The Covert Element by John L. Betcher Read Free Book Online Page B

in a high
ponytail. It felt like satin as it brushed my cheek. The delicate
aroma of flowers remained after she pulled away.
    Beth opened the refrigerator and held out a can of Diet
Mountain Dew toward me. I shook my head. She kept the soda for
herself and closed the fridge. Her outfit today was comprised of
pleated khaki shorts and a breezy cotton top. Very fetching. But
then, I may be biased.
    "How was the office today?" She turned toward me, leaning
lightly against the counter.
    "Oh, you know. A little of this. A little of that."
    Beth gave the soda a single shake and popped the top in my
direction, spritzing my face with a light mist. She smiled, then
sipped the Dew.
    "Hey. What was that for?"
    "You didn’t hang around the office very long did you."
    "Not really. First Bull called and wanted to have some super-important meeting for dinner tonight. No further explanation. You
know Bull."
    She tilted her head knowingly.
    "Anyway, one thing led to another and the next thing you know
Gunner and I were headed out to yesterday’s murder scene."
    Beth feigned shock.
    "Yeah. I know. I’m not very good at sticking to the lawyer stuff
when something more intriguing presents."
    "Really?"
    I gave Beth a semi-stern eye posture.
    "We weren’t able to stay long at the farm. And we didn’t find
anything useful. So the field trip was kind of a bust. I’m thinking on
some other possible investigative approaches though." I can be
indefatigable under the right circumstances.
    "Of course, you are." Beth stepped closer. I shielded my face
lest I should be sprayed once more.
    She laughed, put the can down and embraced me. Despite the
carnage, the fire, and my lack of success earlier in the day, I could
feel my spirit lifting.
    "If you could bottle this stuff," I said over her shoulder, "you’d
make us both rich."
    "No, thanks. I made a promise and I’m stuck with only you."
    "It’s so endearing when you come on to me like that."
    We broke our clasp.
    "So exactly when and where are you meeting Bull tonight. Do I
need to cook?" Beth was definitely the cook in our household. It’s
not a matter of sexism. I just suck at cooking. Actually burned a
hard-boiled egg once.
    "Thanks for the offer, Doll. We’re meeting at the Harbor at
7:00. I’ll maybe gnaw on some spicy Jamaican pig gristle while Bull
is filling me in. I wonder how this ‘meeting’ is going to go. I’m
usually the only one who talks when we get together. Should be
interesting."
    "I’m certain it will be at least that. You’ll have to share with me
afterwards."
    "If it turns out to be worthwhile, you know I’ll give you all the
dope . . . mainly so you can keep me from getting into too much
trouble."
    "Right." Beth wore a wry smile.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER EIGHT
     
     
    City of Tampico, Tamaulipas Province, Mexico – July, 1993.
     
    Raphael Santos slouched on a wrought-iron bench on the
border of Plaza de la Libertad in downtown Tampico, his dusty
fedora pulled low across a sun-darkened brow. Smoke from a
stubby cigar hung around him like the oppressive summer heat.
    Santos knew this place intimately. His family had settled here
more than a hundred years ago – before oil had replaced
commercial fishing as the region’s largest enterprise. Before the
stench of 20,000 tons a day of sewage from Mexico City had
polluted the Rio Panuco , flowing a scant two blocks from where he
sat. And most certainly before the residents of this otherwise
prosperous east central Mexican city had succumbed to the tyranny
of the drug cartels that now pervaded the city-scape . . . and beyond.
    Tampico sat at the southernmost tip of Tamaulipas Province,
which stretched to the north, encompassing coastal Mexico from
here to the American border towns of Matamoros, Reynosa, and
Nuevo Laredo. Tamaulipas featured some of Mexico’s most
beautiful beaches. And in fact, Tampico had, itself, been a popular
tourist destination for Americans until the crime rate