Suspicion (18 page)

Galvin shrugged. “Ah, Celina, she’s got a guest this weekend. Let’s give her a break.”

“No,” Celina said severely. “She has to learn, she breaks the rules, there are consequences.”

 • • • 

A few hours later they landed at Aspen/Pitkin Airport, where they were picked up by a driver, a different one, in a black Chevy Suburban.

This one was armored, too.

I
f he hadn’t known it was a private house, Danny would have assumed they were pulling up in front of a deluxe ski resort. It was an immense, rambling contemporary structure with a Japanese feel to it, built of stone and logs, a short drive north of town in a part of Aspen called Red Mountain. The curves and peaks of the roof were dusted with drifts of snow like powdered sugar.

The floors inside were blond wood, the walls rough-hewn stone and glass. Mostly glass. There were cathedral ceilings, a huge stone fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling picture windows that looked out onto the steeply canted mountainside: an astonishing view.

The driver—a sour-looking, barrel-chested man of around forty—carried everyone’s bags inside. He wore a necklace of colorful wooden beads and seemed to speak no English and talked only with Celina, in Spanish.

“Let me show you two to your room,” Celina said, taking Lucy by the elbow. “Jenna, Abby can sleep in your room, okay? But don’t let me catch you watching videos! Read books! You remember what is books?”

Jenna rolled her eyes. “I’m taking her to the Bowl.”

“The Bowl! Abby,
querida
, are you a very strong skier?”

“Sure,” Abby said.

“No,” Danny broke in. “She’s not.”

“Dad!”

“You haven’t skied in three years,” Danny said.

“It’s not like you forget,” Abby said. “It’s like riding a bike.”

“You two go to Buttermilk.” Celina waggled a finger.

“That’s for babies!” Jenna protested.

“Don’t argue with me,” Celina said. “Anyway, don’t they have that superpipe?”

“True,” Jenna said. “Can we take the Vespas?”

“No,” Celina said sternly. “Alejandro can take you. No more talk.” She pointed toward a hall off the main sitting area. “Go.”

“And I’ve got work to do,” Galvin said to Danny. “You guys settle in, you can rest, take it easy, whatever.”

“No,” said Celina, “I want to take Lucy cross-country skiing out behind the house. Danny, is okay if I borrow your beautiful girlfriend later this afternoon? After you have a little rest?”

“Sounds wonderful,” Lucy said. “Where can I rent skis?”

“No problems. We have skis for everyone in the mudroom in the back,” Celina said. “Everything you need.”

Danny’s iPhone sounded a text message alert. He saw it was from AnonText007 and slipped it quickly back into his pocket.

When they got to their room and Celina had left, Lucy sank down on the king-size bed, covered in a moss-green-and-gold-striped comforter, and let out a long, throaty sigh.

“You have a good talk with Celina?”

“I like her a lot,” Lucy said. “She must be lonely out there in the burbs, just doing the mom thing.”

“Well, she doesn’t have to work, that’s for sure.”

“She wants to have lunch when we get back to Boston.”

“You gonna do it?”

“Sure. She wants to talk about the homeless center.”

“You gonna hit her up for a donation?”

“The idea’s crossed my mind.”

“Maybe not such a great idea.”

She gave Danny a curious look. “Why not?”

“It’s already sort of awkward, all the money he’s lent me.”

“Yeah, the homeless aren’t as worthy a cause as a five-thousand-dollar trip to Italy.”

“Lucy. No fair. You know damned well what that was about.”

“I’m sorry. Cheap shot. But I didn’t twist her arm or anything like that. She kept asking about what I did, wanted to know more about it, and she said she wanted to get more involved.”

“Just what we need—get more involved with the Galvins.”

“He says, standing in the Galvins’ Aspen house,” she teased.

Danny exhaled. She was, of course, absolutely right. “It’s . . . complicated. It would just put us even deeper in their debt.”

“Can we change the subject?” She tugged at his belt. “Come lie with me and be my love.”

He smiled and turned to the enormous window, the stunning view of Aspen Mountain. There were no drapes or blinds.

“You think anyone can see in?” she said.

“Not without a telescope,” Danny said, “and if they’re that determined to watch us make love, they deserve a free show.”

She laughed, and he felt the first tug of arousal.

 • • • 

Lying naked in bed, Lucy said, “I don’t think she’s terribly happy in her marriage.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Just from the way she talked about Tom. There’s something not quite right.”

“How long have they been married?”

“It’s not just the normal stuff, the stresses and strains of a long marriage. Something else. I barely know her, and she was unburdening herself. She comes from some plutocratic Mexican family.”

“Plutocratic, as in rich?”

She nodded. “I always assumed their money came from her husband’s investment business.”

“She actually told you her family is superrich?”

“No, of course not, not like that. I inferred it. But her father was the governor of one of the Mexican states—Veracruz, I think? She went to some convent school in Paris and traveled a lot as a kid, had servants, lot of horseback riding, all that.”

“She told you all this?”

Lucy nodded. “Oh, and do you have any idea how Galvin makes his money?”

“Just that he invests money for some very rich family.”

“Three guesses who that family is.”

Danny smiled. “Holy crap. He’s working for his in-laws, huh?”

There was a knock on the door.

“Lucy, it’s Celina. You are ready for some skiing?”

“Be right out,” she said.

 • • • 

Dinner was at a place called Munchies Grill, which was a wealthy ski resort’s idea of a burger place. Rustic wooden picnic tables inside and curls of wood shavings and sawdust on the floor and cutesy neon signs. Its hamburgers were made from grass-fed beef from a small local supplier, rib meat, ground with bone marrow, stuffed with pork shoulder, and served either on house-made pretzel bread or house-made English muffin. Instead of mashed potatoes, they offered “smashed” Yukon gold potatoes. Not plain old French fries but truffle curly fries with roasted garlic aioli.

Their burgers took forever. After two Diet Cokes, Danny excused himself to use the restroom, at the back of the restaurant.

As he stood at the urinal, he heard the door bolt slide into place. Then, immediately behind him, a familiar baritone, a voice with a metallic rasp.

“You didn’t really think you could just walk away, did you?”

D
anny finished his business and zipped up and turned to face the DEA agent, Philip Slocum.

His heart pounded, but his voice was steady. “You didn’t follow us here,” he said. “I was watching since we left Galvin’s house. There was no one behind us the whole way.” He turned slowly. It was only him and Slocum in the restroom. The door was bolted.

“So you’re a countersurveillance expert now?”

“You put a tracker on the Suburban.”

“What difference does it make, as long as we’re together?” Slocum gave a leering smile.

“Sorry you’ve wasted a trip. Maybe you can get in some skiing while you’re here.”

The side part in Slocum’s jet-black hair was a broad line of pale white scalp. His eyes were dark and hard.

“How about we go out there and say hi to Tom Galvin?” said Slocum. “Let him know we’re old friends, you and I. That we’ve been working together for several weeks now. I could hand him my business card.”

“I doubt you want to screw up your investigation.”

“Yeah, hate to have him think the DEA is looking at him closely.” Slocum smirked. “I’m sure that would never occur to him.”

“What do you want?”

“Pictures. Photos of whoever Galvin’s meeting with.”

Someone was trying the door. The knob twisted. Then, from outside, a muffled voice: “Sorry.”

“And for that you need
me
? Won’t the DEA spring for a good telephoto lens?”

“We don’t know when and where he’s meeting. Whereas you’re spending the weekend with him.”

“He’s not on a leash. You expect me to stalk him? Follow him everywhere he goes?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, unless you want me to use my iPhone to take pictures, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“I’ll have a camera for you tomorrow morning.”

“What, you’re going to drop it off at Galvin’s house?”

“No. You’re going to meet me in town early tomorrow morning. Seven
A.M.
Place called Sweet Tooth on South Galena. It’s a coffee shop. You’re an early riser, and you need your coffee.”

“I don’t have a car.”

“You don’t need one. You’ll walk into town.”

“And what happens if the mister or missus happens to be awake and says, where’re you going, coffee’s on?”

“You say thanks but no thanks, you need to clear your head to start your writing day. You’re a writer—make something up. Tell ’em you like to take walks. It’s not even two miles. Shouldn’t take you more than half an hour. Any longer than that, you’re in lousy shape and you really do need the exercise.”

D
r. Mendoza was perplexed.

He had stanched the flow of blood but hadn’t yet discovered the cause of the bleeding.

Eliminating the banker had been an urgent necessity, of course. If the man had spilled, the consequences would have been immense. Truly catastrophic for the cartel.

But his employers had bigger worries. The question was how the Drug Enforcement Administration had even learned of the banker’s existence. Obviously, someone on the inside had tipped them off.

An informant. A “confidential source,” as the DEA called a snitch.

But who?

Surely, it was someone close to Thomas Galvin, the cartel’s US-based investor. Someone in his office, perhaps. Or on his personal staff. Someone who had access to his home.

Unfortunately, the cartel had reacted to the leak with customary crudeness. They’d thought they had identified the culprit and sent their
gavilleros
armed with knives and machetes.

But they’d guessed wrong.

Well, Dr. Mendoza knew where to find out. Maybe the leak was in Boston, maybe not. But the
identity
of the source would without question be in Washington, DC. At DEA headquarters.

Like all government bureaucracies, the DEA kept records, great masses of paper, with a manic compulsion. Even on their most closely held sources they kept notes, papers, documents. Naturally, these files were sealed and locked away. But files always needed to be updated and indexed and accessed. Such was the nature of a bureaucracy, its lifeblood. And that work was always done, without fail, by low-level file clerks.

And here was the DEA’s weakness. The human factor, always.

Low-level file clerks were extraordinarily easy to turn.

He needed to fly to Washington, DC.

 • • • 

He could barely remember a time when he wasn’t in the employ of the Sinaloa cartel. He had been barely thirteen on that sun-scorched afternoon when the big black Lincoln pulled into the gas station/bodega where his mother worked as a cashier. The heat shimmered up from the asphalt. He ran to the pump and took the driver’s order. The man spoke in Spanish. In that part of San Diego, everyone spoke Spanish.

“Okay, kid,” the driver said, handing him a twenty, “a pack of Winstons, two packs of Marlboro unfiltered, couple cans of Pepsi, and today’s paper.”

“Do you have a quarter?” Armando Mendoza asked.

“I just gave you a twenty, kid.”

“Yes, but it’s not going to be enough.”

The driver looked skeptical. “How the hell do you know that?”

Mendoza had shrugged. How to explain simple arithmetic? “Well, it’s sixteen ninety for the gas, the three packs of cigarettes is one eighty-nine, and with the Pepsi and the newspaper, that’s twenty dollars and twenty-four cents. So, I mean, this is close, but . . .”

“You some kind of math genius?”

“I just added it up.”

“In your head?”

He nodded. He was showing off, of course.

The driver said to a man next to him in the front seat, “You see this?” Then he stuck his elbow out of the window and leaned closer to the teenager. He removed his mirrored sunglasses. “How much is 239 plus 868 plus 102?”

“That’s too easy.”

“How much, huh? You can’t do it, can you?”

“One thousand two hundred and nine.”

“Hold on, hold on.” The driver turned to the other man. “Your watch has a calculator on it, right? Okay. Kid, what’s 7566 plus 8069? Quick, now.”

Mendoza smiled. He paused for a few seconds. “Fifteen thousand six hundred thirty-five.”

“That right, Carlos?”

“Nope,” said the other man.

“Nice try, kid,” the driver said. “You almost had us there for a while.”

“Hold on, hold on,” the other man said. “Fifteen six three five. He’s right.”

“That’s what I said,” Armando protested.

“Jesus, kid.”

Later, his mother was furious when she heard he’d gotten into the backseat of the Lincoln. Just a few months earlier, a kid in New York City had gone missing, and his face appeared on milk cartons. She’d told him this story as if to inoculate him from the possibility of anything so terrible happening to her only child.

But all they’d done was to take him to meet their
jefe
, to show off his math skills.
El
jefe,
the great Héctor Luis Palma Salazar. El Güero as he was called: the Blond One. El Güero was impressed and made him an offer. They would rescue him from the barrio. They’d even send him to college. They’d train him as an accountant, and then he’d work for the cartel.

But even at the age of thirteen, Armando Mendoza knew he wanted to be a doctor. A surgeon: That was his true desire. Not an accountant.

El Güero didn’t argue. There was need for medical talent as well. He was farsighted, a brilliant organizer who had built the Sinaloa cartel into the most powerful drug-trafficking organization in history. El Güero Palma needed someone utterly reliable to enforce discipline, ask questions and get answers, conduct “interviews,” as Mendoza began calling them, whatever it took. And administer justice when it had to be done: with a scalpel and not an AK-47.

Dr. Mendoza was young—too young—but his time would come. The cartel would pay for medical school in Guadalajara and support him during his surgical residency. In return, he would belong to the cartel. He would provide them with surgical services as needed. Later, after he became a surgeon, he asked them to underwrite the clinic in Culiacán. If he was going to work for the cartel, much of the work unpleasant, he wanted to do good works, too.

His work for the cartel, his nonsurgical work—his special work, as he thought of it—this gave him no pleasure. He was not one of those miscreants who took sadistic pleasure in such things. He simply believed that it was better that a job be done well than poorly, and in his hands, it was always done well.

It was also a fact that he had saved many more lives, through his work at the clinic and at the private hospital in Culiacán, than he had taken. He had alleviated at least as much pain as he had caused.

Dr. Mendoza felt the need to remind himself of this, since very soon, he was quite sure, he would be inflicting a great deal of pain.