Birds of a Feather (10 page)

Late Friday morning, Adams walked into his office building. He stood for a moment and glanced at some of his co-workers. Few acknowledged his presence. He noticed Davidson sitting in Weber's office, drinking coffee. Weber looked over his cup, saw Adams, and said something to Davidson, who then turned and used his foot to kick the door shut.

Adams should have felt like a leper, but at the moment, he really didn't care. There was nobody, outside of Greg Patton, in the office he ever felt close with. He strode over to the board where the keys for the covert cars were hung. His favourite, a new metallic-silver Camaro with dark-tinted windows, was there and he snatched the keys. The drug trafficker it had been seized from was from New Orleans and had tried to use it to smuggle two kilos of cocaine back home.

An hour later, Adams was parked a block away from the same house Chico had used to sucker Patton into following him. A couple of the low-level hoods were still using the house, but with Chico's untimely death, Adams knew they would likely be feeling a little nervous and would be moving to a new location soon. He hoped he could follow one of them to find out where.

At noon, Adams received a call on his cellphone.

“Get back here,” ordered Weber.

“Do I need to call a lawyer?”

“It's not about that,” Weber replied and hung up.

Weber waved for Adams to enter his office and pointed to a chair across from his desk. Adams took a seat and quietly waited while Weber took his time to shuffle through some papers, pausing and pretending to read some of the daily bulletins, while casting the odd furtive glance at Adams.

Yeah, make me wait, asshole, just to let me know you're the boss. Does it make you feel important? Hoping to see me get pissed off? Well, two can play that game …

A soft snore from Adams caught Weber's immediate attention and he saw Adams's chin resting on his chest.

“Adams! You son of a bitch! Wake up!”

Adams head jerked and he yawned, looking around.

“Are you drunk? You are, aren't you? I can smell it.”

“Nope. Was up late last night on surveillance. Maybe spilled a beer on my pants when I got home. Did you call me in here to help you read those bulletins? There are some pretty tough words like
alias
and stuff.”

“Fuck you, you degenerate bastard. If I wanted any lip from you I'd rattle my zipper.”

“That's original,” replied Adams, sarcastically.

“You're a real piece of work, do you know that? What you did … you've gone against everything we stand for. Flushed our values down the drain.”

“Do your values include the right to a fair trial? Or innocent until proven guilty? You're condemning me without —”

“Don't give me that bullshit,” growled Weber. “You're just lucky you got away with it. What you did was totally wrong.” He waved his hand in the direction of the general office and added, “There's not one guy out there who is willing to work with you now. What you did is totally against the values of what we stand for.”

Adams glanced at the men in the outer office and said, “Maybe if the Mexicans started killing off their family members they'd think different. I'm hoping the head honchos in the cartel do think I killed Chico. It'll make them think twice about ever doing what they did again.”

“Don't lay that crap on me. You're really fucked up.”

“Is that why you called me off of a surveillance? To tell me that?”

“No,” replied Weber, tapping a file on his desk with his index finger for emphasis. “I called you in here to let you know the Mounties in Canada are interested in some Mexicans who are running coke from here up to there.”

“Wow,” said Adams lamely. “I can just imagine the hell they must be going through up there. A bunch of coked-up Eskimos tossing their spears all around. At least it will give the seals half a chance.”

“It's a little bigger than that. Some cartel from here sent a hit team up and whacked someone in Canada who was one of their runners.”

“Which cartel? Guajardo or the Sinaloa?”

“They don't have a clue.”

“Yeah, I'm sure they don't.”

“They're trying to identify some Mexican who goes by Tio.”

“You're joking, right?” replied Adams with a laugh.

“No. They're also looking for the guy's girlfriend who was snatched here in El Paso.”

“Yeah, well you fly with the crows —”

“They're sending a Mountie down to investigate. His name is Jack Taggart and his flight arrives at the airport Monday morning at 9:57. I want you to pick him up and babysit him for a few days.”

“Fuck that! Get one of them to do it,” replied Adams, gesturing with his thumb to two men in the outer office who were both reading the newspaper.

“They're busy.”

“Yeah? Well, so am I. Greg and I have busted our asses on these cartels. The two of us have done more damage to them than everyone else in this office put together.”

“So what?”

“So what? After what they did to Greg, it's all the more important that I don't back off. I don't need to have some hick cop from Canada slowing me down or fucking things up if I need to do something. What if I get some info from a CI and have to do immediate surveillance? I sure as hell don't need some jackass burning me.”

“It's only for a few days. Find him a place to stay, too.”

“But —”

“Forget the buts. You're not being asked to do this, you're being ordered.”

“Well ain't that just lovely.”

Weber pushed the file across the desk toward Adams and said, “Here are their reports. Read 'em and pay attention where it says Taggart has been ordered to stay out of Mexico.”

“Good. Guess they're not completely clueless. The Mexicans would probably shoot him as soon as he crossed the bridge and sell his red jacket to the doorman at some whorehouse ten minutes later.”

On Saturday, Vancouver RCMP Drug Section conducted surveillance on Slater's apartment building and saw a Mexican arrive. The man parked his car — which was registered to a numbered company — out front and went inside. Moments later, he drove out of the underground parking lot in Slater's pickup truck.

The man was followed to an auto-body shop where the bay door was opened by another Mexican and the pickup was driven inside. Half an hour later, the truck was returned to Slater's apartment building.

Late Sunday morning, surveillance on Slater was terminated when he was seen driving through U.S. Customs in his pickup. It was decided not to risk jeopardizing the investigation by trying to follow him all the way to Texas.

A decision was also made to curtail surveillance of the Mexicans at the body shop in the event the Mexicans spotted it and blamed Jack for the sudden police interest.

Early Sunday evening, Jack caught a flight from Vancouver to Houston, Texas, where he had to overnight. On Monday morning, he arrived on schedule at the airport in El Paso. He had been told that a John Adams would pick him up, but was also given a phone number to the general office if there was a problem.

The El Paso airport was relatively small compared to some, but several flights had arrived within minutes of each other and the crowd was shoulder to shoulder. Jack retrieved his two suitcases from the luggage carousel and glanced around. He spotted another man who was lanky in appearance, sporting about a week's worth of beard, and dressed in blue jeans and cowboy boots. He quickly breezed through the crowd while glancing around a couple of times and then made his way to the exit.

If this is who was sent to pick me up, he's not too keen about it …

Jack caught up to him at the doors and said, “John?”

“Yeah,” he replied somewhat suspiciously. “Who are you?”

“Jack Taggart from Canada.”

“Oh!” replied Adams in surprise. “You, uh, don't look like a cop. At least, not what I was expecting.”

Jack knew from Adams's quick trip through the airport that he wasn't happy about picking him up. It would take a little diplomacy to get him on board … which was what was needed if they were to work together.

He sized Adams up quickly.
His eyes are red and it looks like he hasn't slept in weeks. His shirt is slightly stained with grease … probably drippings from a hamburger. Good, the guy was probably working surveillance and downing food when he had the chance. Not the type who spends his days in the office sucking up to the bosses. Being sent to pick me up probably pissed him off … he'd rather get back to whatever he was working on.

“You breezed through the airport pretty quick,” said Jack. “Looking for a guy in a red tunic, I take it?”

“Sort of, yeah.”

“Don't have to wear it when I travel.”

“I see,” replied Adams seriously.

“Do you know where the general cargo area is at the airport? I have to go there.”

“I'm not sure,” replied Adams, looking around.

“Yeah, they had to fly my horse in on a FedEx plane.”

“What?”

“Never mind. I was just messin' with your brain cell. I'm ready to go.”

Adams looked taken back before muttering, “Okay. Good.”

As they stepped out into the sunlight and walked toward a parking lot, Adams glanced at Jack and asked, “Did you already talk to Weber?”

“No. Who's he?”

“My boss.”

“I tend to avoid bosses. Where I come from they can be counterproductive.”

They took a few more steps and Adams glanced at Jack a couple of times before admitting, “They're the same here, but I was told to bring you in and meet with them. First, though, I'll take you to your hotel so you can check in.”

“Fine, but after the protocol with your boss, I would like to get to work. I want to see a motel called the Cactus Sunset. A young woman from Canada was kidnapped out of it. Then, if we have time, I've got some rather cryptic directions on a hand-drawn map I'd like you to look at. I think it leads to a house trailer out in the desert someplace.”

“What's there?”

“Nothing, I hope. Have you read our reports?”

“I skimmed through them the other day. Have been a little busy. I'll take a closer look at 'em when I introduce you to Weber and the others.”

“I see,” said Jack, feeling a little frustrated more interest had not been shown. “I'll fill you in some as you drive.”

“I think you'll like the hotel I picked. They give the guests free drinks every day from four to six.”

“Sounds good.” Jack squinted up at the sun as they walked out of a shaded area. The heat felt like he was standing on the tarmac behind a jet engine and sweat immediately ran down the side of his head. He glanced at Adams and said, “Man, it's not even eleven o'clock in the morning and I can feel the heat burning through the soles of my shoes. Is it always this hot?”

“This is winter. You should try being here during our hot and dry season.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Yeah,” replied Adams, giving Jack a sideways glance. “I was just messin' with your brain cell.”

Jack chuckled. “These free drinks at four … seems like a long time to wait.”

Adams smiled. “The bosses mentioned they want to come for lunch with you. I think I could find us a place where there's cold beer.”

“Perfect.”

“Just out of curiosity, how did you spot me in the airport?” asked Adams.

“You got a cop's bearing.”

“What do you mean?”

“You exude self-confidence. You've also got a cop's eyes.”

“Are you still just messin' —”

“No.”

Adams frowned. He had always prided himself at blending in.
Who is this guy?

As they approached the Camaro, Jack commented, “Nice wheels. Yours?”

“Company car. Used to belong to a dope dealer.”

“It doesn't look like a police vehicle.”

“It's the best one we have.”

“Where I come from, the bosses scoop the best ones and leave the clunkers for the rest of us.”

“Same here. I was lucky to find the keys on the board. You'll notice it has tinted windows all around so nobody can see my cops' eyes,” replied Adams as he grinned at Jack.

Jack gave a lop-sided smile in response. He had a feeling he and Adams were going to get along fine.

An hour later, after checking into the hotel, Jack entered the office with Adams. He had barely taken two steps when Weber spotted him and came out to shake his hand. He was then invited back to Weber's office where he received warm handshakes from Davidson, as well as the two bosses who represented the DEA and ATF investigators.

Adams did not take part in the introductions and stood in the main office, watching quietly before going to his own desk.

Jack looked at the men in the main office. Adams was much younger and more physically fit than the rest.
Obviously the junior man … the gofer assigned to pick me up.

Jack also sensed Adams was treated with a certain degree of indifference by the others.
Perhaps like a young bull full of vitality and eager to go … while the old bulls look upon him with a certain amount of contempt?

Jack may have formed a different opinion had he known the real reason Adams was being ostracized.

Davidson told Jack that neither picture of the two killers taken from Porter's apartment security camera could be identified as anyone they knew, but they would keep their descriptions in mind for future reference.

All four bosses insisted on joining Jack for lunch so they walked into the main part of the office and Adams suggested a Mexican restaurant he knew. The bosses agreed to the choice and said they would follow in their own car.

As Jack and Adams walked out to their car, Adams said, “You mentioned you wanted to check out the Cactus Sunset and then some map you have after lunch.”

“Yes.”

“I didn't see the map mentioned in your reports.”

“It, uh, is a little delicate how I obtained it. The fewer people who know, the better.”

“I see,” replied Adams.
Delicate? What kind of wussy word is that? A CI probably gave it to him … he should have said so.

As they drove to the restaurant, Adams said, “I also checked out the Armadillo Motel while you were meeting with them,” he said, gesturing with his thumb back to the four bosses in the car behind them. “We don't have anything on it, but that doesn't mean squat. The cartels have thousands of people in their pocket, so I don't recommend anyone approaching the management at the Armadillo on Wednesday when you check in.”

“I agree with you there. It was Tio who told me to go there. I'm sure he has a reason.”

“What kind of piece are you carrying?”

“I'm not armed. It's against policy for me to carry a gun in a foreign country.”

“Are you fuckin' nuts?” replied Adams, incredulously. “I pack at least two all the time. One in an ankle holster and —”

“Of course you do, you're an American.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Jack hid his smile at the amount of weaponry the U.S. was famous for and shrugged in response.

“Well, for your information, you are in America,” said Adams gruffly. “As soon as we stop for lunch I'll pop the trunk. Got lots for you to choose from. Anything from revolvers to pistols to fully autos.”

“Thanks, but no. I don't usually carry one in Canada, either, if I am undercover. More often than not, I'm searched. If I had a gun the bad guys are liable to take it and use it on me.”

Adams shook his head and said, “It's your funeral.”

“Have you ever worked undercover?” asked Jack.

“Never. I've only done backup, so I expect you to take the lead when it comes to decisions in that regard. The Cactus Sunset is on the western edge of the city, about a block south of a main highway. The Armadillo Motel is on the main highway, but a few miles farther out. I'm not familiar with the Armadillo itself, but I know it is pretty barren out there.”

“So a bunch of cops parked out on the road might look a little obvious.”

“For sure … and we can't approach the management to put guys in a room next to you, so what do you suggest?”

“Do you have a policewoman available? Maybe book someone in as a couple? Unless you want to pretend you're gay —”

“This is Texas! I'm not — I can get a policewoman,” said Adams quickly, before seeing the grin on Jack's face. “Yeah, okay, wiseguy. I'll make sure I'm in one of the rooms myself, but depending upon what room I'm given, I may not be able to listen through the walls. Are you thinking of wearing a wire?”

“Definitely not. If I get caught with one of those, I'm dead. I've been scanned by dealers in the past with devices to check for transmitters … and those guys weren't as high up the food chain as these guys. I don't want any bugs.”

“Then how will I know if something is going wrong?”

“Listen for the sound of breaking glass. If I'm in trouble I'll toss something or someone out a window. If I'm really in trouble, I'll throw myself out.”

“You are fucking nuts. Every undercover operator I've ever met is,” he muttered seriously, before nodding toward a restaurant. “Okay, we're here.”

Lunch consisted of tamales stuffed with shredded beef, roasted chillies, and an assortment of other fillings, which went well with a cold bottle of Lone Star beer. Everyone was exceedingly friendly with Jack and did what they could to make him feel welcome, including picking up his lunch tab.

“Seem like nice guys,” said Jack, once he and Adams got back in the car.

“They're bosses. I guess they do what they're supposed to do,” he added begrudgingly. “Now I'll take you to the Cactus Sunset.”

The Cactus Sunset was appropriately named. It was a two-storey building with ten rooms on each level on the edge of the desert. Adams pulled into the parking lot and asked, “Do you want to talk to the manager?”

“No, the FBI have already done that, along with searching the room. I want to get out and walk around the back to see what's there.”

Adams joined Jack and they strolled around to the back of the motel. There was nothing to see but sagebrush, cactus, and sand dunes.

Jack walked up the closest sand dune and looked. The view didn't change. “Okay, I've seen enough,” he said, looking back at Adams, who had remained at the back of the motel, watching him. “Didn't know what I was hoping to find, anyway. I think I just wanted to get a feel for the place … and its surroundings.”

They returned to the car and headed out on the highway toward the Armadillo Motel. They drove in silence for about a mile when Adams hit the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road.

Jack looked around and saw there were no other vehicles in sight. “What is it?” he asked.

Adams pointed far out into the desert.

Jack didn't see anything at first. Then some dots circling high in the air caught his attention and he felt his heart sink.
Vultures …