The Gatekeeper

by Michelle Gagnon

  The argument wasn’t helping matters. They’d circled the warehouse when they’d first arrived. Like the bar, the windows were painted black from the inside, doors locked. Rodriguez had picked up a rock, but Kelly managed to stop him in time. She might be willing to bend the rules, but she drew the line at breaking and entering.

  So they’d returned to the car and sat, tucked in an alley between two other warehouses that offered a clear view of the building. After an hour passed uneventfully Rodriguez got itchy and pressed his point.

  “This isn’t accomplishing jack-shit,” he grumbled, rubbing his less-swollen eye with a thumb.

  Kelly had to agree. She’d been expecting a place where criminal activity was apparent, maybe another bar. The list Rodriguez’s friend gave them only provided addresses, with no indication of what type of business was at each location. This was probably a huge waste of time, Kelly thought, glancing at her watch: 4:00 p.m. She’d already basically closed the case, and it didn’t seem like there was anything to see here. Still, they should give it another hour.

  “We should go to the next address on the list. It’s not far.” Rodriguez glanced at the printout in his hand. “Five miles, maybe.”

  “I say we give this some time. If nothing happens by five, we’ll head there.”

  “Then what? There are twenty others on the list. Do we fly around and sit outside all of them?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether or not anything happens here. If it does, we can put other units on those buildings. But like you said, right now we got nothing. And we’re not going to get much inter-departmental support based on that.”

  Rodriguez muttered something under his breath in Spanish.

  “Wow. You’re fun on a stakeout,” Kelly said.

  “I don’t mind a stakeout if I’m prepared for it,” Rodriguez shot back. “If you’d said, ‘stakeout,’ I would have brought some sodas. Maybe some chips, too. And a piss bottle.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  Rodriguez shrugged. “Hey, the soda’s gotta come out somewhere.”

  “Bear in mind I didn’t want you along in the first place,” Kelly said.

  “What, and let my partner go in without backup?” She threw him a sharp look, and he turned away, muttering, “Just because I got jumped once doesn’t mean I’m useless.”

  Kelly chose not to reply. A pall descended over the car.

  Faded paint on the side of the warehouse advertised Franciscan Interiors, Makers of Fine Furniture, but judging by the inactivity, it was everyone’s day off. They faced the only entrance. To the far left a flight of stairs led to a door, on the right was a loading dock. They were in the outskirts of Laredo, Texas, a stone’s throw from the Mexican border. The warehouse was set in an industrialized area, hunched buildings all worn the color of sand. Most sported For Lease signs, which explained the general air of stagnation. Laredo was one of those places economic booms avoided.

  “We met once before, you know,” Rodriguez said, breaking the silence.

  “Oh, really?” Kelly said, only half listening as she fiddled with the radio. She’d been unable to find anything but country and Mexican rock stations, and if she heard one more song by Los Lobos she was going to tear her hair out.

  “During that case on the college campus.”

  Kelly straightened and looked at him, trying to remember. Once another coed had been snatched, a slew of agents and other law enforcement officers swarmed the university to assist in the search. “Did you work with Morrow?”

  “A little. Great guy. And I was with Jake at the boathouse when he found you.”

  Kelly flinched. Despite the warmth of the day a chill swept over her. “You must have been fresh out of the Academy,” she said, fighting to keep her voice normal. She hated to admit it, but that case still gave her nightmares.

  “I’d been in about a year.” Rodriguez opened his door. “I’m going to walk to that bodega at the turnoff. You want something?”

  “No, I’m good. Thanks,” Kelly said. She watched him limp away.

  Kelly froze at the sound of an approaching engine. In the rearview mirror she saw Rodriguez duck into the dusty scrub lining the alley. She slid down in her seat and hoped they wouldn’t be noticed.

  It was a navy truck with a white shell on the back. No name on the side, two guys in the front seat. Kelly wrote down the license plate as they parked at an angle outside the Franciscan warehouse. Both wore cowboy hats and sunglasses, jeans and tank tops. They walked to the door, unlocked it, and stepped inside. More big white guys, like the ones at the bar. Of course, they could be furniture makers, but something made her doubt it.

  The passenger door opened and Rodriguez slid inside, carefully easing the door shut so it wouldn’t click.

  “Welcome back,” she said wryly.

  “Watched pot never boils, right? Should have left sooner,” Rodriguez said. “So can we go in?”

  “Not unless you saw some evidence of illegal activity that I missed.”

  Rodriguez tapped a finger on the dashboard. “Then what now?”

  “Now we wait,” Kelly said calmly. “At least we know the warehouse is being used for something.”

  “Maybe they’ll come out with guns,” Rodriguez said hopefully. “Or drugs.”

  “Or a machete and a sign saying, ‘We Killed Duke Morris,’” Kelly said. “But I’m not holding my breath.”

  What they did come out with was far more interesting. Ten minutes after entering they rolled up the metal door, revealing the loading dock. They backed the truck in and popped the hatch on the shell. Kelly watched as they dragged an oversized duffel bag out. Hard to tell from a distance, but it looked like a body.

  “That doesn’t look legal,” Rodriguez commented. “Call for backup?”

  Kelly debated. She hadn’t contacted the Laredo cops yet, figuring it was best to keep this visit quiet until she knew if they were onto something. But the last thing they needed was a repeat of the bar debacle. “Give me your cell,” she said, holding out a hand.

  He passed it to her.

  Kelly dialed 911 and motioned for him to be quiet. “I’d like to report a break-in. Three-thirty-six Muldoon Avenue. That’s right. Thanks.” She handed the phone back to Rodriguez. “Five minutes,” she said.

  “Not bad,” he said begrudgingly. “’Course, now we get to explain to a trigger-happy deputy why two FBI agents are responding to a robbery on their turf.”

  “We happened to be in the area working a case,” Kelly said.

  “And if it comes back to us?”

  “It won’t come back to us. Worst-case scenario, it comes back to you.”

  “Hey-”

  Kelly grinned. “Relax, Rodriguez. I’m doubting Laredo P.D. has the technology to trace a cell call. Besides, if they get a good arrest out of this, they won’t be complaining.”

  “You better be right.”

  Ten minutes later a cop car with Laredo Police on the door rolled past. Two cops got out, one young and lean, the other older and stocky. Abbott and Costello, Kelly thought. They parked in front of the loading dock. The younger cop sauntered over, ducked his head in and called out.

  “Wow. Looks like a real crack team,” Rodriguez said.

  Kelly furrowed her brow. Their behavior was odd. The older cop leaned against the hood of their car, arms crossed in front of his chest. Not exactly how most units would respond to a B and E call.

  One of the cowboys emerged from the building, the younger cop at his heels. He strolled over to the police car. The older cop straightened and shook his hand. They exchanged a few words, then the cop bent double. Kelly’s hand tensed, ready to go for her gun, until she realized he was laughing at something the cowboy said.

  “Oh, shit,” Rodriguez said. “Now what?”

  The younger cop had obviously noticed their car and was headed straight for them. The other two watched him. The cop’s hand rested by his holster.

&
nbsp; “Jones!” Rodriguez hissed.

  The cop ducked low to peer in their car window. His eyes were concealed behind tinted Ray-Bans. “Get you folks to step out of the car, please.”

  Kelly kept her hands in view as she slid out, saying, “FBI. I’m going to reach for my badge.”

  The cop nodded slowly, watching her. Rodriguez kept his arms up.

  She handed over her credentials and he examined them. “You’re pretty far from home, Agent Jones,” he said, handing them back.

  “We’re following up a lead on a case,” Kelly said.

  “Funny, at roll call they didn’t say anything about Feds coming to town,” the cop said. His hand was off his belt but he still looked wary.

  “I didn’t want to trouble your department until I found out whether or not it was a solid lead,” Kelly said, reading off his name tag, “Officer Rowe.”

  “So I don’t suppose you know anything about a 911 call.” The way he said it wasn’t a question.

  “Nope,” Rodriguez answered.

  The cop’s gaze shifted to him. “I’m guessing you’re a Fed, too?”

  Rodriguez moved to hand over his ID, but the cop waved it away. “That lead have anything to do with what happened to your face?”

  “Not directly,” Rodriguez grumbled.

  “Then it’s got something to do with this alley?”

  “Actually, with that warehouse,” Kelly said, nodding toward it.

  “Yeah? Well, Travis and I patrol this area all the time. Everything there looks good. Just checked it out myself.”

  “Really? Because about ten minutes ago Agent Rodriguez and I saw two men loading a suspicious item in their truck.”

  Rowe turned and waved over the cowboy. He approached slowly, jaw working a piece of chewing tobacco. His eyes skittered over both of them before returning to the cop.

  “Hey, Jim. Got some federal agents here think you’re up to no good,” Rowe said, making it sound like a joke.

  Jim laughed weakly. “That right?”

  “Yup.”

  “What was in the duffel bag?” Kelly asked.

  Jim shrugged. “Supplies.”

  “Supplies for what?”

  He glanced at Rowe as if seeking approval before saying, “Carpentry. My brother and I are contractors, use this place to store our stuff.”

  “Seems like a lot of space for a few hammers and nails,” Kelly noted.

  Rowe and Jim exchanged a look. The cowboy shrugged.

  “Then you won’t mind if we take a look around?” she continued.

  Jim’s mouth opened and closed a few times, then he spit a long stream of tobacco juice in the dirt at their feet.

  “Jones,” Rodriguez protested as she started walking toward the building. Kelly didn’t turn back, and after a minute he fell in step beside her. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he said in a low voice, glancing back.

  Kelly could hear Rowe and Jim following them. “You have a better one?”

  “There are four of them, and the cops are armed. I say we go back to the car, get the hell out of here. Check out the other address.”

  “We’re on their radar now,” Kelly said. “Watch my back and we’ll be fine.”

  Rodriguez muttered something about being dumped on the other side of the border, but she ignored him. Crooked or not, she doubted any cop would risk two dead FBI agents turning up on their watch. For all Rowe knew, their boss had their exact coordinates.

  Kelly placed her hands on the loading dock and hauled herself up. Rodriguez muttered something about his injuries, and Jim went to unlock the side door. While she waited, Kelly let her eyes adjust to the dark. The inside was cavernous, large enough to house a 747. The entire room was empty save for a circle of chairs. Two small Quonset huts were hunkered down against the far wall.

  “Offices,” Jim said, following her gaze.

  “So only you and your brother use this place?” she asked.

  “Rent was cheap,” Jim said, following her as she crossed the warehouse floor.

  “Lots of empty places around here,” Rowe explained.

  “You know the owners?”

  Jim shrugged again. His head was tilted forward, hat shielding his eyes. Kelly reached the first office. The walls were lined with posters of nude centerfolds. A tire calendar displayed a topless woman perched on a stack of whitewalls. No desk, just a few bare cots on the floor. Kelly wrinkled her nose. The scent of urine was unmistakable.

  “We sleep here sometimes,” Jim offered up lamely.

  “Piss here, too?” Rodriguez asked.

  Kelly could hear the tension in his voice, knew he was thinking the same thing she was. Whoever had slept here, it wasn’t the cowboys. “Where’s your brother?” she asked.

  “Other office, doing some paperwork,” Jim said. “I came out to see what Luke wanted.”

  Rowe stiffened. “So you two are friendly,” Kelly noted.

  Rowe shrugged. “Part of my regular rounds.”

  Kelly nodded as if that was the most natural thing in the world and crossed to the opposite office. The door opened before she reached it, blocked by the other cowboy. Not much of a family resemblance, she thought to herself. This guy was larger, thicker through the shoulders. He still wore his hat.

  “Agent Kelly Jones,” she said, extending a hand.

  He shook it reluctantly. “Jethro Henderson.”

  “Mind if I take a peek?” she asked.

  Jethro shrugged and stepped aside, tucking his hands in his pockets. The other hut was similar to the first, with the exception of the mattresses. Posters on the walls, a battered desk.

  “Not a lot of tools,” she commented.

  “Keep most of ’em in the truck,” he said warily.

  Rowe stood at her shoulder. “So looks like you’re about done here,” he said with finality.

  “Soon as I check the truck,” Kelly replied firmly.

  Something passed between Jethro and Rowe. Kelly thought she caught a small nod, but couldn’t be sure.

  “That okay by you, Jethro?” Rowe said slowly.

  “Feel free.” Jethro tossed her a set of keys.

  Kelly unlocked the back of the truck and lifted the gate, then struggled to lower the rear hatch. She flushed slightly, feeling amused eyes on her back as it slammed down harder than she’d intended. She reached forward, tugging the duffel bag toward her. It was heavy and only moved a few inches.

  “Give you a hand with that?” Jethro asked, appearing at her elbow.

  She waved him off. “I got it.” She unzipped the bag and opened it. Inside was a stack of tools. She sifted through to see if anything was hidden underneath, but only encountered more metal. Kelly withdrew a pair of tongs and held them up. “What’s a contractor doing with tongs?”

  Jethro tensed, but after a moment let out a small laugh and said, “You got us. After a long day, we throw a barbecue.” He held out his wrists. “Want to cuff me now?”

  Rowe laughed with him. Kelly’s eyes narrowed. “Thanks, I’ll wait.”

  “Just pulling your leg, ma’am,” Jethro said, still smirking. “No need to get all riled.”

  Rowe followed them back to the car. The other cop watched from under the brim of his hat as they passed. Rowe opened Kelly’s car door, then shut it behind her.

  “Thanks for the assistance, officer.”

  Rowe nodded, watching as they pulled away. Kelly drove in a slow circle around the parked police car, heading for the interstate a few blocks away.

  Rodriguez shifted in his seat, clearly irritated. “What the hell was that?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t ask them about the corporation. Or what the mattresses were for.”

  “I’m thinking they weren’t going to tell us. Not even if we asked nicely.”

  “Still-”

  “And we’re out of our jurisdiction, in the middle of nowhere.” Kelly gestured to the bleak surroundings with one arm. “Four of them, two o
f us.”

  “But something is going on there.”

  “Definitely.” Kelly steered onto the on-ramp. “The question is, what?”

  “Coyotes, maybe, smuggling people in? Someone was using those mattresses.” Rodriguez winced and adjusted the seat belt over his bruised ribs. “We’re close to the border.”

  “Maybe. But then their affiliation with Laredo P.D. doesn’t make sense.”

  Rodriguez peered out the window, thinking. “Plus that doesn’t jibe with their poster.”

  “What, all the pinups?” Kelly rolled her eyes. “That seemed pretty typical.”

  “Not those, the one in Jethro’s office. The Statue of Liberty behind barbed wire.”

  “Didn’t see it.”

  “I recognized it. Texas Minutemen.”

  “One of the vigilante border patrol groups?”

  “They would say, ‘True Americans.’” Rodriguez smirked.

  “So why would they be keeping people in the warehouse?” Kelly furrowed her brow. “And what’s the link to the skinheads from the bar?”

  Rodriguez shrugged. “Common interests? Hate groups have doubled in membership in the last decade. They gave a symposium on it at the Academy last year. Internet makes it easier for them to link up with each other, and immigration has been a rallying cry.” He shook a fist, saying, “Send them back!”

  Kelly cocked her head at him. “You know the strange thing? I can’t tell if you’re serious or not.”

  “Why, because I’m Mexican?”

  “Yes.” She pulled into the high-speed lane to pass a slow moving truck. After a minute she added, “Emilio and his grandmother seemed to bother you.”

  “That’s because they’re part of the problem, getting involved with a gang that ruins lives and communities. And then they refuse to report a crime or assist an investigation. Pisses me off.”