Doubleback: A Novel (35 page)

“I
know you do not like coming to the hospital, Ellie. So I am grateful for your visit.”

I tried not to squirm. This was the third time I’d visited Fouad in a hospital. The first was several years ago when he’d been shot saving my life. The second was when he collapsed at my house a few days earlier. I didn’t want to make these visits a habit. “When is your surgery?”

“Tomorrow morning. At seven.”

“They’re doing four arteries?”

He nodded, looking pale.

“My father says the third day is the worst.”

“It is what it is. The Koran says ‘what Allah writes on your forehead, you will become.’” He smiled. “And what Allah doesn’t write, I’m sure the doctor and Hayat will.”

I smiled back. There aren’t many people who can integrate the spiritual with the practical as well as Fouad. “I’ll be back tomorrow then, just to make sure Allah did his part.”

I waited until Hayat arrived, then headed home. The afternoon rush was just starting, but the traffic on Green Bay Road was slowed by what seemed like a permanent state of construction. I craned my neck out the window. It looked like a car was double-parked on the street ahead, forcing cars to pull around it.

I took a cleansing breath, determined not to stress about it and turned on NPR.
All Things Considered
was in the middle of a story about ethanol. Mac and I had finished most of the shooting, including the interview with Voss-Peterson’s CEO, and Hank was doing his magic with the editing. I turned the volume up. Robert Siegel was interviewing Neil Plakcy, a consumer activist from EcologyNow.

“It’s a scam,” Plakcy was saying. “Next to credit default swaps, ethanol’s probably the biggest con ever perpetrated.”

“How so?” Siegel asked in his crisp public radio voice.

“Essentially, lobbyists and government have colluded to give exorbitant subsidies to companies for making ethanol, when there’s no clear benefit to doing so.”

“I thought—we’ve been told—the product extends the life of fossil fuels.”

“Marginally, if at all. It uses more energy to produce than what you get out of the savings. And ethanol is bad for the environment. Distilleries run on coal, you see. Plus the fertilizer used to grow corn runs off to the ocean where it settles in areas called dead zones.”

I tapped my fingers on the wheel.

Plakcy went on. “But here’s the kicker. Today, one hundred fifty plants produce six billion gallons of the stuff every year. But we have no indication—none at all—that it’s making any dent in consumption. If it weren’t for the recession, demand, in fact, would be up.”

“Well then, who is benefiting?” Siegel asked in a dead-pan voice.

“The corporations making the stuff. They get five billion dollars in subsidies to produce it, then sell it at inflated prices.”

I winced. Not only was Voss-Peterson receiving massive ethanol subsidies, but they’d been buying up farms too, thus qualifying for more breaks as “farmers.” Plus, they were selling the stuff for top dollar. That’s what I call getting them coming and going. I snapped off the radio and decided to double my fee.

When I finally came abreast of the double-parked car, I saw a sign in the rear window that read, “Company Car—I don’t care.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. My cell phone rang.

“Ellie? It’s Georgia.”

“Hey, Georgia.” I’d been calling her cell for the past day and was starting to worry. “I’m glad you called. Are you back?”

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean, you’re not? You said —”

“Ellie, I need you to pick up something downstate.”

“What?”

“You remember that facility you passed when you were making your video?”

“The place we decided was a training camp for Delton?”

“Exactly. Well, someone there—one of the instructors—has a videotape you need to get.”

“A tape? Why? The police picked up Delton and, from what I hear, he’s talking. O’Malley seems confident they can tie him to Molly, Chris, and the cashiers’ checks. Plus, he said the FBI’s about to move in. It’s over. We won.”

“No.” Georgia’s voice was hard. “It’s not over.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The tape you’re going for will prove who’s behind everything.”

“We already know. It’s Delton. And that guy Grant.”

“Geoff Delton was just a pawn. And it’s not Grant.” She explained about the cartel, the tunnel, and how the Delton team was turned. “A man—an American—who’s in league with the cartel is on that tape.”

“How does Peña know that?”

“He shot the tape. Then sent it to his buddy at the training camp and told him to release it if he was killed.”

“So?”

Georgia didn’t say anything.

“Peña’s dead?”

No answer.

“What happened?”

I heard the sorrow in her voice as she told me. It made me want to comfort her, but something else in her voice, a bitter edge, said to back off.

“What format is the tape?”

“What do you mean?”

I explained about tape formats, cassettes, and discs.

Georgia hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Well, does—did Peña have a camera?”

Another pause. “Yes. He did.”

“What kind was it?”

“Christ, Ellie. I don’t’ know. Can’t you just—wait!” She cut herself off. “I remember. The camera was lying around in the cabin. It said Mini DV on the side.”

“Perfect!”

“Why?”

“I have a Mini DV myself. Which means I can screen it right away.”

“Good. Listen,” she finished. “The guy you’re going to meet will probably give you a hard time. He did when I called. “

“You spoke to him? What did he say? How did you get his number?”

Georgia hesitated. “It doesn’t matter. Look. Do what you have to. Just get the damn tape.”

“Gee, thanks for the warning.”

•   •   •

I fed Rachel and left after rush hour, but it still took two hours to drive downstate. I got off I-55, then took what I thought were the right back roads, but I didn’t find the camp. By the time I backtracked to Funks Grove and Shirley, it was dark. Rural nights are blacker and more menacing than the variegated shades of color in the city, and except for the beam of my headlights visibility was nil.

Georgia had given me the guy’s cell, and when I called, he answered on the first ring. He said he’d meet me at a bar a few miles north of Shirley. From his directions, it sounded close to one of the places Mac and I had eaten lunch, and when I finally found it, I saw I was across the street from the restaurant.

We have dive bars in Chicago—they’re my favorite kind—but this one wasn’t up to that caliber. Just one room with a linoleum floor and a few shabby tables. The bar itself was formica; the place had probably been a dry cleaners or sandwich shop at some point. The air conditioning, such as it was, groaned and clanked, and occasional drops of water trickled from a pipe in the ceiling. Thankfully, the lighting was dim.

I ordered a Miller Lite and sat at a table that wobbled when I put any weight on it. A group of young guys in shorts, t-shirts, and billed caps at the next table eyed me when I sat down. I was already on edge, and it didn’t help that their conversation, vigorous and loud when I entered, tapered off. I squirmed, feeling every bit the outsider I was.

Ten minutes later, a beefy bull of a man came in. Despite the heat, he was wearing jeans and a sweat shirt. His head looked too small for his body. Thin dark hair was parted on the left. His eyes were widely spaced, but he had no neck. There wasn’t an inch of fat on him. Not a guy I wanted to be on the bad side of. After ordering a beer, he looked around. He dipped his head when he saw me and came over.

“Are you Brian Gilomen?”

“I told your friend I’d come because I wanted to see what you looked like.”

Not a promising start.

He looked me up and down. “How do I know Peña’s dead?”

“Have you tried to call him?”

“Maybe.”

“The people who killed him took his cell. If you called and someone else picked up, you have your answer.”

He took a swig of beer. “How do I know you and your friend didn’t kill him?”

“I haven’t been in Arizona, but Peña told my partner about the tape. He wouldn’t have told her unless he trusted her,” she lied.

“Maybe she forced him to.”

“Someone tried to kill her a week ago in Chicago. Her wrist is broken. She’s not in great shape. He could have easily overpowered her.”

Gilomen grunted.

“Look. This case started with a little girl who was kidnapped. Then her mother was murdered.” I told him what we knew and how it had led to Peña and Arizona. “It’s clear now this is part of something bigger. My partner wants the right people to be held accountable.”

Gilomen pondered that.

“Peña obviously felt the same way or he wouldn’t have given you the tape for safekeeping.”

“What proof do I have that you’re who you say you are?”

My patience came to an end. “Jesus!” I spit out. “I know you need to be cautious, but what about my questions? If you’re such a good friend of Peña’s, why are you working at Delton Security? Don’t you know what’s going on? How do I know you still have the tape? Maybe you gave it to Delton.”

He didn’t answer directly. “Despite the road our founder might have traveled, I believe in the company. And its mission. What we do is necessary and right.”

I stared at him, feeling suddenly uneasy. “Are you working with Peña... or Delton?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “Peña was the best recruit I ever trained. If he failed, it was my fault.”

I sensed he was telling the truth. I almost said he was being too hard on himself. “Then you must feel an obligation to finish his mission.” I paused. “Georgia—my partner—feels the same way.”

His eyebrows arched.

“Okay, here’s what I think: You don’t trust me, and, frankly, the feeling’s mutual. But if you hand over the tape, we’ll make sure your name stays out of it. We have contacts in the press and the police. They’ll respect your privacy. Deal?”

He thought about it for a moment. “If Peña got it right, you’re up against powerful forces.”

“All the more reason to keep you out of it. Someone needs to keep an eye on Delton down the road. I would guess that’s easier to do from the inside.”

•   •   •

Ten minutes later I sprinted to the car with the cassette in my purse. I’d charged my camera before I left; now I slipped in the cassette, flipped open the tiny screen, and pressed Play. I wondered if I’d be able to see anything. The screen filled with snow. It turned to gray, then black. I frowned. A few seconds later a light appeared near the top of the frame. Then another. Someone was panning the camera. The shot was jumpy, as if the cameraman was walking. It was impossible to see anything clearly.

Finally, the shot settled down; the cameraman had stopped. We were in a dark place. The only resolution came from those lights at the top of the frame. I zoomed in. The image was tiny, but I could make out a group of men standing in what looked like a tunnel. Two had dark hair and looked Hispanic. Two were white guys in army fatigues. Wrobleski and Brewer? The fifth man was in a suit. I hit pause and studied the image. I’d seen photos of this man. Geoff Delton. The sixth man was white also, and his arms were wrapped across his chest. He had long hair tied back in a ponytail, a lantern jaw, and was wearing a denim shirt and jeans. A silver belt buckle flashed at his waist. He looked like an aging hippie.

They were all talking, gesturing, and nodding their heads.

I was just about to call Georgia when a dark sedan pulled up outside the bar. The entrance was dimly lit by an overhead light surrounded by moths. Two men got out. It was dark outside, but they were both wearing wrap-around shades. They did not look happy. I started the car and made a speedy exit. Then I called Georgia.

chapter
43

“T
he problem is we don’t know where the tunnel actually is,” Georgia said as she and Whit drove past Grant Copper Works the next morning. They were in Georgia’s rental car. The blush of dawn had surrendered to a heavy cloud cover, and the crouching lion logo over the front entrance swayed in the breeze.

“Ken Grant.” Whit shook his head. “I should have known.”

“Why?”

“Upstanding citizen. On the city council.” He sighed. “Just what the cartel targets.”

“It probably doesn’t hurt that he goes back and forth to Mexico for ‘business.’”

Whit nodded. “I wonder how many supply routes he controls.”

“He obviously has the Sonora covered.”

Whit gazed at the warehouse. “You take the high road, and I’ll take the low road...”

“Excuse me?”

“Overland through the desert, or underground through the tunnel, it all gets to the same place.”

Georgia swung the wheel and turned the corner. “And with the perfect cover.”

Whit looked over.

“The truck. Grant Junior must have leaned on Delton to borrow Dad’s trucks for their desert operations. That way Dad would be implicated if anything went wrong. It makes perfect sense. Dad’s just a wacko right wing nut, anyway.”

Whit’s expression went flat.

Georgia realized she’d insulted him, too. She bit her lip and circled back around the warehouse. “I don’t know much about explosives,” she said, eager to change the subject. “How precise does the charge have to be? Wouldn’t it be easier just to blow the warehouse?”

Whit spoke in a cool, clipped voice. “You could take out the warehouse, and yes, you’d do major damage. Maybe even to the mouth of the tunnel. But the tunnel itself would likely remain intact. They’d just shore it up and find another way through.”

Georgia headed down the Pan-American Highway. A deep drainage ditch paralleled the road about ten yards away. “What’s that?”

“A storm drain. It runs along the highway all the way to Mexico.”

“Do you think the tunnel hooks up with it?”

“I wouldn’t think so. It used to be a way to get across the border from Esteban. Illegals would crawl through the pipe and exit through manhole covers on the streets of Stevens. But during monsoon season, it overflows with water. That happened during a flash flood a couple of years ago just as a dozen people were inside. Most of them drowned and were swept away. It’s been barred up.”