Triple Crossing (45 page)

“So now all the questions get answered,” Méndez murmured to Puente.

“Hope so,” she said, leading the way into the lobby. She wore a long tight skirt and more makeup than Méndez had ever seen
her use.

Athos, Porthos and Pescatore brought up the rear. As they crowded into the elevator, Pescatore gave Méndez a rueful smile.
Although the comandantes had kept him on a short leash, Pescatore was no longer a prisoner. He had been a model of good
behavior, Méndez had to admit. The beseeching looks the kid directed at Puente were enough to move a stone to pity.

But not Puente. She had avoided acknowledging Pescatore’s existence since they had left the Triple Border. She simply looked
through him with an icy composure that made Méndez glad he wasn’t on her bad side.

It was eerie to be in an elevator again with Puente and Pescatore. The incident with Buffalo in Ciudad del Este was the kind
of experience from which you don’t recover in a long time, if ever. The three of them had crossed a blood-drenched border
together, a bond uniting them whether they liked it or not. To his surprise, Méndez found he could not work up the energy
to despise Pescatore; he accepted the younger man’s explanation. When Méndez had mentioned this to Puente during the flight
to Los Angeles, she had declared that the beating had scrambled his mind. She said she would never forgive Pescatore for deceiving
her.

“The thing is, he wants badly to apologize to you,” Méndez had whispered in the darkened airplane cabin. Their faces glowed
in the light of the touch-controlled TV screens installed in the seat backs.

“Too bad,” she retorted. “He’s lucky he isn’t going to the penitentiary. He’s unstable. He’s a childish thug. I’m amazed he
gets sympathy from you, Leo.”

“Something he said, about my ideas getting in the way of what I see. He’s not dumb.”

“No?”

“All I am saying, Isabel, is that emotionally it might be good for you to hear what he has to say. To put the thing to rest.”

“It would be a sign of weakness. Besides, we have important things to worry about.”

Puente emerged from the elevator ready to deal with important things.

Daniels waited in a conference room with an aide. He greeted them with much shoulder-patting and arm-gripping. They sat at
tables that were arranged in a square and laid out with coffee and pastries.

“Congratulations, Mr. Méndez,” Daniels beamed. “Hell of a job. I’m so glad you’re all OK. You folks were great. You thoroughly
disrupted and dismantled the Ruiz Caballero organization down there in Paraguay. You have the thanks and gratitude of my government.”

In the windows, office towers gleamed. Glass and sun and sky created aquarium hues. The Federal Building made Méndez feel
resentful and insignificant, conjuring comparisons to the rickety outposts of justice in Tijuana with their 1970s decor and
vague odors.

Daniels fit the view. He wore a charcoal-gray double-breasted suit with a regal white shirt collar and steel-colored tie,
reminding Méndez again of a bandleader. Daniels did not appear to have had the misfortune of perspiring in a long time. His
supple fingers hoisted a plastic coffee cup with flair. He turned eating a doughnut into a dignified exercise.

Nonetheless, he did not look comfortable. The painkillers and the trip had slowed Méndez’s thought process, but also lent
it a slow-motion clarity. He realized what was bothering him: He had expected the U.S. Attorney to be there with Daniels.
He had expected prosecutors, bosses from Isabel’s task force, agents. Anyone who might want a piece of an event as career-friendly
as the capture of Junior Ruiz Caballero.

“Thank you for your kind words,” Méndez said. “Actually, I very much hope I could congratulate you. I understand you have
news about Junior.”

Daniels smiled blandly. “I was just getting to that.”

A pause. Daniels’s smile did not waver. Méndez saw Puente’s thumb go to her teeth momentarily. She said: “Where is he, sir?”

“Southern California.” Daniels could have been talking about the weather.

Puente smiled uncertainly. Athos and Porthos looked at Méndez, who made a quizzical face. Pescatore sat low in his chair.

“Well, that’s wonderful,” Puente said. “Isn’t it? Is he under arrest?”

“As I told you, we’ve got him located and under control.” Daniels crossed his long arms and leaned back.

Méndez decided he wasn’t going to say another word until Daniels stopped his dance. Puente seemed torn between treating Daniels
like a boss or a suspect.

“Under control?” Puente asked.

“We know where he is and we’re watching him. And he knows it. As a leader of a criminal enterprise, he’s neutralized.”

“But he’s free.” Her exasperation overcame her deference. Her voice rose. “Why?”

Daniels made a ruminative noise. He got up, put his hands in his pockets and took a couple of steps into the enclosure within
the square of tables. He bowed his head pensively, like a professor or a trial lawyer. It occurred to Méndez that Daniels
must have been a wizard in the courtroom.

“Look,” Daniels said. “I’d love to pop him. That’s why I sent you all after him in the first place. If you recall. And let’s
examine what you’ve achieved.” He ticked off fingers: “You brought about the arrest, off the record, of the top suspect in
Mrs. Aguirre’s murder, Commander Rochetti. Buffalo was the other top suspect, and he’s dead. You broke up a major alliance
in South America that was moving dope and guns and people and contraband all over. An alliance that had terrorist potential.
Now the meanest, baddest people in the Ruiz Caballero organization are in jail, dead or running. All that in a few weeks.
None too shabby.”

He looked at each of them, let it sink in. “But what about
Junior Ruiz? Well, it’s complicated. Political. You chased him out of the tri-border region. We were ready to scoop him up.
Then red lights start flashing. Big red lights.”

“What does that mean?” Puente asked. “Why can’t we finish what we started?”

Daniels propped himself on a table. His head went up and his smile disappeared, a boxer coming off the ropes. “Because Washington
doesn’t want us to.”

“Why not?”

“Because Mexico City doesn’t want us to.”

Méndez smiled maliciously. He searched for the words, wishing his accent weren’t so strong. “Since when do you care in the
least what Mexico City wants?”

Daniels sighed. “Mr. Méndez. This is painful for me. Your friend was assassinated. You damn near lost your life. You’re a
brave and honest man. I’m sorry to tell you that the politicians do care, very much, what Mexico City thinks. Back when I
organized this, I said it had to be a Mexican operation. The presidential elections are coming up in Mexico. There’s instability,
economic dynamics. A delicate time. We have to go slow.”

Méndez caught Puente’s eye, thinking he should cede on her turf, but she nodded.

“So what you are saying, we chased Junior half of the way across the world, and here he is,” Méndez said. “Under your nose.
And it is finished? All for nothing?”

“You’ve built a strong case. It’s a question of political timing in Mexico.”

“Political timing. After the elections, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

“What if the presidential candidate of the Ruiz Caballeros is elected? What if another candidate is elected and they buy him,
or kill him? Will the timing be better?”

“I’m a prosecutor, not a politician. I couldn’t answer that.”

Méndez turned to Athos and Porthos with a mirthless laugh.
In Spanish he said: “You understand, right? You follow this? Suddenly the big machos are little girls.”

“What…,” Daniels began, but something had burst inside Méndez. His English started to fail him when he got agitated.

“Isabel, please translate for me,” Méndez continued in Spanish. “I want to be precise and clear. Just now you said it was
delicate, Mr. Daniels. My ex-boss said something like that a few weeks ago, about Junior. The Secretary is not a criminal.
But he is an instrument of the mafia. I was disappointed but not surprised when he let me down. But the one thing, the one
thing, I have relied on is you Americans. Your satellites, computers, money. Your ideas of right and wrong. You decided I
was a good Mexican. So you did everything to help me catch the bad Mexicans. You were overbearing, you weren’t flexible, you
stomped around making mistakes. But you were always there, pushing. I never expected you to back down. Now we find out how
far the power of the Ruiz Caballeros really extends.”

Isabel translated as he spoke. Daniels jammed his hands deeper into his pockets.

“I’m not going to bullshit you,” Daniels said. “The Ruizes have contacts in D.C. The uncle lined up a top law firm, one of
the best.”

“Of course,” Méndez said in English. “The Senator made a deal.
Un arreglo.
Imagine all the investments they have in this country. Billions of dollars of business with Americans. Very embarrassing,
no? Unfortunate connections, inconvenient friends. Boxing, music, banking, politics.”

“All I know is, there have been serious back-channel conversations on Junior’s behalf.”

“In fact, you don’t have him under control. He has you under control.”

“Yet and still. There’s political timing and there’s police timing. Meanwhile, you’ll be taken care of”—Daniels gestured at
Athos and Porthos—“as far as immigration status, lodging,
whatever you need. The Mexican authorities have assured me that the shooting of the state police officers in Tijuana will
be ruled self-defense. And Ms. Puente, after your performance on this case, you can pretty much write your ticket as far as
your next assignment, city, agency. You name it.”

Daniels had praised and tempted her at one stroke. Méndez thought: Can I blame her if she jumps to the winning side?

“That’s very nice of you, sir,” Puente said. “But I can’t focus on that now. We’ve put Mr. Méndez and his men in a great deal
of danger. It looks to me like we did it mainly because we wanted that alliance between Junior and Khalid broken up. Now the
dirty work is done, and we abandon him. I feel ashamed of what I’m hearing in this room.”

“Now, Ms. Puente, that’s not fair,” Daniels said, forehead creasing with the first traces of irritation. “We pulled out all
the stops to catch Junior down there. That Argentine operative we set you up with is the best intel asset in the region. You
can’t imagine the interagency hoops I jumped through. He got you real close, didn’t he?”

Méndez flashed back to Facundo at the airport, his arm in a sling, teary-eyed, as he bear-hugged them one at a time. He felt
a rather Argentine pang of nostalgia.

“I grant you that,” Puente said. “But we have to answer Leo’s question. What now?”

“We wait,” Daniels said. “We hope. This has been a big buildup to a big disappointment. This kind of thing, frankly, makes
me think about going back to the private sector.”

Daniels straightened, turned and walked back around the table. He sat heavily, his body language announcing that everything
worth saying had been said.

Méndez went over to a window. Business suits flowed across a grassy esplanade toward restaurants with the wooden facades typical
of the Gaslamp district. Although the Federal Building made him resentful, it had made him feel powerful too. He
always had the sensation of feeding off its energy. With the yanquis behind him, his attempt to pass himself off as a policeman
could succeed. Now it was over. At the same time, he felt a grim satisfaction. He should have trusted his instincts. There
would be no more playing cop. But that didn’t mean he had run out of weapons.

“Let me mention something we have not discussed until now,” Méndez said slowly. “It has become clear to me that the Ruiz Caballeros
have allies inside your government. More than one person. Traitors. We have come across some very explosive information. This
should concern you.”

Daniels glanced at Puente, who returned the look evenly. Daniels shrugged.

“It does concern me. Look, Mr. Méndez, we all need to calm down. If it’s comforting for you to make me the villain, fine.
But I am in your corner. I will continue to be in your corner. The problem is that I am just the messenger. And I’ve said
pretty much what there is to say.”

T
HEY MET THE REPORTER
at a Cuban restaurant on Morena Boulevard.

The five of them crammed into Isabel Puente’s work vehicle, a Crown Victoria. Jammed into the backseat between Athos and Porthos,
Pescatore noticed Puente glancing at rearview mirrors, scanning the traffic. He felt disoriented. These were Tijuana-style
precautions. As if the pursuers had become the pursued. As if the border had been erased.

The restaurant was an agreeable space next to a Latin food market. Family memorabilia—diplomas, passport pages, black-and-white
photos—were enclosed in glass cases like a tiny immigration museum. The reporter was waiting at a secluded corner table reserved
by Puente. Her name was Steinberg. She wore a sweater and jeans.

Pescatore did not have experience with reporters. Méndez had said this one knew what she was doing. It was clear she took
the meeting seriously: Her pale blue eyes laser-focused on Méndez and the sheaf of printed pages he handed her. They both
spoke in Spanish.

“For your reading pleasure,” Méndez said.

“You want me to read it right now?” Steinberg asked. “I can’t have a copy?”

“Unfortunately, not yet. Take your time. Let’s order something.”

Steinberg barely looked at the menu, ordering a fruit shake and a sandwich. She bent over the pages. One hand pushed her blond
hair up onto her head and stayed there.

The rest of them waited, toying with their food. Pescatore watched Puente out of the corner of his eye. She looked tired but
beautiful, sunglasses propped in her hair. Her thumb was up against her teeth. She still wasn’t speaking to him, except to
snap an occasional order. Even then she avoided eye contact, as if the sight of him made her sick. As long as she let him
stick around, though, he figured it was a step in the right direction. So Pescatore had acted like part of the team and kept
his mouth shut—except when they asked him questions. They had asked him a lot of questions, especially Méndez. He had done
his best to answer, just as he had in the jail in Argentina. The setting was nicer this time: Puente’s apartment. Pescatore
had dreamed about the place for weeks, their Crown Point love nest. But the reality of the return had been depressing.