The Covert Element (7 page)

"I’m pretty sure BCA would’ve looked for that sort of sign,"
Gunner said, still dubious.

"But there were a bunch of firefighters here before the police
arrived. Right?"

"Yeah. I s’pose."

"So it’s three in the morning. It’s dark. Even so, they probably
see the bodies outside. But they still have to fight the fire and make
sure there’s no one else inside."

I surveyed the location where the fire trucks had stood the day
before, and the path the firefighters would likely have taken to enter
the house and/or extinguish the fire. I could see where the hoses
had lain in muddy ruts, and the boot prints of the fire fighters who
had been the first to arrive at the scene of yesterday’s "event." The
hose marks and boot prints mostly followed my predicted paths.
One of those paths lay directly between the location of the corpses
and the burned out foundation.

"Suppose the guys who did this . . ."

"Or gals," Gunner pointed out, though I knew he didn’t really
think so.

"Or gals," I conceded, "
did
leave a message to the drug cookers
who worked here. But the firemen obliterated it in their first few
minutes on site. I mean . . . it was dark and the fire was bright and
they had to be in shock after seeing all the bodies. They could have
easily trampled on something important."

I took a few steps toward the area in question.

"So I say, let’s start looking right . . . along . . . here." I indicated
the entire length of the suspect territory as I walked along it.

"Okay. Let’s look. But we gotta pick up the pace. I can’t be
searching for that walkie forever."

I started to walk directly toward the pathway the firemen had
taken. Gunner stopped me in my tracks.

"Hold up. Don’t go walkin’ all over where the bodies were
layin’."

"Why not? You don’t think the CSI team collected all the
evidence from underneath the corpses?"

"Hell, no. They got their evidence. That’s not it. It’s like in a
cemetery. You don’t go trampin’ on a grave site. It’s . . . it’s not
right. Bad mojo."

"Geez, Gunner. When did you start believing in ‘mojo’? You got
a voodoo doll in the squad? You do realize that there aren’t actually
dead bodies here anymore. We’re not walking on graves. Those
corpses are long gone."

"Yeah . . . well . . . just don’t walk there. Okay? It’s not right."

Superstition or not, I agreed to go along with Gunner’s
directive. He and I circumnavigated the area where the bodies had
lain.

As we re-traced the steps of the firefighters, each of us
examined the ground for any evidence the crime scene experts
might have missed. It seemed a long shot. At one point I thought I
saw something unusual. But it turned out to be a spot where some
squirrel had tried to bury a nut or something. Anyway, there were
lots of squirrel tracks when I looked more closely.

It didn’t take us long to examine the questionable area.

Zippo. Nada. Zilch.

Gunner’s radio crackled back in the car. Gunner looked up at
me.

"Okay. Look around. Take a picture. Dig some dirt or whatever.
We gotta go."

Not having any further hot ideas, I conceded defeat and we
strode back to the cruiser.

Gunner picked up the radio.

"Gunderson."

"You guys get lost in there?"

"Naw. I guess Crime Scene musta picked it up. I’m sure I’ll get
reamed out by the boss when my gear turns up in the evidence
locker. We’ll be right out."

Gunner hung up the radio and closed his door.

"That’s it for today, Sherlock. Let’s git."

I joined Gunner in the car and we headed back out the drive. It
seemed that if we were going to learn more about the perpetrators
of this god-awful abomination, it wasn’t going to be here . . . at least
not today.

"Thanks for coming out with me, Gunner. It was above and
beyond the call and I appreciate it."

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah."

The Chief Deputy tried not to smile.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Later that same day, in Red Wing.

"I’m home," I called out as our back porch screen door
slammed unceremoniously behind me. I know it’s old-fashioned to
have a spring closer on the wooden door. But it was authentic. And I
sort of liked the sound the door made when slamming shut.

The time was about 3:00 p.m.

"Hey, Babe." Beth greeted me with a quick hug as I entered the
kitchen. She wore her straight, sandy-blonde hair pulled in a high
ponytail. It felt like satin as it brushed my cheek. The delicate
aroma of flowers remained after she pulled away.

Beth opened the refrigerator and held out a can of Diet
Mountain Dew toward me. I shook my head. She kept the soda for
herself and closed the fridge. Her outfit today was comprised of
pleated khaki shorts and a breezy cotton top. Very fetching. But
then, I may be biased.

"How was the office today?" She turned toward me, leaning
lightly against the counter.

"Oh, you know. A little of this. A little of that."

Beth gave the soda a single shake and popped the top in my
direction, spritzing my face with a light mist. She smiled, then
sipped the Dew.

"Hey. What was that for?"

"You didn’t hang around the office very long did you."

"Not really. First Bull called and wanted to have some super-important meeting for dinner tonight. No further explanation. You
know Bull."

She tilted her head knowingly.

"Anyway, one thing led to another and the next thing you know
Gunner and I were headed out to yesterday’s murder scene."

Beth feigned shock.

"Yeah. I know. I’m not very good at sticking to the lawyer stuff
when something more intriguing presents."

"Really?"

I gave Beth a semi-stern eye posture.

"We weren’t able to stay long at the farm. And we didn’t find
anything useful. So the field trip was kind of a bust. I’m thinking on
some other possible investigative approaches though." I can be
indefatigable under the right circumstances.

"Of course, you are." Beth stepped closer. I shielded my face
lest I should be sprayed once more.

She laughed, put the can down and embraced me. Despite the
carnage, the fire, and my lack of success earlier in the day, I could
feel my spirit lifting.

"If you could bottle this stuff," I said over her shoulder, "you’d
make us both rich."

"No, thanks. I made a promise and I’m stuck with only you."

"It’s so endearing when you come on to me like that."

We broke our clasp.

"So exactly when and where are you meeting Bull tonight. Do I
need to cook?" Beth was definitely the cook in our household. It’s
not a matter of sexism. I just suck at cooking. Actually burned a
hard-boiled egg once.

"Thanks for the offer, Doll. We’re meeting at the Harbor at
7:00. I’ll maybe gnaw on some spicy Jamaican pig gristle while Bull
is filling me in. I wonder how this ‘meeting’ is going to go. I’m
usually the only one who talks when we get together. Should be
interesting."

"I’m certain it will be
at least
that. You’ll have to share with me
afterwards."

"If it turns out to be worthwhile, you know I’ll give you all the
dope . . . mainly so you can keep me from getting into too much
trouble."

"Right." Beth wore a wry smile.

CHAPTER EIGHT

City of Tampico, Tamaulipas Province, Mexico – July, 1993.

Raphael Santos slouched on a wrought-iron bench on the
border of
Plaza de la Libertad
in downtown Tampico, his dusty
fedora pulled low across a sun-darkened brow. Smoke from a
stubby cigar hung around him like the oppressive summer heat.

Santos knew this place intimately. His family had settled here
more than a hundred years ago – before oil had replaced
commercial fishing as the region’s largest enterprise. Before the
stench of 20,000 tons a day of sewage from Mexico City had
polluted the
Rio Panuco
, flowing a scant two blocks from where he
sat. And most certainly before the residents of this otherwise
prosperous east central Mexican city had succumbed to the tyranny
of the drug cartels that now pervaded the city-scape . . . and beyond.

Tampico sat at the southernmost tip of Tamaulipas Province,
which stretched to the north, encompassing coastal Mexico from
here to the American border towns of Matamoros, Reynosa, and
Nuevo Laredo. Tamaulipas featured some of Mexico’s most
beautiful beaches. And in fact, Tampico had, itself, been a popular
tourist destination for Americans until the crime rate had
skyrocketed, and street murders had become as common as bad
tortillas in a cheap cantina.

The perpetrator of all that evil in Tampico was the
Los Cinco
drug cartel.
Los Cinco
had gotten its start purely as a distributor for
the Colombian Cali cartel. Through the seventies and well into the
1980s,
Los Cinco’s
predecessors had transported drugs from the
Colombians to the drug-hungry American gangs to the north.

Then Reagan’s war on drugs began to gain traction. Aid to the
Colombian
policía
in the form of tactical advice, high-tech
intelligence, and clandestine military fire-power, was proving
effective in unseating the brutal leaders of the Cali and Medellin
syndicates.

The five founders for which
Los Cinco
is named had observed
the Colombian situation with interest. They could read the writing
on the wall for the Colombian drug hierarchy. The cartels could
control the Colombian government. But when the United States
determined to intervene, it was only a matter of time before cartel
leaders would be either killed, or captured and tried in U.S. courts.

The time had come for the Mexican flunkies to sever their ties
to the Colombians and take hold of their greater entitlement. Drug
operations needed to centralize farther north, in Mexico.

Los Cinco
transformed from courier to cartel in rapid fashion.
They transmitted the Calis’ shipments through the usual
distribution channels to the U.S and Canada – withholding
payment until the Calis threatened open war.

By this time, it was too late for the Calis to mount an effective
threat. With the United States killing their leaders, the Calis were
running out of chiefs. When Cali loyalists saw their cartel leadership
in decline, their devotion to the Cali family evaporated in a mass
exodus of former drug mercenaries looking for new work. Many had
already found a new home with
Los Cinco
in Mexico – where
pilfered Cali drug money paid their salaries.

The venture was well-timed and highly lucrative, especially for
those willing to murder the overly ambitious and intimidate the
uncooperative. With the decline of the multi-billion dollar per year
Cali cartel, and its nearly-as-powerful competitors, the Medellins,
coca farmers needed to find new outlets for their crops. Since the
Cali couriers were eager to find new work, it hadn’t taken long to re-establish trade routes from Colombia to Mexico. Thus, with supply
chains in place, and plenty of
dineros
to hire enforcers,
Los Cinco
was born.