Suspicion

by Joseph Finder

  “You don’t need one. You’ll walk into town.”

  “And what happens if the mister or missus happens to be awake and says, where’re you going, coffee’s on?”

  “You say thanks but no thanks, you need to clear your head to start your writing day. You’re a writer—make something up. Tell ’em you like to take walks. It’s not even two miles. Shouldn’t take you more than half an hour. Any longer than that, you’re in lousy shape and you really do need the exercise.”

  42

  Dr. Mendoza was perplexed.

  He had stanched the flow of blood but hadn’t yet discovered the cause of the bleeding.

  Eliminating the banker had been an urgent necessity, of course. If the man had spilled, the consequences would have been immense. Truly catastrophic for the cartel.

  But his employers had bigger worries. The question was how the Drug Enforcement Administration had even learned of the banker’s existence. Obviously, someone on the inside had tipped them off.

  An informant. A “confidential source,” as the DEA called a snitch.

  But who?

  Surely, it was someone close to Thomas Galvin, the cartel’s US-based investor. Someone in his office, perhaps. Or on his personal staff. Someone who had access to his home.

  Unfortunately, the cartel had reacted to the leak with customary crudeness. They’d thought they had identified the culprit and sent their gavilleros armed with knives and machetes.

  But they’d guessed wrong.

  Well, Dr. Mendoza knew where to find out. Maybe the leak was in Boston, maybe not. But the identity of the source would without question be in Washington, DC. At DEA headquarters.

  Like all government bureaucracies, the DEA kept records, great masses of paper, with a manic compulsion. Even on their most closely held sources they kept notes, papers, documents. Naturally, these files were sealed and locked away. But files always needed to be updated and indexed and accessed. Such was the nature of a bureaucracy, its lifeblood. And that work was always done, without fail, by low-level file clerks.

  And here was the DEA’s weakness. The human factor, always.

  Low-level file clerks were extraordinarily easy to turn.

  He needed to fly to Washington, DC.

  • • •

  He could barely remember a time when he wasn’t in the employ of the Sinaloa cartel. He had been barely thirteen on that sun-scorched afternoon when the big black Lincoln pulled into the gas station/bodega where his mother worked as a cashier. The heat shimmered up from the asphalt. He ran to the pump and took the driver’s order. The man spoke in Spanish. In that part of San Diego, everyone spoke Spanish.

  “Okay, kid,” the driver said, handing him a twenty, “a pack of Winstons, two packs of Marlboro unfiltered, couple cans of Pepsi, and today’s paper.”

  “Do you have a quarter?” Armando Mendoza asked.

  “I just gave you a twenty, kid.”

  “Yes, but it’s not going to be enough.”

  The driver looked skeptical. “How the hell do you know that?”

  Mendoza had shrugged. How to explain simple arithmetic? “Well, it’s sixteen ninety for the gas, the three packs of cigarettes is one eighty-nine, and with the Pepsi and the newspaper, that’s twenty dollars and twenty-four cents. So, I mean, this is close, but . . .”

  “You some kind of math genius?”

  “I just added it up.”

  “In your head?”

  He nodded. He was showing off, of course.

  The driver said to a man next to him in the front seat, “You see this?” Then he stuck his elbow out of the window and leaned closer to the teenager. He removed his mirrored sunglasses. “How much is 239 plus 868 plus 102?”

  “That’s too easy.”

  “How much, huh? You can’t do it, can you?”

  “One thousand two hundred and nine.”

  “Hold on, hold on.” The driver turned to the other man. “Your watch has a calculator on it, right? Okay. Kid, what’s 7566 plus 8069? Quick, now.”

  Mendoza smiled. He paused for a few seconds. “Fifteen thousand six hundred thirty-five.”

  “That right, Carlos?”

  “Nope,” said the other man.

  “Nice try, kid,” the driver said. “You almost had us there for a while.”

  “Hold on, hold on,” the other man said. “Fifteen six three five. He’s right.”

  “That’s what I said,” Armando protested.

  “Jesus, kid.”

  Later, his mother was furious when she heard he’d gotten into the backseat of the Lincoln. Just a few months earlier, a kid in New York City had gone missing, and his face appeared on milk cartons. She’d told him this story as if to inoculate him from the possibility of anything so terrible happening to her only child.

  But all they’d done was to take him to meet their jefe, to show off his math skills. El jefe, the great Héctor Luis Palma Salazar. El Güero as he was called: the Blond One. El Güero was impressed and made him an offer. They would rescue him from the barrio. They’d even send him to college. They’d train him as an accountant, and then he’d work for the cartel.

  But even at the age of thirteen, Armando Mendoza knew he wanted to be a doctor. A surgeon: That was his true desire. Not an accountant.

  El Güero didn’t argue. There was need for medical talent as well. He was farsighted, a brilliant organizer who had built the Sinaloa cartel into the most powerful drug-trafficking organization in history. El Güero Palma needed someone utterly reliable to enforce discipline, ask questions and get answers, conduct “interviews,” as Mendoza began calling them, whatever it took. And administer justice when it had to be done: with a scalpel and not an AK-47.

  Dr. Mendoza was young—too young—but his time would come. The cartel would pay for medical school in Guadalajara and support him during his surgical residency. In return, he would belong to the cartel. He would provide them with surgical services as needed. Later, after he became a surgeon, he asked them to underwrite the clinic in Culiacán. If he was going to work for the cartel, much of the work unpleasant, he wanted to do good works, too.

  His work for the cartel, his nonsurgical work—his special work, as he thought of it—this gave him no pleasure. He was not one of those miscreants who took sadistic pleasure in such things. He simply believed that it was better that a job be done well than poorly, and in his hands, it was always done well.

  It was also a fact that he had saved many more lives, through his work at the clinic and at the private hospital in Culiacán, than he had taken. He had alleviated at least as much pain as he had caused.

  Dr. Mendoza felt the need to remind himself of this, since very soon, he was quite sure, he would be inflicting a great deal of pain.

  43

  At six o’clock the next morning, Danny’s iPhone alarm went off. The bedroom was dark and a bit overheated, and for a moment Danny, woozy, nearly gave in to the temptation to go back to sleep.

  Until he remembered.

  Lucy mumbled, “Why are you getting up?”

  “To do some work,” Danny said.

  “What time is it?”

  “Six. In Boston, it’s eight o’clock.”

  She murmured, “We’re not in Boston,” and rolled over.

  • • •

  No one else was up, which was a relief. Before the grown-ups had retired for the night, Galvin had announced that they weren’t crack-of-dawn ski types and everyone should feel free to sleep in. But Danny was prepared in case Tom or Celina were up—he knew the girls wouldn’t be—and offered him coffee and wondered why in the world he was headed out so early. He’d say he was mentally outlining the next chapter of his book. Fresh air always helped him think clearly. Who’d question that? Writers were an enigma to most people anyway.

  The front door sounded a chim
e when he opened it, but it wasn’t alarmed. Outside it was dark and cold and the snow crunched and squeaked underfoot. The frigid air stung his cheeks and earlobes as he walked along the shoulder of the road.

  There was hardly any traffic, with the exception of a Jeep passing by, blaring a snatch of something hip-hop and unmelodic. Gung-ho skiers, probably, on their way to sample early-morning corduroy.

  The walk to town took just over twenty minutes. Gradually the sky began to brighten.

  Sweet Tooth was exactly as Danny had expected, a hipster coffee shop/bakery that offered chai latte and gluten-free brownies and organic fair-trade coffee roasted by hand in small batches. Something by Ray LaMontagne was playing on the speakers. The only patrons were an exhausted-looking young dad with a squalling baby in a stroller, and, sitting by himself on a beat-up leather couch, Philip Slocum.

  Danny ordered a small black coffee, which set him back four dollars, and joined Slocum on the couch.

  An idea had just occurred to him, and he took out his iPhone.

  “Hold on,” he said, feigning annoyance at some dull task he had to get out of the way.

  It wasn’t easy to snap a photo of Philip Slocum furtively. But he muted the phone’s volume and then held it up vertically as if trying to get a better view of something on the screen.

  And hit the CAMERA button. No sound, no flash. Just a half-decent, fairly in-focus picture of Slocum’s face.

  “Did anyone watch you leave the house?” Slocum asked.

  “I doubt it. Everyone was asleep. Why?”

  He slid a small black nylon pouch across the sofa toward Danny. “Because you didn’t leave the house with this, so you might not want to flash it around.”

  Danny unzipped the pouch. Inside was what looked like just the lens for an SLR camera, a small black barrel. But on second glance he could see it was an entire camera, extremely compact, its body dwarfed by its lens.

  “And where’s this meeting taking place?”

  “We don’t know. Just that it’s going to be fairly remote. They’re concerned about tracking devices and surveillance.”

  “I told you, I don’t have a car.”

  “You don’t need a car. Galvin’s not taking a car. Too easy to be tracked.”

  “So maybe they’re meeting at Galvin’s house.”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Then, what?—he’s walking?”

  The baby let out an ear-piercing shriek. Danny sometimes missed having a little kid—Abby was a heart-meltingly adorable little girl—but he sure didn’t miss having an infant that age.

  “Most likely it’ll be a location where cars can’t drive to—where you can’t park a van. Where you can’t point a parabolic microphone. And where the cell phone coverage is so unreliable, or nonexistent, that no concealed transmitters are going to work. It’ll have 360-degree visibility, so they’ll be able to see anyone approaching.”

  “Including me,” Danny said. “So they can pick me off with a sniper rifle.”

  “No,” Slocum said patiently. “You’re a friend. A houseguest. If for some reason you’re spotted, Galvin will vouch for you.”

  “And when is this supposed to happen, this meeting?”

  Slocum shrugged. “This weekend. Today or tomorrow. That’s all we know.”

  “And it could be anywhere. Anywhere he doesn’t need a car to get to.”

  “Right. So try not to leave his side.”

  When Slocum had finished his instructions, Danny stood up.

  “Hey,” Slocum said. “Buy some muffins and scones to take home to the Galvins. Be a nice houseguest.”

  Danny jammed the camera case into the outside pocket of his down parka. He bought an assortment of scones and muffins. With a white paper sack in his hand—SWEET TOOTH printed on it in the same typeface the Grateful Dead used to use on their albums—he left the coffee shop.

  The first thing he noticed was a black Suburban.

  Standing a few feet from the coffee shop, smoking and watching the front door, was Galvin’s driver.

  44

  The Suburban passed Danny on his way back.

  He half expected Alejandro to pull over and offer him a lift. There was no question they’d recognized each other. The chauffeur had looked away too quickly.

  Of course, it was possible that the chauffeur genuinely didn’t recognize him. But if he did, and if he’d witnessed the transaction between Slocum and Danny, had seen Danny pick up the camera . . . ?

  By the time he got back, the Suburban was parked in front of the house, its engine block ticking and creaking as it cooled. He glanced around. Alejandro was nowhere to be seen.

  And through the glass front door he saw a light on that hadn’t been on before. He stamped his boots on the welcome mat, unlaced and removed them when he entered. In stocking feet, he followed the light into the kitchen.

  Galvin, in a white bathrobe, his back to Danny, sat at a high chair at a long granite island. Coffee had just been brewed.

  Danny held up the Sweet Tooth paper sack by way of efficient explanation. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” Galvin said heartily. He laughed and pointed to an identical paper bag on the counter by the coffeemaker. “Alejandro just got back from there.”

  Had the driver gone into the shop right after Danny had left?

  “Great minds think alike,” he said.

  “You went all the way into town on foot to get coffee?” he scolded. “I told you guys to make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa.”

  “I guess I’m still on East Coast time.” He set the bag down on the island. “The terminally hip barista said their cinnamon buns are to die for.”

  “Well, no one’s going to complain about seconds.”

  “Amazing view,” Danny said, pointing at the enormous picture window. “You probably take it for granted by now.”

  Galvin pushed back his chair and stood up. “That view is what sold us on this property. That and the fact that there’s a cross-country trailhead close by. We can just put on our cross-country skis and take off from the backyard if we want to. In town’s a lot more convenient—you can walk pretty much everywhere—but you don’t get the view.”

  “What are we looking at?” Danny approached the window, and Galvin joined him.

  “Snow,” Galvin said.

  “Thanks.” The comfortable sardonic banter of a couple of buddies. “Is that Aspen Mountain?”

  “Aspen Highlands Bowl.” He pointed. “Steeplechase. That’s upper Castle Creek valley.”

  “Beautiful.” There was no backyard, really. No fence defining property lines. Just a few stands of birch trees jutting up from the snow and lines of scrub pines. And a blanket of snow that went on for as far as he could see. And no other houses in view.

  “Anytime we’re not here, you guys are welcome to stay. Otherwise it just sits here empty.”

  Danny nodded. “Thanks.” They both stood admiring the scenery.

  “And when we are here, too, of course. Celina and your, uh, girlfriend look like they’re becoming fast friends. Abby and Jenna are inseparable. And you’re not so bad yourself.” Galvin clapped an arm on his shoulder. “Seriously, the first time I met you, I knew you.”

  “Knew me?”

  “Recognized you. Like you were a kindred spirit among all those phonies at Lyman, all those hoity-toity types.”

  “I don’t exactly belong,” Danny said.

  “Neither of us does.”

  “Except you’re—”

  “Rich?”

  “You could put it that way, yeah. As long as you’ve got beaucoup bucks, Tinsley Thornton couldn’t care less where you come from.”

  “Lally, you mean. Please.” A tart grin. “See, Danny, that’s where you’re wrong. She knows who I am and where I’m from. To her, and to everyone at
that school, I’ll never be more than a blue-collar kid from Southie who got lucky. As far as they’re concerned, I’m no better than some jamoke who works at a gas station and just won three hundred million bucks in the lottery. I’ll always be, you know”—he extended a pinkie and mimed drinking a cup of tea—“below the salt, as they’d say. They’re happy to take my money, sure, but I don’t have any illusions about the kind of smack they talk about me at board meetings.”

  Danny shrugged, grinned. “Jamoke. My dad’s favorite insult.”

  “You grew up on the Cape, right?”

  “Yep. Wellfleet.”

  “But not McMansion Wellfleet, I’m betting.”

  “Not even close.”

  “I forget if you told me, he was a plumber like my dad, right?”

  “Contractor. Carpenter, really—that’s what he most loved doing.”

  “Bet he was good at it.”

  “He was great. A real craftsman. Meticulous. But a lousy businessman.”

  “My dad was a good businessman but not exactly meticulous.” He laughed. “But everyone loved him. Did you say your dad passed?”

  “No, they’re both alive.”

  “Lucky. Mine are gone. Funny how the relationship changes when they get old. You start giving them advice. They even listen to you once in a while. They need your help, and you don’t need theirs anymore.”

  Danny nodded.

  Galvin went on, “Whatever stuff you went through, whatever ticked you off about your mom and dad, you just move on from that. You take care of them, because that’s what you do.”

  Danny nodded. “Dad’s starting to lose it, you know, so we may have to put him in a home pretty soon. But he’s gonna go kicking and screaming.”

  “I see the way you look at Abby. I see it in your eyes. You’d do anything to keep her safe.”

  Danny felt tears spring to his eyes. “You know it.”

  “I mean, I’d kill to protect my family. Bet you’d do the same.”

  Danny nodded, uncertain what he was getting at. He looked Galvin in the face, just as he heard Celina say, “What big trouble are you two plotting?”