A Bullet for Carlos (9 page)

I’d like to get that bastard.

Next file was Comte, then Edwards and Farzad. All of them were young girls.

Is that all anybody kills nowadays?

The few files following Farzad were males and most appeared to be homeless. None of them had generated interest in the original investigation. I pulled the Carlisle file aside, the pregnant girl.

Then I hit Shannon Mason. When I opened the folder, my head reared back. A mouthful of teeth covered in blood jumped out at me. It looked as if she were smiling, but closer examination showed that her lips had been cut off—from below the nose all the way round to her chin. “Oh my God.”

I closed my eyes and turned my head. This reminded me too much of when Sherri Ferrieri disappeared in ninth grade. Everyone figured she ran away, but two months later they found her mutilated body in a plastic container under a bridge. Somebody at school had gotten hold of pictures and passed them around. I almost puked that day, and didn’t go back to school until two days later.

I flipped the picture over, hoping not to find another. There were no more pictures, but there were references to another file that contained them, and to a cop the investigating officer had spoken to in Houston, where Mason had moved from. After reading the gruesome reports and Miller’s notes, I put that file with Carlisle’s.

Nance came next—Terri Nance—and it, too, proved to be brutal, another one to check out. The rest of them weren’t as interesting, and by nine o’clock I finished. A light supper followed—a salad with some tortellini in a tomato-basil sauce. After that I tried my first attempt at bed. At eleven o’clock I was still wide awake, staring at the ceiling. The image of Shannon Mason’s face had been burned in my memory.

Chapter 9

El Jabato—The Boar

Four weeks ago—Monterrey, Mexico

C
arlos Cortes sat at the patio table peeling the last piece of melon from the rind. He stabbed it with his knife, popped the melon into his mouth, and savored the sweetness. Tomás handed him a dish of water and a napkin to clean his hands and to wipe sweat from his forehead. Carlos buttoned up a white linen shirt as he stood, tufts of black hair over lightly tanned skin peeking through the shirt. He tucked the shirt into white linen pants, pushed the chair back and headed for the door. He was a Spaniard, not Mexican, and the light skin and air of superiority that accompanied that clung to him like the sweat of an August day in Monterrey.

“Where is he?” Carlos asked, walking across the flagstone patio, coffee in hand.

“In the back. Tico is with him.”

Carlos smiled. “I hope he is still alive.” The comment brought laughter from the four men who followed him.

A large stone wall surrounded the villa, eight feet high and capped with shards of glass set upright in cement, as if they were sentinels standing night duty. Carlos exited the wrought iron gates and followed a well-beaten path that led to several small houses—servant quarters in the old days of the villa. Employees now lived there. They bypassed the six houses then took a turn downhill to an even older one-room shack. The women and children knew never to go down there.

Carlos walked to where an ancient oak stood with limbs as round as most mature pines, stretching forty feet in each direction. From the branch nearest the ground dangled a man upside down. Tomás pulled a cigarette from a silver case and lit it, handing it to Carlos. He liked his morning cigarette almost as much as his morning coffee. “
Buenos días
,
señor
.”

“He only speaks English,” Tomás said.

Carlos shook his head, as if his child had done wrong. “Such a shame. Only English and he is so close to the Mexican border.” He picked up a stick from the ground and prodded the man, spinning him around. The man was naked, save a blindfold, and blood ran from the rope binding his ankles to his wrists. Bruises peppered his thighs and ribs, and small white pustules covered his body—face, neck, chest, back, legs, even the genitals. “I see our little friends have been busy.”

Tico nodded. “
Cuatro
—”

“Let’s stick to English, Tico, in honor of our guest.”

“Si, señor. Four times I have let them loose on him.”

Carlos prodded the man again. “Those ants are pesky aren’t they, señor? They never tire of stinging.”

The man groaned with another prod.

“You are fortunate that you are not allergic.”

Silence from the man.

“A tough one, eh, Tico?”

Tico nudged past Tomás and Roberto. “He gave us nothing.”

“That’s all right. As soon as he realizes that I’m going to have Roberto fuck his wife Libby and his daughters, Elizabeth and Grace, then, I believe, he will talk.”

The man’s head spun toward Carlos. He spat at him while struggling to free his hands. “You whore. Touch my family and I’ll kill you.” His voice was weak, and raspy.

Carlos poked him in the gut with his stick. “Yes, I understand all the things you want to do to me. But for now you must listen.”

After a few seconds the man nodded. He had made his bold statement, but a look of defeat showed in his eyes.

“Tomás, get him a chair. Tico, untie him.” Carlos sat on the edge of a fallen tree. “Roberto, bring some cool water for our friend. He must be thirsty. And get some limes for his stings.”

The man sat, gulped the water then held his glass out for more.

Carlos patted the man’s knee. “They tell me your name is Craig. A good American name.”

Craig nodded, wincing as he did.

“I respect you, Craig. If you had given us what we wanted with so little persuasion I would have killed you. But now…well, let us say you have an opportunity to be promoted.”

For the first time since his capture, Craig’s face showed signs of relaxing. Tomás handed him more water, which he gulped down before focusing on Carlos. “What do you mean, be promoted?”

Carlos’ smile was disarming. “Instead of working for Ortega and earning a peasant’s wage, you can work for me and grow rich.” He spread his arms to include the men around him. “Everyone who works with me grows rich.”

Craig cast suspicious glances at the others. “What do I have to do?”

“The same thing you did for Ortega. Tell me how he gets his shipments into the United States, then do it for me instead of him.”

Craig shook his head. “Not good for me. If I don’t, you kill me. If I do, Ortega kills me.”

Carlos’ smile grew cold. “Ortega is dead. As is his family, his lieutenants, and the two border patrol guards he had in his pockets.”

A look of fear crept onto Craig’s face, though he forced a smile. “May I ask who I’m working for?”

Carlos pulled him to his feet and hugged him. “The one with the smiling eyes is Tomás. Roberto brought you the water. Tico has been your host these past few days. And I am Carlos Cortes.”

Craig’s eyes widened, and he tensed. “El Jabato?”

Carlos erupted in laughter. “Jabato, yes, there are those who call me that. Do you know what it means, señor?”

Craig seemed to be reaching for an answer. “Little Boar…I think.”

Tico got within inches of his face. “It means
fearless
.”

Craig knelt, bowing his head before kissing Carlos’ hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

Carlos pulled him to his feet again. “Nonsense. You meant no harm. Welcome to our family, little piglet.”

The others with Carlos burst into laughter, soon joined by Craig. Carlos turned, walking back toward the villa. “Tomás will show you where to wash and get clothes. We will eat and talk, then I want you to meet my wife and children. By tonight, you will be home with your own family.”

Carlos made his way
back to the house, climbing the hill with the ease of a man much younger. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and dampened his shirt even though the morning was in its infancy. “We will let the American go after he has nourishment. Send him away feeling good about our new partnership.”

Tico walked alongside Carlos. “Si, señor. I will have it done.”

“After breakfast with my children we will talk, Tico. There is much to do.”

“Si. I will wait for you.”

Carlos sat through breakfast with his two children and Marianna, his wife. He ate more fruit, laughed at the jokes that only six and eight-year-olds can tell and think funny, and caressed his wife’s hand while she tasted her morning coffee, the only cup she would have for the day. Marianna only drank coffee in the morning, a dreadful thought, but it was enough to last her all day and Carlos respected that.

While he sipped his third cup, Tomás came to his side bearing a newspaper. Carlos looked at him with narrowed eyes.

“Señor, I think you should see this.”

Carlos eyed him suspiciously, but took the paper. Nothing in the headlines caused him concern: the stock market was down, a new electronic gadget was rumored to be announced today, and politicians were casting aspersions at each other. Carlos shot a wary glance to Tomás.

“Page three, señor.”

He opened the paper, focusing on the headlines of page three.

‘New York drug bust gone bad. Two police officers dead. One a hero.’

Carlos continued reading, a frown growing on his face.

“What is it?” Marianna asked.

He brushed his hand at her, dismissing the question. “Nothing, dear. Business.” A quick glance told Tomás to meet him outside, and, after finishing his coffee he excused himself. “I will be back in a moment, children. Excuse me.”

Carlos controlled his pace as he walked across the flagstone patio, but he wanted to run. Once outside the gates, he met Tomás. “During breakfast with my children you bring me this?”

Tomás bowed his head low. “Sorry, señor. I thought you would want to know.”

“What happened?”

“We got the news with the paper. No one has reported in.”

“No one? Are you to tell me that no one from New York warned us of what happened?”

Tomás nodded. “No one.”

“And our product?”

Tomás shook his head, but wouldn’t look at Carlos. “Nothing.”

“The police have them?”

“The reports do not mention it,” Tomás said.

Carlos squinted. “Who was in charge?”

Tomás stood silent for a moment, then, “Juan.”

“Kill him.”

“Juan is dead, señor. They are
all
dead.”

“Kill his boss, then. We must set an example.”

Tomás raised his voice, but only slightly. “Señor, these are our own people.”

Carlos’ eyes turned to stone. “These are Americans with a Spanish ancestry. They know nothing of what honor and loyalty are like.” He let the gaze burn into Tomás. “Kill Juan’s boss, then put someone in charge who knows what to do.”

Tomás bowed his head. “I will put Juan’s brother in charge. He will be motivated.” Tomás turned to leave, then stopped. “Señor, I am still trying to find out what happened, but it seems there were other people involved. Even the police reports are…how do you say it…not clear.”

“Sketchy?”

“Si, sketchy,” Tomás said.

“Anything else?”

“The only thing that is clear comes from the paper about this woman detective, Connie Gianelli.”

Carlos’ interest piqued. “And what do we know about her?”

“Nothing for now, señor. But I will soon know it all.” Tomás turned to leave.

“Tomás.”

“Si?”

“This cop…this…Connie Gianelli. She must have taken the drugs. Kill her, too.”

Tomás moved to stand in front of him, close enough so that only a whisper separated them. “Señor, she is a cop. And now she is a hero cop. If we were to—”

Carlos grabbed his collar, pulled him close. “She embarrassed us and cost us eight men.” He shook his head. “If people think we cannot protect our own, who will work for us? There is only one choice, Tomás.”

Tomás lowered his head. Lowered his voice, too. “Si, señor.”

Chapter 10

Cold Cases

I
got up before five and headed to the park. I had all intentions of jogging but my leg was still sore as hell. I walked instead, hoping that would be enough to start my metabolism for the day. After finishing, I got a shower and cut some fresh cantaloupe, then headed to work. For the first fifteen minutes I focused on wishing that cantaloupe had been wrapped in prosciutto, but soon shook that off and concentrated on the case I had in mind—Betty Carlisle, the young black girl. Definitely not Mason, that case was too brutal.