“Was it hard for you,” she asks, “when you first got out of the service?”
“That was a lot different. I spent my time at Fort Polk, Louisiana, not Bagram. In my day, we considered Grenada quite a military operation.”
“Those were the days,” she laughs. “Such an innocent time.”
“Right.”
I reach my exit on I-10 but I keep driving. I listen to her voice, cruising absently through the cones of light arcing down onto the highway. Just talk, baby. Talk. Let me hear the words crash in my ears like waves on the beach, so much reassuring white noise. When she’s said all she can think to say, we sit together silently. I listen to the road under my tires and the sound of her breath over the international line.
– -
“What can you tell me about Brandon Ford?” I ask.
The man across the counter crosses his hairy arms, the jeweled dial of his Rolex catching the morning light. His name is Sam Dearborn, proprietor of Dearborn Gun and Blade. He helped me on a case last year, proving himself to be a source of all kinds of knowledge.
“What makes you think I know more than the other guys you’ve talked to? Brandon’s all right in my book. He’s a small-timer, though. For the most part, he goes after the black rifle market, the weekend warriors with money to spend. Those guys aren’t so interested in the craftsmanship or the history. You tell them this is the rifle Delta Force is currently using to punch holes in the mullah’s turban, and all they wanna know is, ‘How much?’ I think he was also selling some big-game rifles to fellas daydreaming about going on safari.”
“I already know all this.”
He rolls his eyes. “What did I just tell you? You don’t need me for this.”
“That’s not why I’m here. I just wanted to get it out of the way.”
“Okay, then. Shoot.”
“Here’s the real question, Sam. What do you know about the Mexican cartels buying rifles in bulk from Texas dealers?”
At first he doesn’t react, like he didn’t hear the question. Then he glances down the length of his counter, scratching at the gold necklace dangling in the opening of his shirt.
“You’re serious?” He snorts the words out. “This is for real?”
“Relax. I’m not accusing you of anything. If anybody knows what’s going on out there, it’s you. If anybody’s got his finger on the pulse-”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Spare me. You just took me by surprise, that’s all. That kind of business, it doesn’t go through guys like me. Just so we’re clear.”
“Understood. So how would it work?”
The simplest way, he says, is for a straw purchaser to walk into a gun store from off the street. Flush with money from the cartel, he buys five or ten assault rifles in his own name, then hands them over once he’s taken possession.
“A straw purchase is illegal, but if I’m the one selling the guns, how do I know you’re not buying them for yourself? You pass the background check, you get the weapons.”
A gang making straw purchases, even in small quantities, can amass quite an arsenal over a short period of time, stockpiling the rifles for transport to Mexico. Assuming they spread the activity out, it might go unnoticed. If they hit the gun shows, buying from private sellers to take advantage of the so-called loophole, then they can fly under the radar longer.
“But if a guy wants twenty rifles,” I say, “and he’s covered in tats and takes a rubber-banded wad of cash out of his pocket to pay for them, that’s gonna raise some red flags, right?”
“You ever heard of racial profiling? That’s against the law.” He chuckles at his own joke. “Sure, common sense dictates that if a gangbanger walks in wanting twenty-five identical assault rifles, something’s up with that. But you’d be surprised how many people don’t have common sense. And honestly, even a gun dealer’s gotta feed his family. You know how it is. Didn’t you say your uncle used to be in the business?”
“My uncle wouldn’t have sold to somebody he got a bad vibe from. He reserved the right not to serve whoever he didn’t like.”
“Those were different times.”
“And anyway, you don’t make a living by arming the cartels.”
He shrugs. “The guns may flow down, but the drugs are flowing up. We may be hurting them a little, but they’re hurting us a lot.”
I hold up my hand. “You’re not helping yourself with that argument. They’re not just killing each other down there. They’re killing cops.”
“I’m not saying it’s right. You wanted to know how it works, so I told you.”
“Let me ask a different question. If I was a gun dealer and I wanted to get in on the action, how would I go about it? The way you’re talking, it sounds like that initiative’s on the cartel’s side. What if I wanted to make a big score?”
“And by ‘you,’ you mean Brandon Ford?” He shakes his head. “I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Brandon doesn’t hustle the cheap stuff. If you want a Romanian AK, which sells for four hundred, you don’t call in a specialist.”
“For the sake of argument, though, assume he wanted to sell to the Mexicans.”
“He’d have to know somebody, I guess. They’re not a number you can call to volunteer your services. I assume he could have made a contact. If you’re asking me for a name, I don’t have one. This is pure speculation.”
A name is exactly what I want. If I push too hard, I know he’ll dig in. Before Sam Dearborn will cooperate, he needs a little time to think it over. I decide to give it to him.
“I appreciate your help,” I say. “And if you think of anything else, you’ve got my number. It never hurts to have a cop in your debt.”
“If you say so.”
Back in the car, I unsnap my briefcase and pull the Filofax out. I keep a plastic divider tucked in next to the blank note sheets. Before I forget, I write down everything Dearborn told me. Looking at the process on paper, I’m baffled. The FBI operation must be about guns and the cartels, otherwise what would it have to do with Brandon Ford? What I can’t figure out is why they would need him. The straw purchaser scenario doesn’t fit here. Like Dearborn said, Ford would need some kind of contact with the cartel, someone he could approach with an offer to supply guns. But then I’m back to the original problem: what’s the point of a sting operation targeting a notorious cartel? Is it really so hard to make a case against the drug lords?
I dial Lorenz on the phone.
“How’d it go?” he asks.
“Nothing here. But I just had a thought. Where are the guns we’re thinking Ford wanted to sell? I didn’t see a gun safe when we went through the house.”
Silence.
“Maybe you should swing by that office he rents. If there are crates of AK-47s lying around, we might want to know.”
“I’m on it,” he says. “You wanna meet me?”
“I trust you, Jerry.”
He sounds gratified as he hangs up. The fact is, I already know what he’s going to find. There won’t be any guns in the rental office, just like there weren’t any at the house. Whatever Brandon Ford was up to, however it connects to Bea’s Federal operation, it doesn’t have anything to do with assault rifles, and maybe nothing to do with drug dealers, either. There’s something here I’m not seeing. A connection I have yet to make.
Maybe what I need on this is a fresh set of eyes.
CHAPTER 7
I shoulder my way through the entrance to Homicide and sense right away something’s going on. The detectives stand clustered in groups of three and four, conferring in hushed tones. The ringing phones go unanswered. Lorenz has already left, so after slinging my gear into my cubicle, I raise my eyebrows at a passing colleague. He raises his back but says nothing. Not good.
Through the open door I can see Lt. Bascombe poised over his desk, all the weight on his fingers like a runner in the starting blocks. He looks up at me without acknowledging my presence. When I start over, he comes around the desk, intercep
ting me outside the door. He puts a hand on my chest.
“What’s up?” I ask.
He scans back and forth across the room, still looking through me. Like he’s making sure I’m alone. Then he pulls me inside and closes the door.
“It’s official,” he says. “The captain’s pulling people in one at a time to break the news.”
“He’s leaving?”
“That’s the story. But like I told you before, what’s really happening is, he’s getting the push. I wasn’t expecting it so soon.”
Remembering my encounter with Hedges the day before, I shake my head. “He seems like a shadow of his former self.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not entirely his fault.” He sits on the edge of his desk, motioning me into a chair. “I can’t believe they’re rushing him out like this. It’s the politics, March. You end up on the losing side in this department and, I swear, they’ll cut your throat.”
“Maybe I should go see him.”
“Don’t be in such a rush,” he says. “It’s depressing. When they do you like this, they don’t just can you. They also write the script. Not only do you have to leave, but you leave on their terms, giving their reasons, or else.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
He looks at me like I’m stupid.
“Anyway, can I run something past you, boss? I think that FBI agent is spinning us a yarn.”
“You’re one of those people who tells jokes at funerals, aren’t you?”
“What do you want me to do? I think she lied to us.”
Bascombe goes around the desk and slumps into his chair. The cushion hisses as it takes his weight.
“Go ahead, then.”
I bring him up-to-date on everything, including Miranda Ford’s description and my after-hours confrontation with Bea. As I talk, his expression goes from bored to mildly interested. By the time I’m done, he’s leaning forward, elbows on the desk.
“Well, something’s not right,” he says.
“I know. So what should I do about it?”
“What can you do? Seems to me the only thing is to ignore what she told us. Pretend that meeting never happened. What does it actually change, after all? You got a hit on your victim, the identification’s made, and he’s a real person with a real history.”
“Yeah, but Bea’s working some kind of angle-”
“So what? If you take her story and set it aside, what are you left with? Some forward movement on your case. Whatever the FBI is or is not up to, we do one thing here and that’s clear homicides. So that’s what you do.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Unless something changes, I don’t see what else you can do.”
“I was hoping you would make some phone calls and see what you can find out about Bea and her operation.”
“It was making phones calls that got us into this.” He sighs. “Leave it with me, okay? I’ll see what I can do. Don’t expect any miracles, though, because I have my hands full at the moment. For the time being, ignore the FBI and just do your job.”
On my way out I pause at the door. “Who’s moving into the captain’s office?”
He raises his palms. “I still don’t know. And that right there should tell you something.”
When my turn comes, I file into the captain’s office, surprised to find his personal belongings-the books and knickknacks, the framed photos and diplomas-already packed into a row of boxes along the credenza. The skin on his head shines through his flinty close-cropped hair, making him seem older to me than he ever has before.
“I should have done this a long time ago,” he says.
The euphemisms flow, and I sit there receiving them passively, not daring to question the script Bascombe says “they” have prepared. I owe this man. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here. Out of respect, I don’t question anything he says. I nod in agreement, like I’m happy for him, like this is the best news he could have shared. Any other reaction would risk humiliation.
“Sir,” I say, reaching across the desk to shake his hand. “It’s been a real pleasure working for you. It won’t be the same here without you.”
He holds my hand a beat longer than is required, fixing his piercing eyes on me.
“Thank you, March. You know you’ve always had my respect.”
I pull my hand back. “You’ve always had mine, too.”
It’s not fair.
Closing the door behind me, I walk out of Homicide and take the elevator down to the ground floor. A man like that, with the years he’s put in. . I go through the lobby past the front desk, pushing through the revolving doors out onto the sidewalk, into the searing brightness of midday. To go out like this, a whimper not a bang, and for what? For being ambitious. For getting on the wrong side of people who play the game better than him. But they don’t run homicide squads better than him, because no one does. I take a deep breath, let it out. Take another. I close my eyes and try not to think. He doesn’t deserve what they’ve dealt him. I’d pay them back if I could, if I even knew who they were.
Cars rush by, leaving the smell of exhaust in their wake.
I will know soon enough. When someone else takes his place.
My phone rings before I get back inside, Lorenz calling from Brandon Ford’s office.
“There’s a safe here,” he says, “with a couple of rifles inside. There’s something else down here, too. I think you should come take a look.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure. . a shrine? Newspaper clippings, photos, kind of a psycho wall.”
“Snap some photos of it in situ, then bring it all down here.”
He hesitates. “I’d rather you meet me. You’ll see what I mean.”
Instead of heading upstairs again, I go straight to the garage. It takes twenty minutes to get there, and another five to circle around, retracing my path along Westheimer until I figure out which of the half-empty low-rise office parks is the right one. The building’s storefronts house a couple of pawnshops, a check casher, and a seedy-looking lingerie boutique. A sign in the parking lot lists the businesses inside. Brandon Ford’s name doesn’t appear.
I park next to Lorenz’s car and go through the glass doors into a small air-conditioned entry with a row of mailboxes on one wall. Down a tiled corridor I hear the splash of a water fountain. As I follow the sound, the air grows humid. The corridor opens into a cathedral-like atrium, open in the center, its terra-cotta expanse filled with blinding sun from the overhead skylights. Around the shadowy perimeter, two floors of office space face the lobby like the split levels of an old-fashioned motor court.
The smell inside reminds me of when I was a kid and my aunt would lock me in the car on a hot day with the windows cranked down just an inch. As my eyes adjust, I see the water fountain, hedged in by thirty-year-old plastic bushes.
After ascending a flight of stairs, I find the right door. Lorenz answers on the first knock, like he’s been waiting at the threshold all this time.
“It’s like a time warp out there,” he says.
The space Brandon Ford rented consists of three rooms. The reception space up front houses an empty desk. On the right, there’s a hallway that leads to two offices. The front one contains the gun safe, its thick door hanging open to reveal a couple of black rifles. I peer inside. Tucked in back I find a short-barreled AK with a folding stock. This particular variant is called the Krinkov. To possess a short-barreled rifle of this sort legally, Ford would have had to jump through some NFA hoops, and it would only be transferrable to others willing to qualify the same way. I detach the banana mag-which is empty-and pull the breach open to make sure it’s unloaded.
“Is there any paperwork on these?”
Lorenz pulls open a file cabinet in the corner. “There’s a bunch in here, depending on what you’re looking for.”
On the shelf inside the safe, twenty-round boxes of Wolf 5.45 x.39mm hollow points are stacked on top of each other.
&n
bsp; “It doesn’t matter now,” I say, putting the rifle back. “But we should probably make a call to ATF. I’m not sure what the procedure is when a gun dealer is deceased, but I don’t think leaving these here is a good idea. How’d you open the safe?”
“Same combo as the one at the house. I found it in his bedroom nightstand.”
“So where’s this psycho wall?”
He points the way to the back office. I go inside, flipping on the lights. This is where Ford must have conducted business. The desk wraps around one corner with custom cabinets overhead, the doors ajar from Lorenz’s search. The computer hums inside the footwell, but the twenty-inch monitor on the desk is dark, an add-on camera clipped to one side. On the opposite wall there’s a corkboard covered in news clippings.
“Take a closer look,” he says.
Some of the clippings are from the Chronicle, some are from the Houston Press. Some are printouts from the Internet, the URLs stamped on the outer margins. All of them concern the same story, and they are covered in ink underlining and bright yellow highlighting.
“You remember that incident?” Lorenz asks.
I nod silently.
Earlier this year, an HPD patrol car pulled over a man speeding on Allen Parkway after midnight. The uniforms-a rookie and his training officer-handled everything by the numbers. The rookie went to the driver’s window while the trainer approached the other side. After shining his light into the car, the rookie exchanged words with the driver and then returned to the patrol car to run the license. All of this was captured on the dashboard cam.
While the rookie was out of the way, his trainer approached the driver’s window. On the video, which was played over and over on the local news, the trainer suddenly backpedals and starts to reach for his side arm. There’s a flash from the window, an orange tongue of flame, and the trainer rolls backward onto the pavement. He draws and fires while the rookie runs forward with his own weapon drawn, also firing.
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