Triple Crossing by Sebastian Rotella Read Free Book Online

of the state police, also known as the Colonel, had been something of a fluke, Méndez explained.
     Acting on a tip, the unit raided a warehouse, found the cocaine—and the Colonel and his state police detectives standing over
     three freshly tortured bodies, one of them a boss in a powerful cartel.
    “We have confidence that he will be convicted, no matter how influential he is,” Méndez said. “That case shows that this city,
     this country, is capable of change. We came close to war between police forces, but it was worth it.”
    “One thing,” Steinberg said cautiously. “Supposedly the Colonel worked for a new cartel that is pushing out the old groups.
     What exactly is this new mafia?”
    “As well as drugs, we think they are connected to the increase in illegal immigrants from other nations, especially Asiatics
     and Arabs. In recent years in Mexico we have had an era of drug lords who were vicious, politically connected businessmen,
     thendrug lords who were crazy
pistoleros.
This mafia combines both traditions. It also has unusual international connections. Including elements of American agencies,
     I should tell you. The new mafia is opening the valves of corruption and violence in a way I have not seen before.”
    Steinberg gulped coffee, fueling herself. Dennis watched her with mixed resentment and interest. Méndez could picture the
     interview from her perspective, gauging how hard to push, the questions building on each other.
    “But is it really a big mystery who this mafia is? What about the allegations that the Ruiz Caballero family is aligned with
     them?”
    Méndez wished that they were talking one-on-one. He reminded her they were off the record. He said: “Drug lords come and go.
     But certain elites have enduring power, both legitimate and criminal. They have alliances with gangsters. I can say nothing
     right now, responsibly, about the names you mention. But that family definitely belongs to the super-elites.”
    “Listen, I give you credit,” Dennis interjected, interrupting the blonde’s rhythm, her blue eyes jumping at him in annoyance.
     “How can you do what you do?”
    Méndez wasn’t sure he understood the question. “It was difficult to change mentality when I began the job. There was a time
     when I believed, as Bakunin said, that society organizes crimes, and people only execute them. That all police were repressive
     and corrupt.”
    “Yeah,” said Dennis, whose eyes had glazed until the word “corrupt.” “It’s such a cesspool. The police running dope, the government
     stealing elections—”
    “Excuse me, elections?” Méndez said.
    “Um, yes.”
    “Pardon me,” Méndez said. “Elections are one thing here that is
not
corrupt. Even despite the recent crisis of government.”
    “That’s well known,” Steinberg said forlornly, hoping to get back on track.
    “Is it? What does television show Americans about Mexico? It amazes me to watch the news of San Diego. They start: a story
     about animals in distress. An important topic in the United States. Some dogs got mistreated in La Jolla. A fire burned a
     stable in, eh, Carlsbad. And by the way, seven Mexicans were shot in Baja. Fifteen Mexicans killed in bus crash. Corrupt Mexicans
     steal elections. But first, the sports.”
    “You’re exaggerating,” Dennis said, his Adam’s apple bobbing in discomfort.
    “And the corruption. Isn’t it curious we know the names of the Mexican drug lords,
nombres y apellidos,
and nothing about the American ones? Who are the American drug lords? Who protects them?”
    “It seems to me,” said Dennis, “that the big traffickers in the U.S. are Colombians and Mexicans in immigrant communities.”
    “But it’s impossible no Anglo-Saxon names are involved,” Méndez said. “Like the traffickers of arms in Phoenix and Las Vegas
     who sell guns to the narcos of Tijuana. And the legal gangsters: the businessmens who are partners of Mexican companies that
     launder drug