Spanish Dagger

by Susan Wittig Albert

“Yeah,” he said with satisfaction. He held up a plastic-wrapped package. “This is it.”

  “Way to go, Rambo!” I exclaimed.

  “Some dog,” Sheila said quietly. “That is some dog.” She clicked her phone. “We hit pay dirt,” she said to Blackie. “Get set. We’re on the way.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the truck was pulling into the utility drive that led around to the back of the Sonora Nursery. Four men materialized out of the darkness and converged on the rear of the trailer. The doors were opened. But instead of finding the truck filled with potted plants, the crew was startled when a half-dozen armed officers spilled out—and even more startled when another half-dozen deputies closed in on them from behind, firearms raised and ready.

  “Down,” Blackie barked. “Facedown, flat on the ground. Now!”

  There was no resistance. Within several minutes the four were frisked, handcuffed, and lined up alongside the truck trailer. Two of the men I recognized as Sonora workers.

  The third was Ricky Conrad. He was trying not to cry.

  The fourth was his stepfather, Allan.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Betty Conrad couldn’t come to the papermaking workshop on Saturday morning, because she was still in custody. The investigation was only hours old. It wasn’t yet clear what role she had played in the drug smuggling operation, or whether she had known, when she telephoned me the evening before, that her husband was a murderer.

  For it was Allan Conrad who killed Colin and Lucita. He fit the description Amy had given me of the man she’d seen leaving Beans with Colin, not long before Colin’s death. And the dagger that had killed Lucita—a deadly weapon with a six-inch blade, two-edged and shaving-sharp, that folded neatly into a grooved aluminum handle—would convict him. It bore Lucita’s blood and a partial print of his right thumb.

  And that was what broke him. Faced with the knife and the very real possibility that his stepson and his wife might be charged as accomplices to murder, he had confessed, and the whole story came out. He’d gotten involved with the drug-smuggling ring when he was working in Brownsville. His purchase of Wanda’s failed nursery was bankrolled by drug interests in Matamoras, and even though he may have had illusions of earning his way out, it doesn’t work that way. With these people, once in, you can never get out. You know too much. You’re a threat to too many people. Even if Allan wasn’t addicted to the drugs, he was addicted to the income they provided. When Sonora didn’t do as well as he and Betty hoped, there was always the drug money, keeping the business afloat.

  And then Tyson came along, eager for his own cut. But Tyson discovered that Colin Fowler and his colleagues in the DEA were about to beat him to it, so he tipped Conrad off. Frightened for himself, his family, and his business, Conrad put a dagger into Colin. And then, discovering that Lucita was involved, he’d had to kill her, as well. A bloody, bloody business.

  Myself, I didn’t feel much like getting out of bed on Saturday morning. Rambo and I hadn’t gotten home until after midnight and I wasn’t firing on more than a couple of cylinders. I’d dreamed restlessly through most of what was left of the night, one long, bad dream in which I was Allan Conrad’s attorney. My defense depended on shifting Conrad’s guilt to Scott Tyson, arguing that he had put Conrad up to the killings, which he committed out of desperation and fear. It was a weak defense that got exactly what it deserved: the inevitable guilty verdict. But in my dream, Tyson also got the conviction he deserved, on two counts of conspiracy to commit murder.

  Dragging myself out of bed early that morning, I wasn’t looking forward to the day. But after I’d managed to get up, zip myself into my jeans, and pour a couple of cups of hot coffee down my throat, I knew I’d make it. I had to. Carole was counting on me, and even though I might not feel like dancing the Texas two-step, I could summon enough energy to fake it. Which was probably more than Betty Conrad could say that morning.

  THE papermaking workshop was a terrific success. With her usual resourceful thoroughness, Carole had prepared a great many different plant fibers for people to experiment with. At the end of the day, all our happy campers went home with samples of a dozen different papers made from a wide variety of plants: yucca, of course, but also hollyhock, okra, cattail, iris, Joe-Pye weed, mugwort, willow, and thistle—not to mention the herbal flowers and leaves they’d added to the paper pulp they had made. Thanks to Carole’s excellent teaching, they also took with them some valuable new skills, an eager desire to explore an exciting new way of working with plants, and a growing appreciation for “weeds.” Who would have imagined that you could walk out into your garden and gather leaves and blossoms for beautiful handmade paper? And even if you don’t have a garden, you can collect plenty of material during a neighborhood walk, a drive in the country, or even a trip to the local grocery.

  As I said earlier, papermaking is a messy process. Carole, Cass, and I spent a couple of hours cleaning up spills, sweeping up bits of plant fiber and leaves, packing supplies and equipment, and loading Carole’s van. While we worked, I told them what had happened the night before, to a chorus of incredulous oohs and ahhs.

  “I cannot believe how much serious trouble you managed to get into while I was here,” Carole said as she put her van in gear. “Killings, dope smuggling, drug-sniffing dogs—it’s all utterly amazing.” She lifted her hand in a good-bye wave. “Give Ruby my love when she gets back,” she added, and drove off.

  Ruby didn’t get home until nearly four on Monday afternoon, by which time I was feeling somewhat better. The shop is closed on Mondays, but I had come in to catch up on some record keeping. I was sitting in the tearoom with a glass of iced tea, my calculator, and all my paperwork spread out on the table, when Ruby breezed in.

  “Whew!” she said, flinging both arms wide and taking a deep breath. “I am so glad to be home!” She flopped into a chair, stretched out her legs, and let her arms dangle in a sign of extreme weariness. “I would’ve been here a couple of hours ago, but I had to return all those scarves. You wouldn’t believe the explanations I had to make. A couple of the stores acted like I’d stolen the blasted things myself.”

  I got up, circled behind her chair, and gave her a long hug. “I’m glad you’re home, too,” I said feelingly. “When you’re not here, this place goes to the dogs. How’s your mom?”

  “More ornery than ever. She gave the psychiatrist fits this morning. No doubt about it. She’s three chipotles shy of a salsa.”

  I took a glass off a table and poured it full of iced tea, laughing in spite of myself.

  “I know, I know.” Ruby took the glass with a grimace. “It’s wretched to make jokes about your mother losing her mind. That, on top of Colin’s murder. But it’s like M.A.S.H. If I couldn’t find a way to laugh, I’d go nuts, too.”

  I nodded. Each of us deals with tragedy in her own way, and Ruby had a lot to deal with. I had given her a sketch of events over the phone on Saturday evening, when I was finally able to tell her that Sheila had charged Allan Conrad with Colin’s murder, and Lucita’s as well. But we hadn’t been able to talk very long because her mother had put up a fuss, and now she wanted the full story, with all the details. I started at the beginning and told it all the way through to the end, including the information I had heard from Sheila earlier that morning: the Drug Enforcement Administration had confirmed that Colin was one of their undercover agents. When I had finished describing Rambo’s exploits, she clapped her hands.

  “You see, China? I told you Rambo was a wonderful dog!”

  “You told me he was a cream puff,” I said sternly. “Cream puffs don’t chomp down on somebody’s arm like a turkey drumstick.”

  “You’re right about that.” Her face clouded. “Actually, I’m having second thoughts about adopting him. The way he attacked Tyson—” She bit her lip. “I’d be afraid to trust him with Baby Grace. I don’t think he’d hurt her, but I’d be on edge every minute.”

  “You don’t have to be,” I said. “Sheila wants him.
”

  Ruby’s eyes widened. “Sheila? But she has a phobia about attack dogs!”

  “Sheila knows an opportunity when it barks at her. The Pecan Springs PD is ready to adopt Rambo as its first K-9. She’s already made inquiries about sending him to school with one of her officers.” I grinned. “Rambo knows what he’s doing. It’s the officer who needs training.”

  Ruby breathed out, relieved. “Well, then, that’s settled.” She frowned. “What about Colin’s box of photos? And the meter man? What’s going on with him?”

  “Sheila got a warrant to search Tyson’s cabin at the Pack Saddle and found the box. It contained a couple of dozen photos taken on one of Allan Conrad’s plant-hunting treks through the mountains of Mexico. But Conrad was after more than just yuccas and agaves. Three of the photos showed Allan at a staging site in northern Mexico, where cocaine is brought in from Bolivia or Colombia. The shipments are broken down and repacked for smuggling across the U.S. border. On the back of one of the photos were the map coordinates, showing the location of the staging site. With that evidence, the Mexican police and the DEA could raid the site and shut it down.”

  “But how did Colin get the photos?” Ruby asked wonderingly.

  The door opened and Sheila came in, still in uniform, her gun on her hip. “Having a party?” she asked, taking off her hat and running her hands through her hair. “Hey, Ruby—glad you’re back!” Her face darkened. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about what happened to Colin.”

  “Thanks,” Ruby said softly. “I just wish I had known. About Colin’s real work, I mean.”

  Sheila sat down. “Why? Would you have felt differently about him if you had known?”

  Ruby thought about that. “I would have understood why he couldn’t be straight with me. I might have been more patient. I might have hoped for less, might have—”

  Her eyes filled. She picked up a paper napkin and blew her nose. “No, forget all that. I’m only fooling myself. Colin’s job was only part of the problem. The other part was—We didn’t want the same things. I wanted security and love. He wanted freedom, excitement.” She blew her nose again. “Danger. He loved danger more than he cared about me.”

  “Danger is a hard mistress,” Sheila said, her face tight.

  I appropriated another glass, fished some ice cubes out of the pitcher, and poured tea for Sheila. “Ruby was asking about the photos of Conrad’s Mexican trip, Sheila. How did Colin happen to have them?”

  “They were taken by another undercover operative who went along on the trek,” Sheila said. “Turns out that Colin and several other agents had been working for the past three years in a DEA project called Operation Spanish Dagger. They were targeting a drug smuggling network with ties to Colombia, operating out of Matamoras.” She looked at me. “That guy who flashed his badge at Colin’s neighbor? He was DEA, coming to check up on his agent. Of course,” she added with some bitterness, “he didn’t bother to check with me.”

  I nodded. It was all making sense. “Then Colin’s jail time was part of his investigation, I suppose,” I said.

  Sheila nodded. “He was assigned to a cell with a man who had had some important information. Colin gained his confidence and got the information out of him. What he learned made it possible for the DEA to infiltrate the ring.”

  Ruby let out her breath. “I hope Colin gets a medal. He deserves it.”

  “I don’t know about a medal,” Sheila said with a shrug. “But the DEA will give him some sort of recognition. There’ll probably be a ceremony. I’ll stay on top of it, Ruby, and let you know.”

  I leaned forward. “And Tyson? Got anything more definitive on him?”

  Sheila made a disgusted face. “He’s still a paid agent for the Bitter Creek Narcotics Task Force, although he’s on administrative leave while he’s investigated for bribery. But he’s in far worse trouble here. Conrad will testify that Tyson blew Colin’s cover and fingered Sanchez as an informant. Bastard. If it hadn’t been for him, Colin and Sanchez might still be alive.”

  I shook my head sadly, thinking of all the hard work that had gone into Sonora, all the family pride in the family endeavor, all the pleasure in the family success. “I didn’t know Allan Conrad well, but it’s hard for me to figure him as a killer.”

  Sheila’s face was hard. “There was a lot more riding on this than just one drug shipment, China. Both Colin and Sanchez had information vital to the continued operation of the ring. There was also a weapons-for-cocaine deal in the works with a paramilitary organization that the Feds have designated as a terrorist group. Conrad seems to have been in the middle—and he’d recruited his stepson. He had a powerful motive.”

  “But it was the stepson that did him in,” I said thoughtfully. “When Betty Conrad found out that Ricky was involved, she couldn’t take it.”

  Ruby frowned. “How is Betty involved in all of this? Did she know what was going on?”

  “Not until Ricky told her,” Smart Cookie replied. “At least that’s what she says. Ricky got scared when Sanchez was murdered—although he doesn’t seem to have known that his stepfather was the killer. And then she got the phone call saying that a shipment was due in on Friday night. To protect Ricky, she felt she had to put a stop to it, even if it meant that her husband would be arrested. That’s when she left the message on China’s answering machine.”

  “She called me a couple of times during the afternoon,” I said. “I tried to get back to her, but we kept missing one another.” I paused. “It makes sense to me that she’d blow the whistle on the drugs. She loves both her kids. She’d do anything to keep them from going bad.” His mother’s love hadn’t kept Ricky from going tragically wrong, but a prison term might teach the boy a lesson in consequences.

  Sheila nodded. “She didn’t know her husband had anything to do with the killings. That’s her story, anyway. Of course, she should have phoned the police, instead of calling you.”

  “Sure, she should’ve,” I said. “But she was afraid for Ricky. She was scared of going to the police. She did the best she could.” I slanted a look at Sheila. “Are you going to charge her?”

  “She’s still under investigation,” Sheila said. “But probably not. There’s no evidence that she was a part of the smuggling conspiracy. She’ll lose Sonora, though. Her house, too.”

  “Lose the nursery!” Ruby exclaimed. “Lose her house? But how? Why?”

  “Asset forfeiture,” I said darkly. “The government has the right to seize any property connected to illegal activity.”

  “But if she wasn’t in on it—” Ruby appealed anxiously to me. “How can they do that?”

  “Because her husband was involved. When he’s convicted, the state will seize his part of their joint property, including bank accounts, cars, and furniture under criminal forfeiture law. They’ll try to seize her half—and they’ll get it, too. They’ll argue that Betty enjoyed the benefits of her husband’s criminal activities and that it can be inferred that she knew the money didn’t come from legitimate sources.”

  “That’s grim!” Ruby exclaimed.

  “Hey,” Sheila said defensively. “It’s the law. The money will come to the Pecan Springs Police Department—and the county sheriff’s office, too, since they took part in the raid. I don’t know about Blackie,” she added, “but we can sure use whatever we get. It’s a huge windfall. The cocaine in that truck is worth nearly a half million dollars, in addition to the Conrads’ property and any cash that was seized. It’ll hire new officers and get us better equipment.”

  Ruby turned to me. “The cocaine I understand. I can even understand why the government could take Allan Conrad’s property as part of his punishment. But if Betty is innocent—”

  I shrugged. “The government doesn’t have to convict you of a crime to confiscate your property. In fact, it doesn’t even have to charge you with a crime. In civil forfeiture, all it has to do is establish probable cause to believe that the property was involved in a crime. T
hat it was used to facilitate a crime or represents its proceeds.”

  “Probable cause?” Ruby asked dubiously.

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “The same minimal standard the cops need to justify a search. And once they’ve established probable cause that your property is subject to forfeiture, you have to prove—by preponderance of the evidence—that it isn’t. That’s a high standard, and tougher than you might think. I’ve put in a call to Justine,” I added. Justine Wyzinski, aka The Whiz, is a friend from my law-school days, who practices in San Antonio. “She took a civil asset forfeiture case a couple of years ago and won it. She might be willing to take Betty’s case.”

  “You lawyers are all alike,” Sheila said, sounding irritated. “The cops catch a passel of crooks, bust up a drug-smuggling ring, and you want to pick the case apart.” She finished her tea and stood up. “But I won’t let that come between us, China. It was your involvement in this business that allowed us to conclude it so speedily. Thanks.” She grinned. “I’m glad it’s over. Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, and gave her a hug.

  We left it at that, but both of us knew that the matter wasn’t settled, Betty Conrad’s part of it, at least. It would be a long time before justice was done—or before anybody had any clear idea what justice might look like.

  “WELL,” McQuaid said, handing me a glass of red wine, “I hope you see Sheila’s side of it. Forfeiture revenue helps fund law enforcement. Police departments need the money.”

  “I don’t dispute that. In fact, it just might be the reason Colin died.”

  McQuaid sat down on the porch swing beside me. “Yeah?” He pushed with his foot to set the swing in motion.

  “Yeah. Tyson wanted Colin out of the way so he could make that bust himself. He figured that if he took those seized assets back home to the Bitter Creek Task Force, they’d forget about that puny little bribery investigation. He’d be back in their good graces. That seizure would fund task-force salaries for three or four years—until the next big bust came along.”