Eddie let himself into Benton's room. It was a box with a bathroom and closet jutting out of one corner. It smelled of years of cigarettes and cheap booze. He started his search and quickly found out that Benton liked guns. Under the pillow on the bed was a Colt38 revolver, and in the bathroom a toiletry kit contained a. 22 Saturday-night special. The single dresser held a Gideon Bible and nothing else. Benton kept his clothes in two large canvas duffel bags, clean clothes in one and dirty clothes in the other. He probably didn't like the cockroaches getting into his wearing apparel, Eddie thought, as he watched one dart out of the wastebasket. The only thing in the trash can was a greasy brown paper bag containing food wrappers and a cash register receipt from the Caballito Bar.
He took another tour through the room before leaving and found a laptop computer and printer in a carrying case on the floor by a phone jack. Next door a hooker cooed and moaned in time with the squeaking bedsprings. He grabbed the computer case, locked the room, and stood in the parking lot. Just down the street, on the opposite corner, the neon outline of a rearing pony flashed on and off above the entrance to a bar. Eddie smiled to himself, put the computer in his car, and walked to the Caballito Bar. The bar, filled with workers from the factories, bustled with activity. Eddie found room at the bar and ordered a cerveza. When the bartender brought it, he gave him a twenty-dollar bill and asked if he knew a gringo named Benton.
The bartender, a man with a hook nose and dark circles under his eyes, took the bill, made change, and said he didn't know anybody by that name. He walked away to serve another customer before Eddie could ask another question. The wall over the bar held a velveteen painting of a conquistador and another painting of a senorita wearing a lace mantilla.
A hand-printed lunch menu was tacked between the two pictures. Eddie called the bartender back and asked if a gringo had been coming in recently to buy take-out lunches.
"Oh, that guy," the bartender answered, taking another twenty-dollar bill from Eddie's hand, plus the eighteen dollars in change on the counter. He stuffed the money into a tip jar and lowered his voice.
"I don't know his name." The Freddy Fender song on the jukebox ended and the bartender stopped talking. A man at the pool table dropped more quarters in the slot and started punching buttons. The music blared; a mariachi song. Two female shift workers at the end of the bar started singing along.
"If it's the guy I'm thinking about," the bartender continued, "he comes in to buy take-out. Always orders a hamburger and fries. He doesn't like Mexican food." Eddie described Benton to the bartender.
"That's him." The bartender walked away to fill an order. Along the rear wall, a small audience watched the pool game. Behind them was a mural of wild mustangs galloping across a mesa. When the bartender finished pouring drinks, Eddie motioned for him to come back.
"Did you ever see this guy on the streets?" Eddie inquired. The bartender plucked another twenty-dollar bill from Eddie's fingers.
"Once. I saw him over by the self-storage units."
"Where is that?"
"Down by the factories. You can't miss it."
"What was he doing when you saw him?" Eddie asked. The bartender smiled.
"He was driving through the gate. Probably checking on his property. Everybody who rents space there keeps a close eye on their merchandise. The city can tear down Smeltertown, but they can't stop the contrabandistas." Eddie thanked the man, finished his beer, and went to the telephone next to the jukebox. It was time to call Kerney.
Andy Baca watched his officers work. They had cordoned off the driveway and brought in high intensity lights to help with evidence collection. An officer photographed the heel marks and tire imprints, while another searched Utiey's car. Inside, the crime scene unit lifted prints, vacuumed rugs for fibers and trace evidence, and photographed the body. On the patio a deputy sifted through the ashes in the barbecue pit.
Kerney was inside with Andy's captain of detectives, giving a statement. The medical examiner arrived with two paramedics in a county ambulance and started unloading a gurney. The sound of another motor came up the road. The driver parked behind a patrol unit, got out, and walked over to him. Andy nodded when Major Curry drew near.
"Tom," he said.
"Thanks for coming."
"No problem," Curry replied.
"Are you sure this cop of yours has his story straight?"
"I believe him," Andy replied, "and the evidence backs him up."
"He thinks Sara was abducted?"
"It looks that way. I've got a statewide APB out on her vehicle, plus El Paso and west Texas. Kerney's worried that she may have been taken somewhere and killed."
"Jesus," Tom Curry snorted.
"I've got a patrol covering her quarters in case she turns up. Do we have a suspect?"
"No, but another wise guy surfaced in Juarez," Andy said.
"Who is it?"
"Kerney didn't tell me, but he's probably on ice in the Juarez morgue."
"Did Kerney take him out?"
"No, one of your people did. A Corporal Eddie Tapia. Kerney says the corporal saved his life."
"Where is Tapia?" Curry asked.
"In El Paso. He took a knife cut on his arm. Nothing serious. He's probably finished getting sewed up and is backtracking on the perp."
"Where's Kerney?" Andy nodded at the front door as Kerney stepped outside the house.
"Be gentle, Tom," he advised. "The man has had a shitty night, and his attitude stinks right now."
Curry watched Kerney limp down the walk to a pickup truck and open the door. His suit was dirty and spattered with dried blood. Curry and Andy walked to him.
"You're Curry?" Kerney asked, looking at the uniform and the insignia of rank. He opened his bag, searched for a clean shirt, and pulled one out.
"I am."
"Good. I need to talk to you. Eddie Tapia just called. He found where Benton was staying, and he has a lead on a rented storage unit. I'm going down to hook up with him."
"Greg Benton?" Curry asked.
"That's right." He slipped out of the suit jacket, undid the tie, unbuttoned the shirt, and stripped it off. The scar on Kerney's stomachwas nasty, as bad as any combat wound Curry had seen. Kerney threw the dirty clothes into the cab of the truck and put on the fresh shirt.
"You know who he is?"
"I know who he's supposed to be," Curry replied.
"Is he CIA? Defense Intelligence? NSA?" Kerney asked, stuffing his shirttail into his pants.
"I don't know," Curry answered.
"He belongs to somebody," Kerney said.
"Check it out."
"Of course. Are you assuming Utiey was part of it?" Kerney got in the truck and slammed the door.
"He had to be." He smiled at Andy. "I'll be in touch."
"Let me send somebody with you," Andy pleaded.
"I can handle it," Kerney retorted. He drove away.
"I need to make a phone call to Washington," Curry said, frowning at the receding taillights.
"Be my guest," Andy replied. *** De Leon meeting with Francisco Posada was short and to the point. Posada promised him all the required facts about Kevin Kerney, and he would see what could be learned about Eddie the jorobado. Most certainly Don Enrique would know by morning where Kerney lived, so he could be found and killed quickly. Carlos was due to return with a progress report on the search. De Leon waited patiently at his table, watching the action on the floor. Luisa, his diversion for the weekend, still occupied her time gambling with his money at the monte tables. He looked forward to his weekend with her. She hoped for marriage and eagerly demonstrated her talents, but he saw no future in marrying any woman. Eventually, all of them grew tiresome. Dominguez waddled in through the back door, looking very pleased with himself. His belly heaved in exertion as he stopped in front of De Leon