“A lot of activity on the street,” the Bus observed and looked at Treviño. “Listen to those squad cars flying down the avenue.”
“Must be the Three Stooges,” the detective replied.
“The Three … Those guys that tore a suspect’s arm off?”
“That’s them. One walked into the restaurant just as I was leaving. Seeing as how they’re all distracted, let’s get something to eat. It’s time for dinner.”
“You’re reckless, Treviño. No, what we’re going to do is head straight home.”
The first thing Treviño and the Bus saw when they stepped into Mr. De León’s living room was the consul and a technician leaning over a pair of screens. When the consul saw Treviño, he blurted, “We have news!”
“Did they call?”
“Not yet. But we found the two pickup trucks.”
After speaking with Treviño, the consul and his driver had started poring over tapes. Taking advantage of the gringo’s contact at police headquarters and, above all, of Mr. De León’s professional connections, they were able to get about a half dozen video recordings, mostly captured by private cameras mounted in front of the businesses near Club Giza. One of the videos showed two vehicles careening down the main avenue, not far from the nightclub, but it was impossible to make out their license plates. Not a single frame had captured them.
“We haven’t been able to make out the plates at all in this video,” said the technician. “The angle and the video quality aren’t doing us any favors, and the camera itself is terrible, one of the oldest models out there: we both know headquarters only buys obsolete equipment. As this section goes on, the trucks change lanes and stay behind a bus the rest of the time. See here? We’ve watched this thing several times. They’re too close together to see their bumpers, and then they drive under the camera and off the feed.”
Treviño watched the kid riding in the back seat of the red pickup pass under the camera, his face turned back toward the truck bed.
“And the next one?”
“I was just working on it. We were able to get the feed from a camera at the next light, but the trucks don’t show up in the video.”
“Are you sure?”
“Completely. They’re not there. Look.”
The passenger van and a few cars from the previous tape were on this second one, but the trucks were nowhere to be seen.
“They went into Colonia Dorada,” the consul said, clapping his hands. “They live there. We’ve got them!”
Treviño stood and walked over to a little table that held a plate of sandwiches and a pot with hot coffee. He studied the array as if it were a map of the city.
“If they turned off before reaching the next light, Colonia Dorada isn’t the only place they could’ve gone. There’s also Colonia Pescadores. There’s a dirt road behind the wall surrounding Colonia Dorada that leads to the river. In trucks with that kind of clearance, they could get down there with no problem.”
“Shit,” said the consul.
Pescadores was La Cuarenta’s base of operations. It wasn’t going to be easy to run an investigation down there.
Treviño looked around the room. “Where’s Mr. De León?”
“He went to bed. He was exhausted.”
“Do you have the transcripts I asked for?” the detective asked, pouring himself a strong black coffee.
“Here they are.”
“I hope you didn’t buy them off Bracamontes.”
“I know other people at headquarters, don’t worry.”
“Of course you do. How many cars does Mr. De León have out there?”
Williams looked over at the bodyguards, who did a quick calculation.
“Right now, two F-150 Lobos.”
“I see. Well, there’s also a black Grand Marquis parked at the entrance to the compound, and I think I see two of my former colleagues inside. When you get the chance, would you pay them a visit?”
“The black car?” The Bus reached for his walkie-talkie. “We’ll get rid of them.”
“Leave ’em, it’s just El Carcamán, the old geezer, and El Chino. Laid-back types, not too sharp. But be aware that Margarito’s got eyes on us. He wants to know who’s coming and going around here.”
“Do you think they saw you?”
“Not sure. But we have to proceed with absolute discretion. Can I steal a cigarette from you?” Treviño indicated to the consul that he should follow him to the terrace.
The gringo, confused, did just that. Treviño walked over to the farthest corner, lit the cigarette the consul offered him, and after exhaling a huge cloud of smoke said, “Now that you’ve looked into Cristina’s bodyguards, did you check out their homes?”
“Moreno’s house? What about Rafita’s, and Bustamante’s?”
“We’ve been keeping an eye on them ever since this thing began. My driver went into each of their homes and didn’t find anything unusual.”
Treviño let out another cloud of smoke. “What can you tell me about Moreno?”
“He lives here. Mr. De León puts him up in one of the little houses on the way in. His things are all there.”
“And Rafita?”
“He and the Bus both live in apartments downtown, near the market. There’s no way they could have taken the girl there. There’s hundreds of eyes around, and no one saw anything suspicious. And just so you know, everyone who works here, even the gardener and the kitchen staff, had to take a lie detector test. They all passed.”
The consul’s driver, Larry, stuck his head out to let them know they had a call, and Williams returned to the library. The detective took a few more drags on the cigarette, stepped into the house, sat at the table, grabbed a highlighter, and marked three or four phrases in the police transcript. Suddenly, he stopped and leaned over a page, as though he couldn’t believe what he was reading.
“Do you have today’s papers?”
“What are you looking for?”
“I’m guessing,” said the detective, “that no one published anything about the three dead gang members that showed up in an empty lot in Colonia Pescadores. Am I right?”
The consul didn’t answer, so he went on.
“What would we do without government censorship?” He leaned over the papers. Williams sat down next to him and looked at the transcript.
“Look, there were three bodies,” said the detective, pointing at the document. “The operator sends patrol vehicles to investigate a firefight. Then later,” he continued, pointing to another page, “Officer Bolívar Arzate, a.k.a. the Block, one of the Three Stooges, reports finding an abandoned vehicle riddled with bullet holes and three corpses: boys around twenty years old, dressed like gangbangers. Each had multiple bullet wounds in his chest and a kill shot to the head. This was two nights ago, the day the girl disappeared, just … let me see here … one hour after she left the club.”
“Holy shit.”
“We have to talk to the guards at Colonia Dorada, ask them if they remember two trucks driving through there on Saturday night. And we need to examine the scene,” he said, pointing at the transcript.
They heard the unmistakable rattle of an automatic weapon somewhere in the distance. Just like the night before. The detective and the consul looked up as the Bus took out his handkerchief to dry his forehead.
“It’s going on too long to be an execution or a confrontation,” said Treviño. A minute later, the gunfire started up again.
“We heard something similar yesterday,” said the consul. “At around the same time.”
“It happens every so often,” the Bus interjected. “It’s La Cuarenta, marking their territory.”
“Marking territory? Those guys are pissed,” said the detective.
Mr. De León, who was just entering the room, noticed that the color had drained from the consul’s face. He leaned over the transcript.
“What’s going on, Treviño?” he asked.
“That’s what we’re going to find out,” replied the detective, and he set his coffee down on the table.
An hour later, Treviño discreetly handed an envelope full of cash to the guards stationed at the entrance to Colonia Dorada and headed back to the pickup. In order to avoid his former colleagues, the detective had needed to abandon the white Maverick, predisposed as it was to stalling out and generally inappropriate for this kind of mission, and travel in one of Mr. De León’s armored trucks. When he saw him, the Bus lowered the driver’s side window.
“What’s the word?”
“They didn’t come this way. No residents match their description, and no one saw the trucks drive through. Looks like our next stop is Colonia Pescadores.”
“I’m not about to go down there alone. Let’s get Rafita and Moreno to back us up.”
The detective thought about it for a moment and nodded. “We’ll wait for them over by the gully that leads down to the neighborhood.”
The Bus started the motor, grumbling the whole time, and Treviño climbed in.
After they had circled around a bit to shake the agents tailing them, a second truck carrying Rafita and Moreno pulled up next to them. Treviño explained the mission: they needed to get in and get out as quickly as possible; they should be efficient and respectful, but ready to throw their weight around if necessary. Right then, his phone rang, and the detective stepped away to hear better.
“Yes, I’m still in La Eternidad … No, no, I didn’t get arrested. If I had, I couldn’t have picked up my phone, right? Those guys who came for me weren’t police. They were bodyguards. They work for Mr. De León. They came looking for me because Mr. De León wanted to interview me for a job. That’s why I’m still here … I’ll be back soon … No, come on … Don’t make me say it out loud … Okay, I love you too. Talk to you soon.”
He hung up and turned to the Bus.
“All right, let’s get going.”
And they headed down the gully, toward the river.
It was a vacant lot about 250 feet long by 100 feet across, just barely marked off by a few stakes and some barbed wire. In spots, the bushes and weeds grew more than three feet high.
One armored pickup could go unnoticed in the city, but a caravan would always stick out in Pescadores and could mean only one of two things: rich people to rob or rivals in the trade who would need to be checked out.
“Step on it,” said Treviño. He noticed the Bus was sweating, despite the air-conditioning.
They saw a few groups of three or four residents sitting in front of a shack, huddled around a little battery-powered television—the men drinking beer around a plastic table, and the women holding babies and herding other children. Invariably, they’d fall silent and turn to watch them pass. Treviño was surprised by the complete absence of old people: there wasn’t a man or woman there over forty years old. Was that the life expectancy in the neighborhood? Then there was the constant barking of the dogs that escorted the vehicles through town. On two occasions, small groups of teenagers smoking marijuana around a garbage can bonfire or in the back seat of a charred car stripped of its tires stared at them suspiciously. Treviño watched them through the tinted windows and remembered growing up not far from there.
“Son of a fucking bitch.” The Bus was a nervous wreck. “Just try and get us back here again.”
“You’re pretty jumpy for a guy who runs a security detail, man. What’s the matter? Cat got your balls?”
“I’ve got them right here, thank you very much, and I’d like to keep it that way. Why take this risk?”
The Bus carried only the Colt .45 that Mr. De León gave to all his bodyguards (an ostentatious firearm with wood grips and shiny chrome plating, suited to a millionaire), but he knew Rafita and Moreno were packing, respectively, a sawed-off Colt twelve-gauge and a Steyr TMP compact submachine gun, a souvenir from his European coursework. For his part, Treviño had the Taurus tucked away in his pants and was holding only a flashlight.
“This is it.”
They parked the two vehicles on the dirt road. The detective was the first to get out. A length of reflective tape blocked access to the lot. When the bodyguards caught up to him, Treviño lifted it and walked underneath, followed closely by Moreno and the Bus. Rafita stayed behind to keep watch.
“They don’t waste time around here.”
The windows of the dark-colored pickup were broken, and its left side had several bullet holes in it. The hood was up, and the motor and battery were gone. They’d also taken the tires, leaving the vehicle on four cinder blocks.
“Motherfuckers. I bet you a tow truck tried to get in here, and they wouldn’t let it get close enough to haul this thing out.” Treviño would have liked to compare the tracks they found outside the nightclub with the tires on this truck, but it was both impossible and unnecessary now. The crime scene investigators had already removed their plastic cones, but Moreno tripped over an evidence marker, number 66, that had been placed near the truck in line with the driver’s side window.
“All right, detective, what do we have here?”
Treviño observed the flattened grass and ants around the marker.
“That’s where the bodies fell.”
He picked up a branch and fished a sneaker splattered with blood and covered in ants out from under the truck.
“If this is how they work a crime scene, I hate to imagine what the city must be like.”
The detective stared intently for a moment at the sneaker and the evidence marker, then looked up and said, “This is where they were shot. They were standing here in front of the truck when they were hit by one, maybe two gunmen.”
Moreno nodded and took three big steps backward. Treviño shone his flashlight at the grass near the bodyguard’s feet, and the two of them combed through the underbrush until Moreno found casings that must have come from the assailant’s gun. He picked up one of them: an elongated golden cylinder with a notch at one end. After studying it for a moment, Moreno tossed it to Treviño. “Seven sixty-two,” he said.
“Hey-o. That’s an AK-47.”
Treviño slipped the bullet into his breast pocket, scratched his chin, and fell silent until the Bus approached him.
“Are we set?”
“Hold on a minute. There’s something strange here.”
“Strange? Come on, man. They did these guys, and that’s that. What’s strange?”
Treviño stood and scratched his chin again.
“Guys in the trade usually settle their scores with traitors and enemies with a bullet to the temple. Before, they used to bury the bodies on ranches way out there in the sierra where they’d never be found. But ever since they declared war on God and everyone else, they’ve been throwing the corpses in front of one of the competition’s businesses with a sign explaining why the guy got killed. Sometimes, if they really want to go all out, they’ll leave a flower or a fruit on the body to announce which organization just executed a rival or where they were from.
“Los Nuevos dismember their victims and like to leave the heads lying around. They drag the bodies to public places and, just to make sure their trophies don’t go unnoticed, they tend to fire a few shots in the air when they leave them, to get the neighbors’ attention. As a finishing touch, they leave calling cards with messages directed at their enemies or the authorities. La Cuarenta doesn’t go in for calling cards, messages, or any other niceties. Ever since they got their hands on assault rifles, they’re content to riddle their victims with bullets, whatever group they happen to be from. They don’t do extra work.
“Here, though, there’s no banners strung up, no flowers or fruit, no signs of a fight. They seemed to trust their killer or killers. They were caught off guard, facing their attackers and on their feet, judging by the height of the bullet holes in the side of the truck. That’s what I meant when I said there was something strange about the scene. Smells like a double cross to me.”
The Bus swallowed hard.
“We shouldn’t stick around here too long.”
“Goddamn it, Bus, you can’t rush a crime scene investigation. How do you know we don’t crack this case with a careful examination of the evidence here. It’s tubs of lard like you that keep this country from making any real progress.”
Treviño walked over to the truck and scrutinized its interior with manic intensity. They’d already taken the stereo and front seats; it seemed like they’d been planning to take the back seat, too, since it was no longer attached. On closer inspection, the passenger door was a little loose, too, as if someone had tried to take it off its hinges.
A sound in the bushes brought their guns out.
“Freeze!” shouted the detective. “Come out of there or I’ll blow you to hell.”
No one responded, so Rafita racked a round. When they heard the unmistakable sound of the weapon, two skinny, grease-flecked boys stepped forward with their hands up. They were barefoot and their shorts were in tatters.
“Don’t shoot, boss.”
The one in threadbare denim had three types of screwdrivers tucked into his waistband. Treviño aimed the light at their faces.
“All right, boys. What gang are you from?”
“None.”
“Uh-huh. And that tattoo there, asshole?”
The young man raised his hand to his shoulder as if he needed to scratch it.
“If you weren’t with La Cuarenta, you couldn’t be here, so don’t bullshit me. Hold on. Aren’t you Doña Marta’s son? The one who used to sell fish tortas with her?”
The boys let out a nervous laugh. They didn’t know where to look. The thing is, this had been Carlos Treviño’s beat back when was a police officer. There’d been a time when he got along with guys who passed the time lost in clouds of weed and mosquitos, when he made friends with a fisherman and even lent him money so he could get a little cart to sell his wares. But the fisherman died, and his wife had been running the business since then.
“Seems sandwiches aren’t where the money’s at these days. What was your name, again? Huicho?”
They answered with another nervous laugh.
“Lucho, sir.”
“Your mother still alive?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, don’t break her heart, then. Tell me two things, and I’ll keep this between us. Who’s your chaka? Is it still El Carnitas?”
“No,” the other boy scoffed. “They got rid of him, like, two years ago.”
“Shot him in the eye,” added his companion.
“El Toribio?”
The boy with the screwdrivers gave a nod.
“Toribio Villareal. He ran things around here for a bit, but didn’t last long. Loved that Colombian.”
“You don’t say. So, who’s your chaka, now?”
Both boys smiled, but neither answered the question.
Just then, Rafita walked over. “There are trucks coming this way. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Treviño looked up and could see three or four pairs of headlights in the distance. Even so, he gestured to the bodyguard that he didn’t want to be interrupted.
“One minute. What’ll it be, boys?” The two of them just kept smiling, so he added, “I see they’ve taught you well. We’ve got two choices here, fellows. Either I arrest you for robbery or you answer three questions. Deal?”
“Fine, whatever,” said the one with the tattoo.
“Some guys got killed here two nights ago.”
“Two machine-gun blasts.” The one with the screwdrivers nodded. “The whole neighborhood heard.”
“The match was on,” said the one with the tattoo. “It was during the second half.”
Moreno did a quick calculation and said, “Ten thirty?”
“Something like that.”
“Who was it? La Cuarenta?”
“No,” the other one answered. “They weren’t from the neighborhood. Came from outside, like you all.”
“No. No one did. Everyone was at home, watching soccer.”
“And the dead guys? Did you know them? Were they from around here?”
The boys chose not to answer that one and just smiled cagily at the detective.
“Hey, Treviño. Those trucks are getting closer.”
“Give me a second,” he said and turned to the boys. “So? What’s the word? Who did this?”
The one with the screwdrivers hesitated a moment.
“The night of the killings, folks saw a car drive through.”
“A squad car?”
“No, not a squad car.”
“A truck?”
“Yeah, a truck. They say it was red, one of the ones that sit real high, like they use in the trade. Or like yours. They saw it go that way, past the bar and the pool hall. They say it went up the gravel road to the motel. Then it took the highway headed out of the city. A lot of folks saw it.”
They heard a rat-a-tat-tat in the distance. It was pretty clear that people around there didn’t like having visitors. Treviño turned off his flashlight and said his good-byes to the kids.
“That’ll do. Save me a couple of tortas.”
Then he turned to Moreno. “I told you these trucks would draw attention. Step on it.” The engines on the two trucks roared and they drove through a gap between the houses, heading up the gully as quickly as possible. It’s not that they didn’t want to stay and chat, but night was falling.
As they approached Avenida de las Palmas, the detective got a call from Williams. Rafita’s vehicle was clearing a path for the Ford Lobo carrying Moreno, Treviño, and the Bus. The consul sounded nervous.
“Any news?”
“Oh, nothing. We found the kidnappers’ car.”
“What?” The consul couldn’t believe his ears. “Hold on. I’m taking you off speaker. All right, go on.”
“We found one of the trucks, all shot up. A black four-door Grand Cherokee. Older model.” The detective briefed him on what they’d learned.
“After taking Cristina from the nightclub, the kidnappers left the main avenue and headed down the gully toward the river and Colonia Pescadores. They stopped in an empty lot, where they were finished off with 762s, a caliber used in assault rifles. We don’t know who the assailants were or who died or if Cristina was with them. And one other thing: they saw the red truck leaving Pescadores along the road that leads to the highway.”
“Hm. That’s no good. Did you check for fingerprints?”
“We didn’t have the right equipment with us, but it wouldn’t have mattered,” said the detective. “By the time we got there, half the neighborhood had passed through to strip the truck. And besides, we had to hightail it out of there.”
“Shots fired?”
“We were far away by then. But yeah, they shot at us.”
The consul was silent for a moment.
“Do you think it was La Cuarenta? Do you think Cristina could still be in Pescadores?”
“It doesn’t seem likely, but I wouldn’t rule it out.”
“But if they used assault rifles …”
“Everyone’s got assault rifles: Los Viejos, Los Nuevos. You can buy one anywhere for under two hundred dollars, and that’s nothing new. And I don’t see La Cuarenta killing anyone that violently just a few blocks from their base. They’d be drawing unnecessary attention to themselves. Why not by the river or the highway? The way the city is right now, there are plenty of other options.”
“So it was Los Nuevos?”
“Not sure. Right now, what we know is this: the evidence suggests that the attack was intense and only lasted a few seconds. The neighbors heard two bursts of gunfire. One to wound the targets, the other to finish them off. The boys were standing next to their vehicle when they were shot. Why would they get out of the car if they were in the middle of a kidnapping? Also, at least two of the boys were armed, but the truck had at least fifty bullet holes on one side, plus all the casings on the ground. If they’d sensed danger, they would have tried to defend themselves and might even have succeeded.”
“We have to check the hospitals again.”
“Go back and ask about anyone who came in with a bullet wound in the past forty-eight hours. And don’t bring Mrs. De León with you. There’s a good chance you’ll find her daughter.”
“Right,” the consul agreed. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m headed to the morgue.”
“What!” shouted the gringo.
The Bus was so angry he almost stopped the car.
“You arrogant son of a bitch.”
The detective gestured to him to be quiet and went on. “Either the assailants killed everyone, including Cristina, or the kids fought and killed one another, in which case the girl could be injured. Or dead. Or worse.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” shouted the consul. “What could be worse?”
“We’re talking about luxury pickups with expensive tires and kids who wear flashy clothes and pieces tucked in their waistbands. Kids who carry assault rifles. If you do the math, everything points to guys in the trade. But first we have to confirm that Cristina isn’t with the dead kids found in Pescadores.”
“All right, I get it,” said the consul. “But listen. The morgue is awfully close to your former colleagues.”
“I know where it is. A block from the precinct.”
“Doesn’t it seem like an unnecessary risk? There’s something you should know: Margarito called the consulate ten minutes ago saying he needed to see me about someone I was working with. I think that someone might be you.”
“It’s pretty likely.”
“What do you think he wants to talk about?”
“I’m sure he’ll tell you a few lies about me and ask you to turn me in. You decide whether you want to believe him or not. Why don’t you use the opportunity to ask him about the girl?”
The consul cleared his throat.
“I get the impression he doesn’t have any real leads in the case and that he’s coming to talk about something else. If I bring it up, he’s just going to demand money in exchange for useless information.”
“He’s got a habit of doing that.”
“Well, just be careful. We don’t want them hauling you in before you find Cristina.”
“Don’t jinx me,” said the detective, and hung up.
“Listen,” said the Bus. “If you’re gonna search the morgue, you should probably just stay there. As if you didn’t have a million motherfuckers looking for you. If anything happens to you, we’re the ones who have to answer to Mr. De León. We can’t do anything for you if they take you in. I don’t know about Moreno, but I don’t want any trouble with Chief Margarito.”
Treviño nodded. Everyone knew he had little chance of walking out of the morgue a free man if anyone saw him there, just a few feet from headquarters.
“There’s a park nearby. Drop me off there and wait for my call.”
“Do you want me to go with you?” asked Moreno.
“There’s no need. Just leave me there and park somewhere downtown. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to be picked up. But be quiet. I’m calling an ambulance.”
“An ambulance?” Moreno searched the detective’s face.
“Pinche Treviño’s finally cracked,” said the Bus, under his breath.