Devil's Harbor (7 page)

“Twenty rounds? Yet there wasn't one bullet hole in your boat?” said Petchenko.

Finn shrugged. “Boats move. You ever tried firing from a moving platform at another moving platform? Especially with a gun as inaccurate as an AK?”

“Yet you managed to put a hole in Perez's chest in just that situation.”

“The M4 is a far more accurate rifle. Plus, I was trained. I served eight years with the Maritime Expeditionary Security Force.”

From the corner of his eye, Finn saw Glenn wince.

“What's that?” said Ruiz.

“Inshore boats. Mainly we did port security in the Gulf. Guarded oil terminals, that kind of thing.”

“Inshore boats … is that like, swiftboats?” said Petchenko.

Finn frowned. Ever since John Kerry had been swiftboated, anytime he mentioned Coastal Warfare, everybody always thought swiftboats. The perversion of the word bugged the hell out of him.

“And you were a sniper?” said Ruiz.

“I did some marksman training,” said Finn. Playing it down. He'd been the best shot in his unit and had spent most of his tours manning the M4 mounted on the bow of a thirty-four-foot Dauntless-class patrol boat.

“What happened then?” said Ruiz.

“The impact caused the deceased to fall backward. He went over the rail into the water. His weapon fell with him.”

“You saw that?”

Finn nodded. “Yes.”

“And then?”

“Then I went across and extinguished the fire in the engine bay.”

“Where was Agent Jimenez while you were doing this?”

“He remained on our boat.”

“So you were alone on the victim's boat?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“We recovered the deceased from the water.”

A moment passed.

“Have you seen the autopsy?” said Ruiz.

Finn hadn't.

“The M.E. didn't find any gunpowder residue on him,” said Ruiz. “Not on his fingers, not on his clothes.”

“He fell into the water. The water washed it off,” said Finn.

“Maybe so. But we've got nothing showing that he shot at you. No residue on him and no bullet holes in your boat. We don't even have any evidence that he
had
a weapon, since you say it sunk to the bottom of the sea.”

“You've got the sworn testimony of two CBP marine interdiction agents.”

Ruiz sniffed. “Perez's family's lawyers say he was fishing.”

“I heard,” said Finn.

“So? Was he fishing?”

Mona leaned forward, but Finn spoke before she had a chance to interrupt.

“He wasn't fishing.”

“You seem mighty sure about that,” said Petchenko, squinting at him. He was either myopic or he'd watched too many Clint Eastwood films, thought Finn.

Finn felt his right eye twitching, the way it did whenever he got angry. He took a deep breath, steadied his heart, the way he'd learned in marksman training.

“I have several reasons to believe that the deceased was not fishing. First, he was on his own, which is unusual on a boat that size and which is especially unusual for fishing expeditions. Second, to fish, you need bait, and there was none on the boat. None of his rods were rigged. He was not wearing fishing gear. But more than that, it's
where
he was. You boys are from D.C., so you wouldn't know this, but if you want to catch game fish nowadays, you go south
to
Mexico, to Los Coronados, Alijos Rocks, somewhere like that. Isn't that right, sir?” he said, turning to Glenn.

“What's your point?” said Ruiz.

“My point is, no one comes
from
Mexico to go fishing a mile off of Catalina. People go the other way. Perez was fishing about as much as I was.”

“So what do you think he was doing?”

Finn shrugged like it was obvious. “He ignored our signal to heave to. He used dangerous tactics to evade us. He had an assault weapon aboard his vessel and fired it at U.S. federal agents. He was a cartel man.”

“Yet you found no drugs.”

“We're still looking.”

“It's been two weeks.”

“It's a big boat.”

“You say in your report he was coming from Catalina? Is that a drug hot spot?”

“Not that I know of. And I said he
appeared
to be coming from Catalina. I have no way of knowing where he had actually been.”

Now it was Ruiz's turn to breathe loudly through his nose. He drummed his fingers on the table.

“You see our predicament, don't you, Agent Finn?”

“No, I don't.”

“Perez is a foreign national. You're a U.S. federal agent. There's no evidence he was doing anything other than enjoying his motorboat. No residue, no weapon, no bullet holes, no drugs. All we have is you and your partner saying he pointed a metal object at you. Then you opened fire. That's right?”

“No, that's not right. It was a rifle. And
he
opened fire. I returned it. On top of that, he failed to obey our order to heave to.”

“His lawyers say what you thought was an AK-47 was actually a fishing rod. They also say that you spooked him and that he couldn't speak English.”

Finn couldn't suppress a laugh.

“You think this is funny?” said Ruiz.

“You think I can't tell the difference between an AK-47 and a fishing rod?”

“Maybe you weren't sure what it was; maybe you were nervous and let off a burst without really meaning to. Hell, anyone could understand that,” said Ruiz, trying to bait Finn with a friendly-sounding compromise.

“Or maybe you couldn't see clearly on account of the sun being in your eyes,” said Petchenko, squinting at him.

Finn held his gaze. “If that's the case, what motive would I have to kill an unarmed man?”

Petchenko shrugged. “What do I know? Maybe you got a thing against Mexicans.”

“That's it. This meeting's over,” said Mona. She stood up and pointed a pen at Glenn.

“Director Glenn, this hearing is a travesty and I will be contacting the commissioner's office immediately. Agent Finn came of his own volition in the hope of establishing the truth. Instead, he walked into a set-up, an interrogation in all but name. I will make it clear to the commissioner that you have failed in your duty to chair an impartial hearing. This is an outrage.”

Ruiz got to his feet. “Oh, get real. This hearing was prejudiced the minute Agent Finn walked in with half his family,” he said.

Everyone jumped to their feet and started shouting at one another.

Finn stayed seated, eyeballing Petchenko, his right eye twitching like a Morse code ticker.

 

CHAPTER FIVE

Finn walked Mona to her car. Petchenko's racist jibe had hit a nerve. He was still angry.

They were standing by the driver's-side door. Mona opened the door and threw her briefcase and handbag across to the passenger seat.

“I wish you hadn't heard that,” murmured Finn.

“Are you kidding? I'm glad I was there. You're
lucky
I was there. That was a set-up. They're trying to build a case for prosecution.”

Finn was puzzled. “Prosecution?”

“They're looking for a scapegoat. If they think they've got enough evidence against you—and believe me, they
want
to have enough evidence—then they'll contact a U.S. attorney and present the case for prosecution. The U.S. attorney then goes to a grand jury to get an indictment against you. Then they get a judge to sign a warrant, and next thing you know, you're in jail awaiting trial.”

Finn's head was spinning. “Maybe you're right. I should just resign.”

“You can't now. They'll use it against you. We have to clear your name first.” She looked at him and smiled. “Relax. It so happens you married one of the best lawyers in the nation. I think I may have mentioned once or twice that I topped my class at law school. They probably still speak about me in awed tones.”

Then, in a different tone, she said, “You know you're the first border agent I've represented? Usually I'm assisting migrants
against
the CBP. It's … interesting and feels weird at the same time. Like sleeping in someone else's bed.”

Finn cocked an eyebrow. “So? Are we as bad as they say we are?”

She smiled but her eyes didn't. “Are borders necessary?” she said quietly.

“What?”

“It's the title of a paper I wrote in college. Seeing this…” she tapped the Customs and Border Protection patch on his shirtsleeve, “made me think of it.”

Finn was quiet for a while. Finally he said, “What do you think would happen if we opened the borders?”

Now she had a twinkle in her eye. “We'd all move to Canada,” she said.

He laughed. But he'd meant it as a serious question.

“Hey, why so serious? We'll get through this, okay? Trust me, I deal with assholes like them every day—you find them in every government department. If you're going to dig up dirt, you're going to bring up the worms. But we've got the truth on our side, Nick. And truth stands by itself. Jefferson said that.”

He smiled. “You're quoting Jefferson to me now?”

“I'm trying to school you, baby.”

His mood lifted.

She got into her RAV4.

“I'm going to put out the word, see if anyone has anything on Perez,” she said through the window. “I'll call you the minute I hear anything. In the meantime, see if the
federales
have anything on him. And keep your head down. Don't say
anything
about the shooting to anyone without checking with me first, okay?”

He nodded.

“One more thing,” she said through the car window.

He turned back toward her.

“I love you, baby,” she said. “And I can't wait till Monterey.”

*   *   *

Before getting into his truck, Finn noticed a card under his windshield wiper. He pulled it out. Garrett Smith from the
Times,
a note on the back of the card: “Let's talk.”

Finn crushed the card in his fist and threw it onto the dash. With a sinking heart, he drove over to the cargo terminal and reported to the Office of Field Operations. He was about to do the most deadening thing he knew of: spend the day in front of a computer monitor. This particular monitor was in a cramped, airless cell built onto the bed of a special-purpose eighteen-wheeler. The truck was the much-trumpeted crowning glory of Homeland Security's technological push against fake Vuitton bags and Golden Triangle heroin. Everyone in the CBP knew it by its acronym, VACIS—for Vehicle and Cargo Inspection System—and it worked like this: the truck traveled slowly alongside a row of inbound containers lined up along the dock. A hydraulic arm attached to the top of the truck scanned a gamma-ray gun through the containers, feeding images into the computer and ruining Finn's life. He spent three hours staring at one X-ray image after another of container-loads of athletic shoes, iPods, automotive parts, flat-packed furniture, guitars, motorcycles, roof tiles, LED tubes, soft toys, and, above all, clothing. At lunchtime, he shut down the machine, pulled out his cell, and dialed a number in Mexico City.

“Policia Federal Ministerial, digame,”
said the voice that answered the phone.

“Vega? It's Finn.”

“Finn. How's it going?”

“I need to track a name. You think you could run it through your database for me?”

There was a slight pause on the line. “You know we just elected a new president, right?”

“Congratulations.”

“So things have changed. We're supposed to do everything through official channels now. You got a request for information from us, then you gotta send a form to the National Drug Intelligence Center, who's gotta liaise with—”

“I don't have time for official channels, Vega. I got twenty-four hours, tops.”

“I don't know, Finn. Things are different. Everything's gotta be by the book.”

“I won't say where it came from. And I'll owe you.”

Another pause. Then: “
Cabron
. Give me the name.”

He'd only just clicked off the call when his cell rang.

Mona.

“I found someone you should talk to,” she said.

“Where?”

“The Self Help.”

Finn stepped out of the VACIS control room, squinted in the bright sunshine, and stretched his back.

“I'm on my way.”

He'd be damned if he was getting back in that airless coffin.

*   *   *

The Self Help was a two-story building that took up half a block on East Chavez. It had a curved portal painted sky blue, same as the corner blocks. The ground-floor wall was inlaid with shiny stones. The upper wall was earth-colored. A big sign,
SELF HELP GRAPHICS AND ART
written in fancy letters, hung beneath the second-story windows. A store in the mini-mall across the street advertised itself in two languages: “hardware” and
“ferreteria
.
”
On the wall enclosing the adjacent block, someone had painted a vast mural.

At the center of the mural was the Virgin swathed in pastel robes, her hands clasped in prayer. She gazed with gentle eyes upon a motley crowd of Mexican archetypes—mustachioed revolutionaries with bandoliers across their torsos, indigenous women in head scarves carrying infants, factory workers in blue overalls, peasants under giant sombreros, a couple dancing, musicians strumming guitars—all of them striding toward an oversize, monstrous Aztec sun god with a grotesque face, cruel eyes, a mouth wide open, and a big pink tongue spilling out over sharp teeth.

Finn parked at the curb and stared at the work through the windshield. An uncanny sensation came over him, and for a moment he felt as though he was being drawn to the same place as the striding Mexicans, being sucked into the same devouring mouth.