No Way Back: A Novel (21 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

O
n a quiet Sunday morning in March almost four years before, two decorated DEA agents out of the agency’s El Paso, Texas, office were shot dead in their car while stopped in a square in the remote town of Culiacán, in northwestern Mexico.

Up to two dozen Los Zetas gunmen under Eduardo Cano’s command were said to have carried out the killing, which also resulted in the deaths of three American college students traveling on spring break, who were inadvertently caught in the rain of gunfire.

There was a picture of a handsome, athletic-looking teenager, Sam Orthwein, one of the students killed, who reminded me a lot of my stepson, Neil.

I sucked in a deep breath.

The article in
Mother Jones
online described the recent history of violence in the Sinaloa region, one of the thriving centers of drug trafficking to the United States. It also described the group Los Zetas, known as the Z’s, onetime elite Mexican special forces soldiers trained by the United States to combat the drug trade who subsequently defected and became killers for hire to the other cartels. Los Zetas had become a de facto drug cartel of its own, taking over billion-dollar supply routes, warring with the other cartels, even siphoning off supposed billions of dollars from Mexico’s largest oil pipeline. Eduardo Cano, an ex–special forces captain, had built a CV of death and retaliation that included judges, reporters, politicians, and hundreds of rival cartel soldiers whose mutilated bodies could be found dumped in the streets of Juárez and Guadalajara, “jarring symbols of the cartel’s unlimited reach and their willingness to resort to violence.”

The article traced the lives of four individuals whose paths converged that Sunday morning: the murdered DEA agents, Dean and Rita Bienvienes, who were married. Orthwein, a lacrosse player and dean’s list student at the University of Denver. And Cano.

Dean Bienvienes was an accountant assigned to the El Paso office whose job was to estimate seized contraband and follow the money trail flowing in and out of the cartels. His wife, Rita, was a decorated field agent, a former narcotics detective in Phoenix, and a veteran of two tours of combat in Iraq. At the time of her death, she was working undercover on a case involving a capo in the rival Barrio Azteca cartel—an organization currently at war with the Juarte cartel that was aligned with Los Zetas. It was thought that the killing of the U.S. agents by Cano was a kind of favor, a gesture of peace to the Barrio Azteca cartel.

But how did he know the agents would be there? And on their own, without protection?

I read on, the article going into the two murdered DEA agents, who by all rights had exemplary careers, and why they were even traveling in that region, known to be a center of drug violence. Supposedly, they were on their way to visit a friend in Mazatlán, farther south. The fact that they were there at all—in a dangerous area, without protection—cast suspicion over their previously unblemished careers. Whispers emerged that one or both of them were dirty. It was stated that almost 30 percent of the DEA or the Immigrations and Customs Enforcement (ICE) border guards were on the payroll of the cartels, paid hundreds of thousands to look the other way when shipments crossed the border. But Sabrina Stein, then head of the DEA’s office in El Paso, ground zero in the war against drugs along the Mexican border, called both agents “exemplary,” and their job reviews were filled with commendations and praise.

Still, the fact that they were there and the targets of a Los Zetas death squad raised concerns that the Bienvienes were not as lily white as once believed. Their personal bank accounts were delved into, as were the couple’s purchase of a condominium in the Bahamas and expensive jewelry Rita was photographed wearing. But nothing questionable was found. Four months after the shootings, Eduardo Cano was apprehended by the FBI while in the United States, the result of a tip from one of his lieutenants, Oscar Velez, who had defected.

Lauritzia’s father.
My eyes grew wide.

But apparently no trial ever came about. Sources at the DOJ were tight-lipped on exactly why, pointing to problems in Oscar Velez’s testimony. But the whisper mill suggested the decision not to prosecute was more due to troublesome things that began to emerge about Rita and Dean Bienvienes. Things which, if revealed at trial, would embarrass the U.S. government. Ultimately, Eduardo Cano was released and deported back to Mexico. Oscar Velez was granted asylum in the United States. Sabrina Stein was now working in Washington for the Justice Department as assistant attorney general for drug enforcement policy.

The same Sabrina Stein, I suddenly realized, Harold Bachman had used at the hearing as a witness against Cano.

I still had no idea who Gillian was. Or how this all led back to Curtis’s death.

But a bloody ambush in Mexico; two DEA agents killed; a vendetta of blood against Lauritzia Velez’s father, who had turned against his boss; the shocking decision by the U.S. government to drop the prosecution—all culminated in the bombing at Westchester airport meant to kill the informant’s daughter.

Who Curtis had been to visit only days earlier, and which I was now damn sure had gotten him killed.

By U.S. government agents.

The byline on the article was Curtis Kitchner.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

I
lifted my head from the screen. An hour had passed since I had come in. Several more customers, mostly students, I guessed, were in the café. Two of them sat directly across from me, laughing at some YouTube videos. I began to think it was time to leave.

But first I put Ray Hruseff’s name into Google Search.

Several responses came back, mostly newspaper articles chronicling his history of military and government service, as someone who had always put his country first throughout his career.

First in combat. He had served two tours in Desert Storm. Then in various law enforcement posts for the government. He’d only been at Homeland Security for the past year. Before that, according to what I found, he’d been assigned to Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) for three years as a supervising field agent. He distinguished himself overseeing a raid that netted a group of cartel members who were running guns across the border.

“Prior to that . . .” I continued scanning his bio.

My heart came to a halt.

“. . . between 2006 and 2010” Hruseff served as a field agent in the DEA out of the agency’s El Paso office.

I fixed on it. Those were the same years when Sabrina Stein was in charge of that office.

I leaned in closer to the screen, my eyes wide, and read it again. The pieces were starting to fit together.

Hruseff must have worked for Sabrina Stein.

It still wasn’t all fitting together. I realized I needed to find Lauritzia Velez. Ultimately she led back to Curtis. To what he was looking for. She was the one link that could get me to what I needed to know.

I didn’t have a clue in the world how to find her now. But as I looked back through my notes, and clicked back on the articles I had opened, I came across the name of one person I thought would have a pretty good idea.

The person who had chartered that jet and represented her.

As I got my notes together and was about to leave, I plugged one final name into the computer.

Alton Dokes.

I stared at what came back, and suddenly everything—Hruseff, Dokes, Cano, why they were trying to keep me quiet—became clear to me.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

T
he modern six-story brick-and-glass office building was on Atlantic and Summers Streets in downtown Stamford.

I got there at 7:30
A
.
M
. and waited in the garage.

I had looked up the address for Sifton, Sloan and Rubin, where the article I’d read the day before said Harold Bachman was a partner. The underground garage had two floors. I asked the attendant at the entrance if there was any designated parking for the law firm, and he directed me down to the lower floor.

I just didn’t go in.

I positioned myself near the elevator, where I could get a decent look at anybody going in, and watched the procession of office workers and businesspeople arrive at work. None of them resembled Bachman.

The first hour felt like three. Worried that he might be away or still on leave and not even coming in, I called the firm from inside the garage and asked to speak with him. The receptionist who answered put me on hold and then told me he hadn’t come in yet. So I was pretty sure he’d be here at some point.

All I could do was pray he’d listen to me and wouldn’t alert the police.

At ten of nine, a white Mercedes 350 drove in and rounded my corner. Through the glass I saw the driver’s curly gray hair and wire-rim glasses. I checked the photo I had printed at the café.

It was him.

Bachman parked on the lower ramp, took out a leather briefcase from the backseat, locked the car with his remote, and made his way over to the elevator. I stepped out from between a couple of cars, my heart beating nervously.

“Mr. Bachman?”

He squinted back through his glasses, clearly taken by surprise. “Do I know you?”

“No. No you don’t,” I said. There was no one else around. “Can I talk with you just for a moment?”

I knew he wouldn’t recognize me. He had no reason in the world to suspect who I was, nor that I would be here looking for him. He glanced around; I figured I looked harmless enough, or desperate. He nodded and stepped away from the elevator to a spot near a handicapped parking space and shrugged. “All right. Sure.”

On the ride down from Boston I’d gone over at least a dozen times what I would say. But my blood was racing and I was nervous and scared, and there was no chance it would come out the way I planned. “Mr. Bachman, I’ve got something to tell you that will take you by surprise . . . and maybe bring up some things that I know are still painful . . . things you may not want to talk about. But I need you to just hear me out—”

“Who are you?” he asked me, his brow wrinkling.

I didn’t know how else to say it. I just handed him a copy of the
New York Times
. There was a photo of me, one taken with Dave at an advertising industry function we had attended a few months back. It didn’t exactly look like I did now. I lifted my sunglasses. But the headline said it all:
WESTCHESTER
WOMAN
SOUGHT
IN
CONNECTION
TO
HOTEL
SHOOTINGS
.

Bachman looked back up at me and his eyes grew wide.

His gaze darted around again, trepidation coming onto his face, and if a security guard had come by at that particular moment, I don’t know what he would have done.

“Mr. Bachman, there’s no reason for you to be alarmed. I know what you’ve recently been through, and if there was anyone else in the world I could talk to, I would—I swear!—and not put you in this position . . .”

He looked at me and then glanced back down at the article. “You’re Wendy Gould?”

“Yes.” I nodded.

“Ms. Gould, if you have any thoughts of me representing you, I’m afraid you’ve sought me out for the wrong reason. First, it’s not what I do; it’s not my specialty. I don’t do criminal work. And anyway, I’m not doing this kind of thing right now.”

“No, that’s not why I’m here,” I said. “I don’t need you to represent me—”

“You’re a federal fugitive, Ms. Gould.” He handed me back the paper. “I can’t talk to you. You’re wanted in connection with the murder of a government agent. Not to mention, if I remember correctly, the murder of your husband . . .”

“None of which is true.” If I could have shown him the truth with a single, steadfast look, my eyes as solid and steady as they’d ever been, I gave it to him now. “None. I swear. At least, not the way it’s being portrayed.”

“Then let me say, as a lawyer, Ms. Gould, someone’s doing an awfully good job of making you look bad.”

I swallowed, and nodded back with a resigned smile. “That’s the only part that
is
true. Mr. Bachman. Look, you can look around, but I’m the one who’s risking everything just being here with you now. You can see I’ve changed my appearance. What would it take for you to call for security or even the police and let them know? In an hour, everyone would know.”

“I appreciate the trust, Ms. Gould, and I’m truly sorry for your predicament, but unless you’re looking for someone to mediate the terms of handing yourself over to the police—”

“I can’t hand myself over to the police!”
I shook my head defiantly. “I can’t. I’m not here because I found your name on some lawyer’s website. I’m here because you’re the only person I know who can help me prove that I’m being framed. Trust me. Otherwise I’d be as far away from here as I could. Please, just hear me out. Two minutes is all I’m asking. I’m begging you, Mr. Bachman . . . I don’t have anywhere else to turn.”

“Why me? You said you’re aware I’ve been through a situation of my own . . .”

“And that’s exactly why I’m here.”

Maybe it was the utter desperation on my face. Or that I had sought him out, the one person who could prove my innocence. But Bachman put down his bag. He nodded reluctantly. “You have two minutes. Make it good, Ms. Gould.”

CHAPTER FORTY

D
o you know the name Curtis Kitchner?” I asked him.

“Kitchner? If I recall, he was the guy who was killed in New York up in that room?”

“That’s correct.”

He shrugged. “Then only what I’ve heard on the news.”

“Mr. Bachman, I did an incredibly foolish thing. I ended up in someone’s hotel room I had no right being in. I’d never done anything like that before in my life. But nothing happened up there . . . and I’ve had nothing to do with the murders I’m being implicated in. I was actually in the bathroom, preparing to leave, when I heard someone else come into the room.”