Triple Crossing (29 page)

“Absolutely correct, Porfirio,” Mauro Fernández Rochetti said.
“Araceli Aguirre had given the Colonel the strange, unrealistic impression that her human rights commission could somehow
save him from the very serious charges against him. The Colonel believed her. When he was killed, César was heartbroken. He
felt Señora Aguirre’s betrayal set in motion the events leading to his boss’s death.”

“So it was revenge. The classic motive of the underworld. ”

Puente, her ankles crossed in suede boots, crossed her arms as well. She gave Méndez a quick look and said: “What a duo.”

Mauro Fernández Rochetti narrowed his eyes. “I think that’s a very accurate analysis. And don’t forget César was a violent
young convict, unbalanced. He had drugs and alcohol in his system at the time of the murder.”

Gibson asked why the Diogenes Group had arrested the two state police detectives who had killed the assassin.

“My officers have been kidnapped by the so-called Diogenes Group,” Fernández Rochetti said tightly. “They intervened heroically
and killed the assassin when he confronted them. They deserve medals, yet the Diogenes Group has put them in custody for some
bizarre reason. It is an aberration. They are political prisoners.”

Gibson referred to a notepad. “I’ll read you what Licenciado Méndez, chief of the Diogenes Group, said yesterday: ‘The state
police will never solve this murder. They will never investigate the only two places they should investigate: the office of
the chief of their own Tijuana homicide squad and the headquarters of Multiglobo Productions.’ What is your comment about
this very serious insinuation, Commander?”

Fernández Rochetti squared his shoulders and showed a flash of tongue.

“Two points, Porfirio, if you please. Number one, it’s easy to make accusations without proof. There is proof for everything
I have told you. Second: I have been a policeman for thirty-seven years. Not one or two years. Thir-ty se-ven.” Soft pats
on the
table accompanied each syllable. “I’ve never been a newspaperman or a political agitator. Only a policeman. And I have learned
that police work is bittersweet. I always try to emphasize the sweet and eliminate the bitter. A real policeman can’t afford
to get hysterical at a moment like this. That’s my advice to Mr. Méndez.”

After the interview, the anchorman and anchorwoman in Mexico City made comments about how bad things were at the border. How
all Mexicans hoped the authorities would pursue the case to its ultimate consequences. Then they moved on, having dedicated
an entire seven minutes to the assassination without once mentioning the name Ruiz Caballero.

“Alright.” Méndez silenced the television. “So much for the bullshit official version.”

The phone rang. Méndez mouthed the words “The Secretary.” The man in Mexico City had seen what he needed to see of the evening
news.

“That Mauro Fernández Rochetti is certainly a foul specimen, is he not, Leo?” the Secretary said.

Vivaldi was audible in the background. Méndez imagined his boss sipping a brandy in his study. Getting no response, the Secretary
continued: “I am working hard for a decision at the highest levels to remove the case from the state police and designate
the federal police and the Diogenes Group as the investigative agencies on the assassination.”

“The federal police? You would trade one traitor for another.”

“I thought the federal police had been comparatively neutral.”

“Only more passive.”

“In any case, I’m afraid it may take a while. The Ruiz Caballeros are spreading around money and pressure. The Senator’s allies
are protecting Junior and the state police. Any progress with your prisoners? I’m feeling heat to surrender them.”

“No. I don’t think there will be unless we use old-fashioned methods. But our northern friends”—Méndez glanced at Isa
bel, who nodded—“are still ready to move forward with the indictments. And any technical assistance we need. I think there’s
no doubt we can establish that the state police engineered the assassination and then got rid of the assassin. It’s not a
question of proof. It’s a question of political will.”

“For the moment, Leobardo, I can only repeat how important it is to keep a cool head. Go slowly. Start at the bottom and work
our way up. It’s a delicate moment.”

“Yes sir,” Méndez said, bridging his eyes with a hand to his forehead. “Slowly. Start at the bottom and work up.”

“Exactly,” the Secretary said. He hesitated. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. Take care of yourself.”

Méndez hung up and sipped coffee. He asked Athos: “Do we have a surveillance team on Junior?”

“Yes.”

“I want to be on top of his movements at all times. Review the plans for capturing him.”

Puente sat up and said: “Leo, did I hear you talk about going slow?”

Méndez patted the phone as he would a pet. He gave her a ragged smile. “I was imitating the Secretary, actually, and lying
through my teeth. I have no intention of waiting any longer. Maybe if I had lied sooner, Araceli would still be alive.”

Athos and Porthos looked pained. Méndez raised a hand, cutting off Puente.

“I’m serious,” he said, hearing his voice shake. “I miscalculated badly. I was wrapped up in my own fuzzy ideas. I thought
I would be the target. I never thought they would go after someone so popular, a human rights official, a woman. It’s a barbarity,
it violates all the codes. But I should have seen it coming.”

“Licenciado, all of us were caught off guard,” Athos said.

“It won’t happen again. We have our arrest warrants, signed by a brave federal prosecutor in Mexico City, and our evidence.
As soon as you say the moment is tactically sound, Athos, we grab Junior.”

Athos nodded contentedly. Porthos’s grin was awed. Puente looked preoccupied.

Méndez regarded her deadpan. “What? You think it’s impossible?”

“No,” she said. She took a deep breath. “I want to tell you something. It complicates the situation, but it could help. Valentine
finally made contact. He’s OK.”

“Ah.”

“He’s inside, Leo. He’s with Junior’s entourage and he’s ready to help us any way he can.”

Puente went on to explain the series of events that had propelled the fugitive Border Patrol agent into a position of trust
with the Ruiz Caballero triggermen. Méndez leaned back in his chair, his eyes almost closed, trying to appear impressed. He
didn’t trust Pescatore. He thought Isabel’s faith in him was naive and risky. He didn’t understand whether it was hidden talent
or clumsy gringo luck that kept the young agent alive.

“Isabel, that’s all very interesting,” Méndez said when she had finished. “But you’ll forgive me if I have grave doubts. The
fact that Pescatore has fallen in with Araceli’s murderers does not change my opinion of him.”

“He has taken an incredible risk in reaching out to me, Leo,” Puente said. “Don’t you think that proves his credibility?”

“Not if it is a trap.”

“I know him. He’s not that slick an operator. Not with me.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, I am very happy for you that he—”

“Happy for me?” Puente leaned forward combatively, her stare hardening. “What do you mean? It has nothing to do with me. You
should be happy for all of us.”

Méndez raised a hand defensively. This was no time to get into a battle. They needed each other too much. “That is what I
meant. I am happy he has stumbled into the right place at the right time.”

Later that night, Puente let Mendez listen in on Pescatore’s
next call. Pescatore was apparently hiding in a bathroom, whispering into the cell phone. The details convinced Méndez that
the kid really was inside Junior’s entourage as he claimed. Pescatore sounded sincere, for whatever that was worth. Puente
kept the conversation brief, telling Pescatore what they needed. But there was an undercurrent of intimacy in the way she
talked to him: her eyes down, her mouth close to the phone, her voice husky. There is no doubt whatsoever that something happened
between these two, Méndez told himself. Let’s hope for the love of God that it hasn’t affected her judgment.

The next day, a team of undercover Diogenes officers shadowed Junior. He rode in a five-vehicle caravan to have lunch at his
favorite seafood restaurant in a mini-mall in the Río Zone. He stopped afterward for drinks in the lounge of a twin-towered
hotel. He was showing himself in public, making a statement that he had nothing to fear.

But Junior stayed home that night. While they waited for a call from Pescatore, Méndez dozed at his desk with his head propped
on his arms. A disc on his computer soothed him: Billy Strayhorn playing solo piano. Méndez had insisted that Puente rest
in the adjacent sleeping quarters. At 3 a.m., she hurried into his office, shirttails out of her jeans, hair tousled, listening
to her phone as she snapped her fingers to get Méndez’s attention.

After she hung up, Puente briefed Méndez. Pescatore had reported that Junior’s people had relaxed. The word had come from
Senator Ruiz Caballero in Mexico City not to worry. The heat would be off soon.

“Really,” Méndez growled. “That might explain why the Secretary didn’t call tonight.”

Puente stifled a yawn. “Valentine said Junior’s in a terrible mood. A woman wanted him to see her. Natalia?”

“Natasha,” Méndez said. “Did he say anything else?”

“Buffalo convinced Junior it was better not to go. And Junior didn’t like it. Who’s Natasha?”

“The wife of an old man with money.”

“Pretty?”

“She was Miss Rosarito or something. Junior has a house in Colonia Postal he uses for their get-togethers.”

“How romantic.”

Méndez knew the rhythms of Junior’s moods and appetites. From the moment he heard the name Natasha, Méndez had the instinct
that he was going to get his chance. The next morning, Méndez ordered Athos to plan the operation for Colonia Postal, a quiet
neighborhood in the hills east of the San Ysidro Port of Entry. Athos established a command post in a house across the street
from Junior’s love nest. The owners were out of town; Athos took over the house in the name of police business. He persuaded
the maid to spend the night elsewhere. He gave her money for expenses and sent her off with a chaperone, a female officer
of the Diogenes Group.

The message from Pescatore came Sunday evening: “Natasha tonight.”

Méndez and Puente hurried to the command post. To reach it they parked on a street downhill and crept through an alley and
the backyard.

“A good location for what you have in mind,” Puente said, peering out of the darkened living room window. Lined with stucco
houses, the long street curved up a hillside. It was not an ostentatious neighborhood; Junior’s hideaway was one of the larger
homes. The feebly lit street seemed particularly lifeless on the weekend. Crickets creaked in purple ivy.

“Almost too good,” Méndez said. “Let’s hope your young Valentine isn’t luring us into an ambush.”

“He’s not
my
young Valentine.”

Méndez shrugged. He pointed his flashlight at the diagram Athos had spread on the dining room table. Athos had deployed an
inner ring of officers, the arrest team, in the command post
house and outside on foot and in vehicles. Another group was backup. There were two snipers on the roof of the command post.

“How does it look?”

“All right, considering our limitations,” Athos said drily, puffing on a cigarette. His black cap was turned backwards like
a baseball catcher’s. A dagger in a leg scabbard complemented his usual outfit. “We’re not exactly the Delta Force. But we’ll
fight with what we have.”

At about 10 p.m., the surveillance team reported that Junior had left his home in his Mercedes with one security car.

Athos joined Méndez and Puente at the window. He delivered orders into his radio. When the report came in that Junior had
picked up Natasha, Méndez clapped Athos on the shoulder.

Half an hour later, headlights rounded the hill and grew rapidly.

“There’s your boy,” Isabel Puente whispered in English. “Buffalo Mendoza riding backup.”

The Mercedes and the Buick Regal disappeared into the garage.

During the next hour, Méndez, Athos and Puente drank bottled water, ate peanut M & Ms and talked in whispers. Méndez thought
about writing a note to his family in case he was killed. Everything he composed in his head sounded melodramatic. He always
agonized when he tried to write something personal to his wife. He thought back to his most recent conversation with Estela.
They had wept together about Araceli. Then he had told her that there was no way he could go to Berkeley for the time being.
Her tone turned cold. She told him that, now more than ever, it was time to drop everything and visit his family. While he
still could.

He was reaching into his jacket pocket for a notepad and a pen when Athos said it was time. They slipped out and crept across
the street. Silhouettes moved around them as officers surrounded the
house, taking aim from behind vehicles, trees, fences. Méndez, Athos, Puente and half a dozen agents crouched next to an intercom
set in a low brick wall. Athos took a breath and pushed the buzzer.

The deep voice that answered spoke with a
pocho
accent; Méndez thought it might be Buffalo Mendoza. “Who is this?”

“The Diogenes Group,” Méndez said, feeling vaguely ridiculous. “We have an arrest warrant for Mr. Hugo Ruiz Caballero.”

There was cursing, a mutter of voices, a long silence. Méndez was about to push the buzzer again when a new voice surprised
him. It was snotty and unmistakable.

“Méndez,” Junior said. “Trying to fuck me, as usual.”

“Time to behave like an adult, Junior. You are surrounded. Surrender quietly.” As he spoke, Méndez felt his cell phone buzz
on his hip.

“I am the one who gives the orders, you idiot,” Junior responded. “If you don’t believe me, answer your phone. It’s important.”

“For the sake of the young lady, stop playing the hard-ass and come out,” Méndez snapped. But his phone buzzed again, disconcerting
him. He checked the number display: the Secretary.