Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) (28 page)

I don’t have to get out
of my car or even roll the window down. Like the white van, I just drive straight through, one of the hundreds, maybe thousands of tourists crossing back and forth across the border today. All the precautions were seemingly for nothing, though it brings me no relief. The sound of Charlotte’s voice still rings in my ear. The Rio Grande might as well be the Rubicon.

Three bridges over the river connect Brownsville to Matamoros, and we have taken the middle one, which feeds onto a fingerlike promontory wrapped by a bend in the river. The northbound lanes, like the ones at Sarita, are backed up with Americans heading home. The rush into Mexico must slacken by early evening, because once we’re through the checkpoint, the cars in front of me accelerate at a brisk pace. Keeping the van in sight, I scan the sidewalks for any sign of Jeff among the stream of pedestrians.

He slips through the crowd, jogging into the street just ahead of me with a silly grin on his face, reaching for the door handle and slipping inside.

“That was anticlimactic,” he says. “It seems you don’t need a passport at all to get
into
Mexico. This guy on the bridge told me, it’s getting back that’s the problem.”

“We’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

He nods toward the van. “So they just drove straight through?”

“That could be typical. I don’t know. It’s not a chance I would have taken with all those guns, though. Either they’re the most cold-blooded risk takers in the world, or they know something we don’t.”

“Or the Feds just waved them through,” he says. “If what they told you is true, it’s not like they have a problem with the guns going south.”

I glance over at Jeff, whose walk across the bridge seems to have left him feeling refreshed, wondering whether he didn’t already know he could get across without a passport. A more cynical man might wonder if his little detour served no purpose but to insulate him from any consequences if my car had been searched and the weapons underneath discovered.

He sees me looking at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Now the hard part begins.”

Although the transition from Brownsville isn’t jarring—apart from the signs in Spanish and the different license plates, this city isn’t all that different from the one I’ve just left, equally shabby and run down, with a superficial lipstick for the sake of the tourists—there are a few buildings here and there you wouldn’t find across the river, including a stately mustard-colored place, pure Bourbon Street, with wrought-iron balconies and ornate windows shut away behind weathered shutters. A few street vendors are still working on the corners. Many of the shop fronts, however, are already hidden behind roll-down metal doors.

The white van makes a turn, travels a few blocks, then turns again. We follow them through a verdant city park, the slope dominated by a crazy sculpture that looks like two twists of red licorice rising out of the ground. They stop the van and get out.

“Here we go,” Jeff says.

I pass them and drive back onto the street, pulling into an empty space where we can watch through the back window. A minute later, a silver Toyota turns into the park and rolls up beside them. A tingle runs through me as Brandon Ford exits the passenger side, coming around to shake hands with the two men from the van. He slides open the van door, peers inside, then snaps it shut. The three of them exchange a few words between the vehicles; then Ford motions them toward the Toyota.

“They’re gonna leave the van here. Someone else is picking it up.”

“What do we do?” Jeff asks. “Stick with them or wait around?”

I tap the steering wheel, indecisive. Ford is why we’re here, but leaving the van’s cargo for pickup by the cartel would be an inexcusable breach. The handoff I’d envisioned, a classic guns-for-money trade going down somewhere secluded where we might have a shot at interdiction is clearly off the cards. I have to choose between Ford or the guns.

“I can’t let them have those guns,” I say.

Jeff, half turned in his seat, gets a constipated look. “Forget about the guns. We stick with Ford. That’s why we’re here.”

“I can’t do it. I thought I could.”

“Listen. We have to stick with Ford.”

“I hear you, but I’m not letting the cartel have those guns.”

We’re crossing all the lines. We’re doing things we’ve got no business doing, taking risks we’ve got no business taking.

“They’ll get more guns,” he says. “That’s not a real problem for them.”

His cheeks are flushed with color, his voice thin, reminding me of his emotional reaction earlier on the road. He has a stake in this, too. His attachment to Nesbitt is what’s driving him, not any loyalty to me. He wants Ford, simple as that.

“Yeah, they’ll get more guns,” I say, “but they won’t get them thanks to me.”

“So you’re gonna let him go?”

I nod, hardly believing it myself.

“It’s unacceptable.”

“Even so—”

“All right, listen. Here’s what we’ll do. You stick with Ford. Don’t let him out of your sight, no matter what. Leave me here and I’ll take care of the van.”

“Take care of it how?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I’ll hot-wire it and catch up to you.”

The Toyota pulls out of the park, flashing past us down the street. Jeff pushes his door open, rushing to get out.

“Jeff—”

“Call me when you know where he’s going. I’ll catch up to you when I can.”

He slams the door, then beats his palm on the roof a few times until I finally get going. As I race to catch up with Ford, I see him in the rearview, running toward the van, moving like there’s a bomb to defuse and the timer’s ticking down.

The geography of the city is wholly unfamiliar to me, just a half-remembered jumble from those college visits, which means that after a couple of turns I’m lost, with nothing but the Toyota’s taillights to guide me. Even now, I couldn’t explain to Jeff by phone how to catch up to me, and maybe that’s for the best. If he keeps his word and takes care of the van, if he manages to hot-wire it or just flags down the
policía
to report a suspicious vehicle, then he’ll have justified my trust and ended his exposure to danger all at once.

Down darkening streets and brick-paved alleyways I follow Ford’s car from a safe distance, cutting through the heart of the city, past old, arcaded squares and glass-fronted, garishly painted storefronts with tatty striped awnings. Past bars and restaurants,
farmácias
and
paleterías
. They finally come to a stop halfway down a neon-lit side street, reversing into a curbside parking space and walking two by two to the mouth of a pedestrian alley.

I stop a block away, waiting for them to turn the corner before doubling back. Before locking the car behind me, I peel my jacket off and toss it onto the backseat. I free my shirttails and roll up my sleeves, trying to look as casual, as nondescript as I can.

By the time I reach the alley, picking my way along the congested sidewalk, Ford and his men are standing twenty yards away, killing time in front of a cantina entrance and checking their watches every couple of seconds. They seem to be waiting for someone.

I call Jeff from the end of the alley, reading the street markers phonetically.

“What are you doing?” I ask, unable to hear anything in the background.

He chuckles. “What do you think I’m doing, March? I’m driving.”

As I hang up, a knot of men approaches from the far side of the alley, moving with enough deliberation to part the crowds. The way they carry themselves, I don’t have to wait until they’re close enough to see the ink on their skin or the telltale bulges under their baggy shirts. They’re with the cartel, and on the streets of Matamoros they don’t have to hide it.

There might be ten or twelve of them—it’s hard to keep count—and in their midst walks an older man, more distinguished, with silver hair and a patrician bearing. He wears a guayabera the way American politicians wear plaid western wear, more as a symbol than an article of clothing, or the way a generalissimo might don mufti to travel incognito.

Ford advances to greet the man, making a little bow and waiting for the silver-haired man to offer his hand before extending his own.

“You made it,” the man says, or at least it appears that way from the movement of his lips. He shakes Ford’s hand in both of his, a gesture of warmth that, seen from a distance, conveys just the opposite.

Ford turns to introduce his companions, looking slightly unsettled. Perhaps I misinterpreted the old man’s remark. He must have said something that got under Ford’s skin. As the seconds pass, his expression goes from concern to panic, then shuts down completely.

For his part, the silver-haired man seems disinterested. He uses the opportunity of each proffered hand to edge closer toward the cantina door. Once the niceties are concluded, he motions them down two shallow steps and into the bar, waiting to have a word with his entourage before following. They disperse to take up positions against the wall, staring down passersby. The boss pauses in the doorway, removes a plated case from his pocket, and withdraws a slim cigar. He puffs a few times, the light of the flame revealing a dark mole on his weathered face.

César.

The words reverberating in my head are my own, spoken years ago to Nesbitt when I only knew him by the nickname Magnum.
I plan on slapping the cuffs on César, too
. And there he is, surrounded by minions, smoking a cigar in the warm evening. Whenever I’m tempted to congratulate myself on being a good cop, a careful gatherer and logical analyst of concrete evidence, something like this happens to remind me all I am is an instrument. A blunt instrument of fate.

César disappears down the steps. I wait and watch, wondering whether his men will let me pass. After a frozen moment, several people approach and enter the cantina without being molested. I follow their lead, doing my best impression of a hapless tourist. Their eyes bore through me, but the gang proves as lax as the border agents, making no move to stop me.

I step down, grasp the door in my hand, and pull. A blast of muggy air hits my face, accompanied by a woman’s laughter and the strumming of guitars.

———

From a spot I’ve elbowed my way into at the far end of the long bar, I watch the round table where César holds court, flanked on his right by Brandon Ford and on his left by a tall and shapely blonde with big eyes and a tiny dress. Either she arrived early or she came with the table. Apart from the old man, no one at the table takes much notice of her. They can’t afford to. This is business, pure and simple.

Did César somehow rise through the ranks of the cartel, or did Nesbitt plant him here? I suspect the latter. Whether all the pieces fit or not, I can’t tell, but a theory rumbles like thunder through the back of my head. Nesbitt uses César to infiltrate the cartel, then César decides he doesn’t need Nesbitt anymore and uses Magnum’s own people to take him out.

At the table, Ford does most of the talking, leaning in and gesturing emphatically with one hand. Insisting on something. César dismisses all this with a slight shake of the head, as indifferent to Ford as a horse is to a fly. He steals glances at the blonde beside him, takes drags on his cigar and sips of tequila neatly from a glass at his elbow.

Increasingly desperate, Ford turns to his men for confirmation of whatever it is he’s saying. They have their backs to me, but I can see their heads nodding. One of their voices carries over the hum of conversation and music.

“We left it where they told us to. If it’s not there, how is that our problem? Is this his city or isn’t it?”

So that’s the problem. César has already discovered the absence of the van. Now the deal is falling through before my eyes.

Sweating
cerveza
in hand, I notch out a new position for myself down the bar, close enough to hear what’s happening at the table without being too obvious an eavesdropper. César hasn’t aged well, but he has retained the graceful manner I recall from our encounter more than twenty years ago. He studies the cherry of his cigar, letting Ford’s words bounce off him, then raises his hand as if to summon someone from across the room. I follow the motion with my eyes. He looks at me. Looks away. Then his eyes cut back to me. The hand lowers.

“Gentlemen, excuse me,” he says to the table. He rises and makes for the rear exit, the blonde bouncing her way behind him.

Ford and his men exchange glances, dumbfounded.

“You’d better go after him,” one of them says.

“Fine. You sit tight.”

Ford peels away. The others make no move to follow him. Before he reaches the exit, they’re already calling for drinks, content to let the boss sort everything out. I scan the crowd for any of the gangbangers César brought in with him, but I’m not sure who’s who anymore.

Ford disappears behind a black-painted door.

Over the din I hear an electronic chirp and feel the vibration against my leg. I reach for my phone. The number on-screen is Jeff’s. His voice crackles, but it’s no use. I press the phone tight against my head and clamp my free hand over the opposite ear.

“Say that again.”

“Out back,” he says. “They came out back. They’re leaving. I have to go.”

The volume climbs as I move forward. Maybe it’s the thumping of the pulse in my head. I hear something crash on the floor and look down in time to see my beer bottle rolling around just as I kick it. The bottle spins, gurgling foam, but I keep pressing toward the door. I pull it open and duck through, down a dimly lit hallway, dodging a waitress with a tray of empties over her shoulder. I reach a door with a scarred kickplate and a grimy push bar.

SALIDA
.

The breeze on the street is cool in comparison to where I’ve come from. There’s a lonely sidewalk and a few parked cars and at the end of the road—which is so narrow it must be one-way—I spot the brake lights of the white van.

I run. In contrast to the din inside the cantina, out here there is nothing but the sound of my feet on the pavement and the hum of traffic out on the thoroughfare beyond the van. I reach the back bumper as the van rolls forward.