Fire and Ice (29 page)

If Joanna’s people had some kind of conflict brewing with the DEA, this was the first she’d heard anything about it.

“What seems to be the problem, Agent Delahany?” she asked.

“Problem? I’ll tell you what the problem is,” he shot back.
“Your people are asking questions they shouldn’t be asking. We’re working on bringing down a major organization, one that has ties all over the West. We can’t afford to have your ham-fisted people come barreling through and messing it up. For the time being, the Cervantes Cartel and everyone in it is absolutely off limits. Understand?”

Of course Joanna recognized the name. You couldn’t be in law enforcement along the U.S./Mexican border and not know about Sonora’s own home-grown drug cartel wunderkinder, Antonio and Jesus Cervantes. There was no danger of their ever crossing the U.S. border in person. Joanna understood that the two brothers lived in absolute luxury in specially built and well-fortified mansions next door to each other in an exclusive private compound south of Cananea. People who had dealings with the two came there to see them, and it was from that remote location that they ran a growing, murderous, and exceedingly profitable crime syndicate that had tentacles covering the entire western United States.

Right that minute, however, Joanna had no idea which of her officers might have expressed an interest in the Cervantes Cartel or why. She seemed to remember that Jaime Carbajal had mentioned the name in regard to his murdered sister. The exact details eluded her right then, and Joanna wasn’t about to let Agent Delahany know about any of it, not until she understood the situation herself.

“We’ve been involved in this top-secret operation for months now,” Delahany continued. “We’ve had assets in play, keeping an eye on things. And just when we’re about to spring the trap on them…”

Joanna wondered if Delahany’s outburst might have something to do with Ernie’s checking into other ATV hangouts around the county. Was that what had gored Agent Delahany’s ox?

“We’re investigating a murder that took place at Action Trail
Adventures near Bowie last weekend,” she told him now. “If there happens to be some overlap between your investigation and ours, so be it.”

“I don’t believe you’re hearing me,” Delahany said, his voice rising. “I want you and your people to stand down. This is important. We need to bring these guys down all at once, not piecemeal, one dumb crook at a time.”

“And I’m working on solving a homicide that happened inside my jurisdiction,” Joanna said firmly. “And we’re going to keep on working that homicide.”

“I swear, if you mess up this operation…”

Joanna didn’t wait long enough to hear the remainder of his threat. “This conversation is over, Agent Delahany. Have a nice day.”

He was still blustering into the phone when she ended the call. When her phone chirped again a few seconds later, she didn’t answer. Instead, she made her way back downstairs, where George had commandeered her seat and was talking with Butch.

When she said she needed to leave, Butch started to stand up. “Let’s go then,” he said.

“Stay here and have fun,” she said. “Ernie or Deb can give me a ride.”

George immediately grasped the transportation dilemma. “Give Joanna the car keys and let her drive herself,” he said. “Ellie and I will be glad to take you home later.”

Joanna plucked Ernie off the dance floor and Deb from the line of people waiting for punch. “Come on,” she told them. “We have work to do.”

One of the most unusual additions to Ross Connors’s Special Homicide Investigation Team in recent years is a remarkable guy
named Todd Hatcher, who originally hails from southern Arizona. In the course of a year, our department had made good use of Todd’s geeky Ph.D. in forensic economics and his computer savvy.

In terms of background, I doubt anyone in his senior class at Benson High School would have voted him Most Likely to Succeed. Born the son of a convicted repeat bank robber and a waitress, Todd had grown up with a father who had ostensibly been imprisoned for life. He had been raised in a home where money was in short supply but library books were plentiful. He had turned into a serious student who had won a scholarship to the University of Arizona, where, with a combination of scholarships and summers spent working as a ranch hand, he had earned both a B.A. and master’s degree in economics. Later on, a fellowship had brought him to the University of Washington to work on a Ph.D.

When Todd’s father had developed early-onset Alzheimer’s, the prison system had seen fit to turn him loose and make him his wife’s problem rather than theirs. The strain of caring for her seriously ill husband until his death had been too much for Todd’s mother. She had died within months of her husband. With that painful family history in his background, Todd had proposed doing his dissertation on the unfunded medical expenses caused by our country’s aging and permanent prison population. The project had been nixed by his dissertation adviser, so Todd had completed the project on his own, turning out a modestly successful book in the process and turning my boss, Washington Attorney General Ross Connors, into a devoted fan who had brought Todd’s talents to bear on any number of sticky projects.

Given Todd’s considerable talents, I was pretty sure he’d be able to dig up plenty of information for us as well. Out in the car, I called Ross and asked him to put Todd on the case of Miguel Rios and the Cervantes brothers. Then I headed for Seattle.

Once again, because Mel had gone on ahead and because I was driving solo, my mind was running full speed ahead. Yes, people like Todd can use computers to put together amazing connections, but so can ordinary old-fashioned human beings. And just like the night before with North Bend and Ken Leggett, it was a road sign on the freeway that jarred me into making the connection out of the previous day’s collection of word salad. It was the one for Highway 18, from I-90 to Tacoma.

Tacoma via Black Diamond and Mama Rose Brotsky. Mama Rose had known Marcella Carbajal Andrade as Marina Aguirre. Yesterday I had made time to let Mason Waters know the truth about what had happened to his missing fiancée. Now I needed to do Mama Rose the same unwelcome favor. Maybe learning about her protégée’s death would be enough to cause her to remember some other helpful detail.

I immediately called Mel and popped the question, asking if she wanted to join me in a little side trip down to Black Diamond.

“Nope,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “Not today. We worked until all hours last night. It’s Saturday. I just got a reminder call from Gene Juarez about my three o’clock appointment for a much needed mani-pedi, and I’m not going to miss it. Too bad, buddy boy,” she added. “This time you’re on your own.”

Joanna held a hurried strategy session with Deb and Ernie on the sidewalk outside the Convention Center, where she was surprised to learn that it had been a request for information from Jaime Carbajal rather than the ATV park inquiry that had set off Agent Delahany’s temper tantrum.

“Jaime was looking for information regarding the Cervantes Cartel,” Ernie said. “Since he was calling on his cell and since re
quests like that have to be sent through regular channels, I told Jaime I’d have Tom Hadlock look into it.”

Joanna’s temper flared. “There’s a good reason reports are sent through regular channels,” she said flatly. “Jaime’s on leave right now. If that request has anything to do with his sister’s homicide, he has no business sticking his nose in it.”

“Sorry, boss,” Ernie said. “He’s my partner. He needed some help and I gave it to him.”

Joanna shook her head in frustration. “I’m going home to change,” she said. “We’ll meet up at the office in half an hour and see where things stand.”

On the way home Joanna called Tom Hadlock. “I understand Jaime Carbajal called in looking for some information on the Cervantes Cartel earlier this morning,” she said. “What happened with that?”

“Nothing at all,” Tom replied. “The duty officer for the DEA called back a little later and said they were having technical difficulties on their end—some kind of computer upgrade problem—and wouldn’t be able to send anything out today.”

What they really meant was wouldn’t send, period, Joanna thought. Not wouldn’t be able to send. Big difference. And that request for information was enough to send Agent in Charge Delahany into a spasm.

“I called Jaime to let him know I couldn’t access the Cervantes records,” Hadlock continued. “That’s when he asked for a rap sheet on some guy named Miguel Rios. I found his records in the regular database and I faxed the information to Jaime’s hotel room.”

“How long ago?” Joanna asked.

“An hour or so, I suppose,” Tom said. “Maybe longer.”

“Do you have current address information on Rios?” Joanna asked.

“Sure,” Tom said. “It’s right here. He lives in a town in Washington called Gig Harbor.”

Joanna felt her stomach knot. None of this was information Jaime Carbajal needed if all he was doing in Washington was retrieving his sister’s remains.

“Do me another favor,” Joanna said. “Look up the records on a guy named Juan Castro. I can’t remember his middle name. Street name is Paco. If you can track him down, try to find out if he has any connections to the Cervantes organization.”

“Done,” Tom replied at once. “I’ve got Paco Castro’s information right here in front of me, too. His full name is Juan Francisco Castro. Jaime had a file on him in his computer, and he wanted to pass the information along to the people investigating his sister’s murder. He asked me to print it and fax that to him as well. I’ve still got the hard copy. Just a sec.” The phone fell silent as Tom perused the file. “Yes, here it is,” Tom said finally. “It says right here in Jaime’s notes that Paco is suspected of being involved with the Cervantes Cartel, but so far nothing’s been proved.”

In other words, Jaime had been keeping a file on Paco that hadn’t necessarily made it into the official records. Joanna had been holding her breath. Now she let it out.

“If Jaime calls in again, give him a message for me,” she said vehemently. “Tell him he’s to back off. That’s a direct order!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tom Hadlock replied. “Will do.”

The next number Joanna dialed was Jaime’s. Not surprisingly, her call went straight to voice mail. “I’m unable to take your call right now.”

“Detective Carbajal,” Joanna said urgently. “Call me. Right away. You are on leave. You’re to take no direct action, repeat N-O action, in regard to Marcella’s homicide. She may be your sister, but it’s not our jurisdiction and not our case. Understand?”

“Damn!” Joanna muttered as she ended the call. If Jaime wasn’t answering his phone, he most likely wouldn’t be picking up messages either.

By then she had arrived at High Lonesome Ranch. The dogs galloped in happy circles around Butch’s Subaru, barking a joyous greeting but obviously puzzled that she wasn’t getting out of the car. Instead, she redialed Tom Hadlock.

“Do you have the name of Jaime’s hotel?”

“Yes,” he answered. “And Jaime’s room number. Do you want it?”

By the time Joanna called there, she was pretty sure what she would hear. “Mr. Carbajal isn’t in at the moment,” the desk clerk told her. “An Enterprise rental car was delivered here earlier this morning. He drove off in it a while ago.”

Making up her mind, Joanna ended that call and then scrolled through her contact list until she found Bruce Delahany’s number. Not surprisingly, he didn’t answer, either, so she left him a message.

“Agent Delahany,” she said. “Sheriff Brady here. This is a courtesy call to inform you that one of my officers may be about to pay a visit to a man named Miguel Rios in Washington State. It’s my understanding that Rios may be connected in some way to the Cervantes Cartel. If you have any questions, you may want to give me a call.”

After ending that call, she scrolled through her incoming calls list until she found the number she needed.

“Beau,” she said when he answered, “I think we have a problem.”

The early-morning drizzle had turned into a drenching downpour by the time I turned off the highway at Mama Rose’s place. Even
in the sodden weather, there was a crew of guys out planting what looked like nothing more than twigs in the muddy ground. Once again Regis came hurtling out of nowhere to greet me. I thought it interesting that, despite the fact that there was a whole army of workers out in the yard, the German shepherd decided I was the only real interloper. Once again, Tom Wojeck rescued me. He corralled the barking dog and then came back to see me, this time without a welcoming handshake.

“I was afraid you’d be back,” he groused. “And I was right. Here you are. I guess it’s a good thing I went ahead and told her.”

“Told her what?” I asked.

“About Marina’s money,” he said. “About finding it and giving it back. We had a big fight about it, but it’s settled now. I think she understands why I did it.”

“And why was that?” I asked.

He gave me a scathing look. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?” I asked.

“Self-preservation,” he answered. “You may still be the guy you used to be, but I’m not. In the old days I wouldn’t have thought twice about taking on a punk like the one who came here looking for Marina’s money, but I can’t do that anymore, Beau. I’m not that tough. My body isn’t up to it. So that’s what I did—I went along to get along. Giving him his money was the only thing I could do to protect Mama Rose and me, and that’s what I did.”

Unfortunately, I did understand because I’m in the same boat. I can’t take punches the way I could back when I was a young Turk, and I can’t deliver them the same way, either. And, unlike Tommy, I hadn’t spent the last ten years or so of my life battling what would probably turn out to be a fatal disease. Right that minute, Tom Wojeck didn’t look like he was at death’s door, but he wasn’t in the peak of health either.

“Why are you here?” he added. “What do you want?”

“Marina’s dead,” I told him. “We suspected as much when Mel and I came here earlier, but now we know for sure. We’ve made a positive identification. Her real name was Marcella Carbajal Andrade.”