States government, I’m sorry that you feel that way.”
“The Homeland Security agent,” Harold said, “who was shot and killed in that hotel room in New York City a week ago … I think his name was Hruseff?”
Stein nodded. “That’s correct.”
“I was surprised to discover that he once worked for the DEA. Out of the El Paso office, as it turns out; coincidentally at the same time as the Bienvieneses’ killings … I guess that also means he worked under you …”
“And your guess would be correct, Mr. Bachman.” Stein stood up. “Ray was a good man. Very sad, what happened. And if I recall, there was a third person in that room. I’m pretty certain that when she’s found—and she will be, soon, I promise you—and all the facts come out, it will show that Ray was simply doing his job.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Harold said, and stood up too.
“Only I don’t see what that particular incident has to do with Eduardo Cano.” Sabrina Stein cocked her head. “Ray was working for a completely different government agency at the time he was killed. On matters totally unconnected with his past role—”
“The other person in the room … who Hruseff allegedly shot,” Harold said. “I think his name was Kitchner …”
“Curtis Kitchner.” Sabrina Stein nodded.
“He was a journalist. As it happens, he was looking into Eduardo Cano at the time of his death.”
“Into Cano?” She began to walk him to the door. “How would you possibly know that, Mr. Bachman? I never saw that come out anywhere.”
“Because he visited Lauritzia Velez. In the hospital, just a few days before his death.” Harold picked up his briefcase. “I was merely pointing out how this Cano seems to have his imprint everywhere. And how the two cases might be related.”
There was a moment of silence between them. Drawn out long enough to take on a shape, hard and stony, and even a pro like Sabrina Stein couldn’t hide how she was working to put it all together.
That was the moment Harold first thought she might be lying.
“Eduardo Cano continues to be a dangerous man, Mr. Bachman. A fact that I think you found out for yourself, firsthand. But to your point on Agent Hruseff, we all seem to cross paths in this business if we stay in long enough. Scratch any of us, and I suspect that’s what you’ll find. And now I’m afraid I have to move on …” She stopped at the door. “Once again, I feel like I haven’t been altogether helpful.”
“No, you have. I want to thank you for your time. But if you don’t mind, just one more quick thing. Any chance you ever come across someone named Gillian who was connected with this case?”
“Gillian?” Stein blinked at the name.
“Maybe someone connected to Hruseff? Or possibly another agent?”
“Gillian. No, I’m sorry. Where did that name happen to come up?”
“No matter.” Harold shrugged. “Just something this Curtis Kitchner seemed to have on his mind.”
“I see. Once again, I feel I haven’t been very helpful to you. Anyway, it’s been a pleasure meeting with you again, Mr. Bachman. Please keep me informed of what you find.”
She opened the door and they shook hands.
“I like your pin,” Harold said, noticing her lapel. “Looks Aztec.”
“Yes, it is,” Sabrina Stein said. “I actually got it while down there.”
Almost involuntarily she seemed to adjust it on her lapel—a turquoise and silver grasshopper.
The Amtrak express train rocked gently back and forth, speeding to New York City.
Harold sat in the quiet car and took a sip of his vodka.
Mexico is an excellent place to commit murder. He thought of what Sabrina Stein had said. Because you will surely get away with it.
He had no proof, nothing he could share with anyone. Nothing that would make someone think he was doing more than just grasping at straws.
Just that Hruseff was part of Stein’s DEA team back in El Paso. And that it was he who killed Curtis at the hotel. Curtis, who was looking into the deaths of Dean and Rita Bienvienes, who were in El Paso at the very same time, and who was sure he had found something. Something that led him to Lauritzia Velez.
Which may well have been that the Bienvienes were murdered in Culiacán by Eduardo Cano—and with the complicity of the U.S. government.
Why?
Look them up, Wendy Gould had begged him. Harold recalled her pretty but desperate face disappearing behind the closing elevator door.
They’re all connected. All of them.
That phrase kept on coming back.
All of them.
As soon as the train pulled out of Union Station in DC, Harold had googled the other agent who was with Hruseff at the hotel.
Alton Dokes. The agent Wendy claimed was framing her for her husband’s death.
He couldn’t find much of a history on him, only a ton of recent articles that quoted him as lead investigator on the manhunt for Wendy Gould. But he did find one linking him to an article from the San Antonio Express-News, from back in 2008, a year before the Bienvienes were killed.
As a DEA agent, Dokes had been implicated in the shooting of a seventeen-year-old Mexican crossing the border from Juárez. The boy ended up being a drug mule, and the shooting was ultimately ruled justifiable. Dokes was fully cleared.
“Sabrina Stein, Senior Agent in Charge of Operations out of the DEA’s El Paso office, commented, ‘We are glad this episode is behind us and a dedicated agent is able to resume his duties … ’ ”
Harold took a sip of his vodka. So Dokes was there too.
All of them.
He was sure Sabrina was hiding something. But what could he possibly prove? This wasn’t enough to cast even the slightest suspicion off of Wendy. Even if he handed what he had over to the authorities, he knew it wouldn’t go further than the person he told. That two government agents had been in the same place years ago at the same time two fellow agents were murdered in Mexico? That, years later, they’d both had some connection to a journalist who had been killed? A journalist who was looking into that very story.
Scratch any of us, Sabrina Stein had told him, you never know what you will find …
The train’s rattling brought
