Borderland

by Peter Eichstaedt

  Garcia said nothing as a cloud of thin, white smoke enveloped him again as he forked the steaks onto a platter.

  “I need some help here, Raoul.”

  “This could get dangerous.”

  “I’m aware of that. My father was executed. That means someone didn’t want him around. But why?”

  “If you want on-the-record answers, go talk to my boss, Leo Carter. He’s special agent in charge of the El Paso Division. Everything has to go through him.”

  “That’s not very helpful.”

  “Talk to him. You’ll have fun. He hates the press.”

  Chapter 22

  El Paso, Texas

  The receptionist at the DEA office had arms that hung out of her sleeveless blouse like soft sausages. Dawson waited while she called Leo Carter’s secretary and explained that a reporter named Kyle Dawson had arrived. She nodded at him and pointed to a nearby couch.

  Dawson took a seat, rubbing his face with both hands. When he looked up, a severe-looking woman in tan slacks and a white blouse towered over him. Her salt-and-pepper hair was moussed, combed in a 1950s style and cropped close on the neck. She thrust her hand to him. “Pauline Gorman, public relations. I’ll be joining you. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Dawson shook her hand and shrugged. “Why would I mind?”

  “Follow me.” Gorman pivoted and tromped down the tiled hallway.

  Carter had a spacious office and a large desk of polished wood that was nearly void of paper. He was a solid six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with a pale face, gray eyes, and his blond hair cut close. He rose from behind his desk, ensuring that Dawson noticed the snub-nosed .38 special holstered at his waist. He grabbed Dawson’s hand and pumped it once before motioning him to sit in one of two padded chairs. Gorman sat in the other.

  “So, you’re with the Washington Herald?” Carter said. “That’s a liberal rag, isn’t it?”

  Dawson drew a breath and scanned the office. U.S. flags with multicolored banners dangled from the spear-tipped poles set in the corners. Plaques, military commendations, and photographs populated the walls. One depicted Carter in camouflaged jungle fatigues and a boonie hat crouching with some similarly dressed buddies over a half-dozen bodies laid side-by-side in deep grass. He squinted to see it better.

  Carter jerked his head to the photo. “That’s me in Colombia. We eliminated some cocaine producing scum.” He looked at Dawson and forced a smile. “That one there,” he said pointing to another, “is me sending heroin dealers in Thailand to their next lifetimes. Hopefully they’ll come back as worms.”

  “Saving the world from the scourge of drugs.”

  “We have twenty-one domestic divisions and eighty-six offices in sixty-seven countries,” Carter said, nodding.

  People like Carter habitually spewed statistics, as if they mattered, Dawson thought. “Having any luck?”

  Carter frowned, tilted back in his chair, and swiveled back and forth. He stopped and leaned forward on his elbows. “Luck? Luck has nothing to do with it.” His gray eyes narrowed. “I hate you bastards in the media almost as much as I hate drug dealers.”

  Dawson swallowed. He’d faced people like Carter before. They were a gung-ho breed. They hated the press because the press didn’t portray them as the holy warriors they considered themselves to be. Dawson exhaled. He admired others who more typified the business. The ones who knew the gravity of their work and went about it quietly. No bluster or belligerence. No accolades or attention necessary. Didn’t blame others for their failures and frustrations. He drew another deep breath and exhaled. Carter was not going to give any information easily, and certainly not without some verbal sparring.

  “Last time I checked the stats, there were more drugs on the street than ever before, and adjusted for inflation, they’re cheaper,” Dawson said. “That’s hardly a success story.”

  “You media think you know everything. But you know what?”

  “Please, tell me.”

  “You don’t know shit.”

  Dawson’s stomach tightened. He felt the ache of acid from one too many cups of coffee. He sat upright, cleared his throat, then settled back in his chair. “Okay. Now that we’ve established that I don’t know anything, perhaps you can enlighten me.”

  Lips pressed together, Carter nodded. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “I’m looking into the circumstances surrounding my father’s death.”

  Carter’s eyes widened. He turned to Gorman, who shook her head slightly and looked at Dawson. “Why in God’s name do you think that the DEA here in El Paso has anything to do with that?”

  Dawson smiled inwardly at Carter’s reaction. A flash of fear. He’d touched a nerve. “I’m not sure. I was hoping you could tell me.” He waited. Carter said nothing, and instead of responding, looked at his fingernails.

  “All right, then.” Dawson pushed on to another topic. “The Mexican government has asked that Ernesto Fonseca be extradited. They believe he killed the late drug lord, Don Diego Borrego, known as El Guapo.”

  “And your question is?”

  “Fonseca was a well-known gang leader. Did some nasty stuff. Fonseca’s gang, Los Ríos, grew in size and strength over the years.”

  “The DEA helped put that man behind bars. A freaking menace to society. What are you asking?”

  “Why did you take him out of prison?”

  Carter’s eyes flared, but he said nothing.

  “He worked for my father. Lives in a nice house in the Mesilla valley.”

  “I know where he works and lives. It’s obviously news to you.”

  “Why did the DEA take him out of prison?”

  Carter glanced at Gorman again, whose face drooped into a frown. She shook her head and shrugged. “That was a decision made by the court, not the DEA. You should be talking to them, not us.”

  “The Fonseca case files are sealed,” Dawson said.

  Carter shrugged. “Again, that’s a decision by the courts.”

  “You know nothing about it?”

  “He found God,” Gorman blurted.

  Carter and Dawson looked at her, then at each other.

  “That’s the kind of story you soft-headed liberals in the press love to write, isn’t it?” Carter said. “Fonseca turned his life around. He and some of his men agreed to tell young people across the Southwest to stay away from gangs and criminal activity. It was nice of him to do that, don’t you think?”

  Do you really believe that? Dawson exhaled slowly.

  Gorman rose from her chair. “Do you have additional questions?”

  Dawson nodded and stared at Gorman, waiting for her to sit. “The DEA pulled Fonseca out of prison and set him up in the construction business. Do you expect people to believe that he gave up his life of crime? The Mexicans don’t think so. That’s why they want him. So what are you going to tell the Mexicans that won’t make you look like fools?”

  Carter clenched his jaw and glared. “I don’t know how to respond to a remark like that, so I won’t honor it with a reply.”

  Dawson scratched his head with his pen.

  Carter continued to glare, saying nothing.

  Dawson glanced at his empty notebook and tried again. “Just a couple of weeks ago, three American citizens were shot and killed in gunfire at the Rancho la Peña border crossing. One was a young man named Joaquin Romero. He was a student at New Mexico State and worked part time in the Las Cruces office of Senator Micah Madsen. Why was he there and why was he carrying half a million dollars?”

  Carter smirked. “We’re investigating that.”

  Tightness gripped Dawson’s chest—anger at Garcia for sending him on this fool’s mission and anger at Carter’s belligerent attitude. Dawson sucked in a breath and stared at his notebook, knowing he was about to be bounced out of the office. Carter’s reluctance to discuss the basics confirmed the DEA was covering up something. “With all of the resources of the DEA, including special undercover operations, it seems t
hat the DEA would know who’s responsible for the shooting deaths at the border.”

  Carter rose and leaned forward, resting two clenched fists on the desk. “Undercover operations? We’re not in the business of discussing those things with the news media.”

  “Even if those operations involved the killing of Don Diego Borrego?”

  Carter’s face contorted in a frown, his eyes glowing, his face flushed. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  Gorman, who had settled into her chair, stood and crossed her arms, glaring at him. “We went out of our way to make room for you in our busy schedule. We are more than happy to answer your questions. But we don’t discuss details of investigations or what this agency may or may not be doing.”

  Carter waved dismissively. “We’re done. Pauline will show you out.”

  ***

  Back in his father’s country club office, Dawson tilted in the large leather chair and banged his boot heels on the desktop. He flipped open the laptop resting on his stomach. He stared at the screen, waited for it to boot up. He couldn’t remember a more irritating interview. With nothing to lose, he’d tossed out his wildest theory. Fonseca was guilty, just like the Mexicans said. Carter had been unusually hostile, which confirmed his suspicions.

  To people like Carter, though, God and country were one and the same. Delivering America from evil was beyond criticism. Had he provoked Carter’s patriotism, or had he touched a nerve? If he’d touched a nerve, then what? Was Carter touchy about the lack of answers he had for the investigation? Or was it something else? Then Dawson had another thought. Maybe he’d come to close to something else. He knew the evil that the DEA fought could also be tempting. Why should the bad guys get all the money when the good guys had God and guns on their side?

  Dawson pulled the baseball from his bag, hefted it several times, then put it down and reached for a beer, swallowing deeply as he stared at the darkness. He started to write. Fonseca was only one piece of the puzzle. There were others. Big pieces.

  Chapter 23

  Las Cruces, New Mexico

  The offices of Sun Park Bank and Trust were partially hidden behind a cluster of trees that provided a modicum of shade but did little to blunt the pounding of the midday sun. Dawson parked his car in the mottled shade of a small tree, locked the car with a press of his key, and plunged through the roiling heat.

  He’d left the office of the Dona Ana County Clerk thirty minutes earlier with a lead that could help explain how Sam obtained twenty thousand acres along the U.S.-Mexico border. How does a man like Sam walk out of a Florida prison and two years later preside over the large residential and commercial development on the two-thousand-mile U.S.-Mexican border? Dawson wanted to know. The answer could hold to the key to why Sam was summarily killed. But the answer was buried in the files at the federal Bureau of Land Management in Santa Fe. Before he went there, he had a stop to make. The county clerk told him that the financing of much of the land development at Rancho la Peña was through the Sun Park Bank. He now gazed at the bank’s name in brushed steel letters over the entrance.

  The bank felt like the inside of a refrigerator. Tinted film blunted the light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows as Dawson scaled the curving carpeted stairs to the wood-paneled executive offices. It was quiet except for the soft clicking of a keyboard. Dawson asked the middle-aged receptionist for Norman Crowell. She looked at him skeptically over her half-lens glasses. “You’re the man from the Herald?”

  He nodded.

  She lowered her glasses to her chest where they dangled from a beaded string looped behind her neck. “I’m really sorry, but Mr. Crowell was called away suddenly. I’m not sure when he will be back. It could take all day.”

  “It could take all day?” Dawson looked at his watch: 1:30 p.m. He was on time.

  The woman nodded slowly and replaced the glasses low on her nose, looking over the tops.

  “Do you mind if I wait for a while?”

  “Like I said, it could be all day. Waiting would be a waste of your time.”

  “You said he could be all day, but maybe not?”

  She cleared her throat. “It will be all day. I’m very sorry, but it was something of an emergency. Mr. Crowell feels badly about not being able to meet with you. Perhaps you’d like to call him again in a week or two? Maybe his schedule will be freer.”

  “I’d like to reschedule a meeting right now.”

  “Mr. Crowell is a very busy man. That could be difficult.”

  “I can’t reschedule?”

  “Not today. You should call back next week. Maybe he’ll have more time then.”

  “But not necessarily?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Could you relay a message to Mr. Crowell?”

  She nodded.

  “I am going to write a story for the Herald that says the bank carried a $20 million loan on the Rancho la Peña development and that the loan was in default for nearly a decade. When I called the state banking commission, it seems the loan was never reported to the state banking commission as being in default. If it had been, the bank would have been bankrupt. That Crowell was unable to discuss it will be quite interesting.”

  The color drained out of her face as she nervously jotted down what Dawson had just said and paused to look at her notebook. She underlined “$20 million” and the word “default.” “OK. I’ll tell Mr. Crowell as soon as he returns.”

  Dawson left his card, walked down the carpeted stairs, and paused at the bottom to scan the lobby. He smiled as he looked back up the stairs. Crowell was probably up there hiding in the executive bathroom.

  Dawson made his way out to the asphalt parking lot and walked past a row of gleaming sedans and SUVs, each parked in a space marked with a name placard. A dark blue Buick filled the parking space with a sign that read “Crowell.”

  He shook his head disgustedly and considered returning to the bank to ask the secretary why Crowell’s car was parked there if he was not at the bank. Instead, he climbed into his car, rolled down the windows, and waited as a warm breeze softened the car’s heat.

  Dawson’s mind drifted to Anita and how nice it was to see her again. I must be lonelier than I thought. He still had feelings for her, deep feelings that he couldn’t keep buried. He thought about calling her a call to have dinner, a real dinner, but he hesitated, telling himself he didn’t want to restart it all again, especially now.

  A chubby man with a pale complexion strode up to his car. He did not look happy. “Are you Dawson?”

  Dawson nodded.

  “I think we’d better talk.”

  “You’re Crowell?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Your secretary said you were unavailable. I guess she was wrong.”

  Crowell’s face contorted into a scowl. “What is the meaning of this note?” His hands shook as he showed it to Dawson.

  “Why don’t you get into the car so we can talk,” Dawson said.

  Crowell glared.

  “Unless, of course, you want to sit in your office, which probably has better air-conditioning.”

  Dawson followed Crowell back into the bank and up the stairs to his office. Crowell walked hunched, his fists clenched. Dawson nodded and smirked at the secretary, but she turned away and stared at her computer screen.

  “So where do you get the idea that we have been carrying a $20 million debt and hiding it from the state banking commission?” he said, settling into the chair behind his broad desk. Dawson handed him a copy of the bank’s past balance sheets from the state banking commission. Crowell scanned them and looked at Dawson.

  “I believe that’s your signature at the bottom,” Dawson said.

  Crowell reached for his desk phone and dialed. “This is Norm. You’d better get in here.”

  The side door to the office opened and a compact, well-manicured man in a neatly cut gray suit appeared, introducing himself as Sean Martinez, president of the bank. He sat in th
e padded swivel chair beside Dawson and scanned the report.

  “Where did you get this?” Martinez asked.

  Dawson shrugged. “It’s public record, if anyone bothers to dig it up.”

  “Have you talked to Jacquelyn Fontaine? She’s the co-owner of the Rancho la Peña development and related properties.”

  “I’m aware of that. She’s my stepmother. But as Sam Dawson’s son and heir to his portion of the assets, I prefer to get my information directly from the source.”

  “You really should get that information from her, not us.”

  “Since I’m here, humor me.”

  “There are reasons why the bank carried that $20 million on the balance sheet, but we are not really at liberty to discuss them with the news media. This is a private business, after all.”

  “My father’s murder has been quite public, as you well know. Any information that might shed light on why he was killed will eventually become public. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Martinez nodded. “The authorities told us not to discuss the case with anyone.”

  Dawson put down his notebook, closed it, and put his pen in his pocket. “Okay. Off the record. Or, talk to me as a son inquiring about his father’s assets. Whatever suits you.”

  Martinez looked at Crowell, then at Dawson, stroked his silk tie, and cleared his throat. “It’s a matter of having faith in the community.”

  Dawson swallowed. “Carrying a $20 million loan on the books for almost ten years, and not one payment? Yet, you list it as an asset, not an uncollected loan. This makes the bank look to be $20 million richer than it really is. Why?”

  Martinez shifted again. “First of all, that $20 million is not a loan. So, we don’t carry it was a debt, per se.”