Triple Crossing (6 page)

“You’re exaggerating,” Dennis said, his Adam’s apple bobbing in discomfort.

“And the corruption. Isn’t it curious we know the names of the Mexican drug lords,
nombres y apellidos,
and nothing about the American ones? Who are the American drug lords? Who protects them?”

“It seems to me,” said Dennis, “that the big traffickers in the U.S. are Colombians and Mexicans in immigrant communities.”

“But it’s impossible no Anglo-Saxon names are involved,” Méndez said. “Like the traffickers of arms in Phoenix and Las Vegas
who sell guns to the narcos of Tijuana. And the legal gangsters: the businessmens who are partners of Mexican companies that
launder drug money? American corporations, banks? I remember in New York years ago when they arrested all those Wall Street
people and walked them in Wall Street in chains. Marvelous. You should do this every year. A parade, like Thanksgiving.”

“They say you are pretty left-wing,” Dennis said tersely.

Méndez grimaced, his eyes narrowing. “
Ah sí?
I’m not sure what is left-wing anymore. Señor Dennis, I answer your question: Why do I do what I do? At this point in my
life, the most revolutionary thing I can do is to be a policeman. To arrest people regardless of who they are, what power
they have. In this place, in these times, enforcing the law has become an act of subversion.”

The silence filled with the scratching of the woman’s pen on her notepad. Méndez looked at her until she glanced up and smiled.

“I have talked too much,” Méndez said. “Thank you for coming.”

During the good-byes, he accepted when Steinberg asked quietly if she could talk to him again soon. Having done his part to
advance inter-American understanding, Méndez summoned Athos and a driver.

They drove to the Río Zone, the modern downtown east of the Avenida Revolución tourist district. They entered the square-block
complex housing the courts and the state police behind a brawny detective with a prisoner in tow. The detective wore a flower-print
shirt, denim jacket and cowboy boots. His pawlike hand rested lightly on the long-haired youth’s shoulder. The prisoner was
not handcuffed. This was the macho style of the state police; they believed no prisoner would dream of running from them.

It was cold in the long drab hallways of the justice complex, one of those Tijuana government buildings with cinderblock walls
that generated either an insidious chill or sweatbox heat. Méndez and Athos stepped over regularly spaced streams of water
on the floor, leaks from the radiator system.

The receptionist wore a high-necked sweater and scarf along with her miniskirt. Her cheerful greeting contrasted with the
glares of half a dozen cops, aides and other officials lounging in the outer office. A standard welcome for the Diogenes Group.

“Ah yes, from the Special Unit. Licenciado Losada is expecting you. And Commander Fernández Rochetti. Please go in.”

Deputy Attorney General Albino Losada, chief of the state prosecutor’s office in Tijuana, greeted them glumly. His narrow
shoulders were encased in a trench coat that was belted against the cold. He had a small mustache jammed up under a pointy
nose. He remained standing with his fists in the pockets of the
coat. Losada’s predecessor had been murdered. His predecessor’s predecessor had been arrested with great fanfare, then released
and fired. It was Losada’s custom to pace behind his desk, giving the impression that he was about to bolt from the room.

Homicide Commander Mauro Fernández Rochetti, meanwhile, reclined in a chair to the left of the desk. He looked more comfortable
in the large, sparse office than Losada. Fernández Rochetti crossed his legs in shiny gray slacks and lit a thin cigar.

Here we go, Méndez told himself. At a gesture from Losada, he and Athos sat down.

“A busy morning for you, Licenciado,” Fernández Rochetti said. He commanded the homicide unit of the state police, a job reserved
for highly paid operatives of the drug cartels. Since the Diogenes Group had arrested his former boss, Regino “the Colonel”
Astorga, the homicide commander had come to be considered the shadow chief of the entire state force.

“That’s right,” Méndez said. “I’m afraid your detective was directly involved in the smuggling ring.”

“You can imagine how concerned all of us are here,” Losada said.

Fernández Rochetti blew smoke. His voice had a crust to it.

“Perhaps he was set up,” he said. “This smells of a setup, as I was just telling the deputy attorney general.”

“Let’s not be ridiculous, Mauro,” Athos said quietly. “What, somebody planted twenty-five Chinese in his house when he wasn’t
looking?”

Fernández Rochetti arched his eyebrows. Losada said, “Well, the principal issue, Licenciado, is that we want to thank you
for the courtesy of coming to see us. And we’d like to discuss keeping De Rosa out of custody. Perhaps a house arrest…”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Méndez answered. “We have already turned the case over to the federal prosecutor. The best
I can do is put him in the Eighth Street Jail.”

The argument about custody arrangements went in circles. A
cell phone rang. Losada fished in his trench coat, produced the phone and answered it. Fernández Rochetti turned expectantly.
The prosecutor’s stutter-stepping intensified.

“Yessir. Yes, thank you. Well, you should really talk to him, he happens to be right here.” Losada pressed a hand over the
phone and made an apologetic face at Méndez. “This lawyer has been pestering me all day. A pain in the neck. Best if he talks
to you, Licenciado. It’s a federal matter.”

Losada handed the phone to Méndez, who exchanged a glance with Athos.

“Hello?” Méndez said into the phone.

“Licenciado, how are you?” The voice was resonant and mannered. “This is Licenciado Castrejón greeting you, from the law office
of Castrejón and Sáenz? At your service. What a pleasure to hear your voice. You and the family are well, I hope? I’m so lucky
to have found you there.”

“Yes.”

“Listen, Licenciado Méndez,” the lawyer said. “It turns out that I’ve been engaged by certain parties on behalf of certain
parties in this business of these foreigners from China. I have a matter I’d like to take up with you.”

“Go ahead.”

“A delicate, complicated situation, Licenciado. The best way I can express myself is as follows: I would be very grateful
if we could work out some kind of arrangement by which you could release Officer De Rosa and the Chinese gentleman, Mr., eh,
Chen.”

“An arrangement.”

“Exactly.” The lawyer gathered momentum, the words devoid of genuine expression, as if he were reading from a script. “Let
me phrase it like this, if you permit me: Certain parties would be interested, if we could secure the release of these two
gentlemen, in making a generous contribution to the Special Unit which you command.”

“A contribution.” Now Méndez looked at Fernández Rochetti, who was savoring his cigar. Sons of bitches, Méndez thought. They’re
just doing it to see my reaction.

“Yes sir, maybe ‘donation’ would be the best word. The Diogenes Group is doing such admirable work. What a difficult battle
it is, you have my deepest respect in that regard. I read a newspaper story explaining how you have to make do with old cars
and radios, secondhand bulletproof vests from the San Diego Police. A real shame. So we were thinking along the lines of a
donation: say three new cars and some vests, radios and other equipment. In exchange for the liberty of Mr. Chen and Detective
De Rosa. If that sounds agreeable. After all, we know your real concern is drug smuggling, not a few extra migrants.”

Méndez lowered the phone for a moment, the disembodied voice droning in his hand. He contemplated throwing the phone at Fernández
Rochetti or the prosecutor. Athos sat forward with his forearms on his thighs. Méndez collected himself. Athos had told him
that it was best to respond to the mafia in kind. If they are indirect and flowery, you be indirect and flowery. If they curse
and threaten, you curse and threaten. Energy for energy.

“Licenciado Castrejón,” Méndez said into the phone. “I appreciate the offer, of course. Of course we could always use new
equipment at the Diogenes Group. Lamentably, I can’t accept it in this context. And let me say, in anticipation of another
offer, that I like money. Who doesn’t? I probably like money almost as much as Deputy Attorney General Losada and Commander
Fernández Rochetti. But I can’t help you. The suspects you mentioned are in jail. And there they will stay.”

“Well, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Castrejón said. “I thought you were a reasonable, sensible person who could…”

Méndez reached over and, with exaggerated care, placed the phone on Losada’s desk. The prosecutor picked it up, said a few
words and hung up. Méndez rose, trying to look serene.

“It’s been a pleasure as always,” he said. “Thank you for your time. With your permission.”

Losada made an apologetic noise. Mauro Fernández Rochetti cut him off.

“I am concerned about you, Licenciado,” Fernández Rochetti said. Moving languidly, he reached out and tapped the cigar on
an ashtray on the desk. His blazer cuff rode up to reveal a gold bracelet, gold cuff link, and powder-blue shirtsleeve on
a thin wrist. “Enthusiasm and inexperience are a bad combination. They lead to mistakes like the one you have made in this
case today. As far as my agency is concerned, De Rosa has been unlawfully abducted.”

Fernández Rochetti had a habit of showing his tongue when he smiled, an unsavory touch in an appearance that aspired to be
distinguished. He was in his late fifties, silver-haired. He looked like an aging actor from the black-and-white days of Mexican
cinema: dark eyebrows, strong profile, soft mouth.

Méndez turned toward Fernández Rochetti. “And?”

“And I have to tell you: My
muchachos
were naturally upset and concerned about their colleague. It took all my efforts to persuade them not to go to your headquarters
and rescue him. Imagine how unpleasant that would have been. You can play any game you want, Licenciado. But every game has
rules.”

Athos stepped close to the homicide commander. Fernández Rochetti reclined, legs crossed. But his eyes flickered up at the
man in black and gave him away: Mauro Fernández Rochetti was as frightened of Athos as anyone else in Tijuana.

“Tell your
muchachos,”
Athos said softly, “that any time they feel the urge to pay us a visit, I will be waiting for them. And you know I don’t
play games.”

Athos turned away. Méndez followed his lead.

“Thank you very much, gentlemen,” Losada said to their backs.

Athos and Méndez walked rapidly down the echoing, pud
dled hallway. After they emerged into the sunlight, into the lunchtime crowd emptying from the courthouse, Athos spat into
the gutter.

“Quite a day, eh?” Athos said, shaking his head. “That Losada is an instrument of the mafia. An instrument of the mafia.”

“And that bastard Mauro is the one that plays him.”

“What do you think, Licenciado?”

“They did all that just to provoke me. Things are getting ugly, brother.”

Their driver pulled up in the Crown Victoria. As Méndez got in, he saw Athos scan the sidewalk, the police and civilian vehicles,
the windows of the justice complex: reconnaissance in enemy territory.

At about 5 p.m., Méndez lay down in the sleeping quarters next to his office, where he often spent the night since his family’s
departure. He slept and dreamt that a phone was ringing, but he could not find it.

An hour later, his secretary woke him to say Isabel Puente had arrived from San Diego. Méndez patted his hair, frowning in
the bathroom mirror at the gray tinges, and smoothed the wrinkles in his clothes. Feeling vaguely juvenile, he slid quickly
behind his desk and popped in a compact disc: a trio singing a bolero. “Sabor a Mí.”

As was her custom, Isabel Puente made an entrance.

“Leo, how are you? I brought you a gift.”

“
La cubanamericana
has arrived! A gift?”

“For intellectual self-improvement.”

She advanced with lithe, sure-footed strides, grinning playfully. She had her hair pulled back today like a flamenco dancer,
bringing out the feline bone structure, the wide-set eyes. She was diminutive, athletically well proportioned, wearing a snug
gold turtleneck and matching corduroy pants. The belt holster peeking out of her down vest was empty; U.S. agents were forbidden
to carry firearms on Mexican soil. But Méndez suspected that
she was packing her second gun, a short-barreled automatic, in one of her knee-high suede boots or the bag over her shoulder.

As always, he found the greeting awkward. With his male counterparts from U.S. law enforcement, who like Puente were mostly
Latinos with cross-border liaison duties, Méndez generally exchanged the standard ritualistic
abrazo
complete with two-handed back slap. That didn’t seem appropriate with Puente. They shook hands over the desk. She leaned
forward for a hesitant peck on the cheek, her demure look softening her self-assuredness.

But she recovered quickly, pulling a book from her bag and brandishing it at him.

“Here,” she said. “This is for you. This is
about
you.”

The book was entitled
Manual of the Perfect Latin American Idiot.

“
Ay,
how thoughtful,” he laughed. “The bible of the neoliberal right, no? They decided the calamities of Latin America are the
fault of the left. What a surprise.”

“It’s a classic,” Puente said. Her accent in Spanish retained the sugar-mouthed and staccato rhythms of Cuban South Florida.
But she was agile enough to mimic the expressions and drawl of the border. “You’ve got an image problem with my bosses at
the task force. They think you’re a Communist anti-American. But an honest Communist anti-American, if there is such a thing.”

“Their worst nightmare, eh? What I want to know is, why do you hang out with me, then?”

Puente plopped into a chair. “Obviously, I must have a weakness for Marxist
mamones.”