the Pallbearers (2010) (27 page)

"And you think I should use this?" I said, smiling.

"No," she replied sarcastically. "Give it to TMZ or the National Enquirer, why don't you?"

Chapter
49

"What's this all about?" Kurt Westfall growled as I slid into a Dennvs restaurant window booth directly across from chunk); red-faced Leo Faskin. It was a little past nine the same night. We were at Denny's because it was right across from the federal building on Wilshire, and they said 011 the phone they were hungry.

Since these two guys had already made it very clear they didn't like me, it didn't surprise me they'd already ordered. But I'd just eaten anyway, and if I played this right, maybe I could get them to lose their appetites.

I waved the waitress off as Leo Faskin poured about a half a pound of sugar into his coffee and Westfall shifted his string-bean body, trying to find a comfortable spot in the booth for his bony ass.

"Guvs, I think what we need is a come-to-Jesus meeting," I said pleasantly.

"What we need is a fuck you meeting," Westfall shot back.

"C mon, Kurt, that's a little extreme," I said, holding his gaze.

Agent Faskin leaned forward. "We been told Chief Filosiani wants us to back off, and for some reason, our wussy ASAC s going along. That means we're on the sidelines. What more do you want?"

"Here's the full and complete update 011 Jack Straw," I said. "Contrary to what you were told, I don't exactly have custody of him anymore."

"We know that, Scully," Westfall said. "You took him awav from those cops on Wilshire last Wednesday night, and before sunup he gave you the slip. You been running all over L
. A
. like a blind rat trying to find him and so far don't have a clue. We're just waiting for this bag of shit to land 011 you where it belongs."

"I hope you guys have been playing fair and aren't abusing the Patriot Act, listening in 011 my phone calls."

Faskin set down the sugar and slid it angrily across the table, where it hit some napkins and stopped abruptly. "We don't have to tap your phones to know what an incompetent piece of shit you are."

"Have we finished with the fuck-you part ot the meeting yet?"

"No we haven't," Westfall said. "That guy, Straw, popped two federal banks in Central California. He stole ten grand from one, fourteen from the other. He knocked out a sixty-vear-old security guard during the Temecula heist. Poor old guy had to get twenty stitches. Straw is a bleeding sore with a yellow sheet that goes back ten years. He should be sitting in our cooler right now, but you cut him loose from Acosta and Moon and, dumb asshole that you are, promptly lost him. And that, my friend, is the full and complete update 011 Jack Straw."

"You left out the part where you two brain trusts let him hot-wire your backseat cigarette lighter and escape up in Temecula."

They both just sat glowering, their faces getting redder.

I leaned forward. "In the interest of lowering your blood pressure, I might be in a position to help. I know your ASAC is grinding you up over losing Jack. I also know firsthand what turds these administration guys can be. All they gotta do is come in late and make sure the Internet is connected. Field guys like us, were the ones that do the real work, and if things don't go perfect, we always end up taking the heat."

"What do you want?" Westfall said. He'd clearly had enough of me.

"Even though I don't have physical custody, I know where Jack is. I'm willing to help you two get him back."

"Where is he?" Westfall asked.

"We're gonna need to work out some terms and conditions first."

Faskin said, "Hey, dickwad, if you've lost custody of Straw like you just said and you know where he is but don't tell us, then you're an accessory after the fact in those two bank heists."

"That's a slight exaggeration, don't you think?" I smiled blandly at him.

Just then the waitress brought their orders. Leo Faskin had ordered a patty melt with fries. Kurt Westfall had a cheese omelet with double hash browns. The Denny's high-cholesterol, artery-clogger special at taxpayer expense.

"Okay, so what's the pitch?" Westfall said. He seemed the more rational of the two.

"I want you guys to agree that if I get Jack back for you, we let bygones be bygones. You don't start making trouble for me after the fact at Parker Center, filing a bunch of interagency disciplinary requests."

"What else?"

"You go to Tucson, Arizona, on the midnight flight tonight. You hook up with the local feds there, wait for my call. Once I've got Jack in custody, I'll notify you, and we can make arrangements to turn him back over to the FBI."

"Why do we need to include the Tucson bureau?" Westfall asked. He had caught a whiff of my deception. There was nothing I could do but keep going.

"We need them because, while doable, getting Jack back may not be as easy as it appears on the surface. At some point I might need a scooch of backup."

"We're not gonna fly all the way to Tucson, scare up a federal posse without knowing why, and then hang around in some hotel 'til you call us," Faskin said.

"Fellas, I can deliver Jack, but I've got some department issues of my own I'm dealing with. I promise, if you go to Tucson and wait for my call, this time tomorrow we can all grab castanets and sing the Miranda at Jack's custody hearing."

They both started to pick listlessly at their food. I'd finally managed to ruin their appetites.

I got up and stood looking down at them.

"Is that gonna be a yes?" I said.

"Get the fuck away from us," Faskin replied.

"It's a yes," Westfall finally answered, then handed me his card.

Chapter
50

By the time I got home it was after ten o'clock. As I was undressing for bed, I filled Alexa in on what had transpired with Faskin and Westfall. When I finished, she told me she'd been on the Internet since I'd left doing research on the Tohono O'odham Indian Reservation.

"The Tohono Indians are one of the Arizona Mesa Tribes, like the Hopis and Apaches. They're extremely poor, and most of their reservation is a rough, unsettled place," she said. "They've got a big Mexican illegal-immigration and drug-smuggling problem. This isn't just a footnote, it's a huge deal. The seven Mesa tribes spent ten million last year on border problems."

"Really?" I stopped undressing and looked over at her.

"The Tohono reservation is a big place," she went on. "About the size of Connecticut. It spans a seventy-five-mile border with Mexico
,
244

and because its on both sides of the border, its become a billion
-
dollar-a-year smuggling corridor. I checked with our drug-enforcement guys downtown, and they know all about Tohono O odham. Homeland sends out briefing reports on it about once a month.

"According to Captain Summerland, there are over a hundred and sixty crossing points. Thirty of those have no barriers at all. The coyotes are running drugs and braceros unchecked.

"The Mexicans who are being smuggled in are so hungry and poor, they're looting everything the Indians own that isn't tied down. Stealing livestock and vehicles. Getting into gun fights with the Indian property owners. The tribal police are completely overrun with these shootings. According to Captain Summerland, it's the biggest corridor for illegal immigration and drugs in the U
. S
."

I sat on the bed and looked at her. "So does the drug and immigration thing tie in to Pop's murder somehow, or is it just a coincidence?"

"Aren't you the one who always says there are no coincidences in law enforcement?"

"So what's going on then?"

"I don't know. I called the main desk at the Talking Stick Hotel and Casino. I told them I was planning to come there on my vacation but was concerned because I'd read on the Internet that there were gunfights taking place between Indian landowners and smugglers. They assured me that the Talking Stick Resort is walled off and totally safe.

"The reservation has built a nine-foot-high barrier all the way around the two-hundred-acre hotel and golf course. The resort is heavily patrolled, and there are absolutely no guns allowed on the premises."

"Does that include us?"

"I think so. I asked, and she said no exceptions."

I sat there for a long moment, trying to absorb it.

"Drugs," I said softly, trying to get that to somehow jibe. How did a mill ion-dollar embezzlement at Huntington House that led to Walt's murder also link to a billion-dollar drug corridor on an Arizona Indian reservation? I couldn't see the connection. My guess was, there wasn't one. But that didn't change the fact that, if I wanted to bust O'Shea, I had to go there. Making that arrest without jurisdiction on Tohono O'odham land only made it about ten times more difficult.

I finished getting undressed, then got into bed. Alexa joined me, and we turned off the lights.

"This doesn't feel right, does it?" she finally said in the dark.

"No," I said softly. "It doesn't."

As I lay there I kept turning it over in my mind. E. C. Mesa's connection to Pop's murder had always bothered me. I had other questions as well. Why would a rich, influential guy who buys and sells companies entertain himself with such a violent hobby as MMA fighting? Of course, there was nothing that said a multimillionaire couldn't have a fascination with combat arts, but nonetheless, it felt strange that he was hanging with O'Shea and Calabro and all the other thugs in that gym.

I also wondered why he was arranging challenge matches for his fight team two states away in Arizona, in a casino that sat on one of the biggest smuggling corridors on the U
. S
.-Mexican border. I didn't like where this seemed to be heading.

Instead of answers I was just turning up more questions, which is never a good sign this late in an investigation.

I finally forced my mind to stop dancing with it and tried to get some sleep. I was almost there when the bedside phone jangled. I rolled over and answered it.

"Scully?" a familiar voice said.

"Jack?"

Alexa propped herself up and looked over at me.

"Dude, we got trouble."

"Tell me."

"I'm in Arizona . . ."

"At the Talking Stick Casino?"

There was a moment, then Jack said, "Yeah. How'd you know?"

"I'm all-seeing. Talk to me, Jack."

"I'm with Team Ultima. I'm their unofficial roadie or gofer or some damn thing. You owe me for this, dude. These guys are a buncha steroid-popping morons. It's like hanging with the Sasquatch 'lowel Snap team. They're here in Arizona training for an event match tomorrow.

"At eight o'clock tonight I'm playing craps with a few of them in the casino and in walks Diamond Peterson. She's looking for O'Shea. He didn't come to Arizona with us so I didn't think he was here. But Chris called him 011 a cell, and ten minutes later in he walks.

"Once he and Diamond hook up, they have a big screaming match. About as subtle as an inmate wedding. Security comes. It finally got calmed down, and O'Shea leaves with Diamond in tow. I don't know where he took her because I'm stuck getting beer and pretzels for these shitheads. I had to wait 'til they finally crashed half an hour ago so I could sneak away and call."

"What is it?" Alexa asked.

I covered the receiver with my left hand. "Jack's at the Talking Stick. Diamond just showed looking for O'Shea, who's also there. She may be in trouble."

Alexa was out of bed and getting dressed before I finished the last sentence.

"Okay, Jack. You got a number where I can call you back?"

"I'm not giving you my fucking number. These guys are all over me. You call and they pick it up, I'm toast. Just take care of this. I'm not staying in the same place with most of them anyway cause there's not enough room. These fuckheads have me and Brian Bravo sleeping in a reservation trailer. A total shit hole. Here comes Calabro. Gotta go." And he hung up.

I slammed down the receiver and started grabbing clothes. I still hadn't mastered getting dressed with one arm, so Alexa was way ahead of me.

"You think Westfall and Faskin are in Tucson yet?" she asked.

"I don't know. They should be, but I'm not sending those two donkeys in unsupervised."

Alexa was completely dressed while I was still fumbling with the laces of my tennis shoes. I was having trouble getting all ten fingers to work together.

"Let me help you with those," she said, and knelt down, tying them quickly.

When she finished she stood. "What do you want to do?"

"About what?"

"The others."

I must have been looking at her like she'd just lost her mind because she said, "We're kind of shorthanded. We could use some help, don't you think?"

"The pallbearers?" I said, astounded she would even suggest such a thing.

"Think about it. We don't have much time if Diamond is really in trouble. Sabas is good backup. Vicki is tough as rhinoceros skin, and Seriana's an Army Ranger. We don't have any jurisdiction in Arizona, let alone on an Indian reservation. Out there you and I are just civilians. Since you don't completely trust Faskin and Westfall, then maybe these guys are our best choice."