Triple Crossing by Sebastian Rotella Read Free Book Online Page A

money? American corporations, banks? I remember in New York years ago when they arrested all those Wall Street
     people and walked them in Wall Street in chains. Marvelous. You should do this every year. A parade, like Thanksgiving.”
    “They say you are pretty left-wing,” Dennis said tersely.
    Méndez grimaced, his eyes narrowing. “
Ah sí?
I’m not sure what is left-wing anymore. Señor Dennis, I answer your question: Why do I do what I do? At this point in my
     life, the most revolutionary thing I can do is to be a policeman. To arrest people regardless of who they are, what power
     they have. In this place, in these times, enforcing the law has become an act of subversion.”
    The silence filled with the scratching of the woman’s pen on her notepad. Méndez looked at her until she glanced up and smiled.
    “I have talked too much,” Méndez said. “Thank you for coming.”
    During the good-byes, he accepted when Steinberg asked quietly if she could talk to him again soon. Having done his part to
     advance inter-American understanding, Méndez summoned Athos and a driver.
    They drove to the Río Zone, the modern downtown east of the Avenida Revolución tourist district. They entered the square-block
     complex housing the courts and the state police behind a brawny detective with a prisoner in tow. The detective wore a flower-print
     shirt, denim jacket and cowboy boots. His pawlike hand rested lightly on the long-haired youth’s shoulder. The prisoner was
     not handcuffed. This was the macho style of the state police; they believed no prisoner would dream of running from them.
    It was cold in the long drab hallways of the justice complex, one of those Tijuana government buildings with cinderblock walls
     that generated either an insidious chill or sweatbox heat. Méndez and Athos stepped over regularly spaced streams of water
     on the floor, leaks from the radiator system.
    The receptionist wore a high-necked sweater and scarf along with her miniskirt. Her cheerful greeting contrasted with the
     glares of half a dozen cops, aides and other officials lounging in the outer office. A standard welcome for the Diogenes Group.
    “Ah yes, from the Special Unit. Licenciado Losada is expecting you. And Commander Fernández Rochetti. Please go in.”
    Deputy Attorney General Albino Losada, chief of the state prosecutor’s office in Tijuana, greeted them glumly. His narrow
     shoulders were encased in a trench coat that was belted against the cold. He had a small mustache jammed up under a pointy
     nose. He remained standing with his fists in the pockets of thecoat. Losada’s predecessor had been murdered. His predecessor’s predecessor had been arrested with great fanfare, then released
     and fired. It was Losada’s custom to pace behind his desk, giving the impression that he was about to bolt from the room.
    Homicide Commander Mauro Fernández Rochetti, meanwhile, reclined in a chair to the left of the desk. He looked more comfortable
     in the large, sparse office than Losada. Fernández Rochetti crossed his legs in shiny gray slacks and lit a thin cigar.
    Here we go, Méndez told himself. At a gesture from Losada, he and Athos sat down.
    “A busy morning for you, Licenciado,” Fernández Rochetti said. He commanded the homicide unit of the state police, a job reserved
     for highly paid operatives of the drug cartels. Since the Diogenes Group had arrested his former boss, Regino “the Colonel”
     Astorga, the homicide commander had come to be considered the shadow chief of the entire state force.
    “That’s right,” Méndez said. “I’m afraid your detective was directly involved in the smuggling ring.”
    “You can imagine how concerned all of us are here,” Losada said.
    Fernández Rochetti blew smoke. His voice had a crust to it.
    “Perhaps he was set up,” he said. “This smells of a setup, as I was just telling the deputy attorney general.”
    “Let’s not be ridiculous, Mauro,” Athos said