Hide and Snake Murder

by Jessie Chandler

  Luz caught the confusion on my face. “Mules are people, not the four-legged hairy beasts you’re thinking.” She half-grinned, and then her face turned serious once more. “They owe the cartel or are desperate for money and will dare to risk everything, including their lives, to transport the drugs to their final destinations.”

  Coop’s attention was riveted on Luz. In fact, he was so focused I was willing to bet if I waved my hand in front of his face, he wouldn’t even blink. I wondered if he was actually hearing what she was saying or if his brain was stuck in Luz-centric loop.

  “Then the drugs are supplied by the contact to their own set of distributors.” A peculiar look of distaste or disdain twisted Luz’s features. “Many times children, kids under eighteen, are used to disperse the end product. These couriers give most of the money they take in back to the contact, who takes a portion and returns most of the cash to Mexico, and the cycle begins again.” Luz ended her explanation and sipped from her cup. She set it down and surveyed us with one eyebrow raised.

  “This Zorra,” Coop began.

  Luz nodded.

  “Exactly how deadly is she?”

  “She’s a master manipulator and knows how to work people, to bend wills. Once she has her sights on either somebody she wants to join her organization or someone she wants to be rid of, they’re as good as involved or as good as dead.”

  That was so not what I wanted to hear.

  Coop and I thanked Luz for her time. He tried for her phone number, but she politely sidestepped the request. We walked back to the car in near silence, both of us trying to absorb what Luz had said. Coop jammed two sticks of gum in his mouth and worked them hard.

  It freaked me out that not only was Zorra a notorious drug lord, but she’d issued a cartel-style warrant for our deaths with a deadline.

  Once we climbed into the car and locked the doors, I looked over at Coop. His skin was pale, his cheeks flushed pink. “I think we need help, Coop.”

  Chomp chomp. “I’m thinking you’re right on.” He looked out the window, his eyes flicking frenetically from one thing to another. “I feel like they’re everywhere, Shay.”

  “Me, too. But you know what? They’re not. We’re fine. They don’t know this vehicle. We’re okay, Coop.”

  “Maybe.” He sniffed and held his forehead with his hand, rubbed his temples with his thumb and index finger. “Who we gonna call?”

  “Ghostbusters are going to be of no help.” I allowed a fleeting smile. “Let’s see what JT says. Maybe she’ll have another moment of serendipitous insight.”

  “I think you’re losing it, O’Hanlon.”

  I pulled out my cell. “I think you might be right, Nick. What the hell was that all about?”

  Coop’s ears began to glow. “We had a connection.”

  “I think it takes two for a connection, and she didn’t look like she was feeling it, Mister Slick.”

  “Just call already.”

  I keyed in the contact number JT had given me and caught the time at the top of the screen. It would be about six out there, and she should theoretically be finished for the day. But then, cop types loved their nighttime deploys and practice maneuvers.

  The phone rang three times. I was sure voicemail was going to kick in when a breathless “Hello?” came across the line.

  “JT? It’s Shay.”

  “Hey babe, how are things going? Did you talk to Harry?” She was panting. The sound of her voice, winded or not, calmed me.

  “What are you doing? If you’re in the middle of something I can call back.”

  “No, it’s okay, I’m about done with the Yellow Brick Road. Second time today, so I can call it good.”

  “JT Bordeaux, you like pain. I didn’t realize this about you.”

  A wheezing chuckle came across the line. “S’up? Did you get a hold of Harry?” she repeated.

  I told her about the unconventional visit with Harry and the ensuing meeting with Luz.

  “So,” I finished, “it looks like the head of a drug cartel might be …” how was I supposed to phrase this? “… looking for us.”

  The labored breathing coming through the phone disappeared. “JT?”

  “What if you go to the Feds? I need to come home, Shay. You guys are seriously—”

  “Come on, what can you do? Nothing but hold my hand, right?”

  I waited. For a moment silence reigned. Then, “Okay. Although you have a very nice hand to hold. Call the Minneapolis FBI field office. Google it, and then look under the Contact Us link for the number. Ask for Rusty Smith. Tell him who you are and that I told you to call him specifically. Explain things and see what he suggests. He’s a good guy.”

  “Okay, I can do that.” I nodded, even though JT couldn’t see me. “Get back to your torture. I’ll call you if anything goes on.”

  “You damn well better, Shay. It sucks being here when the crap is hitting the windmill at home.”

  “I know, but you’re almost done. And JT?” I was going to do it this time.

  “Yeah?”

  “I love … the way you breathe.” Gah. I’m a loser.

  She chuckled, but it sounded strained. “I love the way you breathe, too.”

  I hung up, kicking myself. What if that was the last time I ever spoke to JT because some big bad drug lord murdered my ass? She should know how I felt. Shay, you’re nothing but a big clucker.

  We found a Caribou Coffee and parked in an available spot in front of the building. Gotta love free WiFi. Coop booted his laptop, secured an connection, and Googled the FBI phone number. After calling the Minneapolis field office and getting a recording telling me to call back during regular business hours (but I could leave a message if I knew my party’s extension), I decided to try the DEA. Coop did his magic again, and soon the phone was ringing.

  “Thanks for calling the answering service for the Chicago Division-Drug Enforcement Agency. How can I direct your call?”

  A live person, hallelujah! “I need to talk to an agent about a situation in Minneapolis.”

  “Regarding drugs?” The woman sounded about as enthusiastic as Eeyore.

  I pulled the phone away and looked at it in disbelief before bringing to back to my ear.

  “Yes, regarding drugs.”

  “Right now, no one is available to speak with you. You can call back tomorrow during normal business hours, or you can leave a message for one of the agents.”

  How was no one was available? Good grief. “What would happen if I told you there was a major Mexican drug lord coming to Minneapolis in two days?”

  “Interesting information, but I’m sorry, there’s still no one available to talk to you right now. I can forward you to the tip line.”

  “Is there anyone I can call here in the Twin Cities?”

  Shuffling papers filled my ear. “You can try the Diversion Control field office in Minneapolis.” She read off the phone number, which I repeated for Coop to write down.

  I thanked her for her great wealth of information and disconnected.

  Coop said, “Sounds like she was a font of knowledge.”

  I dialed the number Eeyore had given me and went through the same recording machine rigmarole, disconnected, and thumped my head on the headrest. “Maybe it would be better to wait until tomorrow morning and try again when real people should be around. But I really don’t want to wait.”

  Coop looked at me for a long moment and blew a double bubble, which he sucked back in his mouth with two loud cracks. “Okay, let’s give it one more try. I’ll see what other federal offices are located here in the Cities.” He went to town.

  After a couple of minutes and some mumbling, Coop said, “There’s an FBI field office in Minneapolis, which we’ve tried. An ICE field office is in St. Paul, and … ” he tapped some more, “ATF in St. Paul, too.”

  I tapped my own fingers on the steering wheel. “What is ICE, exactly? I remember seeing something about them being a part of an immigration crackdown not
too long ago.”

  “Hang on.” Coop worked the phone. “Man, I could use a cigarette.”

  “Gum. What you need is more gum.” I grabbed the pink pack of Bubble Yum he’d left on the dash, pulled two pieces out, unwrapped them, and stuffed them in his mouth.

  “Thanks,” he said sarcastically as he worked the new pieces into his already well-chewed wad.

  “Okay, here is it. ICE is Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Looks like they deal with immigration issues as well as … holy cow, they cover a ton of stuff. Human trafficking, cyber crimes, narcotics enforcement—”

  “Narcotics! That’s us. Give me the number.” And please don’t let there be any freaks on the other end of the line.

  I dialed as Coop read the digits off for me. I held the phone to my ear, ready to hang up as soon as the recorded message kicked in. To my surprise, a man answered.

  “Thanks for calling the St. Paul division of Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Agent Farroway speaking. How can I help you?”

  I sat for a moment, stunned to silence.

  “Hello? Anybody there?” the man said.

  “Ah, hi. I’m in shock to be talking not only to a living human being, but to an actual agent. On a Sunday, no less.”

  The man barked a laugh. “That’s what happens to the new kid on the block. So what can I do for you?”

  “I have a little problem. I have some potentially useful information regarding a major Mexican cartel leader.”

  Agent Farroway’s tone changed immediately. I imagined him sitting up straight. “What’s that?”

  As much as I wanted to dump the whole thing on his lap, I didn’t feel comfortable letting it rip across the airwaves. I’d feel better if we could explain everything face to face. I told him that, and he said, “It’s getting close to quitting time. I really need get home and let my dog out, but I can meet you after that.”

  I started the truck. “I have a better idea.”

  EIGHTEEN

  COOP, BAZ, DAWG, AND I pulled into the parking lot of a fenced-in, off-leash dog park in St. Paul. Rocky stayed behind, thrilled to be chatting with his flower. I was never going to remember her name. Daisy? No. Petunia? Lily? Tulip. That was it. Good grief.

  Picnic tables were scattered throughout a grassy space half the size of a football field. Games of Dog Chase Frisbee and Get the Stick played out in the clearing. A wooded area took up the back half of the park, and the city had installed inviting wood-chip-lined paths that meandered through the trees.

  Baz was none too happy we’d dragged him to a dog park. When we entered the park through the double gate, I noticed him doing a weird tiptoe shuffle-dance-step move.

  I said, “Baz, what are you doing?”

  He didn’t raise his eyes from the ground. “Looking out for dog dung.”

  Dog dung? I said, “Don’t worry, this is a pick-up-the-poop park. Your dog poops, you pick it up. It works most of the time.”

  Baz ignored me and kept up his fancy footwork all the way to one of the tables. Coop and I plunked on the worn-smooth bench seats while Baz actually crawled on top of the picnic table, trying to stay out of Dawg’s licking range. “Can’t you make that beast keep his tongue to himself?”

  I grinned. “He thinks you taste good.”

  “That tongue,” Coop said, “has a mind of its own. What are you afraid of, Baz? A little dog drool?”

  Baz ignored our egging. He pressed his lips into a thin line, and cast suspicious gazes toward the dogs closest to us. I figured he was on the lookout for lethal canines who might try to devour him. Or poop on him.

  Since it was right around quitting time for most 9-to-5ers, the park was busy with antsy dogs and stiff-from-sitting-too-long owners. I kept an eye on the main gate and watched a solitary man enter with a dog by his side. The dog was as big, if not bigger than Dawg, his short coat rusty with a few large black blobs.

  His owner was very tall and stick-man thin. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said he and Coop were brothers. Instead of Coop’s light locks, the man’s hair was bright-red and cut in an honest-to-goodness flat-top. I instantly dubbed him Big Red.

  As the pair wandered closer, I realized freckles weren’t just dusted across his nose. They were liberally splattered all over his face.

  If the haircut wasn’t a dead give-away this was our guy, his attire was. He wore a fancy suit that mirrored what Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith wore in the movie Men In Black. Big Red even had similar black shades covering his eyes, although the sun was well on its way down.

  I had told Agent Farroway on the phone we’d be with a sixty-five pound Boxer with a huge tongue. I waved. Big Red caught my movement, returned my wave, and headed toward us. I stood and grabbed Dawg by the collar, not wanting a clash of wills if he and the new arrival didn’t get along. As Big Red came closer, I watched the dog practically drag his owner one way then another, his nose glued to the ground.

  The duo stopped ten feet away, and Big Red pulled off his sunglasses. His eyes were a piercing, electric blue, and they assessed us slowly.

  Dawg wriggled beside me, dying to meet the sniffer.

  “Ms. O’Hanlon? I’m ICE Special Agent Mike Farroway.”

  Formal. “Thanks for coming, Agent Farroway. This is Coop,” I jerked a thumb toward him, then stepped out of the way and introduced Baz, who was now fully on the top of the table, hugging his knees to his chest, or as close to his chest as his rotund gut would allow.

  “Nice to meet you all. This here is Bogey. Shall we?” He indicated the dogs.

  Dawg sat politely next to me, his head cocked in curiosity. His upper lip was hung up on a lower front tooth, and his forehead was all crinkled up. His body vibrated with excitement. Although I was pretty sure Dawg would behave, I kept a good grip on his collar.

  “Sure.” I met Farroway halfway, and our dogs nosed each other. It looked like Bogey might outweigh Dawg by a few pounds.

  The sniffing was intense for a minute, but calm. Agent Farroway unhooked Bogey and I let go of Dawg, both of us ready to intervene if necessary. After a couple of rounds of nose to butt introduction, Bogey and Dawg settled down to some serious play.

  “I think they’re going to get along fine.” Agent Farroway crossed his arms and leaned against the side of the table as he watched the mutts. Bogey flopped on the ground upside-down, sturdy legs waving in the air, tail flagging as Dawg thoroughly snuffled him. I thought Dawg’s face was a mass of loose flesh, but this dog’s folds were many and enormous. His jowls, lips, and maybe even his cheeks piled up in a mound on either side of his face in the dirt. In the next moment, Dawg was beneath Bogey, receiving the same treatment. They were indeed going to be just fine.

  Baz spoke up from behind us. “Is that a Bloodhound?”

  I turned to him, having forgotten for a moment he was still huddled on the tabletop. If I wasn’t so mad at him, I’d have felt bad.

  We all looked at Agent Farroway. I thought Big Red fit him better, although I had a hunch he wasn’t going to be too receptive if I tried calling him that. Kids can be terrible, and I could just imagine the taunting he probably received in school.

  Farroway smiled. “Sure is.”

  Coop asked, “Had him long?”

  Farroway stroked his cheek with an open palm as he thought about it. “I guess it’s been two years now.”

  “Do you use him for your job?” I asked as I watched the two dogs just a few yards away, happily chasing each other around. “I’d think he’d be helpful in your line of work.”

  “Not exactly. Or not officially, anyway.”

  Baz, ever tactless, said, “Why not? Looks like he’s got a snoot on him.”

  Something flitted across Farroway’s features. He said, “I’m working on that. Actually, Bogey was a reject from Bloodhound training school, and I rescued him. He has the right idea with scents, but gets too caught up in what’s going on, like playing with Dawg, there, instead of doing his homework.” When Farroway looked at Bogey, his
face changed from mostly impassive to all melty. His tone became slightly defensive. “He’s got the nose, just isn’t as fast a learner as the others. Doesn’t make him useless. We’ve been working on the sly, since he’s not officially an ICE hound anymore.”

  “Your secret’s safe with us.” Coop said. “Sometimes some of the best people, or dogs, for that matter, have a rough start, but once the tarnish is off, they can do amazing things.” I knew he was referring to Dawg, whose junkyard life had been ugly.

  “Right,” I said. “It’s important not to give up. So.” I wanted to get on with things. “You’re kind of low on the totem pole, huh?”

  Farroway nodded. “The lowest. It doesn’t get lower. The bottom of the well.”

  Coop asked, “How long have you been doing the … ICE thing?”

  Both Farroway’s so-light-they-almost-weren’t-there eyebrows lifted, and he stuck his lower lip out. He nodded once, as if deciding something, then said, “A month.”

  Baz snickered. “You’ve been a federal agent for a month? A whole month?”

  I shot Baz a warning gaze. We didn’t need to alienate Farroway, even if he was so new he hadn’t had a chance to break in his shoes yet.

  Farroway looked down and scuffed his as yet unbroken-in shoe in the dirt. Then he met my eyes and shrugged. “What can you do? You want a Fed on a Sunday, I’m what you get.”

  The crooked grin on his face transformed him. The kid inside battled with the macho man Farroway tried to project. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or -six.

  He rubbed his hands together. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  I said a silent prayer that Big Red wasn’t low dog on a Mexican payroll. “You might want to sit down. It’s going to take a while.”

  Between Coop, Baz, and me, it took forty-five minutes to explain everything to Farroway. He sat with his elbows on the top of the picnic table, chin on his fists, listening with rapt attention.