Death and Desire (19 page)

I
knocked on Trace's condo door, and he answered barefoot, wearing a pair of threadbare, faded jeans and a T-shirt. He had one leg thrust slightly forward and he looked sexy as hell with his pecs challenging the span of his tight white tee. I had a pounding headache and was nervous as I walked into the no-man's-land between our professions. I didn't want to screw up my relationship.

“Come in. Something's on your mind.” He kissed me softly on the cheek. “Have a seat.”

I followed him into his small living room and sat on the sofa.

“Want something to drink. Coffee? Beer?”

“Nothing.” I shook my head.

Hands loosely dangling between his knees, Trace sat across from me in his big leather man-chair and waited patiently for me to talk.

I wasted a little time fanning Gage's documents out on the sofa, lining up the edges with the welting on the cushion, buying time before I spoke. I took a deep breath and said, “Dinetah is laundering the cash from selling pottery through its uranium mining business into a couple of banks,” I blurted out.

“What makes you think so?” he asked reasonably.

“I took Gage's financial docs to Mr. Madler for analysis. He agrees.”

“Where is Gage Notah?” He knitted his brow.

“Chavez threatened his family to keep him silent. He and his family have disappeared into the back country.”

“Chavez can find him. Have you heard from him?”

“‘No,” I answered miserably.

He got up and joined me on the sofa. Trace flipped through the pages, nudged them aside, and looked at me for an explanation.

“Madler is a forensic accountant.”

“I know his work.”

“He says Dinetah has about fifty million a year not accounted for by selling uranium. Gage admits he and the bookkeeper fiddled the books.”

He blew out his breath. “You're giving me these, right?” He held the papers up.

“Yes, of course. They're genuine and I even talked to Gerald Winston—”

“You talked to Gerald?”

The man who kissed me hello had become a steely cop.

“He's a source of mine.” I rushed to fill in the blanks about Mateo's involvement in the Ruidoso Downs money-laundering scheme and that he was Sancho's brother. I stopped talking and waited for a statement, a reaction from Trace. His level gaze never left my face.

“Had you asked, I could have given you the same information on Mateo Sanchez.”

“It's hard to know what I can and can't ask!” I stared hard at Trace. “Are Mateo and Sancho Chavez part of the Zeta cartel?”

No response from Trace.

“Okay, do you suspect they are?”

He ran his hand through his hair. “Don't put me on the spot. We've talked about this.” His posture was rigid, and his lush lips had thinned to a hard line.

“I'm trying to find the line between our jobs and our relationship. It's a fair question, and I just said I can't fathom what I can ask you.” Damn it, my eyes were watering.

He stood, towering over me, and bellowed, “I'm trying to do my job as a cop and at the same time keep the woman I love safe.”

I blinked, so startled I hoped my mouth wasn't pursing like a goldfish.

He threw up both hands. “Don't reflexively say you love me. Don't! Just ask me another question.” His voice rang with frustration.

“All right.” My heart thudded in my ears. I was scared. I was confused. I didn't know. But how could I not know? Why was I so damn careful? I loved this guy.
Just say it!

“Do it, Taylor, ask me a question. When you know about loving me, talk to me,” he demanded.

I took a steadying breath. “Are the Zetas laundering money in Arizona ?”

“Probably.” He rolled his head, shrugging the tension from his shoulders. “Laundering money is a complicated house of cards.”

“How do you take them down?”

“Follow the money trail.” He stood and paced the short distance of the living room. “Damn it all to hell. Talking with you is driving me crazy.” He whirled around and stared at me. “Forget I said that.” In the blink of an eye, he had himself under control and had shifted back into cop mode. “What kind of contact plan did you give Gage?”

There was an awkward pause. I studied my hands, picking at a peeling nail, then stopped myself before I gnawed at it. “I gave him my cell phone number and begged him to call me.”

“Did you try calling him?”

“Yes, but I told him to take the battery out of his cell phone so he couldn't be traced. He can always get to a trading post and call me from a hard line.”

“So we got nothing. God only knows how his wife took this.”

“I hope she's smart enough to have gone with him and taken the kid. I'll let you know if I hear from him, and if he calls, I'll encourage him to come in. Please, let me know if you hear from him.”

“I will.”

I sighed and broached the next difficult subject. “I know Keith Dohi had a cell phone. Have you been able to trace any numbers? We're off the record, Trace. I didn't know Danny was challenged. His poor grandma thinks Keith manipulated Danny and got him killed.”

“No. Except for calls to Keith's friends, all the other calls were to burner phones. Looks like the boys were distributing for a dealer and Keith, probably without Danny knowing about it, was trying to start his own meth business.” His face contorted in frustration.

“You're worried about the boys.”

“Hell, yeah.” He stood up and paced. “They're just kids. Didn't know who they were dealing with.”

“Who were they dealing with?”

“Taylor,” he said sharply, holding up one hand.

“Unfair question from me.” I jumped up and raced to the front door. I jerked on the doorknob, whipped around, and faced him. The room rippled with tension and an undercurrent of anger. “We're going to talk about this. I'm not losing you because of my job.”

He covered the ground between the sofa and the front door in three long steps. Drawing me close, he breathed huskily in my ear. “You bet you're not.” His mouth covered mine. Raging need surged through me as his arms slipped down and cupped my butt, pulling me into his erection. We moved to his bedroom and our coupling was hot and urgent—filled with the hunger for closeness brought on by the fear of loss. We took and gave until sweet release washed away the anger.

“I needed your lovemaking,” I whispered into his chest.

“I dream about being deep inside you.” He ran his finger up one of my legs. “Such long, sexy legs.”

I pushed. I knew I was, but I had to get it straight in my head. “I have to ask questions. It's my job and my nature. I don't want us to be angry.”

“Then we
don't
get angry.” He pulled back and looked at me.

“But you were angry!”

“I was. And frustrated that you asked me things I couldn't answer.” He stroked his hand through my hair. “I feel pulled. I want to please you, to share with you. But I can't—I'm a
cop
. I can deal with it.”

“Can you?” I questioned.

“Yeah. I can. You're that important to me. Can you handle it when I don't answer?”

“Yeah. But I can't promise I won't ask.”

“You wouldn't be you if you weren't firing questions. I suspect we'll have to clear the air every now and then with hot makeup sex.” He rolled over, pulling me on top of him. “You good now?”

“For a while.” I nuzzled his neck.

O
ver breakfast, I shared with Trace that Louis and I were talking to a border-patrol agent and my contact in the IRS. But when I backed out of the driveway, I was thinking of Trace, not work. What had stopped me from saying “I love you”? He had surprised me with his declaration of love, but that was no excuse for not responding. I did love him. Loving him had opened the door to great joy, but also the risk of incredible pain. I'd experienced the latter. Was I too weak to try again? Hell no, I huffed. I fumbled for my ringing phone. Louis was calling.

“Where are you?” He asked.

“Close to the station.”

“Come over here to the house. We'll make the calls from here. I got a digital recorder we can use.”

Back at Louis's dining room table, I called the border patrol station in Nogales.

While the phone was ringing, Louis murmured, “They may have a leak.”

I raised my eyebrows and threw out my hands in the silent
What?

“Could I speak with the officer on duty?” I said into the phone.

“Sergeant Ramirez,” answered a tired voice.

I identified myself and asked permission to record.

“Sure, I recognize your voice. Saw a story you did that the Tucson station picked up. Tucson is all the TV news we get down here,” he said wistfully.

“I'm working a story about moving cash across the border to launder it. Have the number of arrests for smuggling cash across the border spiked in the last six months?”

“Can't give you an answer off the top of my head. Give me your number, and I'll pull the case-file stats.”

“Do you know how long it will be?”

“Fifteen minutes if I'm not interrupted. All the arrests are broken down into type by each quarter so we can monitor any increase in a particular type of crime in our database. But, if we snag someone coming across the border who's a problem, your request goes to the end of the line.”

“Got it. Thanks.” I punched my cell off.

I pounced on Louis. “What do you mean there could be a leak down on the border?”

“Think about. There's a leak somewhere. Someone set those Navajo boys up. Since 2011, the Mexican cartels have been infiltrating American law enforcement.”

“Border Patrol?”

“Well, yeah, among others. When the Obama administration called for a huge uptick in the number of agents, the Border Patrol was hiring them so fast, they hired them without lie detector tests or full background checks. Some of them are dirty, and someone knows something if that much cash is going back and forth across the border. Play it cool with him. Don't spill all we know.”

“Officer Etisitty,” I snapped.

“What about her?”

“She's in deep with Tomas Reyes and she turns up in the wrong places. Plus, she has grandparents in a very expensive nursing home. Could be that Susan or Tomas sells information.”

“Maybe,” Louis agreed. “Sweet setup. She gets the cop and FBI info and he gets the Border Patrol and DEA gossip. Big money is a powerful lure, and they sure as hell aren't making any. You gonna talk to Trace?”

“Of course. He sits thirty feet from her when he's in the office.”

“He's not gonna want to hear that from you,” Louis forecasted. “You two doing okay working on different sides of this mess?”

He read the equivocation on my face. “Sorry. You don't look too happy.”

“It's not work. . . .”

“He told you he loved you, and you didn't say it back.”

“How did you guess that? I never said a word.”

“Gal, I may be a guy with a husband, but I'm sure as hell still a guy. What happened?” he asked softly. “You got burned too bad to do it again? Or you don't want to give up your freedom and career?”

“Neither. Both.” I moaned.

“Don't make Trace pay for your past.” He slipped his arms around my shoulders. “I'm betting on you, gal. You got a good head on your shoulders. Take your time and figure out how you feel. He'll keep.”

“I hope you're right,” I said under my breath. My phone shrieked.

“Sorry, took me longer than I thought.” Sgt. Ramirez apologized.

“That's okay. What have you got?”

“We've had nearly ten percent more arrests of mules carrying money in the last six months. You gotta remember that's the number we caught, not the number that's coming across.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” I grabbed my bag and the recorder. “We got something,” I said triumphantly to Louis. “Let's roll. I'll brief you on the IRS agent on the way over. And thanks,” I added softly, “you know I love you.”

“Sure do. Now, just wrap your head around telling Trace you're in love with him.”

I pulled into traffic. “We're seeing Maddie McGonagall who has been a fed about twenty years. I met her through Gerald when we were working another story.”

“What are you asking her? We know they're laundering ill-gotten cash and got it confirmed. We could have done this one by phone.”

“Yup. Could have, but I have another use for her. How popping antsy do you think Sancho Chavez is going to be if the IRS starts snooping through his books?”

“You ever look at the downside to things you do, gal. We
live
here.”

I put the Rav in park and turned to Louis. “You can back out anytime.”

“Too late. I'm in this up over my ass, and I'm not leaving you.” He jerked open his car door.

“I'm sorry.” I plucked at his sleeve. “I snapped. I'm scared spitless.”

Louis shrugged. “It's all right, gal. We'd be stupid not to think about the risk. I bet all Chavez's problems end up in unmarked graves.”

I shivered.

Ms. McGonagall's assistant assured us we were expected and ushered us into an office lined with tax and law books.

The agent looked up when we entered and waved one hand at two chairs while making notes on a legal pad.

“Thanks for seeing us. This is Louis Dubois, my colleague.”

“Right.” She shoved the legal pad aside and picked up some papers. “I reviewed what you e-mailed.” She just let it hang there without commenting.

“What's your opinion?”

“Could be money laundering,” she offered.

“Enough evidence for you to look into?”

She looked uncomfortable. “Money laundering is a serious threat to our financial system and legitimate US businesses.”

“That's pretty much what Gerald Winston down in Phoenix told us.” I hoped to nudge more information out of her.

“We work with Gerald's office,” she responded.

I could feel Louis tensing up at her obfuscation. “A local forensic accountant, Mr. Madler, has reviewed the documents, and his opinion is there is evidence of money fraud. Plus Border Patrol Agent Ramirez just confirmed a rise in the number of people caught smuggling money across the border.”

She frowned, fidgeted in her chair, and didn't make eye contact.

“Ms. McGonagall, will you pursue this?” I asked.

“It's not only my call. I appreciate your bringing it to our attention, and I will pass it on to my superior.” She picked up her legal pad.

We had been dismissed. I rose and thanked her.

Once we were in the Rav, Louis exploded, “It's a wonder the government accomplishes anything. They're all working in their own little silos, pissing on themselves.”

“She'll snoop around Chavez's finances, but she doesn't want to commit to us that she is going to. She knows we've talked with Gerald and the border patrol, and that Madler has reviewed the material. She can't just sit on it. When it breaks, and it will, her career would be in the tank if she weren't combing through his books.”

Both my phone and Louis's chirruped. We answered simultaneously and Marty shouted at me, “Get your ass out north of town on 89. I hire you to file stories.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Those missing boys were found up on the edge of the Navajo Nation about fifteen minutes ago,” he barked. “Get out there pronto.”

“Oh, no. Oh, my God, they're kids!”

Louis dropped his cell in the console. “Assignment editor just told me.”