Stolen Prey (8 page)

“I wouldn’t think so,” Del said.

“Huh. Be back in one minute.”

T
HE
W
EE
B
LUE
I
NN
was an earth-colored stucco place with a blue-tile roof. The earth color came from dirt.

The floors inside were made of dark wood and squeaked underfoot, not from polish, but from rot, and the whole place smelled of old cigar smoke and something that might have been swimming-pool chlorine, or possibly old semen. Lucas tried not to touch anything, just in case; no swimming pool was visible.

Poe was a short fat man with a bad toupee and a three-day beard, whose lips formed a small but perfect O. Del had him in his office, where he sat sweating. He fit in the place like a finger in a glove, Lucas thought; or a dick in a condom. Andrews nodded to him, then pointed at him and said to Lucas, “This is Poe.”

Poe was adamant about the Mexicans leaving. “They had duffel bags, and they took off. Loaded up, said, ‘Thank you,’ and they were out of here.”

“Speak good English?” Lucas asked.

“So-so. They was Mexican, no doubt about that.”

“What, they were wearing sombreros?” Del asked.

“No, they just looked like Mexicans,” Poe said. “Mexican boxers. Welterweights. Small guys, good shape. Mean-looking. Most Mexicans around here don’t look mean.”

“Couldn’t have been, like, Colombians?” Del asked.

Poe was exasperated: “They was Mexicans. They was fuckin’ Mexicans, Del. What can I tell you?”

“They carrying guns?” Del asked.

“Don’t know. We have a strict privacy policy about entering our guests’ rooms.”

“That’s a little hard to believe,” Lucas said. “No offense.”

Poe said, “Well, we do. We got it when my ex entered a room and found the city council president banging his secretary. Who was of the same sex. Not that I got anything against fudge-punchers, in particular.”

“You always have been sort of a liberal,” Andrews said.

“I do what I can,” Poe said.

“I
N OTHER NEWS
,” Del said, “you got an ex. She around somewhere?”

“No. We agreed that she should stay in the southern states, and I’d stay in the north. We stick to that pretty close. And I got Vegas.”

Lucas: “These Mexicans, they said they were going back to Dallas?”

“That’s what they said.”

“You think they did?” Lucas asked.

“Well, they all told me that,” Poe said, “All of them. So that made me think that they weren’t. Really going back to Dallas.”

Lucas said, “Mmmm,” and they all looked at Poe for a while, and Poe sweated some more. “You didn’t get their tag number?”

“No, we don’t require it.”

“Credit cards?”

“They paid cash, up front, so we don’t require a credit card,” Poe said.

“Security photos?”

Poe wagged his head. “Too expensive.”

“Used glasses that might have fingerprints?”

“Cleaned up their rooms right after they left,” Poe said. “In this business, we live on turnover.”

“So really … you don’t know nothing about nothing,” Del said.

“That’s about it,” Poe said, sweating. “Thank God.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded and wiped his forehead. “They looked like the kind of little fuckers you don’t want to fuck with.”

T
HEY WERE
still talking to Poe when Lucas got a call from Shaffer, who was at the crime scene with the DEA agents. “Got a call
from the patrol. They found that SKY van. They ran us around a little bit. After they stole the van, they stole some tags off another van that looked just like it.”

“So they wouldn’t get stopped for a stolen van.”

“Yeah, that’s right. We finally got it straight, and a highway patrol guy found the actual stolen van at a rest stop up I-35.”

“Anything good?”

“As a matter of fact, there was. They wiped everything down, but they left a CD by a guy named El Shaka in the CD player,” Shaffer said. “The van’s owner doesn’t speak Spanish and says he never heard of the singer or the record. He listens to Springsteen. Anyway, you can see what looks like a partial thumbprint on the top side of the disc.”

“You running it?”

“No, no, I thought I’d just admire it for a few days,” Shaffer said.

“All right, stupid question,” Lucas said. “When you gonna see a return?”

“This afternoon, I hope. You doing any good?”

Lucas told him about the three Mexicans at the Wee Blue Inn, and Shaffer said he’d send an Identi-Kit guy over to build some pictures. Lucas looked across the room at Poe and said, quietly, to Shaffer, “You better do it quick. The guy who saw them is shaking in his shoes. He could take off.”

Shaffer said he’d have a couple of people there in a half hour. “I’m going to send along a crime-scene crew, too. A dump like the Wee Blue Inn didn’t scrub down
all
the surfaces: maybe we’ll get some more prints.”

Lucas turned back to the group and found Poe explaining
where he got the name for the motel. “I stole it from a place up in Duluth,” he said. “It’s not like there aren’t six hundred of them.”

“Could have named it Dunrovin,” Del suggested.

“Yeah, or the Duck Inn. I thought about it, but I didn’t,” Poe said. To Lucas: “We done?”

Lucas said, “I may come back in the next couple of hours. Nobody’s gonna find out about this chat before then, so there’s no point in you running out the door. Hang around.”

“I was thinking Vegas,” Poe said.

“Vegas is too hot at this time of year,” Del said. “Stay here.”

O
UT IN
the parking lot, Andrews hitched up his pants and said, “There are two hundred thousand Latinos in Minnesota. I know that because I’m married to one. So all we have to do is eliminate a hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-six of them, counting out my old lady, and we got them.”

“You’re saying we ain’t got much,” Del said.

“That’s right.”

“But we got
something
,” Lucas said. “Maybe we’ll get some prints and some pictures, and we’ll start putting some pressure on them. Betcha we get them by tomorrow night.”

“Exactly how much would you be willing to bet?” Andrews asked, as they climbed into the truck.

Lucas shook his head. “I was using a common cliché intended to express optimism,” he said. “But gambling in Minnesota is illegal, outside the Indian casinos and the state numbers racket, so I would be unable to actually put any money on the line.”

“That’s what I thought,” Andrews said.

O
N THE WAY
back to St. Paul, Andrews asked whether Lucas had ever gotten a line on the robbers who’d broken his wrist. “Just did, last couple of days,” Lucas said. “I was never able to generate much interest in the whole thing, and I thought I was gonna lose them.”

He told him about the horse shit clue. “I got Flowers working it.”

“That’s pretty high-priced talent for a couple guys who get a hundred bucks at a time, and nobody gets hurt,” Andrews said.

“
I
got hurt,” Lucas said. “Some poor college kid got his arm broken.”

“I mean hurt bad, not getting your little snowflake wrist cracked,” Andrews said.

“Thank you,” Lucas said.

“Whatever,” Andrews said. “If that fuckin’ Flowers can’t find them, nobody can.”

“Especially with a USDA-certified clue like he’s got,” Del said.

A
T THE OFFICE
, Lucas had a message from Rose Marie Roux:
Call me.

He called her, and she said, “I got a call from Washington, a young boy from the Department of Justice said
they
got a call from Mexico. The Mexicans want to send an observer up here to look at the Brooks case. Apparently they’ve been talking to the DEA about it, and they want to watch. The DOJ said sure, send them along.”

“Did you thank them for consulting with us?” Lucas asked.

“You got a problem with it?”

Lucas told her about the DEA agent’s suggestion that they send any Brooks murder suspect to Mexico for questioning—and why, including the story about the agent who was flayed alive.

“You think that’s a true story?” Rose Marie asked.

“Who knows? You hear all kinds of shit coming out of the border. Wouldn’t surprise me, one way or the other,” Lucas said.

“Well, we’re not turning anybody over to Mexico,” Rose Marie said. “But be nice with these people. They’ve got problems.”

“You said they wanted to send an observer, but then you kept saying ‘they.’ How many are there?”

“One cop and his assistant,” Rose Marie said. “Cop’s name is David Rivera. I don’t know the assistant’s name.”

“Okay. When do they get here?”

“If their plane’s on time … they’re coming Delta from LA … about forty-five minutes,” she said. “It’d be really, really nice if some senior BCA agent was there to meet them.”

L
UCAS CALLED
S
HAFFER
, who’d heard about the Mexicans coming in but had no details. “I’m going over to pick them up and run them out there,” Lucas said. “Have the bodies been moved?”

“Pretty soon now. Alex is talking to the ME’s guys now.”

“Hold off. If everything works, I’ll be out there in a couple of hours,” Lucas said.

“Why don’t you just have … you know … somebody else pick them up?”

“’Cause I want to talk to them about this whole Criminales business,” Lucas said. “Hope they speak English.”

Besides, he liked driving around town, looking out the window. You could never tell what you might learn. In this case, though, it wasn’t much—a few leaves turning yellow on maple trees. At the airport, Lucas locked his pistol in the truck’s gun safe, went inside, identified himself to the airport police, and got a piece of typing paper from them. He wrote “David Rivera” on it with a Magic Marker, and the airport cops walked him through security and out to the arrivals gate. The cop said, “With that sign, you’re gonna look like a limo driver.”

“But a very high-rent limo driver,” Lucas said.

“Well, yeah.”

They talked to the gate agent about the arrival, then Lucas found a seat while the airport cop wandered away. When the plane was parked, the agent came over and said, “They’re here,” and Lucas got up with his sign.

Rivera was one of the first passengers off the plane. He was a man of middle height, but more than middle breadth, with dark hair and a short, carefully trimmed mustache. He was wearing what looked like an expensive but ill-cared-for blue suit and a dress shirt open at the throat.

He looked at Lucas’s sign and said, in good English, “You don’t look like a limousine driver.”

L
UCAS INTRODUCED HIMSELF
, and Rivera thanked him for coming and said they had to wait for his assistant, who had been riding in coach. His assistant was female, a pretty woman
with dark hair and dark eyes, carrying an oversized briefcase and pulling a rolling carry-on suitcase. Lucas took the briefcase from her, and Rivera said, “She can take it,” and Lucas said, “That’s okay,” and led them down to Baggage Claim, carrying the briefcase.

There was a big bag for Rivera, and a second small bag for the woman, and since Rivera had made no effort to introduce them, Lucas said to the woman, “I’m Lucas Davenport. I’m an agent with the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.” She bobbed her head and gave him a quick smile and said her name was Ana Martínez. Lucas left them at the curb outside Baggage Claim, retrieved the Lexus, pulled around and loaded them up.

“I need to know about the Criminales,” Lucas said as they left the terminal. “Who they are, what they want. What their reach is.”

As he was talking, Martínez pulled an iPad out of her bag and began typing into it.

Rivera said, “They are not quite the worst of the worst, but they are close. They began with a family, or a clan, in Sonora. At first, they were cross-border smugglers, mostly people, not drugs. What drugs they did smuggle, they took the other way, from the U.S. back to Mexico. Prescription medicine that was hard to get out in the countryside. Then, they began with the cocaine, going into the U.S. There were wars with other gangs, and their leadership got wiped out a few times, and they kept getting lower, and lower, and now they are like mad dogs. They will bite anything that moves. They have several hundred members, two-thirds on this side of the border, in distribution,
one-third on our side, for acquisition, smuggling, and enforcement. There are still some members of the original family, but most of those are dead. It is not hard to find new management.”

Lucas mentioned the agent who was allegedly skinned alive and asked, “Did they really do that? Or is that mostly an urban legend?”

“The skin was sent to my superior—I saw it,” Rivera said. “Along with a movie. They did it, really.”

“Jesus.”

“He was not involved,” Rivera said. “I can tell you something else. You never want to smell a skin that has been three days in the mail.”

“So then what?” Lucas asked. “You went to war with the Criminales?”

“We were already at war—if we don’t kill them soon, the whole snake, they will be coming for me.” He looked out the window at the lush August landscape of the Minnesota River Valley. “I come here to the States as often as I can, to stretch out my life.”

Martínez passed the iPad over the seat and said, “E-mail from Luis.”

Rivera looked at it, then said, “I’ll call him later.”

She took the iPad back and typed something else into it.

Rivera had more background on the LCN, but it was all fairly standard gang stuff. “They are not innovative,” Rivera said. “They are just crazy, and what can you say about that? They don’t seem to care whether they live or die.”

His real information was not sociological or anthropological,
but factual: he had names, fingerprints, DNA profiles in a few cases. “I can tell you who is who, what rank they hold, where they usually are, and what their job is, when we know that. I don’t have any secrets. I want everybody to know them.”

“I’ve got people from St. Paul shaking out Latino gang members. Let’s see if we can figure out who belongs to who,” Lucas said. “If we find a Criminales clique, that’d be a step in the right direction.”