The Covert Element (15 page)

"Promises. Promises." Beth returned her attention to the
flowers.

"Have fun in the garden, Bo Peep. I’m headed down to the LEC
for a meeting with Gunner."

"Bo Peep’s got the sheep, you do realize?"

"Yeah . . . but I wasn’t about to call you ‘quite contrary.’ So
what were my choices?"

"Better to remain silent and be thought a fool . . . " Beth said to
her garden.

"Ha. Ha. Ha. I should be back by lunch. Carry on."

"Bye. Tell Gunner I say ‘Hi’."

"Will do."

I backed my gray Honda Pilot out of the garage into the alley,
then made for the LEC.

The trip took four minutes from "will do" to "I have an
appointment with the Chief Deputy." But then, pretty much
everything in Red Wing is about that far away. Folks in big cities
don’t realize how much time they waste just getting from here to
there and back. I certainly had the time for extracurricular
activities. I credited short commutes for at least some of the bounty.

Gunner appeared in the doorway to the inner offices.

"Hey, pal! Long time no speak."

I grinned at him.

"Quit talkin’ Comanche and get in here."

Gunner was downright cheerful.

After we reached Gunner’s office, he spoke first.

"So what’s your big news?"

"I didn’t actually say it was ‘big’ news."

I took a butterscotch from the bowl on Gunner’s desk and
began to unwrap it.

"So you plan to make me beg? If so, I’ve got the time today and
I can wait you out." Gunner leaned back in his chair and put his feet
on his desk – well, actually, on a pile of papers that sat on his desk.
"I’m conducting my own little work stoppage to protest being frozen
out of the big case by the BCA."

"Good idea. I’d probably do that, too . . . except I don’t want to
stop doing what I’m doing. You just go right ahead without me
though." I popped the butterscotch into my mouth.

We sat like that for a while. I scanned the bookshelves, the
desktop, the coffee machine.

"Mind if I pour a cup?" I asked.

"Be my guest."

I did so and returned to my chair.

"So what I was about to say is that I heard about the massacre
from someone outside law enforcement."

Gunner sat up.

"A fireman?"

"Nope."

"Press?"

"Nope.

"Okay. I give up. Who’d you hear it from?"

"That doesn’t really matter." I was hedging. "The point is that,
if I heard it on the street, then other people are going to be hearing
it, too.

"Do you think this is something you might want to report to the
BCA? So they don’t end up with egg on their faces?"

"Hmm." Wheels were turning. "I s’pose if I was BCA, I’d be
appreciative of some local law man who gave me that info. I mean
it’s not much. But like you say . . . hmm.

"Guy or gal?"

"Guy," I said.

"If you heard from one guy, it won’t be long before everybody,
including the press, is onto it. Best for the BCA to get out front with
an improvement on their current lies. It’s not much. But I’d say
that’s worth telling. Thanks."

At least Gunner had recognized the inter-bureau value of this
tidbit. I wasn’t ready to share yet that my informant also claimed to
know who had done the deed. That would have to wait for an
approval from Bull.

"Thanks. Thanks again. That sorta makes my day."

"Sounds like you’re easy today, Gunner. Can I sell you some
swamp land in Florida?"

"Nope. Even your weirdo sense of humor isn’t gonna get to me
right now. But if you’d leave my office, that’d be great. I’ve gotta
phone call to make."

"Absolutely." I doffed my imaginary hat in Gunner’s direction.
He waved awkwardly in response.

I left Gunner to his law enforcement politics. On my way back
to the Pilot, I wondered what story I might read in the metro area
newspapers tomorrow about the mass killings near Red Wing.
Something better than a mere house fire with unnamed deaths, I
should think.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"So what came out of your meeting with Gunner this
morning?"

Beth and I were enjoying a chilled, whole wheat pasta and tuna
salad at our front porch dining set. The midday sun had not yet
made its way past the poplar trees in the side yard. With a light
breeze from the west, the front screen porch proved a comfortable
spot for our luncheon for two.

"Mainly, I just threw Gunner a bone to take to the BCA. They’re
still locking him out of the investigation. I told him that word of the
killing had leaked."

"So Gunner’s going to bring that news to the BCA in hopes of
getting into their good graces?" Beth sounded doubtful.

"Yeah. I know. It sounds like a long shot to me, too. But I
couldn’t say anything about Sergeant Fuentes or his claiming to
know who was responsible. I’ve gotta clear that through Bull."

"Of course. It’s probably better for you to meet Fuentes in
person first anyway. It may turn out that he’s some kind of PTSD
case with a need for attention. Better that you assess his statements
in person before Gunner gets blamed for bad intel."

I forked a bit of the penne, tuna, and peas into my mouth while
I considered whether to tempt Beth to join the team.

Washing the salad down with a swallow of ice water, I opted to
dive in.

"You know . . . I could probably better prepare for my meeting
with Fuentes if I could somehow know more about the forensic
evidence." I lazily stabbed at a single piece of penne while glancing
under my brow across the table at Beth. She was gazing out through
the front screen at two young boys riding their bicycles past on
Jefferson Avenue.

"Like if there were some way . . . and I don’t know how . . . but
some way to find out what the BCA has in its files on this case, that
would help out a bunch."

Beth turned back to her small bowl of salad and picked at it
before responding.

"So are you asking me something here? Or what?" She put
down her fork on the place mat and dabbed her mouth with a cloth
napkin.

Head-on it is.

"I’m trying to decide whether I should ask you something and
you’re not giving me much in the way of clues as to whether you
want me to or not."

"Part of my allure, even after all these years."

Beth smiled.

I laughed.

"Yes. I suppose it is . . . not that your allure has any deficit of
components even without psychological impenetrability. But I
digress."

I took another sip of water from the perspiring glass, dripping
condensate onto my shirt.

"Then there’s me, on the other hand." I gestured to the spotted
front of my shirt. "I can use all the allure I can muster."

Beth laughed.

"Okay. I want to help out if I can. Do you want me to hack into
the BCA system and see what I can find?"

"You could do that?" I asked, feigning shock.

"Minnesota law enforcement is not known for its world class
cyber-security. I might be able to plant a Trojan Horse on
someone’s computer. I should be able to at least give it a try with
minimal risk of detection."

"Okay. Let’s do what you said." Computing is not really my
forte.

"Sounds like fun. Help me clean up these dishes and we’ll get
down to business."

"Right, my computer goddess."

* * *

A few minutes later, we were at Beth’s computer. Actually, she
was at the computer and I was looking expectantly over her
shoulder.

"Here’s the BCA website," Beth said, after a few keystrokes.
"Whose computer should I hack?"

"How do I know?" Disbelief. "Don’t you hackers know those
things, like, innately or something?"

Beth turned away from the keyboard to face me.

"I need to know who at the BCA would have access to the
information you are looking for. Ideally, it would be someone
working the case . . . someone who has full access to all the files and
records. I’ll only be able to see the things he or she has access to."
Her voice was patient with my computer ignorance.

"Any suggestions?" Beth asked.

"Ah. I see. Let me think."

I considered the hierarchical command structure of the BCA,
the highest ranking agent I had noticed at the scene, and the level of
bureaucracy at which decisions would likely be made.

"Hold on a sec. I’ve gotta make a call."

A few moments later, Gunner answered his phone.

"Hey, Gunner. A quick question for you. Who do you suppose
is in charge of the hands-on investigative work on this . . . this
matter, at the BCA?"

"Probably Special Agent Lewis. But why do you want to know?"

"Doesn’t matter. Hey. Did you have any luck piercing the BCA’s
bureaucratic veil with that tidbit I left for you earlier?"

"Hard to say. I ran the flag up through channels. God knows if
anybody’ll salute."

"Okay. Thanks, Gunner."

I could hear Gunner saying something into his phone as I hung
up on him. No point getting the "play it by the book" guy in trouble
if I were to get caught cutting corners.

"Special Agent Lewis," I told Beth.

"There are two . . . but it looks like one works in white collar
crime. We’ll go with Lewis number two."

"Great. What will we be able to see?"

I was anxious and expected instant results.

"Sorry, Babe. It’s going to take a bit. First I’ve got to plant the
virus. Then it has to start gathering information for me. I probably
won’t know for a few hours whether we’re getting anything useful.

Drat. I really hate computers.

"Okay. I get it. I’ll go fidget somewhere else. Maybe I can even
find some way to make myself useful. Who knows? It could
happen."

Beth swished me away with her hand as computer
gobbledygook flew by on the monitor.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Heir apparent to the
Los Cinco
cartel leadership, Raphael
Santos was alone in the library of the Calderon family’s
mountainside villa in Tamaulipas Province, Mexico. Seated in a
formal, upholstered chair, a robust Cuban cigar in one hand, and a
Glenlivet, neat, in the other, he awaited the arrival of Enrique
Calderon, sole remaining founder of the
Los Cinco
drug cartel.