The Triangle Conspiracy

Americans each seeing what the other had to offer. As for Sasabe, Sean had never seen more than one vehicle at a time come through this port.

Without even realizing it, he had pulled the Cherokee to the shoulder of the road, a hundred yards or so from the border. A green-and-white Border Patrol van drove past him, the driver staring out. Sean thought he knew the guy-he knew most of the BP officers and most of those who worked the ports of entry from Nogales to Naco to Sasabe.

He rubbed his head, waiting for the Tylenol to kick in. So far it hadn’t. If he crossed the border he’d have to pass by a booth where someone he knew would see him. Shit. More humiliation. By now every employee of ICE in Arizona would know how Sean “Irish” Kelly had screwed up and let Ray Acosta run. He didn’t know who was working down here today, but he knew them all. He’d even dated one of the women who worked the booth.

Very slowly, his jaw grinding, he wheeled the Cherokee back onto the road and turned it around, back to the north. He maneuvered the S curve again and again the little boy did his dance across the road in front of him. Again the mother screamed ineffectually and glared at Sean.

The only functioning business in Sasabe was a little nameless cantina on the north side. He’d been in it multiple times and had never heard a word of English spoken there. But it was a bar, it was cheap, and Sean didn’t care anymore.

The door was wide open at a little before noon. Another thing Sean appreciated about the desert-bars opened early. He left the Cherokee in the gravel parking lot and went in. It was dark, lit by a few swag lamps here and there. Tables were wooden and chipped, chairs likewise, often mismatched. Two old men sat at the bar smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. One of them wore a greasy Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap. The bartender was a burly guy a little older than Sean, with a wispy black mustache. It was perfectly in character for Sasabe.

Sean sat at the bar at the opposite end from the two old smokers. Blinking in the dim light, he started ordering straight shots of Wild Turkey, with Dos Equis on draft to chase it.

“Leave the bottle,” he said in Spanish to the bartender.

An hour passed, and the only sound in the bar was that of the old men scratching matches as they lit fresh cigarettes-Sean never heard them utter a word-and Sean putting his glasses back down on the bar after each drink. Sean had smelled bread baking from somewhere, and without being asked, the bartender wordlessly put a basket of fresh, hot flour tortillas down in front of Sean.

Another good thing about the Southwest, Sean thought. You sure as hell don’t get tortillas like this in Illinois.

The thought made him laugh a little. I can still laugh, so I must be all right. He poured himself another shot.

A shadow appeared in the doorway. “You’re a hard man to find, Mr. Kelly,” said a voice in English.

All heads turned toward the door. Sean, a little woozy but not as drunk as he wanted to be, looked past the shadow. A black Lexus, as out of place in Sasabe as the gleaming port of entry was, sat beside his dusty Cherokee in the parking lot.

“Who are you?” Sean said.

The man came fully into the bar and sat on the stool beside Sean’s. He placed a business card next to Sean’s shot glass.

Tobias Owens, Attorney and Counselor at Law, with an address in Phoenix.

Sean swiveled to look at him. He was in his thirties, a few years older than Sean, overweight but not obese, pale complexion. If he was like any of the other thirty-something lawyers Sean had met, he probably worked a hundred hours a week. No time for exercise, no time for sun, no time for anything but billable hours. Owens wore stylish round glasses and a suit that probably cost as much as the entire yearly income of every single person in Sasabe, Arizona.

“What do you want?”

“I’d like to talk to you,” Owens said.

“Want a drink?” Sean said. The bartender was hovering warily.

“Oh,” Owens said. “Just some water.”

The bartender looked at Sean.

“Agua,” Sean said.

The bartender made a little snorting sound and disappeared from sight, pausing to whisper to the two old smokers. In a moment he returned and put down a beer mug with water and two ice cubes floating in it.

“Let’s go to a booth, shall we?” Owens said.

Did he just say “shall we,” Sean thought. “Suit yourself.”

Sean picked up his whiskey bottle by the neck, along with the shot glass, and ambled to a table on the far side of the room. Someone had scribbled Spanish obscenities on the wall beside the table in red marker.

“Nice place,” Owens said, settling in across from Sean.

Sean noticed the brown leather briefcase in the man’s hand for the first time. He shrugged. “It serves a purpose,” he said, not rising to the lawyer’s sarcasm.

Owens thumped his water glass onto the table, frowning at the Spanish graffiti on the wall. “You always drink this early in the day?”

“What the fuck do you want?” Sean said, his voice rising.

Owens put up a hand. “We can help each other.”

Sean thought he was going to say more, but Owens just sat there with his hand in the air, looking ridiculous.

“I doubt it,” Sean said, downing another shot. He shuddered as the bourbon went through him. He was vaguely irritated at this stranger’s interruption of his little Sasabe interlude, but not so much so that he was going to quit drinking long enough to show his irritation.

“You’ve had a rough day, haven’t you, Mr. Kelly?”

Sean considered several replies, then just said, “Yep.”

“News travels fast,” Owens said. He glanced toward the bar. The two old men were staring in their direction. He lowered his voice. “Your career as a federal law enforcement officer has taken quite a hit, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, please,” Sean said. “I don’t need a damn lawyer. Get in your car and go back to Phoenix, shyster. I’m not suing anyone.”

Owens shook his head. “No, no, don’t misunderstand me. I don’t want to represent you. I already have a client. That’s why I’m here.”

Sean wished he had another tortilla, but he’d left the basket on the bar and didn’t feel like expending the energy it would take to go get it. “Start making some sense, if you can.”

“I’m the Arizona counsel for Senator Edward McDermott.”

Owens waited for a response. Sean simply stared at him.

“You are familiar with the senator?” Owens said finally.

Sean sighed. “Senior U.S. senator for Arizona. Multimillionaire corporate lawyer from a long line of multimillionaire corporate lawyers. Guardian of America’s morals and traditional values. Friend of big business. Goes through wives like dirty laundry. Believes government is generally incompetent. You ever wonder, counselor, how silly it is to elect people to government who don’t even like government?”

Owens had stiffened noticeably. “You sound as if you don’t care for the senator.”

Sean thumped his empty shot glass on the wooden table. “I don’t care for politicians in general. My grandfather, who was one of the best cops I ever knew before he retired, used to say that the politician was a lot more dangerous than the street thug. At least with the thug you knew where they stood and what they wanted.”

Owens was silent for a long moment. “Mr. Kelly, do you think your grandfather is proud of you today?”

Even an hour into a bottle of bourbon, Sean’s reflexes hadn’t dimmed much. He was taller than Owens by several inches, with a long reach, and he only had to stand up halfway to grab the lawyer by the hair and slam his face into the surface of the wooden table.

Owens screeched. Sean sat back down. The whiskey bottle had been jarred by the motion, but thankfully it hadn’t tipped over. Sean poured himself another drink. One of the old men at the bar, the one in the Dodgers cap, laughed. The other one growled out a few words in a low voice. Sean heard him say something about “whining like a woman.” Neither of them moved. The bartender folded his arms and watched in silence. Owens howled again.

Sean said nothing.

He drank and listened to Owens trying to breathe through his nose. Sean didn’t think it was broken-he hadn’t slammed the guy that hard. But there was a fair amount of blood, and Sean figured it was the most physical activity Tobias Owens had felt in a long time. He smiled at the thought.

Owens raised his head and saw Sean smiling. “You think…” the lawyer sputtered. “You think that’s funny?”

Sean’s smile faded. “State your business.”

Owens was digging in his pocket. He came out with a white handkerchief-is that silk? Sean wondered-and pressed it to his nose. “Assault,” Owens muttered. “I could file assault charges on you, Kelly. There are three witnesses.”

Sean laughed outright. “Don’t bet on it.” He raised his voice in the direction of the bar and switched to Spanish. “You see anything happen here?”

Both of the old smokers laughed. “Nada,” one said.

The bartender turned his back.

“So much for your witnesses,” Sean said in English. “I’m not feeling patient today. State your business.”

Owens pressed the bloody handkerchief against his nose. With his other hand, he fumbled open his briefcase and took out a thick manila envelope. He tossed it onto the table between them.

“The senator wants to hire you,” Owens said.

3

“WHAT?” SEAN SAID.

Owens tilted his head back. The blood from his nose had stopped flowing. “Hire you,” Owens said. “Senator McDermott wants you to do some work for him. You have a reputation.” He swiped at his nose again.

“Do I, now?”

“Shit.” Owens tilted his head back again. “Damn, that hurts.”

“Well, you should watch what you say. Don’t worry, it’s not broken. I didn’t hit you that hard, counselor.”

“Feels broken.” Owens felt along the ridge of his nose, wincing.

“It’s not. You wouldn’t be talking so well if it was broken. I have a reputation?”

Owens blinked at him. “For finding things. For finding people with not much of a trail to follow.”

Sean remembered Sonny Weller’s words this morning. It had seemed like a long time ago. You’re good at putting things together with only a little to go on. Most of the guys in this office aren’t half as smart as you are.