by Ted Galdi
Thirteen
Tommy steps out of the motel onto the crowded Zona Norte sidewalk, the sky the color of ash. He calls Josh.
“So you came to your senses?” Josh asks.
“I’ve got to kill two of them.”
“Ugh. Two who?”
“One gangster and his boss.”
“The boss isn’t a gangster too?”
“White, likely American. I don’t know who he is exactly.”
“I know who you are exactly. A—”
“Crazy person? I don’t care. Do you know how to break into a phone?”
“Whose phone?”
“Just…in general. If I got my hands on a cell piece and it was locked with a passcode, could you guide me to hack my way through it so I could see all the texts and stuff?”
“Ah, a twist. So I’ll be bestowing my magical abilities onto you.”
“It’s not magic. People break into phones all the time.”
“Yeah, like the FBI.”
“I met them. They don’t know what they’re doing.”
“What?”
“The two agents on Danielle’s case. I found the guy who shot her. And they mooched his name off of me. They think this banger is going to rat out his boss if they flex on him a little. I knew cats like that in Attica. They don’t rat.”
“What does that have to do with a phone?”
“I kill him. Then nab his cell. You show me how to break into it. Chances are he’ll have a bunch of messages from his boss. Once I peep them, I’ll know who the top dog is. I go after his ass next.”
“Sounds like you’re going to get bit.”
“Bite me.”
“You’re doing all this by yourself?”
“Dead up.”
“No. Dead you. Let’s say you murk this gangster. You’ll still be trapped on gang terrain. Without a passport to escape. This guy’s buddies will scour every corner of Mexico for you. And likely find you. Even if you grab his phone, tunnel into it, and see who the boss is, you’ll probably never make it back to America to go after him.”
Tommy cracks his knuckles. “Maybe. Still, not going to quit.”
“I get that. And though I’m not encouraging any of this…any of it at all…if you’re moving forward, I want you to do it in a way that maximizes your odds of living. You’re my best friend, man. I want to see you again.”
“I mean…yeah, same. What sort of way are you talking about?”
“I bet those two FBI agents would also be interested to see what’s on the phone. They could—”
“No way.”
“Listen, T. Just—”
“I’m not working with them.”
“Did you even consider the benefits? One, they have guns and a ton of training. If you cruise into gang territory with them on your side, it’ll be an even fight. Two, they’re feds, can talk to Border Patrol and get you back into America ASAP without a passport. And three, the FBI’s decryption technology is as close to magic as you could get. If you pocket that phone, there’s a small chance I can show you how to circumvent the passcode. But with them, it’s a guarantee.”
“They’re feds. They stick with their dumb procedures. They’re not into any cowboy shit.”
“They learned the killer’s name from you, right? And I have a feeling you applied a healthy dose of cowboy shit to get it. If they were as rigid about procedure as you’re suggesting, they would’ve avoided your intel on sheer principle.”
“I don’t know.”
“Think about it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Peace.”
Tommy hangs up. Then opens Google on his phone. He enters “Clyde Gabor” and, clicking on results from newspaper websites, learns he’s led quite a few successful narcotics busts.
Tommy types “Jordana Quick” into Google. A post on the FBI website from a couple years ago lists her as one of Quantico’s annual graduates. No newspaper articles show up. Tommy supposes that makes sense since she’s younger than Clyde, likely worked just a fraction of the cases he has. But her youth should be cause for profiles on Facebook, Instagram, and other social-media sites. Google’s returned none.
Before graduating from Quantico twenty months ago, Jordana Quick seemingly never existed.
Fourteen
Clyde opens the door to an interrogation room in a Tijuana police station. He, a Mexican cop, and Jordana file inside. Carlos Ayala sits in front of them on a chair, his feet up on the table. Clyde glimpses the policeman, expecting him to tell Ayala to get his boots off his table. But he says nothing.
“You speak English?” Clyde asks Ayala.
“Only learned so I can do business with Americans. I like doing business with Americans. They overpay.”
“Who paid you in San Diego from the window of the white truck?”
“I don’t know what you talking about.”
“Your business partner. The man who hired you to shoot all those homeless people in the woods. What’s his name?”
“Maybe you show me video recording of me with him and it make me remember.”
Clyde smirks.
“Oh,” Ayala says. “What the matter? You don’t have video recording?”
“One of your victims survived. We have an eyewitness statement attesting a Latino with your snake tattoo was her shooter. She also cited an Escalade. A vehicle that happens to be registered to you.”
“A lot of Latinos have Escalades. A lot have snake tattoos.”
“Not a lot have both.”
“But enough do to force you come up with even more proof. This survivor woman you talk about, she is still alive I guess? She will point me out in a lineup?”
“I’m giving you a chance here to save yourself from the death penalty. Are you really too naive to see that?”
“I’m not naive one. You are.”
Clyde snickers. “How so?”
“I know who I am. I live as nature intended. You a faker.”
“Nature intended you to be a murderer?”
“Murder is bad name invented by people for a very natural thing. Look at animal kingdom. Animal kill each other all the time. Part of life.”
“Humans aren’t animals.”
“They are. Just smarter kind. But smarts can be bad. With smarts comes denial. Regular animals no live in denial.”
“Well, I’m not a murderer like you. I have nothing to deny.”
Ayala leers at Jordana, licks his lips. Then turns back to Clyde and asks, “How many times a day you think about putting your dick in your little assistant?”
Clyde slams his fist on the table. “Watch it shithead.”
“Simple question. How many times a day? Two? Five?”
“She’s not my assistant. She’s a federal agent. She can come down on your slimy ass just as fast as I can.”
“See, you no want to answer. You change subject. You get so mad about question because you know you do what I ask about. But no admit. It only natural to want to shove dick inside something that look like that. You have a lot more to deny than you pretend.”
“I assure you I’m not pretending about a lethal injection in the US.”
“Look at you, doing work of American government like good little ant. Government don’t care about you. Why you care about them?”
“I didn’t come to Mexico for a civics lesson from an illiterate criminal. You going to accept your one chance to make a deal with me or keep babbling?”
“Every nation that ever been created, been result of war. America included. One group of people kill other, take land. Then when winning group in charge, they make laws to their citizens that say no can kill each other. And stupid people like you think they sacred.”
“So you’re saying you committed that homicide in the woods because you were somehow justified?”
“I don’t know what you talking about.”
“The FBI has the full cooperation of Mexico City on this case. We have a bevy of ballistics data from the crime scene. It’s only a matter
of time before we match you to the murder weapon.”
“You no have proof to charge me with any crime now, yes?”
“We will.”
“So then maybe I see you in time, detective.”
“I’m not a detective.”
“Same thing.” Ayala stands. Blows a kiss to Jordana. Then leaves.
Clyde lights a cigarette. “Sorry you were subjected to that,” he tells her.
“I’m a big girl.” Her phone rings. “Yeah?” she says into it. “Yes…Well…I’ll see…Right…Bye.” She hangs up.
“Who was that?” Clyde asks.
“Dapino. He wants to meet with us.”
Fifteen
Clyde sits in the driver’s seat of his idling Chevy Tahoe, Jordana in the passenger’s, Tommy the back. The smell of cigarettes wafts off Clyde’s clothes, filling the car.
“No,” he says.
“Why not?” Tommy asks.
“If I want Ayala’s phone records, I’ll go through the phone company. Hit them with a subpoena.”
“Ayala is a career criminal. You really think he uses a number registered under his real name? He must rock a burner. To get the data from it, we need to be in possession of the actual phone.”
“You’re…fine, that’s a good point. But still. This is a bad idea.”
“How did your interrogation with him go?”
“That’s confidential.”
Tommy chuckles. “So really shitty then.”
“What’re you specifically proposing? How would this tactically work?”
“When I was in Ayala’s boiler room, I saw where he kept his phone, back-right pocket. I can pickpocket it.”
“How’re you going to get close enough without him getting all suspicious?”
“He’s expecting me. I have an eleven-PM meeting scheduled with him, remember? I’d show up.”
“You have a meeting with him to present a surveillance video that doesn’t exist.”
“Yes. That’s an obstacle. We’ll have to get around it.”
“We?”
“Believe me, the last thing I wanted to do was get you involved. But…our chances of success go up if we work together.”
Clyde turns to Jordana and says, “This is getting even better. First I thought Dapino just wanted our blessing to do some wacko shit on his own. Now I’m hearing we’re supposed to be active participants.”
She folds her arms. “I actually don’t hate the idea.”
Tommy clenches his fist. “Boom. Agent Quick coming in hot with logic.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me?” Clyde says to her. “Do you realize how against bureau protocol this is?”
“I know. But the search warrant for Ayala still hasn’t come in yet. Even if he did have the murder weapon lying around his house, after he left the police station, I can assure you he removed it, dumped it in the ocean. Without hard evidence hanging over his head, we’re not going to be able to scare him into giving up his boss. The data on his burner might be our only hope.”
“Not only is this completely against FBI code, but whatever info is on Ayala’s phone won’t be worth crap if a judge rules it inadmissible, decides it’s improperly acquired evidence.”
Tommy says, “A judge won’t have to hear about it. The phone is just a stepping-stone from Ayala to his boss. After you find out who he is, the FBI can investigate him, look for evidence tying him to the crime. That would be shown in court, not the stuff on the phone.”
Jordana says, “If we find physical evidence on the boss, we can lean on him to give up Ayala and everyone else who was in the woods that night. This burner could effectively wipe out the entire ring.”
Clyde is quiet for a while. “I’d be lying if I said this didn’t make sense on a level. But still. I have a bad feeling about it. This just isn’t how the FBI operates.”
“When you first wanted to be an agent, was it because you were inspired to follow some instructions manual or put away criminals?” Tommy asks. “You can’t do both this time.” He points at the console clock. “And you need to pick one before eleven o’clock.”
Sixteen
Tommy jogs beside Jordana through the aisle labeled “Cocina/Kitchen” in a Tijuana Super-Mart. With a hurried hand, he takes a pasta-cooking pot off a shelf and loads it into their cart.
“You’ve made one of these before?” she asks.
“No. But they taught us all about them when I was in the fire department. It’ll work.”
She glimpses her watch. “We’ll have enough time to put it all together before we have to head to the meeting?”
“It’ll be close.” He hustles toward another aisle.
She keeps pace at his side. “Don’t do anything stupid tonight.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re lucky Agent Gabor agreed to your burner-phone proposition. Let’s keep it at that. Don’t push it.”
“Push it into what?”
“Come on.”
He grabs a pool-volleyball net off a shelf and dumps it into the cart. “You come on.”
“Why you came down here in the first place.”
“I came down here for the same reason you did. Danielle.”
“I came to make an arrest. You came to commit a murder.”
“When did I say that?”
“You don’t have the authority to arrest anyone. The only type of justice at your disposal is murder.”
“I wouldn’t consider it murder. He killed my sister. It’s different.”
“So you’re owning up to it?”
“No. Just…in theory.”
“Well, in theory, if an FBI agent witnesses a homicide, even if the victim did in fact shoot the assailant’s sister, that FBI agent would have an obligation to detain the assailant. I just want to make sure we’re clear on that before we visit Ayala.”
“I’m taking his phone tonight. That’s it. If I happen to pay him another visit in the future, I’ll make sure no FBI agents are around.”
“Let the chess game play out. We’ll win that way. No need for any future visits.”
“So it’s a double standard then?”
“What?”
“When an FBI agent kills a criminal, they’re a hero. If I did it, I’m just some vigilante psycho, right?”
“FBI agents are not allowed to blow away suspects they have a grudge with. We’re authorized to use force to defend ourselves or others in danger.”
“And when you guys shoot someone not in defense, the bureau uses its power to alter the story to make it look legit. A win-win for you.”
She stops jogging. “Apologize.”
He looks at her over his shoulder. “For what?”
“I luckily haven’t had to rely on my weapon. And if I ever do, it wouldn’t be in cold blood. If other agents out there have done that, I promise you the bureau wouldn’t stick up for them.”
“Whatever. Let’s go. We’ve got more crap to get.”
“Apologize to me first.”
“I don’t do apologies. Most people are too sensitive. If I did, I’d waste half my life saying sorry to them, and the other half saying sorry to myself for letting them suck me into their BS.”
“Gabor was right. You are an asshole.”
She strides to him. He wheels the cart into another aisle, tosses in a spool of cotton yarn and a box of matches.
“All those violent lunatics you must come across, you really never had to pull the trigger once?” he asks.
“I wouldn’t necessarily call them violent lunatics. Most people we apprehend are…misguided. Born into bad situations. After they’re caught, a lot learn where they went wrong. Reform in prison.”
He laughs. “Horseshit. I was in prison, Attica. Not exactly a sanctuary for reform. Almost all those guys come in bad. And stay bad.”
“It’s odd you’d have a social outlook that’s so…bleak.”
“Society can be bleak. Most people outside of prison are just as messed up
as the ones in it. Just do a better job repressing their urges.”
“Agent Gabor told me you were apparently a pretty good fireman.”
“Where’d he hear that?”
“He looked into you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.”
“Well, firefighting was a long time ago.”
“Just a couple years ago.”
“I stopped keeping track.”
“When a fireman rushes into a burning building, he doesn’t ask questions about the people trapped inside. He rescues them. Assumes they deserve to be rescued just because they’re…human beings. To do the job, you have to give humanity the benefit of the doubt.”
“Like I said, I don’t do the job anymore. What’re you even implying?”
“I’m just wondering when you stopped giving humanity the benefit of the doubt.”
“You sound like one of those well-educated people who knows nothing about the real world.”
“You sound like one of those uneducated people who knows a lot about the tainted version of the world in his own head.”
“So you guys also found out I never went to college? Did you look up my dental records in your system too? Jesus Christ.”
She closes her eyes. “Sorry. That just came out. I didn’t mean it as a knock about college.”
“Don’t apologize for anything. You’ll thank me for the tip.” He adds a roll of duct tape to the cart. A screwdriver. A saw. A few bottles of cleaning substances.
He rolls the cart toward the row of checkout registers. A familiar red-and-silver glint in the camping section catches his attention. A pick-head axe, a smaller version of the one he used in the fire department. He stops and stares at it.
“What?” she asks.
He takes the eighteen-inch axe off the wall.
“What do we need that for?” she asks.
“We had all sorts of surprises during fires. My axe got me out of a lot of them.” He sets it in the cart. “Can’t hurt to have one around later.”
She smirks. “I thought you weren’t a firefighter anymore.”
He rolls his eyes.