Krokodil Read online

  Still, he couldn’t express any of that. He couldn’t lay any extra grief onto his cousin, couldn’t make it worse than what it was clear he was already feeling.

  So instead, he ignored it.

  “What do you want me to do?” Carlos asked, pausing between every word, weighing each one carefully.

  “Have you talked to the feds?”

  “Last night,” Carlos said. “Told them what had happened and that I needed to see you, fast.”

  “What did they seem to think?”

  Carlos blew a quick breath out through his nose, loud enough for his cousin to hear and infer what he was trying to say. “Nothing. And I don’t mean nothing of substance, I mean nothing at all.”

  A scowl grew across Manny’s face as he shook his head. “Assholes.”

  Carlos nodded in agreement. “I got the impression they wanted to check out my story before they committed to doing anything.”

  “Yeah,” Manny said, sarcasm laced through his tone, “and in the meantime...”

  “My ass ends up dead,” Carlos said. “Yeah, I know.”

  Manny fixed a gaze on him and said, “Mateo would never give you up. You know that.”

  “I do, but it doesn’t matter now,” Carlos said. “The package was sent. There’s a trail out there. I can’t go back to Texas, and I already told Diaz that.”

  “How’d she take it?”

  Another head shake from Carlos. “Nothing.”

  Manny ran the back of his index finger under his nose, swiping at an itch, and sniffed deeply. “Give her a day or two. She’s just checking facts. Of everybody over there, the chica’s the only one with balls.”

  A smirk slid out of Carlos, rocking his body backward on inch. “Yeah, she’s alright. Takes this shit seriously, makes it fun to mess with her.”

  “Yeah,” Manny agreed, trying to force a bit of mirth onto his face. “What about the other? Any sign?”

  “Nothing yet,” Carlos said.

  Manny’s eyes narrowed as he again shifted his attention past Carlos, thinking. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he surfaces soon. He won’t stay away for long.”

  “Agreed,” Carlos said. “He’s in way too deep to let go now.”

  “Right,” Manny said, nodding. “And what about the other guy? The one Mateo went up to find?”

  Carlos twisted his head from side to side, his lips pursed. “Nothing out of him either.”

  “You think they found him with Mateo?”

  “I don’t know,” Carlos admitted, having considered the same thing on the trip in the day before. It wouldn’t surprise him if it had happened, the entire thing nothing more than a sliver of hope Mateo had clung to long after he had any reason to.

  A long shot, at best.

  “Where do you think I should go?” Carlos asked, leaving those and many other thoughts unspoken. As much as he wanted to share them with his cousin, he just couldn’t bring himself to, not in this situation, not knowing where they were both headed off to soon.

  Manny sat silent for a long moment. He laid the phone down again and wrung his hands in front of him, visibly weighing the options while Carlos kept the phone pressed to his face and waited.

  Once his internal debate was finished he picked up the receiver and said, “Stay the course. See how fast they found Mateo on his own? At least this way you’ve got someone watching your back.”

  “No matter how incompetent,” Carlos muttered, rolling his eyes.

  “No matter how incompetent,” Manny agreed. “Alright Cuz, keep me posted.”

  “Will do,” Carlos said, sensing that the conversation was over. They both knew that every word was being listened to, neither one wanting to say anything beyond the bare necessities needed.

  He stood, extending his fist back to the plastic divide, returning the phone to its cradle on the wall. Across from him Manny did the same, the cousins locking eyes for a moment, both of them solemn, and nodding.

  Split by a floor-to-ceiling Plexiglas divider they walked towards their respective doors, neither one looking back. Carlos could see the elderly woman and her young counterpart both still locked in conversation in his periphery as he went, not once glancing to them or the mirrored glass on his opposite side.

  The tension of the room seemed to fade away as he crossed out into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind him. The sounds of the women’s voices, the feeling of desperation, the stench in the air, all drained away as he stood there, taking in what stood across from him.

  He’d expected to find the same guard as before, waiting with a hand on his hip, the buttons of his uniform screaming for mercy beneath his bulbous frame. Instead he got Special Agent Diaz, her arms crossed over her chest, frowning at him.

  Beside her stood a face Carlos hadn’t seen in five years. He was a little older, his hair shaggier, but the man was unmistakable, standing there in a rumpled suit.

  Carlos’s jaw dropped a half inch as he looked at the man, realizing Mateo had been right.

  “Carlos Juarez,” Diaz said, interrupting his thought. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hutch swirled the dregs of his latte in the bottom of a tall paper cup, the gaudy mascot for a drive-up stand named Mountain Moose Coffee emblazoned on the side. After twelve hours in transit that had included two car rides and two flight connections, he’d choked down the coffee, though the only redeeming qualities he could find in it were the cheap cost and the bubbly twenty-something that served it to him.

  Dark circles belied his eyes, the telltale end product of an extremely long day. One of the upsides to taking the position in D.C. was he no longer had to travel the globe at a moment’s notice. Even though he now rarely had to so much as leave the country, that didn’t make it any more enjoyable.

  Besides, he could be to almost any major European city on a direct flight faster than he could make his way to West Yellowstone, Montana.

  Less than a day before he had been sitting in his living room with Hawk, swirling a perfectly aged Johnnie Walker Blue in a crystal tumbler. Now he was standing outside an interrogation room in West Yellowstone drinking a cup of Mountain Moose piss from biodegradable paper.

  Sometimes life was a bitch.

  Hutch waited in a small darkened room deep in the bowels of the Sheriff’s department, staring through a window of one-way glass. On the opposite of it was a room void of life, a single metal table with folding chairs on either side in the center of it. Two elongated fluorescent bulbs were stretched out parallel above it, casting a harsh glow over everything.

  The door on the right side pushed open after a moment, the hinges on it whining in protest. A giant of a man walked through first, his hands cuffed in front of him, dark hair shrouding most of his head and face. Behind him was FBI Special Agent Andrew Cofey, his tie loosened at the neck, a file in hand.

  Hutch tried swirling the coffee one more time before giving up on it and dropping it into the trash. As it landed in the can the door beside it opened and Sheriff Latham stepped in, just missing the residual splash from the last bit of the latte.

  “You were right,” Hutch said, arching an eyebrow, “he is a big son of a bitch.”

  “Told you,” the Sheriff replied, folding his arms across his chest and turning to stare through the glass. “Reminds me of that one old boy from the Superman movies.”

  Hutch let out a small smirk, taking in the man as he sat in his chair, staring right at the glass. His gaze was so intense Hutch couldn’t help but feel he was looking right at them, even though he knew the man could see nothing but his own reflection.

  “Non, I think they called him,” Hutch said, nodding. “The one that couldn’t talk.”

  “Yup,” Latham agreed. “This one here can talk, he just isn’t saying anything.”

  Hutch shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks, the sleeves of his sport coat bunching up by his wrist. It had been determined that Cofey would take a first run at the man, and if he got nowhere he w
ould hand it over to Hutch to try.

  After that, if they couldn’t get anything to shake loose, they would have no choice but to cut him loose or charge him. If they charged him, he would be appointed a lawyer, and the odds of them getting anything of use went down tremendously.

  This was their shot.

  Inside the room, Cofey slid into his chair across from the prisoner, the back of his head facing the mirror. Despite Cofey appearing to be in his mid-to-late thirties Hutch could already see a baseball sized spot beginning to appear near the crown of his head, most of it covered by an elaborate swoop-and-swirl combing pattern. Once upon a time Hutch would have tried the same approach, but had long since let such efforts fall by the wayside, accepting his age and his bachelor status with grace.

  Someday Cofey would get there too. It would just take a while longer yet.

  “Alright,” Cofey said, spreading the contents of his file out in an orderly line in front of him, “I’m going to start at the beginning here, just to get everything down for the record. That okay by you?”

  The man across from him looked back as if he were bored and shrugged, offering no audible response.

  “Okay,” Cofey said, “could you please state your name for the record?”

  The captive pushed out a long breath to show his disdain for the entire affair before stating, “Pavel Haney. Mora, New Mexico.”

  “Mhmm,” Cofey said, jotting down a note. “And what do you do down there Mr. Haney?”

  “I work for my family’s farming business,” Pavel replied. “We grow chiles, ship them all over the world.”

  Another notation from Cofey. “I see. So what brought you up to West Yellowstone now? During a time I’m guessing you should be harvesting your crop?”

  Pavel glanced up at the ceiling a moment, a move that Hutch noted could have meant he was frustrated, or trying to access the cover story he’d been trained to know.

  “My sister, Lita, came up here a week ago to find our friend Matthew. He works for us and said he needed to get away. She came to try and bring him home. When we lost touch with her, I was sent to make sure everything was okay.”

  “Matthew. Right,” Cofey said, finishing marking down the words and looking up at Pavel. “And did Matthew have a last name?”

  Confusion passed over Pavel’s face a moment as he gave a shake of his head. “I’ve never thought about that. We always just considered him family, but I don’t think he was actually a Haney.”

  Hutch couldn’t see Cofey’s face from where he stood, but he could tell by his body language that he was growing antsy in his seat.

  “Nice recovery,” Hutch said, shaking his head at the exchange of obviously phony information going on in front of them.

  “Complete bullshit is what it is,” Latham said, running a hand back over his head, frustration going on his face.

  Hutch nodded in agreement and watched a moment longer before patting the Sheriff on the arm and said, “I’ve seen enough of this. I’m going in.”

  “Good luck,” Latham said to his back as Hutch stepped out into the hallway and knocked on the solid wooden door leading into the interrogation room. He remained outside a long moment before Cofey emerged, the exchange something they had discussed before the interview began.

  They would do the swap without ever being in the room together, trying to throw Pavel off, not letting him get his bearings before switching the direction of things.

  “Thanks for cutting me off early,” Cofey said. “Much longer and I was going to start getting really pissed in there.”

  “I could tell,” Hutch said, nodding. “Your shoulders were twitching like you wanted to fly across the table and club him to death with the butt of your gun.”

  “Damn,” Cofey said, retreating two steps and opening the door into the observation room, “I didn’t think I was being that obvious. Have to work on that.”

  He disappeared without another word, Hutch waiting a few seconds to let him get situated before stepping inside.

  The room was much colder than the rest of the building, the solid concrete enclosure putting a chill in the air. The smell of citrus disinfectant tickled his nose as he walked in, his gaze aimed at Pavel, his hands still shoved down deep into his pockets.

  Across from him Pavel glanced up as he entered and looked back down at the table, his attention shifting up a moment later and remaining there. He tracked Hutch as he walked over and took a seat, shuffling the items strewn across the table back into the folder and dropping it to the floor beside him.

  “Good afternoon,” Hutch said, dropping his hands onto the table before him and lacing his fingers. “Tell me, red or green?”

  Pavel stared back at him a long moment, a blank expression on his face. The wheels in his mind seemed to be visibly turning as he sat in silence, trying to piece together what was being asked of him. “Red?”

  “Ah,” Hutch said, nodding. “Good man. I’m a hot man myself. Something in the range of an NM4? You?”

  The heavy brow of Pavel furled as he looked at Hutch, mistrust on his face. “Yes, that is a good one. I agree.”

  A smile curled up the corners of Hutch’s mouth as he leaned back a few inches and said, “My name is Don Hutchinson, United States Drug Enforcement Administration.”

  The corners of Pavel’s eyes twitched as he looked back at him. “DEA?”

  Hutch had used the full title to gauge Pavel’s familiarity with the organization. The fact the he knew the acronym in under a second said he was familiar with their work and what they did.

  Not the kind of information most supposed chile farmers had on instant memory recall.

  “That’s right,” Hutch said. “Tell me Pavel, does the name Mateo Perez mean anything to you?”

  The folds of skin around Pavel’s eyes relaxed a fraction as he stared back at Hutch. His features flattened out, his face taking on a look that bordered on serene. “No.”

  “No? Nothing?” Hutch pressed.

  “I live in New Mexico,” Pavel said. “I’ve known a lot of Mateo’s, a lot of Perez’s, but the name Mateo Perez doesn’t come to mind.”

  “Okay,” Hutch said, nodding. “How about Manuel Juarez?”

  The serene look receded even further, taking on a pose that appeared almost catatonic. His eyes glazed over as he stared at a point just above Hutch’s left shoulder, focusing on nothing. “Never.”

  “Carlos Juarez?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  Hutch stared back at him a long moment. He looked right into Pavel’s eyes, searching for any flash of recognition, any form of outward sign, but there was nothing.

  “Okay,” Hutch said, slapping his palms together and standing. He left Pavel sitting at the table without another word, striding from the room and shutting the door softly behind him. He stepped out into the hallway and leaned against the wall, his hands back in his pockets, and waited for Cofey and Latham to appear.

  It took them less than ten seconds to emerge from the viewing area, both men almost tripping on one another trying to get out into the hall, expectant looks on their faces.

  “That’s it? You’re done?” Cofey asked.

  “No point in going further,” Hutch said, his voice deadpan, almost resigned. “He’s already told us everything he’s going to.”

  “He’s already told us...” Cofey began, letting the comment drift off. “So far he hasn’t told us shit!”

  “Exactly,” Hutch said, nodding in agreement. “Everything he’s given us so far came from things he didn’t say. Now that those are exhausted, we’re done here.”

  Both Cofey and Latham stared at him with jaws agape, glancing at each other before looking his way, their faces almost pleading for him to explain.

  “First thing,” Hutch said, “is he basically told me his entire back story is bullshit. Anybody that’s ever even driven through New Mexico knows red or green is the universal question for how you like your sauce, from red or green chiles. Can’t even order without
it coming up.

  “When I asked him that, he looked at me like I was crazy. If someone claiming to be a chile farmer doesn’t know that, then his whole damn story is bullshit, no point pushing it any further.”

  Cofey and Latham both stared at him, their expressions unchanged, waiting for him to continue.

  “Second, the moment I started asking names, his gaze shifted away from my eyes and his face went blank. Too blank. He knew exactly what I was talking about, he just couldn’t look me in the eye and making a convincing case that he didn’t.”

  With that, Hutch pushed his backside against the wall and drew himself up to full height. He nodded at the two of them and said, “Thanks for your help, Gentlemen.”

  Turning on a heel, he kept his hands in his pockets and walked down the hall towards the front of the building, his mind already formulating his next move, cringing at the new journey that lay ahead.

  “Hey, where the hell are you going?” Cofey called behind him, his voice echoing through the narrow corridor.

  “California,” Hutch whispered without looking back, pushing through the door at the end of the hall and stepping out into the cold Montana air.

  Chapter Twenty

  Carlos stretched out across the backseat of the Crown Vic, his legs spread wide, one foot tucked beneath the driver and passenger seats. He raised his arms and spread them wide along the bench extended from one side to another, his reflection staring back at him in the rearview mirror.

  He seemed to be enjoying himself as we drove out of San Diego, the uneven skyline of San Diego receding from view, the city growing smaller behind us with each passing second. Vents blew cold air up at us from the front dash as we went, chilling the inside of the car.

  The look on his face when he walked out of the visiting room was priceless. We had caught him completely unawares, shock and confusion jockeying for the primary position on his features.

  Diaz was early, but she was expected. He knew it wouldn’t be long after his chat with Manny before she showed up, poking around, wanting to know what was going on. That was part of the reason he’d asked to see her in the first place, knowing she would follow up on whatever was going on.