Triple Crossing (9 page)

“Hey, you probably know more about it than I do. That’s the other guys. He has offered did I want to make a little extra cash,
though.”

“Doing what?”

“Freelance security for this rich Mexican guy. Garrison teaches him and his bodyguards: shooting, tactical stuff.”

“What rich Mexican guy?”

“He doesn’t name names.”

“You don’t have a clue who it is?”

“Uh-uh.”

His food arrived. Pescatore wolfed down the waffles. He found it hard to believe he was sitting here, the luxuriant blue of
the Pacific framed in the window, having a conspiratorial chat with this woman who held his fate in her hands. Isabel Puente
never quite relaxed. She crossed and uncrossed her supple brown legs, fiddled with the torn sugar packets, rearranged her
hair. Although she concentrated on him, she periodically surveyed the room behind him and the street below. He wondered how
old she was. Despite her poise, he guessed she couldn’t be more than thirty, about five years older than him.

Presently, she said: “And you never once took up Garrison on his offer?”

“So I guess this is the part where I tell you everything, huh?”

“I guess. Or you can finish your waffles, I drive you back to your car and the investigation continues.”

“Look, tell you the truth, I did work for him a couple times, in a manner of speaking.”

Puente gave him a nod.

“One time he said he needed some backup. All I had to do was bring my gun and show myself in the parking lot outside Coco’s,
down by I-Five north of San Ysidro. Me and this other PA, Macías, we waited outside while he met with these two Mexicans.
Serious hard-asses. I think they were AFI or SSP, you know. Federal police.”

“OK.”

Pescatore explained that the meeting in the diner had lasted about half an hour, that they shook hands with the Mexfeds when
they left. Garrison had paid him three hundred dollars and forgiven two hundred Pescatore owed him. On the other occasion,
Pescatore told her, he escorted a woman who came up from Tijuana without papers. She took a taxi from Tijuana through the
lane of a Customs and Border Protection inspector who was close to Garrison. Pescatore met her in San Ysidro, drove her to
a high-rise condominium downtown overlooking the Coronado Bay and walked her in as far as the elevator.

“She was early twenties, lots of hair and perfume, flashy-looking. She told me she was from Sinaloa. Garrison made it sound
like she was one of his informants’ girlfriend.”

“So there’s Macías, Dillard, you—the PAs that do these ‘jobs’ for Garrison. Then there’s people in other agencies. Here’s
some individuals I’m aware of.”

She recited names as if reading from a report. He nodded. Puente continued: “And he has regular off-duty contact with Mexican
law enforcement.”

“Mainly Baja State police detectives. And federales. And a couple guys that work for Mexican customs.”

“Any contact with Colonel Astorga, the former chief of the state police?”

“No. But Garrison sure was interested when he got busted. He was the comandante with the two tons and the dead bodies, right?
The one who got caught by that secret Diogenes unit?”

“Exactly. How about Mauro Fernández Rochetti, the homicide chief in TJ?”

“I heard Garrison talk to a Mauro on the phone one time.”

“How about a subject named Omar Mendoza? Late thirties–early forties, jailhouse-weightlifter type. Not a cop, he’s a
veterano
from L.A., talks
pocho
Spanish. Street name is Buffalo.”

“Nobody like that.”

“I imagine the rich guy you mentioned with regard to the so-called security training is Junior Ruiz Caballero? And don’t tell
me you never heard of him.”

Pescatore exhaled deeply.

“Who hasn’t heard of him? Seems like Garrison’s business down there has some connection with the Ruiz Caballeros, yeah. Garrison
goes to the fights, he gets freebies in TJ at the clubs and everything. But Isabel, I don’t know. And I don’t wanna know.”

She shook her head impatiently. “I’m afraid that’s going to have to change.”

He stared down at the table, feeling trapped. He knew that the Ruiz Caballero family were heavy hitters, not just in Tijuana
but in all of Mexico.

“Who said I was gonna help you in the first place?”

“Nobody. But I know one thing: Yesterday, you spent the whole interview lying and bullshitting. Except for one part when you
told the truth. When Shepard asked you about giving money to aliens. That was the real Valentine.”

He looked up at her and then away, embarrassed and moved.

She said: “Deep down, you’re one of the good guys.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

But he cooperated during the next hour, answering dutifully
as she inundated him with questions: names, dates, locations, vehicles. Then she shifted to his “assignment,” as she called
it, and he told himself, well congratulations, my man. It kinda slipped by, but you’ve been recruited as an official undercover
rat for OIG. Proud of yourself?

She instructed him to get closer to Garrison and the others, accept the offers to make money, and get in on the action. He
shook his head.

“What?” Puente asked.

“After this whole crazy thing in the Zona Norte, I had pretty much decided to stay the hell away from Garrison.”

“Good. I’d be worried if you told me you felt bad because he’s your idol. This way you’ll stay sharp and watch out for yourself.”

“I feel bad allright. About the whole thing: the IB station, The Patrol, The Line. It chews people up and spits them out.”

Her face softened in a way that intrigued him. “I told you, the Border Patrol is an outfit with a lot of problems.”

“Yeah, I’m burned out. I still respect the agents, though.”

“Respect?”

“Damn right. You deal with the bad guys. But most PAs aren’t like Garrison at all. They work damn hard. People think we’re
stone soldiers out there. Nobody has a clue what we feel. The activists are always whining about us thumping somebody. They
care so damn much about the aliens. Hell, does anybody care about the aliens more than us? Does anybody spend more time with
the aliens, hold their hands, carry their kids? The activists, half the time they’re getting hustled by some thug that convinces
them he’s a poor
pollo
who didn’t deserve a beating.”

Puente pursed her lips. “There may be individuals who actually deserve a beating, as you put it. But it’s illegal. Period.”

“Listen. Say you come up against fifteen guys. Solo. It’s hard for you to imagine, but it happens all the time. Say only two
or three want to brawl, the rest are regular peaceful Guanajuato Joes. Those are still bad odds. You gotta hit the biggest
meanest
one and hit him hard, knock him down. So the others know you’re not a punk bitch. That’s not illegal. And the hoodlums who
want to throw hands are the ones making the thump allegations.”

“I’ve investigated excessive-force cases. There were plenty of bona fide victims. Plenty.”

Pescatore tried to slow himself down. He could not remember the last time he had spent so much time talking to someone with
such immediate intimacy.

He continued, his voice low. “All I’m saying is, the Border Patrol gets a bad rap. The Mexican government has some nerve saying
we’re heavy-handed. Fuck them. They practically kick their people out of the country: Don’t let the door hit you in the ass
going north. They abuse them all their lives, all the way up to the border. The minute the aliens cross, the Mexican government’s
like: ‘Hey
gabacho,
you put the handcuffs on that guy too tight! Police brutality! Racism!’ Can you imagine if they replaced us with Mexican
cops? They’d be like piranhas. Killing and raping and robbing every night. Considering everything, we are damn humane.”

“How about Garrison?” Puente said. “Explain to me how that guy got to be a supervisor.”

“That’s just weird. They been getting rid of Old Patrol guys like that. But supposedly he’s got a lot of yank with the bosses
at the Federal Building. Related to when he was in the military, you know? Some guys think he’s got intel connections.”

“He just plays Mr. Big,” Isabel scoffed. “Don’t you worry about him. What’s the matter, Valentine?”

He paused. “The fact is, us PAs have a code: We look out for each other. Nobody rats. And you just signed me up for rat of
the year.”

Puente paid the check. She suggested they take a walk. They followed a promenade out to the corner of the coastal park. They
passed a mother with a baby carriage, a couple holding hands on
a bench, eyes closed, faces offered blissfully to the sun. Puente and Pescatore found a secluded spot along a wood railing
in the shade. They leaned on the rail, staring down at small waves foaming on boulders. Beaches and wooded residential neighborhoods
stretched along the shoreline to the north.

He did not look at Puente as she spoke. She explained how they would communicate, procedures for making contact. “You need
to watch your back, Valentine. These people are serious business.”

“Tell me about it.” He turned and saw that she had put on sunglasses. The breeze played with her hair and her skirt, which
had a long slit on the side. They went back to the car.

“What do I tell Garrison about the investigation of me and Pulpo and everything?” he asked.

“We’ll spread the word that we suspect you crossed into Tijuana, but we can’t prove it. Our Mexican contacts will do the same.
You tell Garrison we asked about him. We were interested in cases of excessive force. That’ll point him in the wrong direction.”

“That’s what I told him.”

“Valentine,” she said as he buckled his seat belt. “What exactly happened in that situation in Chicago with the hotel thieves?”

“Like I said. I got to know these guys, I found out what they were up to. I decided to go undercover on them. But they weren’t
bad guys, it turned out. After a while I wasn’t sure what I was doing, tell you the truth.”

“Interesting.”

The sun lowered toward the ocean, igniting crimson circles in the water. On the way back, Puente said nothing until they drove
downhill into Little Italy.

“I want you to know something,” she said. “I was in The Patrol. For a year.”

“No kidding. Where at?”

“Nogales.”

“How come just a year?”

“Long story. But I wanted you to know. When Agent Shepard got on you about giving aliens money, I thought he was out of line.
I understand about the money.”

He was so drained that this did not cheer him the way it should have. He said: “I’m glad. I’m not sure I understand it myself.”

The Mazda stopped behind his white Impala. The sun blazed in her dark glasses.

“Listen, Valentine,” she said. “The doctors told you to rest. You do that. Monday you go back to work and we’ll be ready to
roll. Good luck.”

She shook his hand, all business, like she had sold him a house or something. He did not want to get out of the car. He wanted
to prolong the moment with her. And he did not want to be alone to think about his predicament.

“Alright then.” He gave her a sheepish raise of the eyebrows. “So I’m in your hands, huh, Isabel? I got nobody to trust but
you.”

She took off her sunglasses. He had overplayed it, coming off like a bullshitter, even though he had meant it.

Isabel Puente gave him a tight smile. Moving slowly, she rested her hand on his knee. He wanted to enjoy it, but the combination
of the touch and the smile was as scary as it was seductive.

“That’s right,” she said. “So if you let me down, or try to pull something slick, I’m in charge of making you regret it for
the rest of your life.”

T
HERE WERE PROTESTERS OUTSIDE THE OFFICE
of the state human rights commission. They had been joined by Porfirio Gibson and his camera crew.

Méndez sat in the car watching. The protesters presented themselves as families of police officers who had been unfairly persecuted
by the human rights commission and gotten fired, making the streets unsafe for the citizens. There were quite a few women
and children. But Méndez noticed a number of “organizers”: ex-cops or para-cops sporting cowboy hats, sunglasses and quality
leather.

Once again, Porfirio Gibson was on the wrong side. Méndez watched the reporter conduct animated interviews with protesters.
Their signs bore proclamations such as
ARACELI MUST FALL, AGUIRRE PROTECTS CRIMINALS
, and
HUMAN RIGHTS FOR POLICE
!

“Look at this bastard,” Méndez said. He patted his driver on the shoulder. “Turn up the radio. It’s noon, we get to watch
and listen to Porfirio at the same time.”

In addition to covering law enforcement for television, Gibson hosted a taped radio program called “Radio Patrol.” At first,
his nasal Mexico City accent hadn’t gone over well. But then he had turned the cop-blotter show into a weapon for extortion
and intrigue. He had acquired influential contacts. He got scoops on
raids and murders. He led the assault when the mafia decided to go after competitors or crime fighters. His growing audience
had helped him expand into television work, but “Radio Patrol” remained an institution.

The program began with a wailing siren and radio chatter. Then Gibson read the day’s police reports at top speed with minimal
editing. The menu today featured assorted stickups, a car chase near the border, a narco-execution and, almost as an afterthought,
a street gang dumping gasoline on a police car and setting it on fire—with the officers inside. Gibson’s hard-boiled delivery
of the police terminology was stilted street poetry. It described suspects as “short, mustachioed and with the face of a good-for-nothing”
or “socially inadapted hoodlums of Sinaloan appearance.” Gibson engaged in spirited commentary with his perennially indignant
sidekick Beto, who spluttered like Daffy Duck announcing a boxing match.

“Can you imagine, Porfirio? A lady works hard in a pharmacy every day. A good God-fearing woman. And a pair of Sinaloan hoodlums
stick a shotgun in her nose and take her money!”