by Don Winslow
“I became a cripple?”
“I didn’t say you were a cripple.”
“Then don’t treat me like one.”
“But be realistic,” Keller said. “Your mobility is limited. There could be violence at this thing and—”
“I’ll hobble out of the way,” she said. “But if you’re concerned, you could come with me.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
The headlines would be brutal, the diplomatic backlash worse. Like it or not, he has to work with the current administration in Mexico City.
“The old you would have,” Marisol said.
“That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair,” she said, starting to bristle, “is that forty-three students are missing, probably dead, six others were killed, and the government doesn’t give a damn.”
“I’m not the enemy, Mari.”
She softened. “No, of course you’re not. And you’re right, I’m not being fair. I’m sorry. Will my going cause you problems?”
“Probably.” Marisol is a celebrity in Mexico, the cameras would find her, the American media, particularly the alt-right, would pick it up. “But it’s your safety I’m concerned about.”
“I have to be there.”
Over his objections, she went.
Thousands of people—families of the missing students, social activists, concerned citizens—marched on the capitol building, and for the most part it was peaceful. Then several hundred broke off from the main demonstration and marched to the National Palace.
Mari was with them.
So was Ana Villanueva.
Of course, Keller thought when Marisol called to say that he shouldn’t worry because she had an escort, that the journalist had come down from Valverde to join in the protest. In front of the National Palace some of the more radical protesters donned masks and threw bottles and firecrackers at the gates. The police drove them back with water cannons and both Mari and Ana were blasted off their feet. Seeing it on television, Keller was simultaneously furious and terrified. Over the phone he asked Marisol, “Are you okay?”
“A bit wet, but otherwise fine.”
“It’s not funny,” Keller said.
“It was water, Arturo.”
“You could have been seriously hurt.”
“But I wasn’t.”
He sighed. “I’ll be glad when you’re home.”
“Actually, I’m going to Tristeza.”
“What?!”
“Did you not hear me,” Mari asked, “or did you not understand?”
“I don’t understand because it’s incomprehensible,” Keller said. “What do you think you’re going to accomplish there?”
“Find the bodies.”
Keller just went off. How the hell, he asked, did she think that a group of untrained protesters were going to do what the government couldn’t, the police couldn’t, international forensic teams couldn’t, his own people couldn’t? And what did she think, that one student was taken to the dump and shot and others were . . . where? In a secret prison somewhere? In the basement of the National Palace? On Mars? The students’ remains, he told her, are in the dump and the river, are in ashes, and are never going to be found.
“Are you finished?” she asked when he took a breath.
“For the moment.”
“We are going to Tristeza,” she said, “to keep the missing students in the public awareness and to force the government to conduct a real investigation. And . . .”
“God. What?”
Marisol said, “There’s information that the army is holding the students on a base outside of town.”
“You can’t believe that.”
“Can you tell me it’s not true?”
“Logic and rationality can tell you it’s not true,” Keller said. “You’re just stirring the pot.”
“It needs stirring,” she said. “What are you saying? ‘Let the professionals handle it’?”
“Okay, yes.”
“But they’re not handling it.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” Keller said.
“I meant here in Mexico,” Marisol said. “Why are we fighting, Arturo? I thought we were on the same side.”
“We are,” Keller said. “I just don’t want you to go to Tristeza. Mexico City is one thing. Guerrero is a war zone.”
“Ana’s going with me.”
She was with you when you were shot to pieces outside Valverde, Keller thought. She’ll be as helpless to protect you now as she was then. “I’ll have Orduña pick both of you up and put you on a plane.”
“I don’t think even the head of DEA is allowed to kidnap people,” Mari said. “And if you’re all of a sudden going to transform into some sort of paternalistic—”
“Come off it.”
“—overly protective—”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
“You cannot tell me what to do or not to do,” she said.
Marisol went to Tristeza, looked into a television camera and said, “We are doing the job authorities refuse to do,” and went off to look for mass graves.
It had gone beyond even the Tristeza Massacre now. Ana, writing once again for the national page of the Juárez newspaper El Periódico, reported that there might be as many as five hundred bodies buried in the area in the past year and a half.
Keller got to watch Marisol’s statement on the Breitbart website, the headline of which read, dea boss’s wife leads left-wing protest. It ran not only the clip of Mari’s statement in Tristeza, but also a still of her carrying a sign that read, ya me cansé (“I’ve Had Enough”) and a vid-clip of her being blasted off her feet outside the National Palace with the chyron red mari is all wet.
A separate photo of Keller made it seem as if he were looking at his wife and smiling.
The New York Times, Washington Post and CNN were more restrained, but still ran stories about the DEA director’s wife joining the protests. The Guardian practically beatified her. Fox News ran footage of the hooded protesters throwing bottles and fireworks as Sean Hannity asked whether Art Keller supported his wife’s radical activities.
Keller was forced to issue a statement. “While this is an internal Mexican matter, DEA is fully cooperating with the Mexican government to discover the truth as to what happened in Tristeza. Our thoughts and prayers are with the missing students, their families and loved ones.”
Reluctantly, Keller went on CNN and watched as Brooke Baldwin showed video of the protests. To her raised eyebrow, he responded, “My wife is obviously her own person.”
“But do you support what she’s doing?”
“I support her,” Keller said. “Marisol is a Mexican citizen with every right to protest.”
“Violently?”
“I think if we look at all the footage,” Keller said, “we’ll see that she was not participating in the violence.”
“But she was there.”
“She was definitely there.”
John Dennison jumped in, tweeting, “Red Mari” embarrasses her husband. Sad.
He got a call from O’Brien. “Can’t you control your wife?”
“I’m going to do you a favor, Ben,” Keller said, “and not even tell her you said that. But, as a matter of fact, I have no interest in ‘controlling’ my wife. She’s a woman, not a Weimaraner.”
“Hey, I’m on your side, remember?” O’Brien said.
If you decide to run for president, Keller thought, you’ll drop me like a bad blind date. “So are you going to announce, Ben?”
“Right now I’m just focused on serving the people of my state,” O’Brien said. “But, hey, if the beautiful doctor could refrain from maybe, I don’t know, joining ISIS—”
“Have a nice day, Ben.”
When Mari came home, she said, “I saw you on CNN. Thank you.”
“We’re not going to become one of those Washington power couples who communicate with each other on cable news, are we?” Kell
er asked.
“No.”
“What did you find out in Tristeza?”
“What you thought,” Marisol said. “Nothing. Don’t gloat.”
“There’s nothing to gloat about.”
It’s an understatement. Forty-nine young people dead—forty-three of them “missing,” six killed at the scene—among them probably Chuy Barajos. Keller isn’t gloating.
Marisol had more bad news. “Ana’s going to pick up the investigation. She’s convinced the federal government is covering something up and she’s going to write an exposé. She got Óscar to credential her.”
“Óscar should know better.”
“He could never say no to her,” Marisol said. “I’m worried, Arturo. Can you do something to help her?”
“I can call Roberto,” Keller said, “ask him to keep an eye out.”
It won’t do much good, Keller thought. The marine special forces have other things to do than babysit a reporter, especially one as independent and stubborn as Ana. But he would put in the call.
Then Ana called him. “What can you tell me about the Palomases?”
“Ana . . .”
“Come on,” Ana said, “you know this story is mamadas. My sources tell me the Palomas family is hooked up with Sinaloa.”
Her sources were right, Keller thought. The Palomases have been hooked up with Sinaloa via the Tapia faction for generations. When the Tapias went to war with the Barreras, the Palomases stayed loyal, but when they lost the war, they bent the knee to Adán, who issued absolution and licensed them to operate in Guerrero.
“Ana, are you in Guerrero?” Keller asked.
“Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know. Safe at home?”
“I’ve been safe at home too long,” Ana said. “I want your help on this, Arturo. The whispers here are that Guerreros Unidos were involved. Can you confirm that? Off the record, of course. Deep background.”
“We have sources that say the same thing.”
“Why would the Mexican government cover up for GU?” Ana asked. “They’re small-time players.”
You already know, he thought.
The morning after the massacre, Keller had directed his Intelligence Department to give him a full briefing on Guerrero. What he had learned was that the Sinaloa cartel was investing heavily in Guerrero as a new source of opium and that Los Guerreros Unidos and Los Rojos—both shards from the shattered Tapia jar—were competing to supply the cartel. Where Sinaloa was involved, elements of the government would be in there trying to cover things up.
“People here are saying the Tristeza police turned the students over to narcos,” Ana said. “Can you confirm that?”
“I can confirm people are saying it.” He knew it was true. Blair had obtained transcripts of the Tristeza police interrogations, and several admitted they’d handed the kids over to people associated with GU.
Because Palomas told them to.
But who gave her the order? Keller wonders now. A small-town mayor doesn’t order the murders of forty-nine kids on her own.
Cartel bosses do that.
But which?
Who?
No one even knows who’s in charge of GU now.
Maybe the Rentería brothers, maybe not.
Or did it go higher?
To Sinaloa.
Ricardo Núñez is at least nominally in control of the Sinaloa cartel. He appears to be grooming his son, Adán’s godson, to take over. Mini-Ric has a reputation as a useless playboy, a classic Hijo, but lately there have been indications that he is starting to involve himself in the business on a serious level.
Núñez Senior isn’t known as a particularly violent or rash man. If anything, he’s probably more conservative than Adán was. For him to order or even sanction a massacre like this would be uncharacteristic. Maybe his kid is more bloodthirsty, but he doesn’t have the power to have ordered this.
Two other Sinaloa factions are taking heroin out of Guerrero.
Elena Sánchez is reported to be in deep mourning, but nevertheless fighting a bloody proxy war against Iván Esparza, using street dealers as pawns. Her sole surviving son, Luis, is the titular head of the Sánchez wing, but he’s an engineer, not a killer.
Iván Esparza, on the other hand, is a killer.
Stupid, hotheaded and vicious enough to order or okay something like the Tristeza Massacre.
But so far there’s nothing connecting him to it.
For that matter, nothing connects any of them to it.
Maybe, Keller considers, it wasn’t Sinaloa at all.
Intelligence reports also indicate that the New Jalisco cartel is moving into Guerrero.
Tito Ascensión grew up poor in the Michoacán avocado fields. He did hard time in the violent cauldron of San Quentin. He’s killed innocents before—thirty-five on one instance in Veracruz when he mistook them for Zetas. He wouldn’t blink at killing those students if they got in his way.
But how?
How would a few dozen college kids on a lark get in the way?
And why would the government want to cover it up?
This was what both he and Ana were trying to solve.
Then Ana asked him a very interesting question. “The GU are old Tapia people. Would any of them feel any residual loyalty to Damien Tapia?”
That was out of left field, Keller thought.
What had Ana heard, what did she know?
“Why do you ask that?”
“Just tossing it around, Arturo.”
Speaking of bullshit, Keller thought. Ana is a veteran journalist, once feared by everyone from narcos to cabinet officials, even presidents. She never wasted something as valuable as a question. “What makes you think Damien Tapia had something to do with this?”
“I don’t necessarily think that,” Ana said. “It’s just that Damien has been seen around Tristeza.”
“By whom?”
“When you start telling me your sources,” Ana said, “I’ll start telling you mine.”
“No, you won’t.”
“No, I won’t.” Ana laughed. “But what do you know about Damien?”
What you probably know, Keller told her. Diego’s son carries a grudge against Sinaloa for his father’s death and his family’s ruination. He’s sworn revenge but so far done nothing but cut a few YouTube videos and write a few bad songs.
Sinaloa would probably have killed him already except that he was a good childhood friend of the Esparza brothers and Ric Núñez. He was also close to Tito’s son, Rubén. The youngest of Los Hijos, he was sort of a pet, a mascot, so he was tolerated. And, if they were being honest, the powers that be in Sinaloa would admit they felt guilty about what they did to the Tapias.
“Ana, be careful,” Keller said, and then clicked off.
Then he arranged for Eddie Ruiz to be taken out of his cell to a special phone.
“What do you know about Tristeza?” Keller asked.
“Nothing,” Ruiz said.
“There’s talk Guerreros Unidos was involved.”
“So?”
“They’re your old boys,” Keller said. “And Damien Tapia was your friend.”
“I don’t know about ‘friend,’” Eddie said. “I sort of babysat him when his old man was too coked up to look after him.”
“Have you been in touch with him lately?”
“Yeah, Keller,” Eddie said. “He comes here every Thursday and we play Pokémon. What do you think?”
“What can you give me on Tristeza?” Keller asked.
“Even if I did know something, which I don’t,” Ruiz said, “you think I’d give you information that would implicate me? I’m close to the door, Keller. I’m not going to do anything to fuck that up.”
“Maybe a little bus therapy would jog your memory,” Keller said. Eddie was comfortable in Victorville, safe. His family was nearby, where they could visit. Moving to a new facility would be a major hassle, maybe a dangerous one. He’d have to seek the
favor of a new Eme shot caller, build new alliances. Until Keller would have him transferred again, and again . . .
“The fuck, Keller,” Eddie says. “You come with all stick, no carrot? What is that?”
“What do you want?”
“Look, man,” Eddie said. “It’s been three years since I turned myself in. Two years since we took our little field trip down south—”
“You can’t keep playing that card.”
“My knowledge is worth something,” Eddie said. “Maybe a few months trimmed off the back end?”
“That would be up to federal prosecutors and a judge.”
“Like none of them owe you,” Eddie said.
He’s right, Keller thought. It would take one phone call, two tops, to get Ruiz’s release date moved up. “What do I get for it?”
“Look for the Rentería brothers,” Eddie said.
“The Renterías are midlevel players,” Keller said. “Who gave the order?”
“I gave you what I can,” Eddie said.
So whoever it was, Keller thought, is so powerful even Eddie won’t dime him. But Ruiz knows he can throw the Renterías under the bus, as it were. “If this checks out, I’ll get you a new EPDR.”
Earliest possible release date.
“It will,” Eddie said.
“It doesn’t,” Keller said, “I’ll bounce you around the system like a pinball on crack.”
“You ever get tired of being a dick?” Ruiz asked.
“No.”
“I didn’t think so,” Eddie said.
Keller got on the horn to Orduña and the FES started to turn hell inside out looking for the Renterías. They raided homes, storehouses, tore the countryside up looking for opium farms, became a major disruption to the heroin trade in Guerrero.
But they didn’t find the brothers.
Keller pondered the possible relationship between GU and Damien Tapia. What kind was it and who had the power to order the Tristeza murders? He directed his agency to put extreme pressure on all sources, defendants, and federal inmates to produce intelligence about Tristeza. Deals were to be offered, threats were to be made, arrests, searches and seizures pressed to the legal limits. All CIs were asked about Tristeza and pressed to get information.