Over the Line

by Kelly Irvin

  “If we do that, we’ll never find Jake.” Eli slid his arm around her. She stilled. “We’re better off to follow him. Let him lead us to the gun-smuggling operation. That will get us to Jake.”

  “It will take too long—”

  “I searched Webb County tax assessor-collector records.” Chris’s voice dropped to just above a whisper as he pushed a computer-generated Google map toward them. “LD bought an eleven-acre industrial park five years ago not far from this property. No one would question it as a move to expand his holdings.”

  “It’s an ideal location.” Gabriella studied the map. At its widest spot—no more than half a mile—the property hugged the U.S.-Mexico border. “A gun smuggler needs a way to get the guns into Mexico.”

  “Exactly.” Deacon traced the border with one finger. “Typically, though, the guns are dissembled and smuggled across, hidden in any number of creative ways.”

  “Laredo has four international bridges. The import-export business is worth more than five hundred billion dollars. About twelve thousand commercial trucks cross the bridges each day,” Chris added. “Then there’s the railroads and air travel. The Port of Laredo is the number one inland port on the U.S.-Mexico border. It’s the perfect place to smuggle guns. They don’t call it the Gateway City for nothing.”

  “By the same token, with terrorism on the rise and the tension between our government and Mexico over border security and illegal immigration, it has to be more difficult to smuggle anything.” Gabriella shuffled the photos and touched the river. The property was located directly on the Rio Grande. A few dozen feet separated Donovan’s property from Mexico. “It doesn’t matter what it’s for—whether it’s bootleg counterfeit purses, drugs, people, or guns, they come over this border in either direction.”

  “And now we’ve got the wall in some places.”

  “And the National Guard.”

  “The National Guard is purely for show,” Deacon scoffed. “It’s not like they’re actually posted on the border. They’re consulting and strategizing. Whatever that means. They’re not legally allowed to patrol the border.”

  “Window dressing.” Chris nodded. “Political razzle-dazzle. ICE has its hands full dealing with the fallout from the way families were being ripped apart when they get caught crossing. The media and social service agencies are swarming all over the border, watching their every move as they try to reunite families and house them. Border Patrol is stretched to a breaking point.”

  “Maybe. It’s a mess, but we need all the help we can get stemming the tide.” Eli rubbed already red eyes. “It still seems unlikely those guns are going over the same way immigrants are coming this way.”

  “We should leave the discussion of these moral issues for another time.” As much as she agreed with Chris, they couldn’t afford to get bogged down in problems they couldn’t solve any place except at their respective voting booths. Jake needed their help. “While agencies are dealing with other critical issues, is the cartel taking advantage of the holes left in border security?”

  “A few weeks ago the HIDTA folks seized twenty-one assault rifles, something like a thousand rounds of ammunition, armor carriers, and a bunch of camouflage suits.” Chris took his cue from Gabriella’s tone. “In broad daylight. In a parking lot in downtown Laredo.”

  She ran the acronym through her mental card catalog. Nope. “Explain.”

  “High Intensity Drug Trafficking Areas. The Feds work with local LEOs to stop drugs coming in, includes Homeland Security, Laredo PD, Webb County SO, Zapata County SO. The crossover to guns is obvious. They confiscated almost six thousand guns in ’17. But the point is, it’s rampant, and there will never be enough officers to stop the flow.”

  “Obviously the cartel agrees.” Looking contemplative, Deacon sipped his soda and sighed. “They need the firepower.”

  “Sure. The cases coming before the U.S. District Court here prove that,” Chris conceded. “But it’s like sticking a thumb in a flooding dike. The sentences are three or four years in federal prison. Like a nice hotel for some of these guys.”

  Gabriella felt rather than saw the approach of someone. She glanced up. One of the men she’d pegged as a cop ambled their direction. He wore a black Garth Brooks T-shirt, jeans, and heavy-duty black work boots. At second glance he was younger than she initially thought. Late thirties. Good teeth. Full head of black hair. Five-o’clock shadow. He held a Corona in one hand, a pool cue in the other.

  She nudged Eli. He looked up. His big hands slid the photos back under the folder. He straightened. “Hey.”

  “You look familiar.” The man gestured with his beer. “I know I’ve seen you somewhere before. Back in the day.”

  Eli shrugged and took a sip of soda. “Maybe.”

  “Did you go to Cigarroa High School?”

  “Many moons ago.”

  “Kyle Sullivan.” He set the beer on their table and extended his hand. “WCSO, I oversee tactical.”

  Webb County Sheriff’s Office. He looked like an LEO. Gabriella simply had the wrong agency.

  “Eli Cavazos, homicide, SAPD.”

  “You played football, right?”

  “And baseball and basketball.”

  “That’s right. All-around jock. I was on the varsity football team when you made JV as a freshman. Everybody thought you were the wonder boy.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “The good old days. Touchdowns and cheerleaders.”

  Sullivan’s gaze shifted to the others at the table. Eli didn’t rush to fill the silence.

  “So what brings you to town?” He picked up his beer but didn’t drink. “Besides hanging out in this skanky dive bar with these rabble-rousers.”

  Miranda Lambert’s “Gunpowder & Lead” beat a strangely comforting rhythm on Gabriella’s shoulders. She shivered.

  “How are you doing, Kyle?” Chris saluted the cop with one finger. “It’s homecoming night. You probably weren’t around when my buddy Deacon was a reporter here.” More introductions. “Kyle is one of the owners of this dive bar. That’s why he can call it skanky and we can’t.”

  “Not if you want to keep coming here.” Sullivan nodded at the table. “Looks like you’re talking shop.”

  “Actually we’re celebrating.” Deacon slapped Chris on the back. “My friend and his woman have finally set a date. You remember Lydia Martinez, the reporter at KLDO? They’re tying the knot next month.”

  Sullivan whistled. “Nice. So you’re pulling the trigger, Matthews?”

  Strange choice of words for a sheriff’s deputy. Chris didn’t blink. “She told me to make up my mind. Do the deed or hit the road.”

  “Enjoy your freedom now.” Sullivan upended his bottle and drained it. “Once you tie the noose—I mean knot—it’s all downhill. If I can do anything for you while you’re in town, Cavazos, let me know.” He started away, then stopped and turned back. “Your parents still out there on the south side?”

  “Sure.”

  “They must be getting up in years. Did your dad retire?”

  “No.”

  “Probably should. You know, enjoy life a little while he still can.” He slithered away.

  Eli’s eyes were black holes. He straightened. Gabriella wrapped her arm around his. “Stay.”

  “He knows something—”

  “He’s fishing.” Gabriella hung on to his arm—for his sake, not her own—and turned back to their companions. “Nice save, Deacon.”

  “Sullivan’s a jerk. He’s probably PO’d. He’s made the moves on Lydia more than once. He makes a move on every female reporter on the crime beat here. And he’s married.”

  “It’s a common phenomenon, from what I hear.” Eli’s arm jerked. Gabriella let go. “What now?”

  “We need to retrace Alberto Garza’s steps.” Eli ran his thumb over the glossy photo paper. “If we can believe Chuy Figueroa, Garza visited the store Thursday afternoon. He called his girlfriend and said he was scared. That he’d
gotten into something bad. He told her he’d call when it was over. He parks his car at Main Plaza around midnight on Thursday night. Gets shot. Stumbles to the restaurant and dies at Gabs’ feet. Why park at the plaza? Why come looking for Gabby?”

  “My guess is he saw his buddy get executed. Either he was there and escaped or he was close enough to see what happened. If he knew they had Jake, he had to get out and find a safe place to hide.” Chris shrugged and picked up his cue. “The part with Gabriella goes back to Jake Benoit. We won’t know until we find him.”

  “Rincon asked Chuy for security camera footage at the store.” Eli paused, seeming to feign interest in Chris’s pool prowess. He banked a shot that sank a stripe. “He’s not likely to share, but I saw cameras at the pawn shop. Maybe they would.”

  “We could ask Teeter to go after it,” Gabriella offered. They were grasping at straws. “He said he was sure someone on the task force was a mole. We should share our intel on Rincon. He can work it from the inside.”

  “I have his cell phone number.” Eli pulled his phone from the back pocket of his jeans. “He’ll know what Rincon knew about the meeting between the CIs and Jake.”

  The Bon Jovi song “Bed of Roses” began to play. “That’s me.” Chris scooped up his phone from the table and turned his back. A minute later he whirled, one hand up like a stop sign. “Never mind.”

  “What do you mean, never mind?” Eli had his phone to his ear. “I’m calling him right now.”

  “He won’t answer. That was my source at the PD. A dispatcher.” Chris tucked the phone into his back pocket. “Teeter’s dead.”

  Chapter 25

  Not just dead. Murdered. Eli parked his Charger next to Chris’s Honda CR-V in the Webb County medical examiner’s office parking lot and turned off the engine. According to the reporter’s source, Larry Teeter had been killed in a public execution in a Laredo mall parking lot. The ride over had been mostly silent, with Gabby staring out her window while Eli endeavored to keep up with Matthews, who drove his own car. Deacon followed behind the Charger.

  The medical examiner’s building had been constructed after Eli left Laredo. Beyond the airport on Highway 59 past Casa Blanca Lake got him to the general vicinity. Matthews did the rest. Her face white and taut with emotion, Gabby seemed lost in thought. She probably wondered, as he did, how a man so bulging with muscle and so healthy, could be lying on a morgue slab only a few hours later.

  “Are you ready for this?”

  She turned and faced him. Her eyes were bloodshot. Lack of sleep or emotion. Or both. “Did we do this?”

  “They likely were watching him anyway.”

  “Then he talked to us and they killed him?”

  “Or the mole in the task force thought he was getting too close to the truth and shut him up.” He shoved open his door. “I don’t suppose you’ll stay here and let me find out.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “You’ll be the one with the nightmares.”

  “I’ll just add it to my collection.”

  Something else they shared. Other people collected state plates. Law enforcement folks collected nightmares. “I know.”

  Matthews had his backpack over one shoulder as he led the way up the sidewalk and knocked on the door. Deacon crowded him. The two were practically salivating at the thought of a story, even as they endeavored to show proper respect for the dead agent.

  “The ME is closed to the public, but this murder will bring out the reporters.” Matthews dropped his keys into a pocket on the backpack and withdrew his phone. “Plus the investigating officers, his family, if he has any. I’ve got a colleague and a photographer at the scene. They’ll let us know what’s going on there. Someone will let us in.”

  “Did they say if the body had been transported here?”

  “No, my source did. The cops are still cleaning up the scene, but I figure you don’t want to be late to this party. You’ll learn more here.”

  “It’s not a party.” Gabby’s voice cracked. She turned and stared at Highway 59 in the distance. Cars raced by, their drivers oblivious to the tragedies over which a doctor presided at this tan, one-story, fake-adobe building. “It’s not a party.”

  “I know. Sorry. Newsroom speak.”

  Like cop speak.

  Another sharp rap and a young Hispanic man in dark-blue scrubs shoved the door open. “How is it possible you got here this quick? Like vultures attacking roadkill.”

  “Love you too, Mike. You remember Deacon Alder from back in the day?” Matthews cocked his head toward Eli and Gabby. “Mike is an autopsy technician. Mike, this is Homicide Detective Eli Cavazos and an interested citizen. They have questions for Cady.”

  “That’s Dr. McGee to you, and she’s getting ready to start an autopsy. The Feds and the local LEOs want a quick turnaround on this.”

  “I’d like to see the body.” Gabby spoke up. The quiver in her voice was gone.

  Mike held the door open and they all traipsed into a reception area. “Are you family? The deceased’s girlfriend is already here.”

  Pain hit Eli in the gut. Teeter had been loved. That someone would never be the same. “Was she there when it happened?”

  “Just came out of a movie.”

  “The deceased had a name.” Red spots shone on Gabby’s cheeks. Anger would bring her through this. “Special Agent Larry Teeter was my brother’s partner.”

  “Then I guess you’ll want to talk to his boss.” Mike jerked his thumb at Deacon and Matthews. “You two aren’t getting in, no way, just so you know. I’ll talk to Dr. McGee about you two.” The thumb pointed at Eli and Gabby. “Wait here.” He swiveled and disappeared through a set of double doors.

  She brushed past Eli and pushed through the doors after their guide.

  “Gabs!”

  She didn’t listen. Eli followed her in. Footsteps behind him said Deacon and Matthews didn’t follow directions any better than Gabby.

  The closer they got to the autopsy suite, the stronger the smell. The one Eli associated with every case he’d investigated since becoming a detective. Rubbing alcohol and disinfectant mixed with blood and raw meat. The odor of violent death.

  A lean man in an ill-fitting gray suit stood next to a wood bench where a black woman, with deep-red stains on her red blouse and white shorts, sat sobbing. Her keening bounced off the walls and reverberated in Eli’s ears. A sound that he’d heard hundreds of times. A sound that punctuated dreams filled with gunshots and sirens and pounding footsteps through dark alleys and backyards and the smell of blood. A tall, gangly woman in a white coat over blue scrubs shook her head and patted the woman’s shoulder.

  As they approached the words home and you shouldn’t be here wafted toward them.

  “Dr. McGee, I told them to wait outside.” Mike whirled and planted himself between Gabby and the doctor. “She’s not family and he’s from the San Antonio Police Department. And we got reporters already. They all want to talk to you.”

  “Ease up, Michael.” Dr. McGee craned her neck to see over her anxious technician. She had an East Texas twang and the leathery skin of someone who liked to spend her free time outdoors. “None of you should be here. This is a private moment. You can make an appointment to come back Monday.”

  Gabriella ducked past the doctor and accosted the gray suit man. “Are you Larry Teeter’s boss?”

  “Who are you?” Her guest had no discernible accent, but tethered emotion colored his words. “What are you doing here? A colleague of mine is lying in there—”

  “I know. Larry Teeter. He was my brother’s partner. Jake Benoit.” Her voice shook so slightly only someone like Eli would hear it. “What happened to Special Agent Teeter? Did you find Jake?”

  “I’m Special Agent in Charge Chuck Jensen.” He shoved his fisted hands into his pants pockets. “I’m sorry. We haven’t found Jake.”

  “Do you know my Larry?” The sobbing woman held up both shaking hands. “They shot him. They put him dow
n like a dog.”

  Her hands went to her face. Her entire body shook as she bent over, cradling her head in her hands, begging for peace. “Oh, God, Oh, God, Oh, God.”

  Dr. McGee moved toward Matthews, who was furiously scribbling in a notebook. “Out, out, out.” She made shooing motions with hands big enough to palm a basketball. “No reporters. Don’t make me call your boss and complain, Chris. Wait in the lobby. Someone will make a statement later. You know the drill.”

  Their expressions like that of wistful little boys, they backtracked until they disappeared through the double doors. Mike marched behind them as if to make sure they didn’t try to mount another offensive.

  “Did you know my Larry?”

  For a second Eli considered joining the reporters in their retreat. He faced the woman on the bench. Her anguish was like a torch that burned through his body, searing every muscle, every tissue. He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I met him, once. Ma’am, I’m so sorry.”

  Words that meant nothing. No words could erase the memory this woman would carry with her for the rest of her life. Time would dull the edges only slightly. Not even sleep would allow her to escape. She’d joined the nightmare collectors club.

  Gabby eased onto the bench and wrapped her arm around the woman’s shoulders. “What’s your name?”

  “Tiffany Lockhart.”

  “I’m Gabriella Benoit.”

  Together, they rocked. One woman cried. The other consoled without words.

  Eli stepped closer to Jensen and Dr. McGee and introduced himself. “What exactly happened to Special Agent Teeter? We just talked to him this morning. We were trying to get information on Ms. Benoit’s brother, Jake.”

  Jensen rubbed his temples below thinning gray hair with both hands. His Adam’s apple bobbed. His gaze traveled to the glass window that separated them from the autopsy suite where Teeter would suffer more indignities. “We all know this comes with the territory.” His hands fisted. “Teeter was a good man. Decent. On his way to becoming a good agent.”

  “It’s tough. I know.” Eli waited, giving him room to collect himself. No man liked to be caught with his emotional pants down. “I’ve been where you’re standing.”