“But if that were the case,” Harold said, flipping a page of his notes, “the question I would ask is why Mr. Velez wouldn’t have just simply been deported? If his use to the government was negated, that would seem to have been the perfect leverage against him. Threaten to send him back to what would clearly have been certain death. To the very person who had vowed revenge against him.”
“A fair question.” Sabrina Stein exhaled. “And one I’m afraid I don’t have a very good answer for.”
“Rumors were going around … I’m merely echoing what’s already been written,” Harold said, “that Dean and Rita Bienvienes were less than one hundred percent Ivory Snow clean. And that the Department of Justice grew to feel that a public trial would potentially air a series of allegations that might embarrass them.”
Stein put down her coffee. “Dean and Rita Beinvienes were among the best agents I had, Mr. Bachman. What you’re alluding to is what we in the trade refer to as ‘back draft.’ One government agency sees a firestorm rising around them, so they spread the flames somewhere else. In this case, back at the DEA. The Bienvieneses were turned upside down by our own internal investigative teams. Not a thing was ever found that would give any credence to those rumors. Zero.”
“It’s also possible that Eduardo Cano had some ability to influence the government’s decision, isn’t that right?”
“Influence?” The Justice Department official’s eyes seemed to harden at the word.
“Affect the outcome,” Harold said bluntly.
“If I follow … you’re suggesting he was able to buy someone off?”
“Or possibly have information that might discredit people higher up, that the government might have wanted to keep secret. Cano was trained here, and he is alleged to still have high-level friends in the government. The cartels have millions and millions to spread around, correct? This is still a world fraught with corruption, is it not?”
Stein nodded stiffly, the pleasant veneer of a moment before replaced by something guarded and professional. “Mexico is an excellent place to commit murder, Mr. Bachman, because you will almost certainly get away with it. That said, I’d still like to think that no amount of money would derail the prosecution for the assassination of two people who so selflessly put their lives at risk for the country. Not to mention the three other completely innocent individuals who tragically were caught in the crossfire.”
She uncrossed her legs. “No litigator likes to take on a case they can’t win, Mr. Bachman. I’m sure you’re familiar with that. Especially one that can make or break one’s career. For several reasons, Oscar Velez’s testimony was a matter of concern from the moment he chose to defect. I think the answer to your question lies much more with the witness, Mr. Bachman, than with the United States government.” She glanced at her watch, reflecting surprise at the time. “Now, if you have no more questions, I’m sorry but I have to cut this short.”
“I understand.” Harold closed his pad and began to pack his briefcase. Then he stopped. “Just one more. There’s an addendum to this case that I found a little curious.”
“Which case are we speaking of, Mr. Bachman? Cano’s or Lauritzia Velez’s?”
“I’m sorry, but to me, Ms. Stein, they are becoming pretty much the same.”
“Well, as a representative of the United 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.