The Long Run, page 11
Hank had called late last night. Said he wanted to clear the air. He invited her to come out the next morning to tour his worksite. She accepted his offer in an instant. She wouldn’t pass on inspecting the business. And inspecting Hank.
“You get used to them after a while,” Hank said, referring to the gnats. He trudged behind her—last in line—in his own helmet and vest. “The mosquitos are worse. Big suckers. Literally,” he laughed.
Hank’s chipper mood struck an odd chord in Agent Dominguez. He had experienced a traumatic event two days earlier. His girlfriend was missing, and one friend was presumed dead. People processed trauma in different ways. Some disappeared for days or weeks, lost in their grief. Others insisted on a quick resumption of normal life. Their recuperation lay in smothering their grief with work. But it was how the guilty responded to trauma that most interested Agent Dominguez. Dumb criminals fled. Tricky ones spun bald lies. Gifted criminals deserved Academy Awards. They played the part, grief stricken and innocent. Ferreting them out was tricky. But a keen eye and ear would catch them. For now, Agent Dominguez assumed Hank’s peculiar reaction to trauma was sincere. Though she would watch him closely.
They strode parallel to the river, scanning the twin shores of Mexico and The United States at once. The American side buzzed with activity as laborers, cranes, and trucks crisscrossed the site. The Mexican side was abuzz as well. Dozens of people clustered under the dense canopy of trees and brush that lined the shore. Tents and campsites dotted the area. Two women kneeled in the brackish brown water to wash clothes on flat rocks. They focused on their laundry, oblivious to the hulking wall rising less than a hundred yards away. The smack of wet jeans on rock echoed across the river and drowned in a sea of gears and pounding.
“They cross here at night,” Gene said. He had followed Agent Dominguez’s line of sight and faced the far side of the river.
“Hm?” she said.
“The river is narrow here. And when it’s low, it’s easy to cross. Border Patrol pulled guard duty for a while, but these folks aren’t dumb. They wait until everyone’s gone and then flood through. Y’know? This is a damn big worksite. We gave up trying to stop them. I put up signs in Spanish, pointing towards the exit. And ask them not to take anything.”
“That work?”
“Kind of,” he shrugged.
“So, what am I looking at here?” Agent Dominguez turned her attention to the moist riverbed that laid exposed to the sun beside them. The musk of mildewed mud filled her nostrils. A heavy picket fence of treated lumber and waterproof material prevented the flowing river from inundating the exposed riverbed.
“Shoreline is weak here,” Gene said. He removed his helmet and swiped his reddened brow. “We dammed the river so we can shore it up with cement. We don’t want the wall to fall in.”
“Of course,” she frowned. That would be a tragedy.
A long line of wall panels, each panel a row of steel bollards extending sixteen feet high, stretched into the distance. It was the brainchild of the new United States President. He won the election in part because of his promise to build a border wall separating the two countries and keep all the immigrants out. Immigrants like Agent Dominguez’s parents. It wasn’t the wall that bothered her so much as the hateful rhetoric that surrounded it. Cable news made immigrants the source of all the country’s woes and raked in the advertising dollars. The people who watched those shows—enraged by the rhetoric—turned their fury on any immigrant around them, real or perceived. Agent Dominguez swore an oath to protect the United States. Nowadays, though she was born in New Jersey, she felt like one of the Mexican women gazing across the river.
“So,” she said, turning to Gene, “what are your duties out here?”
“Aw, I play babysitter, I guess,” Gene smiled. His pale skin had weathered into an auburn tan most pronounced on his cheeks, forehead, and neck. “Coordinate the crews, hand out job assignments. Keep the work on schedule. We got deadlines to meet.”
“Gene’s been with us for, what, over twenty years?” Hank said, deferring to Gene.
“Twenty-five next March. Started off digging trenches for your father.”
“Now he’s our most senior manager. Never misses a deadline. Dad says we couldn’t live without him.”
“Aw, I’m the lucky one. I’m grateful to be here.”
An air horn blared several yards away as two trucks lurched to a halt moments before colliding. One driver waved an angry fist as the other driver hurled curse words.
“Daggummit!” Gene said. “I’m sorry, but I need to go play traffic cop. Can you handle the rest of the tour, Hank?”
“Yeah. Go take care of those knuckleheads, Gene,” Hank grinned.
“It never ends,” Gene said with an exasperated sigh. “Nice meeting you, ma’am.”
“Nice meeting you, Gene!” Agent Dominguez said. He hustled away to attend to the truckers, leaving her and Hank alone by the river.
“What do you think about all this, Agent?” He spread his arms, indicating the worksite.
“You’ve got a big project on your hands. But I’m wondering what your part is?”
Hank shrugged. “Little bit of everything, I guess. Dad wants me to learn all of it. Even if it means grabbing a shovel and digging a hole. He don’t want me sitting in an office all day.”
“I understand. Speaking of your father, I’m surprised he’s OK with me visiting.”
“Oh, well,” Hank demurred. “He doesn’t really know.”
“Really?”
“Yes ma’am. Me and my dad, we don’t agree on everything. Please understand, he’s been in business for a long time. He’s had a lot of people come after him. Been sued by crackpots. I guess he’s kind of jaded. You know? But he’s a good man.”
“Of course. You prefer a more open approach, I guess?”
“I guess I haven’t gotten burned like Dad. But I believe if you got nothing to hide, it’s best to be honest.”
“Well then, may I ask an honest question?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why are you here?”
“Sorry?” he said, squinting against the rising sun.
“At work. Why aren’t you home waiting by the phone?”
“I’m not like that, I guess. I’d rather not be home all day worrying about it. That sounds cold, I know. I’m worried about Sofie. I want her back. But what can I do about it? If I sit at the house all day, I’ll go crazy. Does that make sense?”
“It does,” she said. “I’d be the same way.” She was a workaholic who spent weekends and evenings tracking leads and completing case file paperwork. It was a personality quirk that ended her previous relationship.
He gave a weak grin and nodded. A simple look that conveyed a buried pain.
“Shall we continue?” he said, stepping around her and assuming the lead.
“Please.”
They pressed on, with the riverbed squelching under the planks. Agent Dominguez glanced at the women tending their laundry on the far side of the river. A small child had joined them. He stood beside his mother, pointing in awe at the massive cranes prowling the work site. Agent Dominguez reflected on her sheer luck. If her parents hadn’t immigrated thirty years earlier, she might be oohing and aahing from across the river herself.
The tour wound through the worksite, with a quick detour through a set of modular buildings that served as temporary office space and ended near vast earthen pads that stored construction materials. Mounds of dirt and aggregate piled three stories tall. A stream of dump trucks exited the highway and tilted their loads into the piles. The resulting plumes of dust grayed the air around the pads. Agent Dominguez coughed and waved the dust away.
“Sorry about that,” Hank said. “That’s why the workers here wear goggles and masks.”
“I can see why. That’s a lot of sand.”
“Yeah, we use this stuff everywhere. Some gets mixed in the concrete. We use some of it during excavation. There’s a lot of construction codes we have to meet.”
“Where does it all come from?”
“We used to get it from Mexico. The walls too.”
“Used to?”“Yeah. There’s been some delays and shortages recently. We had to switch to buying the material here. It’s too bad. Even after paying import duties, it still costs less buying over there.”
American companies buying Mexican steel to build walls to keep Mexicans out. The irony didn’t escape Agent Dominguez.
“Did the Border Patrol give you any problems?”
“No, ma’am,” Hank said with a wide grin. “The President wants this wall finished pronto. He told them boys to wave us through with just a quick look. Gave us special window stickers the Border Patrol scans. That man gets things done!”
“Hm, yeah.” Agent Dominguez watched a dump truck rumble through a rear gate reserved for deliveries. Clouds of dust swirled in its wake. Behind the cloud, a row of towering palms swayed outside.
“Well, this is where we end the tour. Is there anything else you’d like to see, Agent?”
“No, thank you. I appreciate you inviting me over. I have one question though. Why did the gunmen ask for you?
Hank’s grin melted. “I think about that every night.”
“Any ideas?”
“Well,” he said, looking away at the arriving dump trucks, “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Go on,” she said, watching him close. He seemed nervous. Evasive.
“Sofia has a cousin. I met him a few days before we left for Cancun. She told me he had a rough childhood. He was in a gang. Used to sell drugs. Bragged about knowing people in the cartels. Anyway, he’s gone straight, I think. He’s delivering pizzas nowadays and delivered some to Rebekah’s house the night before we left. We were all there. Sofia told him about the trip. He’s the only one besides our parents that knew about it. I mean, I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Agent Dominguez’s brow lifted with surprise. Hank met a local gangster days before cartel gunmen kidnapped his girlfriend in Mexico and he thought it was nothing? Gangsters don’t go straight. Not from her experience. They may play at going straight, but they’re never far from the life.
“What’s his name?” she said, using the notes app in her phone in place of her missing notepad and pen.
“Israel Cortinas. I’m sure it’s nothing, though. He’s trying to go straight.”
A stray memory bubbled into Agent Dominguez’s mind. A bald young man at Sofia’s parent’s house. He had a powerful build with a thick neck and tattoos covering his arms. He was very interested in the case.
“Is this cousin bald?” she asked.
“Yeah. Do you know him?”
“I’m pretty sure I met him yesterday.”
“Oh! Small world, huh?”
“Yes, it is.”
“You think there’s anything there?”
“You never know, Hank. Maybe not, but I’ll check him out.” She put away her phone and locked eyes with him. “You seemed worried telling me that. Any reason?”
“Oh, well…” he said. His demeanor changed. Proud chin and puffed chest when talking about the border wall. Now his shoulders slouched, and his eyes shifted. “Sofia and Israel were close growing up. She worries about him a lot. But to me, I don’t know. He seemed kind of sweet on her. You know?”
“Sweet on her?”
“Yeah. Like he was jealous of me. Maybe I’m crazy, but it felt like that.”
“But they’re cousins?”
“Yeah. Sofia said it was my imagination.”
“Huh,” she muttered to herself and noted the info on her app. She had seen odder pairings in her time. If true, Hank’s suspicion strengthened her interest in Israel Cortinas. “We’ll see. Thanks for telling me. That gives me a lead to build on.”
“You’re welcome. Anything I can do to help, call me.”
“I will.”
Hank led her to the front gate and said goodbye. As she climbed in the car, she made a mental note to visit Israel’s home.
CHAPTER 15
Israel
It was tough breathing through a swollen jaw and a broken nose. Israel’s jaw felt broken, too. He shifted it left and right, wincing as he went. Juan was a fat-knuckled son-of-a-bitch whose fists hit like bags of sand. Israel licked his lips, tasting the dried, coppery blood coating his lips. Even with another guy holding his arms down, it took four punches to knock him out. To Israel, after months of Bang’s training, that blood tasted like victory.
That meager victory was all he had. He woke up tied to a chair inside a murky utility room. A water heater sat in one corner. Piping ran up the wall beside it, stitched with brackets that reminded him of a silver zipper. The air was stale with a damp odor, like a pile of wet laundry long forgotten in a corner. A wooden staircase descended from the ceiling. A stout wooden table sat before him with two empty chairs pushed out. Something dark and lumpy sat on the table. He shook his head and squinted. His backpack, with its insides turned out. The inside bottom of the bag faced him. They hadn’t found his concealed phone.
His location was unknown, lost in an unconscious fog. The time was unknown as well. Meager sunlight filtered through a covered window high on the wall. Could be morning or afternoon.
As his confusion evaporated, he considered his position. He was fully clothed. That was good, at least. But judging by the lack of bulk in his rear pocket, his wallet, his burner phone, and his passport were gone. Besides a change in clothes, his backpack held a reserve of cash and the ledger he took off the dead narco. That was bad. If his captors had found it, they might think he killed their colleague. It surprised him to still be alive. Another victory, perhaps? He chuckled to himself despite his predicament. Another foreign laugh followed. He wasn’t alone. Israel’s eyes scanned the basement. But they couldn’t see behind him.
“What’s so funny, Mr. Cortinas?”
The voice was feminine and sultry. And the speaker spoke perfect English. It put Israel’s senses on full alert. This wasn’t the voice of any garden variety narco. Female gangsters were as rare as hen’s teeth and twice as vicious as the men. It wasn’t healthy to underestimate them. And since she was asking the questions, it was a good bet she held a prominent position.
“Oh. Just thought of something funny.”
“What was that?” the woman said. Israel swallowed his curiosity to see her and thought of a reply.
“I’m supposed to be working right now. My boss is gonna be pissed.”
“Hm,” she grunted, unamused. “And what is your job?”
“I, uh, I deliver pizza.”
“Really? And is your job located in… McAllen, Texas?”
Heeled shoes clacked behind Israel. The clacking grew louder until a figure appeared to Israel’s right. The woman was statuesque and slim, with black bangs that tumbled over her forehead. She wore a button-down satin shirt that tucked into creased slacks and ended in open-toed sandals. Like her lips, her toenails were painted blood red. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned Israel from head to toe. She had a slender face that tapered to her pursed lips. A fashionable, sexy woman in any other context. But here in this basement, she looked like his potential death.
“Yeah. Well, Pharr. It’s a little outside town,” he said.
“Far is a little outside town?” she asked, her brow raising with confusion.
“Far with a Ph. That’s the town’s name.”
“I see.” She scrunched her face and held a card up to her eyes. Israel assumed that was his Texas driver’s license. “The card was issued last year. Do you still live in McAllen?”
“Yes. Yes, ma’am.” He corrected himself. Cops had interviewed him before. This felt about the same.
“You live alone?”
“No. With my dad.”
She nodded her head in thought. “OK. So you live in Texas with your father. Then, please enlighten me, Mr. Cortinas. Why the fuck are you in Cancún following my men?” She scowled and tossed the card on the table.
Israel’s skin went clammy. He didn’t know this woman or why she considered those narcos her men. But it was best to treat her with respect. She was in charge.
“Ma’am, I’m just looking for my friend.”
“Tell me how you got this.” She grabbed the ledger from the table and held it chest high. “This belonged to one of my men. He’s dead now.”
Israel licked dried lips. “I found him already dead. A couple of other people, too. I didn’t kill him. I swear.”
“No? Just got lucky?” She stepped close and peered down her nose at him. Fragrant perfume filled his nostrils. “You had this pistol.”
She reached into a pocket and withdrew his nine-millimeter and pointed it at his face. The barrel stared into his right eye. He winced and twisted his head away. The gun barrel tracked his movement. Up and down, left and right. Trapped. He stopped moving and looked past the barrel at her.
“Protection. That’s all. I wasn’t going to use it.”
“Then why have it?” She rolled her eyes and gave an exasperated sigh. She walked over and laid the pistol on the table. “Never carry a gun you aren’t prepared to use.”
Israel nodded. She was right, of course. Life on the streets taught him that. He’d lied because she pointed the gun at his face. He would have used it.
“So,” she continued, “who is your friend? And why did you think my men would lead you to him?”
“Her. My friend is a woman.”
“Is she?” she shrugged, unmoved by his correction. The question stood.
“Her name is Sofia Martinez. Somebody kidnapped her a few days ago. Police are no help, and the kidnappers haven’t called asking for ransom.”
She blinked a few times, her face screwed in thought. Then she burst out laughing. They were long, hacking laughs that forced her to sit on the table. She gathered her breath, fighting for composure, and glanced back at him. Another laughing fit followed before she took a deep breath and calmed.
“So you came riding to the rescue? You think you’re John Wayne? Or Rambo? You have a God complex, kid.” She shook her head. “You’re either stupid or in love. Which is it?”
