Love at 11 (21 page)

“So, what do you think our chances are tonight?”

“Oh, we’re a shoo-in,” I say with a grin. “Our
Newsline
investigative pieces have won National Emmys six years in a row. What’s to stop us from taking number seven?”

“You’re amazing,” Jamie says, looking adoringly into my eyes. “And to think I almost lost you due to my stupidity.”

“Yes. You could have married that awful bitch Jennifer. I can’t believe you were once engaged to the waitress at Deb’s Diner.”

“Back then she thought she’d be an actress.”

“Yeah, right. Isn’t that hilarious?”

“I’m so glad I fell in love with you. You are the sunshine of my existence. My perfect rose. My amazing, talented,
Newsline
producer. I love you, Mrs. Hayes.”

“I love you, too, Mr. Hayes. Now, shush, while they announce the winner.”

The orchestra picks up, a vibrant tune as the head of the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences steps up to the podium.

“And the winner of this year’s National Emmy for Outstanding Investigative Work goes to …”

I hold my breath. Will it be me? Will he say my name? The envelope rustles….

“Sleeping Beauty!”

Huh? Sleeping Beauty? What the …?

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty, you ready to go?”

I lifted my head from my desk, groggily recognizing the Sleeping Beauty comment to be coming from Jamie. And not gorgeous tux-clad husband at the Emmy awards ceremony Jamie, but jeans and T-shirted, engaged to another woman Jamie.

Real-life Jamie.

Thanks a lot, subconscious. We were supposed to be forgetting the fantasy, remember? Not rehashing it in our dreams.

I couldn’t believe I’d fallen asleep. After David had left the cubicle earlier, I’d decided a quick eye-shutting was in order. After all, I was still exhausted from the Calla Verda adventure. But I’d only wanted to close my eyes for one second. Evidently my brain had other ideas. How long had I been out for?

“What time is it?” I asked, yawning. Hopefully no one walked by and caught me napping. Well, except Jamie, of course. I wondered if I looked cute and sleep-tousled or disgustingly disheveled. More likely the latter. At least he couldn’t tell what I had been dreaming. That would be super embarrassing.

Jamie glanced at his watch. “Six. You said we were supposed to meet Miguel, right? We’d better get a move on.”

“Okay.” I stretched my arms over my head, trying to wake up. I’d never fallen asleep on the job before. “But I need major coffee first.”

“I think that can be arranged,” he said with a grin. I smiled back, unable to help myself.

I could do this. I could work with him without wanting to jump his bones. We didn’t have to simply be coworkers. We could be friends. Just not lovers. Definitely not lovers.

I got up from my chair and followed him through the hallways, trying not to stare at his perfect butt. Friends did not stare at each other’s butts, after all.

We hit Starbucks and grabbed ice Americanos with four shots of espresso. So strong they were barely drinkable, but I definitely wouldn’t fall asleep on the job.

Now armed with caffeine, we hopped back in the SUV and drove down to Mexico. In order to not arouse suspicion, we had decided to park at the border and walk over. Then, Miguel would drive us in his car to the tunnel opening. On the way down, Jamie hooked up his iPod and blasted ‘80s music, eliminating the need for much conversation. It was just as well.

Getting out of the SUV, we walked through the clanging metal one-way revolving doors that led to the Central American country. Going into Mexico always reminded me of one of those Chinese finger traps: Anyone could go in—they never even checked IDs at this border. But you had to have major documentation to get out.

As we headed to the main square, delicious meaty smells wafted from nearby taco stands, tempting us to stray from our destination. But there would be no margaritas or food that evening. No fake-purse shopping. We had a more important mission. A dangerous undercover mission. I felt a little like James Bond—except, without the cool car, gadgets, and license to kill, of course.

“Hi, Miguel,” I greeted as we approached his stand. He grinned back his own semi toothless greeting.

“Maddy!” he exclaimed. “Welcome back to Tijuana.”

“Thanks,” I said, my eyes unwillingly drawn to his wares. Wow. It looked like he’d gotten in a brand new stock of purses! Wait ‘til I told Jodi. Wait—was that a Kate Spade with a sewn on label?

Maddy, stop it. You’re on an important undercover mission, not a shopping trip.

I willed myself to stop looking; I could always come back another day with Jodi. Tomorrow after work. Surely no one would buy the Kate Spade purse before I could return, would they? Then again, it was pretty rare to find a counterfeit Kate Spade with a sewn on label. Most were glued. What if someone came by tomorrow while I was at work and realized what a find it was? What if they bought it before I had a chance to—

“How much for the Kate Spade?” I blurted. I could feel Jamie’s disapproving gaze settle on me.

“Maddy, I thought you said we had to resist our shopping urges,” he reminded me.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but do you know how rare it is to find a good Kate Spade knockoff with a sewn on label?”

He raised an eyebrow. “In fact, I believe you specifically told me that I needed to stop you if you suddenly had an overwhelming urge to buy a purse.”

I groaned. “I meant an everyday purse. Not a Kate Spade with a sewn on label. You don’t understand—these purses come around once in a blue moon.”

“You also said to remind you that you already had nine Kate Spade knockoffs already.” He shook his head. “What do you do with nine purses?”

“You know in the time it took to have this discussion I could have bought the purse,” I whined.

Miguel placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I put a purse aside for you,
chica
,” he consoled. “But really, we must get moving to our destination. The guard who knew my brother, he is off duty at midnight. After that, it will be too dangerous to take you inside.”

I reluctantly acquiesced, sure that the purse was going to be long gone by the time I got back. But what could I do?

Miguel pulled down a metal barrier over the shop window and locked it at the bottom with a padlock. Then, he motioned for us to follow him. We walked behind the store to a tiny, beat up car. We clambered inside. Jamie allowed me shotgun, and he took the rear. Miguel turned the key in the ignition, and off we went.

Two hours later, I was ready to throw up. The Mexican roads were windy and bumpy, and Miguel’s car had very little shock absorption. Not to mention it had no AC and the radio blared gay Spanish tunes that only added to my nausea. To make matters worse, Miguel felt prompted to sing along. And let’s just say,
American Idol
finalist he was not. The things I did to get a good story …

Finally, when I thought we would literally die from heat (and ear) exhaustion, Miguel pulled over to the side of the road and killed the engine. “Here we are,” he said. “It’s right over that ridge.”

His statement made my pulse kick up about ten notches, drum with both anticipation and fear. This was not standing on a cliff, looking down at a distant building that we wouldn’t be going near. This was actually penetrating a drug cartel facility in a foreign country where we could be shot and killed and no one would even know where to look for us. In fact, come to think of it, we hadn’t even told anyone where we had gone. Pretty dumb.

When we didn’t come back, there’d probably be a nationwide search. Dogs, flashlights, dredging rivers. Our faces would forever be enshrined on milk cartons. But no one would ever discover the truth—that we were complete morons who’d decided busting a drug cartel on our night off would be a positive career move.

Coyotes howled in the distance as we exited the car. Miguel pulled out a flashlight from behind the driver’s-side seat, turning it on and flicking the light into the sky three times. “I am announcing that we are here to my amigo,” he informed us. “Since the tunnel is only operational during the day, there is just one guard on duty at night. His job is to pay off the police if they come snooping.” He laughed. “But in Mexico, they come for the money only. They do not care what goes on behind closed doors.”

“So, your friend’s going to give us a tour?” Jamie asked Miguel. “And he’ll let us videotape it all?”

“
Si
.” Miguel nodded. “Alejandro will let you get all the video you need. To avenge his friend, my brother, God have mercy on his soul.” Miguel crossed himself. “Now, let us go.”

Nice. The murdered-brother story. Just the reminder I needed to get my heart rate skyrocketing again. I reminded myself that the people who did that job were not there. They were in their beds, sleeping soundly with no idea there was an American news crew invading their drug tunnel.

Jamie reached into the backseat and pulled out his camera. He’d brought the smaller, digital DVC-Pro—better quality than the hidden camera but less bulky than the full-sized beta cam.
Easier to run with if we we’re chased
, he had said, and suddenly stories about killer household products that didn’t really kill didn’t really seem all that bad.

We walked about fifty yards down the rocky dirt road to a large dig site. The moon hung full and large in the desert sky, illuminating the landscape with a burnt yellow glow.

There was no oil refinery pretense on this side of the border. Just a bunch of rusty old digging equipment and a large ramshackle warehouse standing tall in the center. Miguel motioned for us to follow him to the building. Once at the door, he knocked three times.

The door opened and a skinny man with a straggly black mustache, dressed in a guard uniform, greeted Miguel with a big bear hug. Mexican men, unlike their homophobic American counterparts, I’d learned, were not afraid of hugging each other.

“Hola, Miguel. Coma estas?”

“Ah, muy bueno, Alejandro. Habla Englais?
Para los Americanos, por favor.”
He gestured to Jamie and me.

Alejandro turned to greet us. “How are you doing?” he asked, switching to accented English.

“Not bad,” I said. Yup, seeing as I was still conscious and not passed out from fear, I considered myself doing all right. I shook his hand. “I’m Maddy Madison, the producer. This is my photographer Jamie. Thanks for doing this.”

“You are welcomed. Peter, he was like a brother. When they murdered him, I longed for my revenge,” he explained. “This way I can have it, but keep my own head on my shoulders. Sure, I will lose my job if they shut down the tunnel, but there are other jobs. Jobs that will allow me to work with a clean conscience. Perhaps Miguel here will hire me to run his shop.” He slapped Miguel on the back, then motioned for us to step inside. We entered a dark building with only a few lanterns scattered for light. Luckily the camera had a night-vision option or else we’d be in trouble.

“There is no electricity,” Alejandro explained. “Only a generator, which makes such a noise I dare not turn it on at night.”

He shone a flashlight into the darkness, revealing a large tunnel cut into the ground, angled in such a way that a truck could drive through. I drew in a deep breath. This was it.

“Follow me,” Alejandro said.

Jamie lifted the camera to his shoulder and flicked on the night-vision option. Now, looking through the viewfinder had the same effect as night-vision goggles—which would give the video he shot a crystal clear, though greenish glow.

We descended into the tunnel. It was just tall enough for a van to drive through without the roof scraping the dirt ceiling. Every few feet wooden beams and wire mesh supported the infrastructure, much like a mineshaft. The tunnel descended for about a hundred feet, then flattened out.

“The tunnel is nearly a mile long,” Alejandro told me, stopping and leaning against one of the dirt walls. “There have been other border tunnels built in the past. Very primitive—carved out with hand tools. Only one person could crawl through to the other side and they were so close to the border that they were easy targets for border guards to spot. Many have been busted.” He gestured to the tunnel before us. “No one has ever created a tunnel this big before. Now they can import more, crossing with trucks instead of on foot. They smuggle Ecstasy, pot, and cocaine. You name it, they will smuggle it.”

“The tunnels are also used to smuggle human cargo,” Miguel added. “Those willing to pay a price to go to America.”

It made sense. Every day there were news stories about illegal immigrants risking life and limb to cross through the desert to get to the promised land of America. But the harsh, arid climate made the trip nearly impossible and many died. A tunnel such as this where you could ride instead of walk would seem a first-class ticket to freedom.

After Jamie got enough video of the tunnel, Alejandro suggested we go back above ground. There was an office, he said, where they kept the master plans. He could do an interview explaining what he knew about the cartel’s actions, as long as we didn’t shoot his face and digitally disguised his voice on the finished product.

We went into the small office and Alejandro unrolled a map. Jamie videotaped while he explained. “This is where the drugs enter,” he said for the camera, “and the trucks come out here, on the American side. There, they will be transferred to other vehicles and distributed for American sale.”

“And who’s behind this?” I asked.

“The cartel operating out of this tunnel is run by the infamous Lopez family,” Alejandro explained.

I scratched my head. “I thought Ronaldo Lopez was busted a few years ago. Isn’t he still in jail or something?” I remembered the News 9 report. “They said the cartel had been broken up.”

“
Si
, you are right,
senorita
.” Alejandro nodded. “Ronaldo Lopez is serving twenty years. But his son Felix has taken over the business. And he has even higher ambitions than his
padre
.”

“In that packet of documents I sent you,” Miguel interrupted, “from my brother. There are pictures of Felix on the scene the day the tunnel first opened. They told him he should never come to the actual site—to be implicated like that—but he is bold and likes to take risks. On that day my brother took secret photos of Felix with his camera phone.”