Birds of a Feather Page 2

“Yeah, I hope so.”

  “Give me a couple of days and I’ll get back to you, but if you hear from her, let me know right away.”

  “I will.”

  “Now … I want you to enjoy yourself,” said Jack with mock sternness. “Go out tonight and have fun. You’ve earned it.”

  Greg Patton lay with his face mashed into the floor mat behind the driver’s seat of the Mexican police crew-cab truck. His gun, badge, and wallet had been taken from him before he was propelled into the vehicle. One policeman pinned him to the floor with a knee on his back. Patton felt the muzzle of a pistol digging into the base of his skull. He remained still and hoped the gun wasn’t cocked to prevent an accidental discharge as the truck sped through the streets.

  When they arrived at their destination, Patton was dragged out of the truck and brought into a small police station. For a moment, being in a station gave him some hope. Better than being made to kneel before a shallow grave in the desert …

  Even when six officers shoved and manhandled him into an empty cellblock in the rear of the station, he was still hopeful. Perhaps they plan to lock me up for a while. Put the fear of god into me before letting me go …

  Patton was more concerned when he was forced to strip completely naked. Okay, guys, you’ve humiliated me. Yeah I’ve got a small dick. Everyone have a good laugh and then let me go …

  What followed wasn’t laughter. It was the faces of determined, angry men as they handcuffed him spread-eagled to the bars of a cell. Next, a pail of water doused his naked body.

  Patton looked at the face of a man who approached him with an electric cattle prod and closed his eyes. Briefly, he thought of Enrique Camarena and the horror he endured before he died.

  “Special Agent Patton of the big American customs, how are you?” asked a voice with a heavy Spanish accent.

  Patton opened his eyes and saw a man in a police captain’s uniform smiling at him.

  “What do you want?” asked Patton.

  The captain gave a curt nod and the man with the cattle prod stepped forward. For a moment, Patton felt like someone had used a sledge hammer to drive his nuts up into his stomach. His head jerked back, hitting the bars and his jaw snapped shut, biting his tongue, before emitting a bloody scream.

  “What I want, Special American Agent Patton, is to kill you in the most painful way possible. But … before you die, there are some things we want to know. Things like what are the names of the people you work with? Their addresses … what cars they drive. The names of their wives and children. The names of your wife and children. What schools they attend.”

  chapter three

  * * *

  John Adams sprung into action as soon as Patton’s phone went dead. His first call was to notify his office. Did they have any investigators in Juarez at the moment? It turned out that four FBI agents from the downtown office were in one car returning from interviewing a jail warden at a Mexican prison. They were still in Juarez and would cover off one of the main routes through the city in the hopes of spotting the kidnappers.

  Adams ruefully thought about the four agents travelling together for safety reasons. He and Patton often took a chance on going it alone. Now it was coming back to bite them in the ass. His next move was to yell for his wife, Yolanda, who was outside watering plants on their deck.

  Yolanda was born in Mexico, but her father was a chemical engineer and they immigrated to the United States when she was a teenager. There was a happy innocence about her face that Adams adored. She had a certain look and smile like she was waiting for him to crack his next joke. That look vanished when Adams said, “I need you to call your lover. Make it urgent.”

  Adams was going to tell her they had grabbed Patton on the other side, but decided not to. The four of them were good friends and he was concerned the stress would show in her voice. He would tell her after.

  It wasn’t the first time Yolanda had called this man. John had explained to her that the phone calls were likely being monitored. Any suspicion on the part of those listening would have a deadly impact on the man she was calling … and perhaps on her husband, as well.

  Police Commander Jose Refugio Rubalcava sat behind the large wooden desk in his office. The desk was scarred up and had more than one bullet hole in it. At one time it had been varnished, but most of that had long since disappeared, leaving it to absorb a variety of stains.

  Leaning against the wall behind him and within easy reach were an assortment of loaded shotguns, rifles, and automatic weapons. On the top of his desk were four pistols. Theoretically, the weapons were for him to sign out to his men. In reality, Rubalcava often wondered if he would be able to grab them in time to save himself from his men.

  Rubalcava had ample cause to be worried. He was trying to be an honest cop. A very dangerous thing to be in Juarez, considering his six predecessors had all been murdered at the same desk he was sitting at. Rubalcava knew that many, if not all the murders, had been committed by policemen who still worked at his station.[1]

  The choice given his predecessors was simple: plata o plomo — silver or lead. Six had bravely chosen not to accept the bribes. Their bravery had done nothing to thwart the ever-increasing control the drug cartels were spreading across Mexico and North America.

  Rubalcava was trying a different approach. On occasion he knew he had to accept the silver to stay alive … or at least appear to keep the money. Local charities had done well from his kindness.

  Rubalcava’s position did not demand that he wear a uniform, so he tended to dress casually with grey slacks and a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. Today his shirt was a light charcoal colour that matched his hair. His wife said it made him look handsome.

  Rubalcava knew better. At one time he was considered handsome, but the constant worry had caused him to look much older than he really was. His hair was prematurely greying and deep crevices cut through the dark sacks of skin below his eyes. His eyes once held sparkle and were quick to smile, but in the last few years they had found little to smile about.

  From the outer office, Rubalcava heard a ripple of excited, gleeful whispers spread amongst his men. Something was going on, but he decided to ignore it. He knew he was not completely trusted. Rumours persisted that he talked to the Americans too much.

  Police commanders were in a position where it was expected that they might talk to the Americans on occasion. The drug lords actually welcomed it as a way of finding out what the Americans were up to. The information Rubalcava obtained for the cartels, however, was usually insignificant or too long after the fact to be of benefit. When confronted about this, Rubalcava said perhaps the Americans did not trust him, either.

  There was another small commotion in the outer office and he decided to take a look. This time the voices were not whispers. One of his men, Detective Sanchez, had given the secretary a gift. She had always ignored his advances before, but appeared delighted with the small silver frog pendant dangling from a chain. The frog’s red eyes matched her lipstick.

  Rubalcava forced a smile and tried to look pleased with the happy atmosphere. I wonder who was robbed or killed in order for him to give that gift? He saw Sanchez eyeing him and their eyes met briefly. Sanchez smirked and turned his attention back to the secretary. He knows what I am thinking …

  Sanchez was protected by a drug cartel headed by Rafael Aguilar Guajardo. It was the top drug cartel in the region, although their supremacy was being hotly contested by the rival Sinaloa cartel.

  The Sinaloa cartel was originally based out of the Mexican states of Baja, Sinaloa, Durango, Sonora, and Chihuahua, but had expanded operations and as of late had been encroaching on territory long held by the Guajardo cartel. At the present time, the Guajardo cartel still remained firmly in control of most of Juarez and Sanchez knew he had nothing to fear from his commander.

  Rubalcava casually scanned the office again. The excitement and whispers I heard earlier are not over a stolen pendant. Something else has happened �
� His thoughts were interrupted when his telephone rang and he went back to his office to answer it.

  He immediately recognized the sexy voice asking to meet him again. Her husband had stepped out. They only had a few minutes of precious time before he would return. Rubalcava agreed and hung up the phone. I wonder what John Adams’s wife really looks like …

  [1] As shocking and unbelievable as it may seem, nothing in this paragraph is fiction.

  chapter four

  * * *

  It was late Friday afternoon when Jack arrived home and called the RCMP Telecommunications Centre to check Earl Porter’s name on the Canadian Police Information Centre’s computer. The CPIC query did not show any criminal record, but a notation did come back to say he was of interest to the Vancouver RCMP Drug Section.

  Jack’s next call was to Sammy in Drug Section.

  “Porter, yeah, he used to be of interest to us,” replied Sammy. “Not now, somebody must have forgotten to remove him from CPIC.”

  “What’s the scoop?” asked Jack.

  “Two years ago, Porter came up as a close associate of a guy who was our main target in an undercover operation. A fellow named Clive Slater.”

  “What’s the story on Slater?”

  “He’s a real pompous ass who likes to throw his money around in the night-club circuit. He drives a red Ferrari 430 F1 Spider and tries to act like he is a mafia don or something. We had a snitch who told us Porter and Slater were involved in coke in a big way.”

  “Do you still have the snitch?”

  “No. Last I heard the snitch is in jail in Ontario,” said Sammy. “He wasn’t deemed to be all that reliable, anyway. He was one of those types of guys who just suspects something, but then relays it as fact.”

  “How did your investigation end up?” asked Jack.

  “Well, at the time we did some checking and it turned out Porter and Slater had business connections in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. Porter owned a company that made tourist trinkets and Slater was involved in a fruit company. We had our liaison officer out of Mexico City make some inquiries for us. According to the Mexican police, the companies are legit, but the LO said the police are so corrupt down there that you have to take everything they tell you with a grain of salt.”

  “Sounds like the companies might be used for laundering money,” said Jack.

  “Could be, but neither of them have ever been caught with any coke.”

  “Maybe they’re the financiers?”

  “There’s always that possibility,” Sammy agreed. “We tried to snare them both in a UC operation, but Slater was too smart. Our undercover operator spent three months befriending him. Then he was with Slater in a nightclub one night and Slater, being the asshole he is, laughed and said he appreciated the RCMP buying him all these drinks.”

  “Who was the operator?”

  “Ken Hales, out of Calgary.”

  “I’ve worked with him. He’s a hell of a good operator,” Jack commented.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Maybe the Mexicans tipped Slater off after the LO made inquiries.”

  “Possibly.”

  “No problem then if I take a look at Porter and perhaps Slater?” asked Jack.

  “Fill your boots,” replied Sammy. “Neither are on our target list. Like I said, someone forgot to remove them from CPIC. We’ve had to reprioritize. Known gang members who are killing each other off are our number-one concern.”

  Adams crossed the Bridge of the Americas and was waved through customs. He had not bothered to go to the office and get a car, instead opting to use his own car. Time was of the essence. He had little hope that his office, currently going through channels with the American ambassador in Mexico City, would have any luck in getting Patton back alive.

  The four FBI agents had agreed to stay in Juarez to assist … providing assistance was still possible. That hope lay in the person Adams was going to meet.

  Adams cursed and glanced at his watch. The minutes were ticking past and he accelerated along cluttered narrow streets to get to one particular back alley.

  chapter five

  * * *

  Rubalcava saw the questioning glances of his men as he hurried to leave the office. As a commander, he was normally at his desk all day, except for three o’clock in the afternoon, when he went to pick his children up from school. Picking them up was more than a safety issue. Seeing the bright happy faces of his two sons gave him hope. Hope that someday the future of the Mexican people would also brighten. He had sworn he would do what he could to make that possible.

  “Commander?” the secretary asked, while glancing at her watch. “It is only two o’clock.”

  “I know. I have to meet an old friend,” he replied.

  Like Adams, Rubalcava drove at high speed with a constant eye in his rear-view mirror. Even though he was satisfied he wasn’t being followed, he still parked his car two blocks away from his destination. From there he cautiously made his way toward the alley on foot, while still taking the time to dart into a couple of shops along the way to see who might enter behind him.

  Rubalcava knew if he were seen secretly meeting a gringo there would be serious questions. If the gringo was identified as a U.S. Customs agent, he knew any lie he could come up with would likely not be accepted and would result in his execution. He also knew Adams realized the danger. What has happened?

  Adams sat low in his seat as he slowly drove down the alley in his white Celica. His windshield was tinted, making it difficult for people to see in, but the other windows were clear. There were few gringos in this part of the city, but it was also an area not known to be of interest to the cartels. Rubalcava stepped out from an alcove and Adams unlocked the passenger door.

  “Amigo,” said Rubalcava with a worried smile on his face as he got in the car. “It is always good to see you.” As usual, Rubalcava made no comment about the extreme risk in which Adams had placed him and instead treated their meeting like a friend who was happy to see him.

  Adams didn’t take the time to exchange niceties. The words tumbled out of him as if he were an auctioneer.

  Rubalcava’s face darkened. “This house, with the Mercedes that your partner followed. Which cartel did they belong to? Guajardo or Sinaloa?”

  “I don’t know. We were still trying to find out. An anonymous phone call complained of lots of men coming and going at all hours of the day and night. Lots of souped-up cars being driven by Mexicans who look like gangsters. Greg and I spent the last couple of nights trying to identify who they were.”

  “I do not have much that could help you if it was the Sinaloa cartel, but if it was the Guajardo … it could explain why some men in my office were whispering and smiling about something an hour ago.”

  Adams checked his watch. “It was an hour and twenty-five minutes ago when Greg was grabbed. Maybe they heard the news. It fits. Would Rafael Guajardo be directly involved? If we locate him —”

  “No, he would not risk being involved. Besides, Guajardo has been meeting some other drug lords in Cancun this last week. He has not returned yet and may not even know about it. The two jackals he left in charge, Vicente Carrillo Fuentes or his brother, Amado Carrillo Fuentes, could have okayed and planned the kidnapping on their own. Even then, they would have turned it over to someone else to complete. Do you know what colour the Mercedes is?”

  “Green. Why?”

  “Now it is coming together in my mind. Below the Carrillo Fuentes brothers, there are three lower bosses, who also happen to be brothers. One of them, a big fat man by the name of Chico, drives a green Mercedes. Chico controls much of the prostitution and collects money from the pimps who work for him. He often goes into El Paso to collect money from pimps who operate out of some strip bar. The Red something.”

  “The Red Poker Saloon?” asked Adams.

  “Yes, that is it. You know the place?”

  “I’ve been there. It’s full of pimps, drug dealers, bikers, you get the picture. Does
Chico control a particular police station here in Juarez?”

  “Not him, directly … but of course the Guajardo cartel controls many,” replied Rubalcava.

  “Do you think the police who grabbed Greg would take him back to their station?”

  “Possibly. If they don’t intend to keep him alive long they might take him there. If they plan on torturing him over a period of a few days they would take him to some place more remote. Probably outside the city.”

  Adams winced. “What police station would you suspect the most?”

  “If he was taken to a police station, I think it would be one of two. Both are small and in outlying areas. The captains in both stations, along with their men, are firmly in the pockets of the Guajardo cartel.”

  “I’ve got a map of Juarez in the glove box. Dig it out and show me where the stations are.”

  Rubalcava spoke as he unfolded the map. “The first station is on the northwest side of the city. The police at that station specialize in kidnapping people for ransom. I believe there are about two-dozen policemen who work out of that office.”

  “So they are experienced at snatching people,” noted Adams. “Sounds like it could be them.”

  “Perhaps … although they do not use marked police vehicles when they kidnap. The captain there is very short with a pockmarked face.”

  “He’ll have more than pockmarks on his face if he is responsible,” said Adams tersely, patting the Heckler & Koch P2000 semi-automatic pistol tucked in the holster on his belt.

  “The other station is on the southeast side,” continued Rubalcava. “I believe there are about seventeen officers who work out of that station.”

  “If we find him, will you get any heat over how we knew where he was?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle. Lots of policemen will know about it. Any one of them may have talked.”