Seventy-eight
Lock was standing by the motel-room window as a blue sedan pulled into the parking lot. Rafaela was driving. Police Chief Gabriel Zapatero sat next to her in the passenger seat. She pulled up and they both got out. They were in casual clothes. Rafaela was wearing brown boots, jeans and a sweater. Zapatero had on black loafers, sand-coloured khakis, a black roll-neck and a dark blazer. There was no sign of any other vehicle. A red pick-up truck rolled past on the road outside but otherwise it was quiet.
Rafaela walked towards the room. Zapatero, ever cautious, stood next to the sedan. Lock opened the door wide as Rafaela approached. Zapatero looked pointedly in the opposite direction, as if he had no idea why he was there.
‘What’s going on?’ she whispered to Lock.
Lock smiled. ‘Trust me, okay?’
‘Like I have a choice?’ she said, taking in the balled-up figure of Charlie Mendez on the bed and the woman sitting rigid, with WASP-style fortitude, on a seat in the corner.
‘You bring the money?’ Lock asked.
She nodded back towards the sedan. ‘It’s in the trunk. But he wants me to make sure you have Mendez before he hands it over.’
Lock ushered her in with a wave of his hand. ‘Not a problem. You get rid of your escort?’
She walked past him into the room. ‘They’re a half-mile back down the road waiting for us,’ she said. Lock left the door open to allay Zapatero’s paranoia.
‘How many of them?’ Lock asked her.
‘Four in a red Dodge Charger with Texas plates.’
‘You might suggest to Zapatero that they move up a little so that they can see you both. But they shouldn’t get too close.’
Rafaela nodded.
Ty crossed to Charlie Mendez and lifted him to his feet. He smelt of stale urine and his eyes were wide as saucers. He flinched as Rafaela approached, and his mother started to get up, only to be calmed by a wave of Ty’s gun. ‘Sit down, bitch.’
‘He’s all yours,’ said Lock. ‘Soon as we have the money.’
Rafaela turned. Lock walked her to the door, keeping an eye out for any other vehicles making a last dash into the parking lot. Rafaela exchanged a few words with Zapatero. He produced a cell phone and made a call — no doubt passing on Rafaela’s suggestion that the escort move in a little tighter. Then she followed him to the trunk.
The lid flipped open and Zapatero hauled out two large black canvas bags, similar to the ones Lock and Ty had used for their gear when they had crossed the border a few days previously. He handed the bags to Rafaela and grabbed two more. They stumbled forwards under the weight of the bags. Zapatero’s jacket rode up to reveal a Glock tucked into a holster. Lock held the door open for them as they reached the room and walked in.
The police chief threw the bags on to the bed nearest the window, the frame creaking as they hit the mattress. Lock shut the door to hide the transaction from prying eyes.
Zapatero noticed Miriam Mendez and his eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead. ‘What’s she doing here?’ he asked.
The question spoke volumes. Zapatero obviously knew exactly who she was. ‘Deal of the week,’ said Lock. ‘Buy one, get one free.’
Rafaela ignored the exchange, dumping the other two bags on the floor before standing back, positioning herself at the far wall, away from the window.
Zapatero smiled. ‘You’re very thorough, Mr Lock. Perhaps you could assist my department again. We always need resourceful men such as yourself and your friend.’
‘You can drop the act,’ Lock said, with a nod to Rafaela. ‘She knows you’re in bed with Tibialis and the cartel. So do I. This is a one-off deal.’
Miriam Mendez started to her feet, and this time no gun was going to stop her as she advanced on Lock. ‘You can’t do this. They’ll kill us both. I gave you three million dollars.’
Lock matched Zapatero’s smile. ‘Except it wasn’t your money to give, was it, Mrs Mendez? It belonged to the cartel. To Chief Zapatero’s friend Mr Tibialis. Isn’t that right?’
The woman flushed. ‘They weren’t complaining. My family gave them what they wanted.’
‘And what was that, Mrs Mendez?’
Her lips thinned with rage. Zapatero started towards her but Rafaela drew her weapon and pointed it at his head. ‘Let her answer the question,’ she said.
‘What did they want from you, Mrs Mendez?’ Lock pressed. ‘It couldn’t have been money. They were paying you.’
A darkness passed over Miriam Mendez’s face. Her expression soured. She reminded Lock of the Santa Muerte skeletons he’d seen in Diablo. ‘There are two types of money in this world, Mr Lock. Dirty and clean. They had the first kind and we could turn it into the second for them. Like lead into gold.’
‘You mean you could launder it?’ Lock said.
Zapatero was getting twitchy. ‘Don’t listen to her. She’s a crazy old woman. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. This is a law-enforcement matter,’ he said, buying time as his hand inched towards the butt of his Glock.
Lock shook his head. ‘Hey, Chief. Did no one ever tell you that you got to have equal numbers for a stand-off?’
His hand fell away from the holster.
‘Now,’ said Lock, ‘Mrs Mendez, why don’t you continue?’
Her lips thinned again. ‘I’ve said all I’m prepared to say.’
‘Oh, I highly doubt that,’ said Lock, as the connecting door and main door burst open simultaneously and half a dozen men clad in black body armour, with POLICE emblazoned in blue lettering across their backs, rushed into the room.
‘US Marshals! Keep your hands where we can see them,’ they said, gun-facing everyone, Lock and Ty included.
Lock, Ty and Rafaela dropped their weapons, following the Marshals’ instructions to the letter. Within sixty seconds, all six of the room’s occupants were face down on the motel-room floor, hands cuffed behind their backs.
Either side of the motel room, doors opened to disgorge Arizona State Police and Federal agents who had been secreted inside, waiting for the go signal. Within minutes, the parking lot was bumper to bumper with law-enforcement vehicles.
Out on the highway, a red Dodge Charger, sporting Texas plates and with four Hispanic males inside, pulled a wide U-turn and sped off in the opposite direction. No one moved to stop it. The men inside would be allowed to go back across the border, where they would relay the news of Zapatero’s arrest by the US authorities to the cartel.
Lock kissed mouldy motel-room carpet as first Miriam and then Charlie Mendez were lifted to their feet and taken outside by the Marshals Arrest Response Team. Zapatero was next, his escort two clean-cut FBI agents, who looked fresh out of the box at Quantico. Lock, Ty and Rafaela were relieved of their weapons, uncuffed and helped to their feet as the motel’s Hispanic front-desk clerk strode into the room and extended a hand to Lock.
‘Armando Hernandez, US State Department.’
Lock shook his hand. ‘You boys get everything you need?’
‘We had a lot of it worked out already, but nothing beats hearing it from the horse’s mouth. You all okay?’ Hernandez asked.
A couple of Federal agents squeezed past him, picking up the holdalls with the ransom money, tagging them and taking pictures with a small digital camera before hauling them into the other room. Ty watched the bags with the expression of a kid who’d just been told that Santa Claus doesn’t exist.
‘We’re good. Don’t worry about Tyrone,’ Lock said, placing a hand on his partner’s shoulder. ‘He’s just a little emotional right now.’
‘That’s for damn straight,’ said Ty.
As soon as the area outside the motel was secured, they emerged into the midday sunlight, Lock, Ty and Rafaela. Rafaela walked out into the middle of the parking lot and, cupping her hand over her eyes, looked out over the open countryside beyond the road that fronted the motel. Lock stood next to her.