Triple Crossing (15 page)

Pescatore steered his Wrangler down a sandy ridge to the beach. Dillard popped bubbles next to him. Pescatore drove slowly
south across the sand. He stopped about a hundred feet from The Line. There were fuzzy lights along the fence on the Tijuana
side, the shadow of the bullring beyond. The fence was dark and devoid of movement. Rain usually thinned the gathering of
migrants and vendors on the beach.

The Colonel was supposed to come through a new hole in the fence. The gap was about the size of a doorway. Floods and erosion
had weakened the support of one of the metal panels during the winter rains, and smugglers had knocked it down.

Pescatore glanced back up to his left. He saw Garrison’s vehicle over the low stone wall of the parking lot atop the bluff.
Pescatore intended to sit in the Wrangler until the Colonel came to him.

“They’re waitin’ on ya,” Garrison said over the radio. “You gotta meet ’em on foot. That’s the arrangement.”

Dillard got out. Reluctantly, Pescatore followed suit. Rain pat
tered on the brim of his uniform cap. The moon-striped surf sloshed and crackled on his right.

Stepping clear of the Wrangler, Pescatore drew his gun. He held it next to his leg. It made him feel better.

They walked slowly, Dillard about fifteen feet to his right.

“What’re you doin’ with your gun out?” Dillard snapped. “You’re gonna spook them old boys.”

“Fuck them old boys,” Pescatore hissed, his eyes never leaving the gap in the fence. “I’m takin’ appropriate precautions.”

The certainty that something terrible was about to happen settled over him. He felt utterly focused. He stopped, knees slightly
bent.

Shadows filled the gap in the fence. Two men, both wearing baseball caps, entered U.S. territory. They made their way down
the sand slope to the beach. A third shadow remained in the gap.

The tall one in the Padres cap, Rico, raised a hand in greeting. A coat flapped around him. Pescatore heard Dillard advise
Garrison over his radio. Pescatore could see the black
P
on the yellow background of a Pittsburgh Pirates cap taking shape in the gloom, the hard squarish face of the shorter man
beneath it. The Colonel. Both of the men in caps had their hands open and extended to their sides as they walked.

A raindrop slid along Pescatore’s cheek. Shifting his gaze back and forth from the approaching duo to the fence, he saw the
third man make a move.

Pescatore went into a crouch, causing the Colonel and his sidekick to falter. Pescatore started to shout a warning. Gunshots
exploded in the gap at the fence.

Multiple impacts buckled the Colonel. He said,
“Ay.”
He pitched forward onto his belly.

Pescatore shouted: “Ten-ten! Shots fired, shots fired!”

He saw Dillard draw his gun, wild and disoriented, and yell at Rico, who had extracted a big revolver from the folds of his
coat. Rico was next to the fallen Colonel, whirling back and forth between the agents and the shooter at the fence. When Rico
saw Dillard point his gun in his general direction, he sank down on one knee in a practiced and fluid motion. He shot Dillard
in the face.

Rico thought it was a double-cross; Pescatore was next. Pescatore bounded sideways to his right, still crouching. He aimed
with both hands as he moved.

It could have been the fog, sheer concentration, the spotlights above, a supernatural experience. Whatever the reason, the
gunman on one knee seemed to emanate a bright white glow, a halo that caught fire as Pescatore capped off rounds, pumping
bullets into him, the shots punching Rico back and down into the sand.

A volley rang out from the fence. Pescatore sprinted, dropped and rolled for the shelter of the Wrangler. He felt bullets
kick up sand around him. He wondered if the wetness on his chest and back and arms was rain or blood or both. He rolled interminably,
convinced that he was dead. He clung desperately to his gun. He rolled through fragments of memories and images and regrets.
He came to a stop against a tire of the Wrangler.

He slithered around behind the tire, halfway under the vehicle. There was sand in his mouth. His ears roared with the shots
and his own gasping breath. He sighted over his Glock. He sighted through gunsmoke and rain on Dillard’s body, Rico’s body,
a Pirates cap lying in the sand. He sighted on the bareheaded, fleeing figure of the Colonel.

The Colonel was on his feet again, tottering south. He was heading, insanely enough, toward the very spot where the gunman
had fired on him. There were no more shots, no sign of the gunman.

The Colonel went down heavily. He struggled back up. He turned in drunken circles. He had a pistol in his hand now, and he
pointed it this way and that. He crawled slowly up the
embankment. He staggered back through the hole in the fence from which he had come.

Then came a single, final shot. And the sound of a vehicle departing on the other side of the fence. And the waves and the
rain.

T
HE COLONEL LAY FACEDOWN
a few yards south of the gap in the border fence.

Peppered by flashlight beams, the corpse’s torso was contorted. An arm was stretched forward, a leg bent double, as if he
had expired while trying to swim over the sand. An object protruded from the top of a snakeskin boot: an extra ammunition
clip for the Makarov automatic pistol clutched in his right hand. The back of his jacket was stitched with half a dozen bullet
holes.

Méndez watched Mauro Fernández Rochetti in action on the other side of the corpse. The silver-haired homicide chief stood
beneath an umbrella held for him by his driver, a meaty-faced cop in a cowboy hat known as Chancho. Fernández Rochetti had
his two-way radio near his ear, alternately listening to it and tapping the antenna pensively against his shoulder. He rocked
forward, his sharp-toed black shoes digging into the sand. His lips puckered as detectives came up to him, delivered terse
reports, then returned to their inspections of the crime scene. Which they, as was the custom of the state police homicide
squad when it suited them, had done their best to tromp all over.

The deaths of the Colonel, his sidekick Rico, and a U.S. Border Patrol agent had drawn a swarm of international law enforcement.
Representing Mexico were the state police, state prosecutors,
the Diogenes Group, the federal police, the municipal police and federal immigration officers. The dark van sitting in the
cul-de-sac above the beach belonged to Mexico’s domestic espionage agency.

In years past, the Mexican Army would have also shown up. But the national coalition government that was in power as a result
of the political crisis had withdrawn the armed forces from their frontline role in the drug wars. Some leaders of the coalition
said that the military campaign against the cartels had degenerated into brutality and corruption. Some worried, privately,
that the military had done too good a job pursuing drug lords and the politicians who protected them. Most political leaders
agreed that the presence of troops on the streets did not send the right message at a time of instability.

Nonetheless, the deployment of multiple agencies made it clear that the border shoot-out was a big deal. As did the turnout
on the U.S. side. The Border Patrol brass had responded, accompanied by riot-equipped agents of BORTAC, the Patrol’s tactical
unit. The San Diego Police were there to investigate the homicides. Inspector General agents were there to investigate the
conduct of the Border Patrol. The FBI was there on general principle, accompanied by a deputy chief of the U.S. Attorney’s
office in San Diego. The beach north and south of the fence was a maze of yellow tape, four-wheel-drive vehicles and officers
holding flashlights.

“So many bloodhounds,” Méndez said to no one in particular.

The Tijuana homicide squad had detained two men. The prisoners sat on the hull of an upside-down rowboat near a cement outhouse.
Their hands were cuffed behind them. They looked like migrants or transborder vagrants, one in a ski cap and ratty sweater,
the other obscured by unkempt hair. The prisoners bent forward, their heads almost between their knees. Two homicide detectives
stood behind them smoking cigarettes and talking about Porfirio Gibson’s latest TV show. Whenever a prisoner straightened
a bit, the younger detective, who wore a bul
letproof vest over an Oakland Raiders sweatshirt, lowered his voice an octave, snarled “Head
down, puto,
” and returned to the conversation without missing a beat.

Méndez shook his head. He approached Porthos. Méndez’s deputy had worked for the state homicide squad for five years. He had
finally gotten sick of being turned down for promotions while turning down bribes, so he had defected to the Diogenes Group.

“What do you think?” Méndez asked.

His mountainous back toward the homicide detectives, Porthos talked through his teeth. Rain dripped off his beard.

“If I believe my ex-comrades, the Colonel and Rico shot it out with the Border Patrol and lost.”

“It doesn’t make sense to you,” Méndez said.

“Not entirely.”

“You wonder how the Border Patrol managed to shoot him seven times exclusively in the back.”

“For example.”

“You wonder why the Colonel didn’t just surrender. He could have asked for political asylum. And he wanted to cut a deal with
the
gabachos.
”

“Ah, Licenciado, now you are getting too political for me.”

“And the so-called suspects?”

“Please, Licenciado. A pair of sad little drunks who were waiting out the rain with a bottle. This way Fernández Rochetti
can tell the press that suspects are being questioned.”

“Standard procedure, eh?”

“The script for this one is already written. The neighbors in the apartments near the bullring told us the homicide squad
arrived before the shooting was over. ”

“A Mauro Fernández Rochetti Production.”

“Totally.”

The homicide squad had automatic jurisdiction because murder was a state crime. Méndez would try to elbow his way into
the case. But the crucial investigative momentum was on the side of Mauro Fernández Rochetti, a master at shaping evidence
to the version of the facts he felt appropriate.

Looking up into Méndez’s stare, the homicide commander raised bushy eyebrows in greeting.

And now for some hostile banalities, Méndez said to himself. He made his way around the corpse, wet sand seeping into his
shoes.

“Good evening, Commander,” Méndez said.

“Good evening, Licenciado.” Fernández Rochetti sounded wary. “How can I help you?”

“Well, one of our investigations is involved. We’ll need a complete report from you.”

“Of course,” Fernández Rochetti said, smiling not quite enough for his tongue to emerge from its lair. “You were so interested
in the Colonel.”

Méndez glanced at Chancho. The cop in the cowboy hat held the umbrella over his chief with stolid determination, as if demonstrating
proper umbrella-holding technique.

“You’ve got everything all figured out already, I suppose?” Méndez said, trying to mimic Fernández Rochetti’s amiable scorn.

“It seems pretty clear,” Fernández Rochetti said. “The Colonel got desperate.”

“I never thought of the Colonel that way.”

“The Colonel was not as smart as he thought. He realized how foolish he had been, making wild accusations about heavyweight
people. He organized that butchery today at the prison, broke out and made it as far as you see him.”

“Your people arrived very quickly. I imagine they saw something?”

“Just cadavers and agitated Americans.”

Méndez noticed Athos, impassive under his black uniform cap, off to one side trying to get his attention. Athos had his
AK-47 slung over his shoulder. Méndez had not seen him without the assault rifle since their first visit to the Colonel the
month before.

“A pleasure as always, Commander,” Méndez said. He turned to Athos, who pointed at a red Volkswagen Jetta parked above them
in the cul-de-sac.

Méndez made his way among rocks and climbed wood steps built into the dune. His cell phone rang in his leather jacket, which
the rain was discoloring.

“Slaving away, Don Leo?” Isabel Puente sounded as if she were whispering into her phone beneath a cupped hand.

“Where are you?”

“Close. But on the other side, of course.”

Méndez stopped climbing and looked down at the gap in the fence, where riot-helmeted Border Patrol agents exchanged glares
with Mexican federal officers, toe-to-toe at the line in the sand. He looked past the body of Rico enveloped in his leather
coat, the green lump of the Border Patrol agent’s body, and clusters of U.S. investigators in yellow slickers near the Wrangler
parked on the beach. He did not see Puente.

“What are you wearing?”

“That’s a question that could be interpreted the wrong way.” Her laugh was like a chime.

“An innocent question, I swear.”

“You can’t see me, I’m in the parking lot with the bosses,” Puente said, eager and conspiratorial. “Listen, we have to talk.
Everything is falling into place, believe it or not.”

Méndez reached the top of the steps. A breeze spattered drops in his face. Araceli Aguirre’s driver stood by the parked Jetta.
Aguirre sat in the backseat. She leaned her head back, stretching her neck. When she saw Méndez, she blew him a glum kiss.

Me and these formidable woman partners I’ve got, Méndez thought. If I were a gangster, I would worry more about them than
the Diogenes Group. What had the Colonel said about
Araceli? Tough as a soldier. And the Colonel hadn’t gotten to know Isabel Puente.

“From this vantage point, it looks more like everything’s falling apart,” Méndez said into the phone.

“Don’t be gloomy,” Puente said. “Can we get together in about three hours? It will be worth it.”

“Where?”

“The same place as the last time the Colonel caused a commotion.”

“Done. Thanks.”