The Debriefing Read online

  A.k.a. the Cartel Busters.

  “How are you feeling?” She glanced at both of them.

  Tony said, “Not hurt bad. But still groggy.”

  Matt said nothing, maybe digesting Boyd’s death.

  Talbot unbuttoned her dark-blue blazer, revealing a thick, starched white blouse. Her skirt was gray. “You were lucky. It doesn’t take much fentanyl to . . .” Her eyes swept over their faces and she lifted a hand. “Sure. Sorry. You do this for a living.” Yeah, pretty and with captivating eyes but she had rough edges. Women in this business sometimes got that way . . . because they had to. Tony knew she wouldn’t smile much. On the humor scale Talbot was at one end, Boyd had been on the other.

  Tony had been married to his high school sweetheart for nineteen years. Lucy smiled a lot. He’d have to call her. Did she even know he was in the hospital?

  Then his thoughts of family vanished and, with a thud in his gut, he thought: FBI? That means only one thing. He thought of Matt’s words.

  Something’s wrong here. . .

  Tony grimaced. “The team got set up.”

  “Hell,” Matt whispered. “Sure.”

  Talbot glanced at Holmes, who delivered the bad news straight: “Looks like somebody told the Cardozos you were on your way and that Jonny Boyd was riding point.”

  Tony continued, “So they planned to assassinate him. That’s why the sniper.”

  Talbot nodded. “Gunning Boyd down on the streets of El Paso—US territory—no way. That’d go all the way to Washington. But a DEA supervisor killed in action at a drug drop on Mexican soil? Just another death in the drug wars.”

  “‘Just another death,’” Matt spat out, though the bitterness wasn’t aimed at her, Tony knew. He turned his intense eyes her way. “Was La Piedra behind it?”

  Holmes said, “Likely.”

  The chief enforcer for the Cardozo cartel. His nickname meant “the Stone.” Manuel Santos was a sociopathic murderer, known for being utterly emotionless. He never got angry, never raised his voice. Never laughed either, was never joyful. They knew for a fact he’d murdered more than three dozen people, often leaving their heads in public places as reminders of where loyalties should lie.

  La Piedra was also a ghost. No one in either Mexican or US law enforcement knew where he slept—or whom he slept with, if he shared a bed with anyone. La Piedra remained invisible, even with a $10 million price on his head, offered by the Americans, and a more modest but still sizable sum posted by the United Mexican States. But every man, woman and child in that battered country knew that no one would ever claim the heavenly sum; if they did, they wouldn’t live long enough to spend a single peso.

  Tony knew that Matt had a special hatred of Santos. The man had murdered one of Matt’s first partners, in an undercover set that went bad. The cop had been killed for no reason other than convenience—it was less of an effort to murder him and escape down an alleyway than to walk a few blocks around.

  “So,” Talbot said, “this debriefing is about trying to find who set the team up. Were they with El Paso PD or DEA or somebody else?”

  Tony couldn’t help but give a faint laugh of curiosity. “Well . . .” He lifted his hands.

  She frowned. “I’m sorry?”

  Matt said, “What he’s asking is how are you so sure that Tony or me didn’t sell the team out?”

  Opening her computer bag in a matter-of-fact manner and extracting a notebook and digital recorder, Talbot said, “Oh, we’re not sure about that at all. That’s why I’m here.”

  Three

  The interviews were conducted in different rooms.

  Tony wasn’t troubled by this and he was sure that Matt wasn’t either. Every cop who’d run interrogations knew that it was a waste of time to talk to two suspects or witnesses in the same room. They played off each other, adjusting their words to what the other said. More importantly, though, an interrogator had to focus full attention on the subject’s words and body language; anyone else in the room was a distraction.

  “Too many broths spoil the cook,” Tony had said. An expression that he himself had coined. Not many fellow officers seemed to get it but Tony thought it was clever.

  Matt was more mobile than Tony, who had the sprained ankle, and so Talbot took him from their room into the hallway; she’d return and talk to Tony when she was done. Holmes asked Tony if he wanted coffee or a soda.

  “No. I’m good.” Which he wasn’t; he just wanted to keep his gut empty and not add fuel to the Tupperware fire.

  Holmes left and Tony lay back in the complicated, comfortable bed. Although he now understood that no metal splinters had shot his way, he took another inventory of his body with his fingers.

  Probe here, there.

  In one particular place—for the third time.

  No, all good.

  Goddamn lucky.

  He wanted to call Lucy but his phone would be in his jacket, hanging on the back of the door and he didn’t want to torment his ankle. There was no landline.

  Another scan of the room. A limp magazine—Time—sat on a table beside a bedpan. He could reach it but had no interest in news that was six months old.

  Outside, two soldiers walked by, joking with each other. Full uniforms, despite the heat. Man, that sucked. At EPPD, detectives like Tony and Matt could wear light jackets and T-shirts if they wanted to when the temperature rose to brutal.

  The soldiers disappeared out of sight in the direction pointed out by a sign:

  ← RESTROOMS

  ← DINING HALL

  He was amused, wondering how far apart the two facilities were. Matt, who’d served in the army, had told him that armed forces planning was not necessarily the smartest.

  Tony’s gaze rose and he watched a hawk in the sky. He thought of a line from a play, hawk . . . lazy circles . . . What play was it? He’d have to . . .

  Tony woke suddenly from a bizarre and unsettling dream. Heart pounding, disoriented. His flesh was damp.

  Where am I?

  A moment later he remembered.

  And grew sorrowful at the thought of Jonny Boyd’s death.

  La Piedra . . .

  Tony and Matt would talk to their captain when he got back to the station. Get together a task force, DEA and the Bureau. Maybe army too. Twist the Mexicans’ arms to cough up information about the enforcer’s likely location, his known associates.

  And they’d hunt the fucker down.

  He grew woozy again, the dry mouth returning. Damn drugs. People took this shit for fun? He groped for his water, found it and sipped four swallows’ worth.

  A knock on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Agent Shea Talbot walked inside. She looked him over, eyes narrowing slightly.

  He realized he looked groggy. “Took an involuntary nap,” he said. He was embarrassed. As if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

  “Understandable. You feeling okay enough to talk?”

  “Hell yes.”

  The FBI agent sat, and Tony heard a rustling. He wondered if she wore a slip. Did women still do that?

  She said in a flatlined voice, “Now, Officer Wright, you understand you’re not under arrest. You’re under no obligation to talk to me. You can end the interview at any time. But—”

  “It’s a crime to lie to you.”

  It wasn’t illegal to lie to him, a municipal police officer. But if you didn’t tell the truth to an FBI agent—even if you weren’t under oath—it could mean prison time.

  Tony gestured. “Ask away.”

  The woman sat and scooted the chair closer to him. “Can I record this?”

  “Sure, yeah.”

  She set the recorder beside him on the bed. It was near the empty Tupperware. She looked through her notebook and began, asking him to describe the incident in his own words.

  Who else’s words would I use? he thought. But, of course, he kept the wit to himself.

  “I wasn’t involved in the operatio
n officially. I overheard our captain, Hannigan, Pete Hannigan, mention that Matt had gone out with some DEA people to plant eyes and ears in an abandoned factory in Chihuahua. I asked him about it. He told me somebody’d made an anonymous call to EPPD that the Cardozos were going to start using it as a drop house.”

  “Anonymous. But any thought on who made that call?”

  “I guessed it was a rival cartel, fucking . . .” Tony’s eyes dipped to the recorder. “Messing up the competition. But . . . guess it had to be the Cardozos themselves, didn’t it? Getting Jonny out of the country, into a kill zone.”

  She said, “If they wanted a DEA agent, though, why call El Paso police?”

  Tony thought for a moment. “Maybe to make it look less suspicious. They’ve got good intel. They’d know how close we work with DEA and that Jonny’d go along with Matt or whoever, to check the place out.”

  “And you followed them. Why?”

  A shrug. “Just four officers, in Cardozo territory? Thought they might need backup.”

  She looked over her notes. “The tip about the factory came in from a burner phone?”

  “I think so. Again, I got involved later.”

  “So the people who knew about the operation were your Captain Hannigan, you, Matt, Jonny Boyd and two of his DEA people.”

  “And our dispatch. And theirs, DEA, I mean.”

  She jotted.

  Tony glanced at the recorder again, this time to make sure it was running. Trying to be helpful.

  “Would any family or friends have known about the mission?”

  After more than a dozen years doing this kind of work, Tony knew that nobody in the business ever talked to wives, or husbands, about what they did. Not specifics.

  “Can’t imagine that. Anyway, from what I heard, Matt and Jonny moved out just after they got the tip.”

  “Any private security contractors involved?”

  “None that we used at EPPD.”

  Tony noted that she was subtly examining his hands, feet, head as he answered.

  Kinesics. Body language analysis. Tony Wright knew the practice was sometimes helpful in rooting out deception. He wasn’t a fan. When interviewing suspects, he went on gut instinct.

  Talbot said, “Matt told me about a CI he’s running. Elena Velasquez. She’s a street artist by day: you know, doing portraits of tourists in Serrantino. At night she’s a prostitute. She works near Cardozo headquarters, and has access to some of the senior cartel people.”

  “I don’t know anything about her. Matt and I aren’t partnered. What about her? Does he think she’s the one who dimed out the team?” That was the problem with confidential informants. If they betrayed a gang or cartel, they could just as easily betray you.

  “We’re looking into it.” More jotting. “Do you know anyone who might have an issue with Jonny Boyd?”

  “Personally? You’re thinking he might’ve been set up by someone other than the cartel?”

  She lifted an eyebrow. Meaning: please answer the question.

  Tony looked out the window. “I didn’t know Jonny real well. Never socialized with him. Matt might know better.”

  “No,” she said, “he just met Boyd yesterday, he told me. I’m wondering if you heard rumors he’d been involved in anything illegal. Corruption here in Texas, kickbacks?”

  “Jonny? Sorry I can’t help you. I don’t know anybody who’d want to take him out.”

  A few more notes. Talbot had run out of questions, it seemed, but she continued to interview Tony for ten minutes more. Following the age-old interrogator practice, she rephrased the same questions asked earlier, claiming she wasn’t sure she understood or to ask for clarification. In fact, the point of this technique was to see if the answers would be the same as before.

  “Well, Officer, I think that’s enough for now. Appreciate your cooperation.”

  “What about the DEA?” Tony asked. “The two other agents at the scene? Or somebody else in their office.”

  “My colleagues are looking into that possibility.”

  FBI-speak for “I’m not answering that.”

  She thanked him and stepped into the hallway, leaving Tony alone to stare once more out the window at the fumy blue sky, now free of hawks and birds of any kind.

  The door swung open once more and Matt walked into the room, carrying two cans of sweating Coke. He tossed one to Tony and hopped onto the bed. He fluffed pillows, cracked his can, and drank long. Tony set his on the bedside table, unopened.

  Matt sighed in satisfaction at the beverage. “Talbot’s good. Kinda hot too, don’tcha think. I mean, in a cold kind of way.” He laughed at his own meager joke. Then he eyed him. “What’s wrong, T?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You sure?”

  “Just fucked up, what happened to Jonny. Having trouble letting it go.”

  “Yeah.”

  A nurse stepped into the doorway and asked, “Officer Wright?”

  Matt and Tony answered simultaneously, “Yes?”

  She blinked and then nodded knowingly. “Ha, that’s right. I forgot you two were related.” She turned to Matt first to ask if he’d like lunch.

  He did but Tony declined. He had no appetite.

  What’s wrong. . . ?

  Only one thing: it now seemed possible, maybe even likely, that it was his kid brother, Matt, who’d sold out Jonny Boyd to the Cardozo cartel.

  Four

  Sure you don’t want anything?” Matt’s mouth was half full. He chomped on what looked like a taco salad only made with heart-healthy tofu. “Not bad for a hospital.”

  “No.” Tony eyed the Tupperware.

  This time, the nausea wasn’t from the drugs. Or Boyd’s death. Or the food.

  It was the possibility of Matt’s betrayal.

  His brother had lied to Talbot. He’d told her that he’d met Boyd for the first time yesterday.

  But Tony had seen the two men having lunch in a café on Piedras, a block from EPPD a week or so ago.

  Tony lay back with eyes closed and for a solid three minutes told himself to cut it the fuck out. But he could think of no good reason Matt would lie to her. He began to tally up the case for his brother’s guilt.

  One, the lie to Talbot.

  Two, Matt hadn’t told Tony about the surveillance op. And he’d been totally pissed off when Tony had shown up.

  Three, as soon as they’d gotten to the factory, Matt had separated from the main team, which would have given him a chance to signal the Cardozos—specifically the sniper—and, at the same time, stay out of the line of fire. Matt’s appearing to be stuck in the warehouse, pinned down, would keep Boyd in the target zone.

  Four, Elena Velasquez, the confidential informant. Matt had kept her to himself, which was odd. Detectives always shared their CIs and their information with fellow officers. One reason to keep her out of the picture? He was setting her up to be the perfect fall woman to blame for betraying Boyd.

  Five, the grenades should by rights have killed the two officers but didn’t. Had they been tossed by a Cardozista away from Matt—to make sure he wasn’t hurt?

  Okay. Those were circumstantial arguments of Matt’s betrayal. But they weren’t particularly damning, absent an answer to why—the number-one question on cops’ minds when they look over the puzzle of a crime.

  Was there a why? Did Matt have a motive for betraying the team?

  And Tony heard in his mind another question of Agent Shea Talbot’s.

  Do you know anyone who might have an issue with Jonny Boyd?

  Sorry I can’t help you. I don’t know anybody who’d want to take Jonny out.

  Yes, it was a crime to lie to a federal agent.

  But lie Tony had.

  Because he did know someone who might have a reason to take the DEA agent out. His own brother.

  August. Two years ago.

  EPPD was running a drug takedown in an empty shopping mall east of the city, Matt being one of the officers on the job. Not th
e cartels; some scrawny cracker had been cooking up batches of meth like he was going to start distributing through Walmart. He was selling a mother lode to a fat, bearded biker. The bust went fine . . . until a carload of the tweaker’s buddies showed up, armed and eager and stupid.

  All to hell.

  The gun battle ran for twenty minutes, before all the perps ended up in metal.

  It was a good day: More than twenty-two pounds of meth—enough for nearly forty thousand hits—and $600,000 cash. Six assholes off the street and the only injury one of the cracker’s friends, who got a pinkie shot off.

  Then somebody in the DEA got to thinking. The going price for meth was $80-plus a gram. That meant the stash was worth nearly $800K. Why the discrepancy? Had $200K been stolen?

  Tony wasn’t on the op but he was at the press conference, with all the drugs and cash piled high for the cameras, a typical dog and pony show the brass love. Tony happened to see the chain-of-custody card on the wrapped bags of cash: M. Wright was the first name on the list. His brother was the one who had packed up the money at the scene. If there had been a theft it could have happened anywhere from there to the evidence room, sure, but it’s always easier to pilfer from the scene rather than the vault in the evidence room.

  In the profession of policing, it’s called “shrinkage.” It happens some but rarely to the tune of $200K.

  Tony had heard that Boyd was getting pressure to find out if the money had in fact been stolen. So he was interviewing everyone who’d been at the scene. This was probably the subject of the meeting between Boyd and his brother that Tony had witnessed a week ago.

  The meeting that Matt had lied to the FBI agent about.

  Had his brother arranged for Boyd to die because the DEA agent was closing in on the truth?

  Ridiculous, of course.

  Impossible . . .

  Except for the Douglas factor.

  Five

  Twenty bucks says you don’t jump.”

  “Jump?”

  “From the roof. I say you don’t. I say you’re a fucking coward.”

  Tony mutters to his thirteen-year-old brother, “M, forget it.”

  The high schooler turns on Tony. “I know you’re a coward.” The kid looks back to Matt, who cocks his head and looks up at the roof.