soviet republic,” she replied. “And there's Interpol.”

“And the locals?”

“Bad news—considered among the worst police forces in all of Europe, if not
the
worst,” she said. “You name the type of corruption and they have it—torture, bribery, links to organized crime, links to terrorism, missing suspects, everything they can do, they do.”

“And even if we find this woman, what are the chances she'll tell us anything of value?” His experiences with questioning girlfriends and ex-girlfriends had left him less than ambitious at the prospect of getting much out of this one. It would be different if he had something to offer her, but couldn't think of anything.

“I thought you told us to exhaust every lead,” said O'Malley, reminding Meloni that she was just as capable of taking over as he was.

* * *

The following day, Ned was sitting in his room. He had woken up at about six in the morning and could not get back to sleep. He was alone in the big room, and it did not make him any more comfortable. He could hear noise from downstairs—it actually sounded like a party—and did not want to leave the room. Instead he waited, trying to formulate a plan. If he could manage to escape, where would he go? All of these guys were friends of his boss over at Holsamex, and he really didn't know anyone in the country who was not attached to the company. He could try to make it back across the border, but even if he succeeded, he would be taking his chances with the FBI, the Russians, and the bikers. Unable to figure out a way out, he defaulted to laying low, doing what the men who were holding him instructed and getting out when he could get his hands on some real cash.

As he was thinking to himself, Ned was startled by El Guason, who stumbled in the door, blind drunk. He staggered to the bed El Vaquero Loco had been in the night before and wriggled around, trying to get comfortable. On his back, he turned his head to face Ned and grinned. He spoke to him in Spanish. “Ah, gringo,
guero
, you should not be so scared,” he said. “It's a good life . . . cars, money, guns, women, drugs . . . anything you want. All you have to do is, like you say, play ball.”

Ned did his best to smile and nodded.

“No man, you don't understand,” El Guason said. “You are one of us now, and we are going to be in charge very, very soon.”