Head Wounds Page 12

  “And you wanted to accompany Jose and the American police to my casa, knowing it is prohibited.”

  Juan shrugged. “I thought it would be cool to see where you live.”

  “Why?”

  Juan looked away. “Maybe to brag a little. Be suave, que no? I’ve been to El Jefe’s. How cool is that?”

  “What did you tell Agent Sedillo to make her believe you knew where I lived?”

  “Nothing, honest.”

  Trevino sighed in frustration. “The woman is not stupid. You told her something.”

  Juan hesitated, lowered his head, and nodded gloomily. “I bugged Jose a little about your hacienda. Got him to tell me how your ranchero was on the edge of the Bolsón de Mapimí in a valley hidden by rocky hills. How there was only one way in through a cut between two mesas. He said it was many long steps away, whatever that means.”

  “You gave her something tangible to believe,” Trevino noted amiably.

  Juan perked up. “Yeah, just playing the role, making it real.”

  Trevino waved his hand dismissively. “Enough.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Sí and thanks.”

  A relieved Juan left through the tunnel door.

  In deep reflection, Estavio Trevino drummed a finger on the arm of his chair. Jose had given Juan too much information. That knowledge now belonged to the Garza brothers, Longwei Shen and his family, and the DEA resident special agent. Jose would have to be punished.

  He had other places to live no one knew about, but the ranchero was his favorite. Should he kill them all?

  Perhaps not. At least not yet. There was still the Coahuila hunting ranch he had optioned to buy. The closing was in a week. Consisting of five thousand acres close to the international border with live water and wetlands, it had a large and healthy population of deer and wild turkey, as well as porcupines, squirrels, lynxes, rabbits, and armadillos. Complete with a one-bedroom cabin, it would be his legacy to the tribe, which sorely needed abundant game for religious purposes.

  Over the years, the Kickapoos had almost wiped out all wildlife in the valleys and mountains surrounding the village. With the addition of the new hunting ranch, no longer would the Mexican and Anglo ranchers who denied them access to their plentiful wildlife be a problem. No longer would Kickapoo men be fined and jailed by the authorities for hunting out of season. No longer would the naming ceremonies for infants be delayed because the tribe lacked the four deer required for the feast.

  With the casino, the Eagle Pass reservation had given the Mexican Kickapoos a way out of poverty. The Coahuila hunting ranch would give them a way to maintain and preserve their identity and heritage.

  First, he’d deal with the ranch. It would take all of his cash to buy it outright, but he had other assets he could access if needed. He would also speak with Jose Hernandez to learn how much damage to his privacy had been done. If no major adjustments were necessary, he’d deal with Jose, and then learn all he could about the half-Apache deputy sheriff who had murdered Fernando.

  Once ready, he’d capture and slowly kill Detective Clayton Istee.

  CHAPTER 10

  Clayton endured two days of administrative leave and a day of restricted desk duty before he was cleared to return to work. He used his desk duty time to catch up on paperwork and do some additional online research about El Jefe, even though the Mexican extraction scheme hatched by Special Agent Harjo had been torpedoed.

  Relieved and disappointed by the decision, Clayton struggled to put his ambivalence to rest. On the upside, he didn’t have to lie to Grace about participating in a highly questionable undercover mission. But the downside was that this left him no closer to solving the triple homicide case. In fact, it made it even more difficult. As new assignments came in, the case would turn cold. He didn’t like that at all.

  Sheriff Vasquez and Captain Rodney were more sanguine about it, and for good reason. When the mission got scrubbed, DEA wasn’t willing to cough up all the goodies originally promised to the department. However, to show appreciation for such excellent interagency cooperation, a multiyear DEA grant was awarded to fund drug prevention officers at several high schools near the international border.

  It was a gold star for the Doña Ana SO. It was front-page news, including editorials that rained praise. TV interviews ensued. Meanwhile, there had been no more mention of lieutenant bars in Clayton’s future. He didn’t care. The aftershock of taking a life pressed hard upon his mind. Counseling was offered. He declined. However, he did allow himself the privilege of clocking out of work on time. Nobody raised an eyebrow.

  At home he found relief in the company of Kerney, Sara, and Patrick, who were visiting from Santa Fe on spring break and staying at a lovely B&B near downtown. During the weekdays while Grace and Clayton were at work and Hannah was in class, Kerney played tour guide with his family, taking them to the New Mexico Farm & Ranch Heritage Museum, Dripping Springs at the base of the Organ Mountains, White Sands National Monument on the Tularosa Basin, the railroad museum at the train station, and other local attractions, including his alma mater, the New Mexico State University campus.

  In the evenings, when everyone had assembled, they either cooked out in the backyard or had dinner at one of the many family-style restaurants in the city. It was good medicine for Clayton’s head.

  On the last night of their visit, with Grace and Sara chatting in the house and Hannah and Patrick off to see the newest superhero action flick, Clayton and Kerney had some time alone.

  Over a brew in the backyard with a warming fire crackling in the outdoor firepit, Kerney asked Clayton if he was ready to return home to Mescalero permanently.

  “Not yet,” Clayton answered. “I’ve got some time to put in to max out my pension. Besides, Hannah’s thinking about applying to graduate school here at State.”

  Kerney nodded understandingly. “And you’re okay at the job?”

  “Sure.”

  “That sounds pretty wishy-washy.”

  Clayton laughed. “I’m not happy thinking my investigation is turning cold and nobody except me gives a hoot.”

  “You can’t solve them all.”

  Clayton’s expression hardened. “I can’t give up on it. You wouldn’t.”

  “True, but I’m very glad you won’t be traipsing around Mexico hunting for this primo assassin.”

  “You make it sound like such fun,” Clayton said lightheartedly. “I’ll do it by long distance, if I have to. I’ve put out some inquiries based on what I know and think I know about this El Jefe. If there’s an honest cop or prosecutor in Mexico, maybe I’ll get somewhere with it.”

  “If you need help getting some high-ranking muckety-muck’s ear, let me know. I still have some juice.”

  “Thanks for that. Now, can we talk about something else?”

  Kerney raised his empty glass. “Only if I can have another beer.”

  Eagle Pass Resident DEA Agent Maria Sedillo returned from a ceremony in Houston with a commendation in her personal jacket from the special agent in charge. The citation letter noted her outstanding performance in exposing DEA employee Wanda Cantu as an informant to the notorious Piedras Negras Chinese-Mexican gang.

  Sedillo didn’t feel all that good about it. Had she done her job better, Wanda would still be alive providing valuable information. DEA Houston knew that. But the fact that the Eagle Pass resident office had been compromised for such a long time made it desirable to bestow the honor and hide incompetence. No need to jeopardize every senior supervising agent’s career in the Houston office. Instead, all the shiny badges remained untarnished. Long live the bureaucracy.

  Sedillo sat in her office unimpressed with the recognition. She needed to do more in the time she had remaining. She’d been unable to get her head completely around the idea that Luis Lorenz’s half-brother, Gilberto Garza, was the devout, virtuous, law-abiding citizen that years of department surveillance and deep background probes made him out to be.


  Her doubts about the man had floated around in her head for a number of reasons. On an elementary level, the facts made it simply hard to believe the two brothers could be that dissimilar. Although they had different fathers, both had been raised from an early age by their mother, a single woman who’d worked as a food vendor to support her family. The boys had gone to church and school together, shared a bedroom, played soccer on the same team, and had been good but lazy students.

  That much Sedillo had learned in the early intelligence reports. Then it went dark. What she didn’t find in the records was anything that spoke to the reason for their total estrangement. Surely there was more to that story. But it wasn’t in the archives.

  Instead, in the subsequent report addendums, the falling-out between the brothers was treated as a given, confirmed over and over again by citizens of Piedras Negras who spoke glowingly of Gilberto and hesitantly about Luis. Over the years, nothing had changed the narrative.

  Additionally, satellite, communication, and street surveillance supported the assumption. Not once in decades had Luis and Gilberto been seen together, talked on the phone, communicated via email, or exchanged snail mail.

  What if it was all smoke and mirrors? If it was a charade, there had to be a way to see through it.

  With the El Jefe extraction plan now kaput, Sedillo needed to mount one more scheme to put into play before the time came to meet her maker. It was either that or tread water until the cancer in her head became too unbearable and she had to resign.

  She’d promised herself a win. If it wasn’t going to be El Jefe, how about Gilberto Garza?

  She’d have to come up with a foolproof idea to unmask him and move on it fast. She had an entry point thorough Gilbert’s son, Juan. How to use him was the puzzle she needed to solve.

  Harjo spent his first three days home without once going outside. All he wanted to do was sleep, eat, and ponder what the hell he’d do next. An involuntary leave wasn’t a vacation, so he wasn’t about to let go of putting a big hurt on Lorenz and his organization.

  The front doorbell rang while he was in his pajamas eating a bowl of cold cereal standing over the kitchen sink. He opened up to find his neighbor, Henry Saenz, staring at him with a worried look on his face. The incessant roar of the Interstate 10 traffic flowed up from the valley below.

  Short and round in the middle, Henry and his wife Fiona had been Harjo’s neighbors since the day he’d moved in. They looked after the house when he was away and wouldn’t take a dime to do it. Best neighbors he’d ever had.

  “Usually you call to let us know when you are back home,” he said. “I was worried.”

  Harjo smiled sheepishly and stepped aside for Henry to enter. “Sorry, I’ve been mostly sleeping since I got here. I apologize.”

  Henry’s concerned look cleared. “No need. I’ve got a boxful of mail at the house for you.”

  “I’ll come get it later. Coffee?”

  “I could use a cup.”

  Harjo brewed a pot. At the kitchen table, Henry caught him up on neighborhood news. A new family had moved into a house on the cul-de-sac one street over. He was astounded how much they’d paid for it. Tim and Judy Ellison, three houses down, had a new grandson, their second. The city had renovated the nearby public park with new benches, playground equipment, trees, sod, and a perimeter fence that was locked at night. The homeless living there had been relocated. The used syringes found there daily were a thing of the past.

  “Life goes on,” Harjo said. “Anyone looking for me?”

  Henry shook his head and got up. “Thanks for the cup.”

  “Anytime. I’ll be over for my mail in an hour.”

  Henry smiled. “Good to have you back.”

  “Good to be back.”

  A shower, shave, and a look in his clothes closet convinced Harjo he needed a trim and some new duds. He dressed in jeans, a long-sleeve T-shirt, and went to get his mail.

  El Paso sat squarely on the northern reaches of the Chihuahuan Desert, which meant it would likely be dry and windy no matter the temperature. Windblown dust peppered him as usual as he jogged over to Henry and Fiona’s.

  Fiona opened the door before he could knock and greeted him with a big hug. A southern girl who had bailed out of a sour marriage to a career Army officer, she’d met and married Henry over twenty years ago.

  She was warm, charming, and easy to like. So of course he had to sit down so they could catch up. And yes, he’d enjoy a refreshment along with a piece of lemon pound cake she knew that he loved, made especially for him last night.

  Harjo enjoyed every minute of the hour-long visit, as did Henry, who always sat back and marveled at the enchanting woman good luck had sent his way. Being in their company always made Harjo feel almost normal.

  Back home, he dumped the box of mail Henry had collected and sorted through it. Most was junk. The house was paid off, as was his personal vehicle. All the routine monthly bills went directly to a CPA who paid them out of a special account. Harjo personally paid his incidental charges in cash or when due.

  An envelope addressed in his sister’s handwriting and postmarked less than a week ago caught his eye. He placed his palm over the letter, hesitant to open it. Eloisa and Cruz Villalobos only had one child, Mark. After finishing college and against his parents’ wishes, Mark had entered training to become a DEA special agent. As valedictorian of his academy class he got to choose his assignment and elected to go undercover. The department sent him to penetrate the Lorenz drug cartel.

  As far as Eloisa and Cruz knew, he’d gone missing on a routine assignment in Mexico. That was all they might ever know.

  Mark was dead. Harjo believed it and DEA Intelligence concurred, but without corroboration he remained MIA. According to a prosecutor in Coahuila—a semi-reliable source—he’d been one of four Lorenz foot soldiers killed for inadvertently leaving a million dollars behind in a remote Texas farmhouse. After they’d been brutally murdered, their bodies had been burned and their ashes scattered.

  Harjo’s sister and brother-in-law now existed in no-man’s-land between paralyzing anguish and cautious optimism. It had to end. They deserved resolution.

  He read Eloisa’s letter. They’d heard nothing new from the department and had been given the usual assurances that everything was being done to locate Mark. They’d asked their congresswoman to request more information from the Department of Justice and she’d received basically the same bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo. Was there some higher-up he personally knew who could give them a clearer picture of the investigation? They needed to know something, anything.

  Realizing his voice might betray any lies he might tell a sister who knew him too well, Harjo didn’t want to chance a reply by phone. Instead he composed an email to Eloisa telling her he would go to Washington and personally meet with the chief of DEA Intelligence and get back to her soon after. He thought about adding some reassuring BS about Mark being okay and it would all work out and decided against it. Instead, he closed with love and clicked the send tab.

  The wind had abated when Harjo left the house for a quick clothes-buying trip, a trim at the walk-in hair salon, and a swing by the drugstore to pick up some travel-size toiletries.

  He’d be traveling, but not to Washington. He was booked on an afternoon flight to San Antonio, where he’d pick up a rental and drive to Eagle Pass. There, he’d settle into a suite at a discreet, privately owned hacienda on the outskirts of town where no one would be looking for him. Once he was reacquainted with the area and had his bearings, he’d flush out a cartel underling and encourage him to disclose a way to reach Lorenz without getting caught.

  Harjo smiled. It had been a long time since he’d taken a real, relaxing vacation. If everything clicked, this would be the best of them all.

  Among the Kickapoos, Estavio Trevino was more than what his nickname El Jefe indicated. When it was necessary to harvest deer for important tribal ceremonies, he was always chosen chief of the hunt. In his native
language his name was Wind Stands with Bear Among the Wallows. A great hunter’s name that he wore proudly.

  Men of the tribe who’d hunted with him told stories of his prowess. He could sit alone and unmoving for hours on a mountain where no deer had been seen for years and, before the sun had dipped below the horizon, kill the necessary number needed for a naming feast or an adoption fiesta.

  Every year in March for several weeks, the village and its surrounding seventeen thousand acres were closed to outsiders. During this time of religious rites and tribal ceremonies, secure among his people and removed from all outside influences, Trevino enjoyed his homeland the most. But not this year. The death of his son, Fernando, known among the people as Whistling Bear Paints with Clay, soured the season.

  In the past, Trevino had purchased only information from Lieutenant Roger Ulibarri. This time he’d required more from the Texas cop. He was to secure Fernando’s body and deliver it to him at the town of Múzquiz on a specific date.

  He didn’t care how Ulibarri did it, but made it clear his life depended upon it. He also promised a substantial reward.

  Ulibarri showed up on schedule on a dirt road outside of town with a tale of how Fernando’s body had been released by the FBI and taken to a Las Cruces mortuary for cremation, a customary practice for unknown deceased or those with no living relatives. He’d gotten there just in time to stop the cremation. He paid for embalming services, bought a plain casket, and gave the funeral director a big bribe to secure his cooperation and silence. With the casket hidden in the bed of his pickup truck under a hundred dollars’ worth of used furniture he’d purchased at an El Paso thrift store, he’d had no trouble crossing into Mexico.

  With Ulibarri’s help, Trevino transferred the casket and the junky furniture to his truck and paid the cop in hundred-dollar bills.

  Ulibarri pocketed the roll of Benjamin Franklins and made a sour face. “I don’t want to do anything like this again.”