Spiral

by David L Lindsey

  The waitress came, and they ordered mechanically, without looking at the menu.

  Cordero ignored the rhetorical question. "The police have bean to see me," he said. He tucked his elbow into his belly and went at the cuticle on the ring finger from another angle.

  Ferretis looked at him. "Cordero, was that a surprise? The police?"

  "No, of course not. But they came twice."

  "What do you mean?" Ferretis took off his Cazals and polished his thick lenses with the tail of his guayabera.

  "Two detectives came about nine-thirty. Asked me everything you said they'd ask."

  "And you told them everything they wanted to know," Ferretis said sarcastically.

  "No! I was cool. They didn't press me. I said I'd never met anyone with the Teco Corporation. It was just another piece of business. I'd accepted the client by mail. A routine corporation thing. I took care of their annual tax business for them, my secretary paid the monthly bills on the Belgrano place. I never even went over there. All the stuff we talked about. It was smooth."

  "Smooth. I'll bet." Ferretis was irritated because one of the air-conditioning vents in the ceiling was adjusted so that it blew directly on him. He was sweaty from standing outside for so long, and he could feel the breeze blowing through the thin, damp shirt. It felt good right now, but in three minutes he would be chilled.

  Enrique Cordero's cheeks bulged like a trumpet player's as he took a huge mouthful of Corona and held it a moment before swallowing. "Honest, Daniel," he said. "No problem. But the second detective was strange. He came a couple of hours later. Said he was part of a parallel investigation. He told me to tell Rubio Arizpe to get a good lawyer, one better than me!"

  "What!" Ferretis lurched forward on his elbows. "What did you say?"

  "I said, he told me to tell—"

  "No, goddammit! What did you tell him?"

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing?"

  "Yeah. I didn't say anything."

  "Goddam!" Ferretis said in a hoarse stage whisper. "What did you do? Give him one of your boiled-egg stares?"

  "What'd you want me to say?"

  "You're missing the point, Enrique. You're missing the point! What happened, for God's sake?"

  "He said I was in a tight spot, being the only contact with the tecos, and they were going to squeeze me—the police and the F.B.I."

  "And..."

  "And I said I'd never heard of this guy Arizpe."

  "And..."

  "And he gave me his card in case I wanted to talk to him off the record."

  Ferretis leaned back. "Jesus." In a perfect world people wouldn't have to do business with other people's relatives. "Let me have the tape."

  Cordero reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small cassette, which he placed on the table. Ferretis popped the tape into a player he had brought with him and inserted an earphone. He rewound the tape, which Cordero hadn't thought to do, and listened to the interviews. This was a precaution he had decided to take as soon as he learned the Belgrano safe house was likely to be exposed. Since Cordero was the only one connected to it, he was in the most vulnerable position, the one most likely to be questioned. There was no way he could rely on this dim-witted nephew to tell him exactly what he had told the police. This way, at least, Ferretis would get the story straight. He could hear for himself how badly Cordero had screwed up.

  The tape lasted about forty minutes, and he listened to it as he ate his chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and black-eyed peas, which he washed down with several glasses of instant iced tea. He ate with his right hand while he used the middle finger of his other hand to block out the increasingly noisy cafe sounds. He completely ignored Cordero while he ate, and listened to the tape. Dessert was included with the price of the rubbery steak; a square of dry white cake with a yellow sugar icing which Ferretis dispatched in three bites. He finished eating before the tape was through, and sat picking his front teeth with the corner of the bill the waitress had left when she made her last pass to fill his iced-tea glass. He looked at an obscene limerick penciled on the Formica next to the chrome napkin dispenser.

  Finally he jerked the earphone out of his ear by its wire and flicked the rewind button on the player.

  "You have Haydon's card?" he asked.

  "Yeah, right here." Cordero had to go into three pockets before he retrieved it.

  Ferretis took the card and looked at it, turned it over, and looked at the telephone number Haydon had written on the back. He put the card in his pocket and glared at Cordero, who was working on his second Corona and had now made his ring finger as raw and red as the end of a wiener.

  "I'm not sure I buy this parallel-investigation thing," Ferretis said. "That doesn't sound right, for some reason." He was going to ask Cordero what he thought, but dismissed the idea as he looked at the round-eyed nephew sitting across from him intent upon becoming the first man Ferretis had ever known actually to devour a piece of his own anatomy.

  "Enrique," Ferretis said. "Listen to me. I want you to go back and get everything out of your files that relates to the tecos. I want those corporation papers to be the only evidence the police can get their hands on. You have any names anywhere in there, you get them out. Then I want you to go back to Mexico—"

  "But the police said—"

  "Goddammit, it doesn't matter what they said. You leave. Don't fly. Don't cross at a border station. Go to our condos in Brownsville, and let Hernan take you around to Matamoros by boat. Comprende?" Ferretis leaned forward, and spoke deliberately and with emphasis. "Enrique. Go straight from here to the office. Do it in a hurry. Put gas in your car, and drive straight through to Brownsville. Don't go back to your place. Comprende?"

  Cordero nodded. He looked scared. He was such a rabbit. This stupid nephew could bring the whole thing down. Still, Ferretis himself could not risk going back to clean out the files. Better Cordero than he, and if Cordero could get out of the country, they would have some breathing room. He hadn't expected to have to do this so quickly. He knew he couldn't depend on Cordero, but he would never know what madness had possessed the otherwise reliable Valverde to fire on the detectives at the Belgrano. It was that killing that would bring down on them the full force of the law in the form of a massive investigation. The killing of Detective Ed Mooney had been that unpredictable and unforeseen variable that is the ever present hidden threat of every clandestine operation. No matter how precise the plan, no matter how practiced its execution, you are, at best, playing long odds against an unknown factor.

  "You'd better get going," Ferretis said. "When you're finished at the office, and are on your way out of town, stop at a pay phone and call me."

  Cordero nodded again.

  "Any questions?"

  Cordero shook his head, swallowing.

  "Okay, get going."

  Ferretis sat at the booth and ate the ice out of his empty tea glass. He took the business card on which Haydon had written his telephone number out of his pocket and stared at it once more. How in God's name had this man gotten hold of Rubio's name? Rubio had no personal U.S. connections. It was Ferretis's understanding that Arizpe had made runs into Texas before, but it was strictly business. He was a loner, had left no trails. The people in Guadalajara even said they had gone so far as to check the National Crime Information Center files—no trace of Arizpe or Medrano. How the hell did this cop know?

  Yes, he remembered the name. This man was the dead detective's partner, and it was odd that he should have called on Cordero separately from the other detectives. Odd enough that Ferretis believed it was significant, and significant enough that he believed it to be threatening. On the other hand, everything unexpected was going to look threatening now. He couldn't afford to let himself do what Valverde had done. The operation would not survive two such blunders. He, at least, had to be analytical, and be ready to react rationally to the unexpected.

  It had been a little over thirty-six hours since he had talked with Bias. He di
dn't have any idea how the shooting at the safe house would affect the plans Bias had set forward, whatever they were, but Bias had said "soon." Would it be sooner now, or later? The killing of the policeman had stirred up a hornets' nest, which couldn't make it any easier for him. But Bias had been through this sort of thing before.

  The question was, just how important was it that this detective knew of Arizpe's existence, and possible involvement? Was it a critical enough factor that Ferretis should use the dead drop to warn Bias and Rubio? Ferretis tried to sort out the implications of having learned this. In the first place, why would a detective conducting an investigation of this kind tip his hand like that? Why would he "warn" a prime suspect? Only one reason came immediately to mind, and the more Ferretis thought about it the more it made sense: Haydon didn't know anything about Rubio Arizpe. He was kicking the bushes, trying to flush out game. He was hoping to panic someone. It was the gesture of a man who didn't have anything to lose by doing it, because he didn't have anything to risk. Ferretis would take his chances. He wouldn't use the dead drop. Yet.

  In the meantime, he had to keep the situation from unraveling at the edges. He had just spoken with the main loose thread. Cordero was the immediate worry. If he hadn't called back within the next two or three hours, he would have to be found. Cordero could not be permitted to talk at any great length with the police, even though he knew practically nothing about the assassination.

  The second problem was that the tecos had not consulted with the Mexico City station on this because it involved hits in the United States, and moreover one of the targets was one of their own men.

  However, Gamboa had caused them problems, a lot of problems, and they might not be all that disturbed if something happened to him But the tecos did not want to run the risk of being waved off, so there had been a high-level gathering and the decision was made to go ahead without consultation. Now he was sure they were on to them, but h had received no frantic "meet" signals, which he had been anticipating since the shooting at Belgrano. This seemed ominous to him though he had no intentions of answering such a signal should it come before either Gamboa was dead or the attempt was called off.

  The third problem was Celia Moreno. He had expected to hear from her, too, by now.

  All things considered, the tecos were running a dicey operation.

  CHAPTER 28

  HAYDON didn't really know what he had found in Cordero's files. He had copied an address book he came across in a bottom drawer of Cordero's credenza, which he hoped would contain names not found in the more obvious Rolodex on Linda Solis's desk. The files themselves, the drawers and drawers of Pendaflex folders, were too voluminous. He looked for the names he already knew but, not surprisingly, did not find them. Nothing else seemed of any value until he came across the metal file box of bank statements. These turned out to be confirmation that aside from the fact the tecos had owned the Belgrano place for four years, they had been operating in Houston for a good while prior to the shootings of the last few days. Tecos activities were not confined to Mexico.

  From the bank statements it appeared that Cordero was acting as the bursar for the organization in Houston. There were statements for checking accounts on three separate banks. It seemed that Cordero and his secretary drew their salary checks from one of these accounts, which was in the name of Cordero's firm, Enrique Cordero Rulfo, Attorney. The second account was in the name of the Teco Corporation. Taxes, utilities, and maintenance on the Belgrano property came from this account. Deposits were always in cash. A third account, again in the name of the Teco Corporation, received regular monthly cash deposits in the same amount and had regular monthly cash withdrawals in the same amount, so that the account maintained no fewer than $2,000 at any time. The regularity of the amounts of deposit and withdrawal were obviously intentional, and there were probably two reasons. First, the tecos did not want to attract the attention of bank examiners, who, since the scandals about money laundering, were attentive to large, erratic cash flows. Second, it appeared that Cordero was expending funds for a specific purpose, not randomly as needed, but always in the same amount, to one or more persons or organizations.

  For whatever reasons, Cordero was definitely a conduit for finances. Haydon suspected that much of that money was funneled to Executive Limousines, or to Valverde personally. There was nothing he could do about the files there, since Dystal had secured them the night of the shooting. But he could try the next best thing. He only hoped that Celia Moreno would talk to him, and that once again he would be second in line, not first.

  She lived in a condominium on Woodway not far from the West Loop. It was in the heart of high-dollar life, about $60,000 per annum above what she should be able to afford being the secretary to Jimmy Valverde. Her roommate answered the door wearing a pair of loose-fitting shorts that looked like a tailor had spent two hours on them and a shorty top that stopped an inch below her breasts. Her streaked blond hair was held out of her eyes with a white sweatband, and pink leather weights were strapped to her wrists and ankles. Giorgio perfume floated out to him on a stream of cool air and the throbbing beat of exercise music.

  Celia, it seemed, had gone to her brother's funeral at ten o'clock that morning, and was over at her mother's house with the family. Haydon asked if she knew the address. Raising her arms, the roommate stretched to the beat of the music behind her and exposed the soft curve of the bottoms of her breasts. Sure, she said, did he want to come in while she got it? Haydon said he would wait where he was. She grinned at him, stretched higher, and told him the address. As he walked down the tiers of steps banked with wisteria and Algerian ivy, he wondered how close the relationship was between Celia Moreno and her roommate.

  The Moreno family lived north of downtown in the Latin neighborhoods around Quitman and North Main. Haydon found the street, but didn't have to hunt for the address. The cars of family and friends were parked under the trees on either side of the quiet residential street, and when Haydon got out of the Jaguar he could hear the crowd of people talking in the backyard of the pale blue house on the corner. He could smell the pecan trees in the midday heat.

  As he walked along the pavement he passed half a dozen little kids, still in their funeral dress clothes, playing tag between the bumpers of the cars. He spoke to them in Spanish, but they simply stared at him as he went by. He heard one little girl ask another in English what the man had said.

  Haydon stepped between the cars and entered the side yard. He walked by a stand of plastic sunflower windmills sticking out of the grass, their yellow petals motionless in the mottled shade. The low chain-link fence that enclosed the backyard was hidden under a solid bank of honeysuckle. The gate was already open, and Haydon entered the placid confusion of a large family gathering. Tables covered with cloths surrounded the outer edges of the yard, laden with dishes of homemade food which the women had sensibly organized by meats, casseroles, vegetables, salads, breads, desserts, and an assortment of drinks. A washtub of beer sat on the ground at the end of the last table.

  They were already eating, a few people milling around the tables getting seconds. Several women stood behind the tables fanning flies off the dishes, while others occasionally came in and out through the screen door at the back of the house with additional dishes or fresh batches of iced tea or red punch. People were sitting on anything they could find. Most of the men were making do by squatting, or getting comfortable on the grass with the children.

  Two young Chicanos spotted Haydon immediately and rose from the grass and came toward him with their paper plates in their hands and scowls on their faces.

  They spoke to him in Spanish, and then immediately in English.

  "You lookin' for somebody?" the larger one said, cocking his head back. He had a healthy girth, and it looked like one more slice of barbecue would split his britches.

  "I'm looking for Celia," Haydon said.

  "Which one?"

  "Esteban's sister." This had an unpleasant effe
ct on the two vatos, who acted as if Haydon had made a questionable comment about Celia's virginity.

  "Youafren' or what?"

  "We've met, but I don't think she would remember my name."

  "What iss you name?"

  "Stuart Haydon."

  "We got a family thing here," the other one said. He looked as if he limited his suit wearing to weddings and funerals. The dress pants he had on now were too large, with the crotch halfway to his knees.

  "Maybe you better come back some other time, huh?" The chunky inquisitor shifted his weight.

  "I really need to see her now," Haydon said. "If you would just tell her—"

  "Hey," the big man said forcefully. "I said later."

  This was loud, and the conversation at their end of the yard came to a halt as everyone looked around to size up the situation. Haydon didn't see a single pair of eyes that weren't glaring at him.

  Just then the screen door opened and Celia came out helping an old woman negotiate the porch steps. Haydon assumed it was her mother. As soon as they got down the steps, Celia looked up to continue across the yard and noticed the quiet. She followed the eyes of the crowd to the yard gate and saw Haydon looking back at her. She stared at him for a lot longer than he would have liked before she gave her mother to another woman who had come up beside them. The inquisitors had been watching her since the door opened, and when she flicked her head they turned and walked away from Haydon without saying a word.

  As she approached him, Haydon was surprised to see her smile. She laced her arm through his and turned him with an adroit maneuver as together they walked out the backyard gate to the side yard between the cars and the wall of honeysuckle. She didn't say anything until they came to the large trunk of a pecan tree near the cars, then she let go of his arm abruptly and squared around to face him.