Accused

The D.A.'s eyes dropped to the report. 'We took a blood sample from her, too. Her blood alcohol level was point-two-two.'

'She said they'd been drinking at Gaido's.'

'And we can probably suppress that at trial,' Karen said. 'No PC to draw her blood and-'

'Incident to her arrest,' the Assistant D.A. said.

'She wasn't arrested for DUI.'

'No. For murder.'

'But the law requires-'

Scott held up his hand to Karen. The D.A. had not looked up from the report. There was more.

'What is it, Rex?'

The D.A. looked up now. 'Scott, your wife had cocaine in her system, too. Four hundred nanograms. She was drunk and stoned. Could be why she slept in Trey's blood.'

During a football game at SMU, Scott Fenney, number 22, had run around right end then made a sharp cut back to the middle of the field past the defenders going the other way. Scott had a clear field to the end zone… except the last defender threw a thick forearm out and caught Scott right above his facemask. The force knocked him unconscious. When he came to, he felt dazed and confused, as if his mind couldn't put two words together. And so he felt now. Bobby subbed for him.

'Could be why she didn't wake up when the killer came into the bedroom and stabbed Trey.'

'Look, Scott,' the D.A. said, 'I know y'all have a daughter, so I'm not going to release this report. But it'll come out at trial.'

Scott tried to grasp the thought that Rebecca had used cocaine. He couldn't.

'You're sure? About the cocaine?'

'You can run your own tests, we took extra blood from her.'

The D.A. slid the report across the desk. Scott did not pick it up.

'So what's all this got to do with Benito Estrada?'

'He's a known drug dealer on the Island. Him and Trey, they were cell phone buddies. Means Trey was a regular customer. And a special one.'

'Tell me about him. Benito.'

'Twenty-eight, Harvard-educated, BOI. Runs the Gulf Coast operation for the Guadalajara cartel. Considers himself a businessman, even acts like one-supports the community, gave half a million for Ike relief, something of an icon among his folks. But he runs his operation like a business, so we haven't had the turf wars and gun battles in the streets like the border towns.'

'In Mexico?'

'In Texas.'

'The Muertos brought the drug war across the river,' Hank said.

'Who are the Muertos? '

' Los Muertos. The Dead. Enforcers for the cartels. Ex-commandos in the Mexican Army-we trained them to fight the cartels, then they hired out to the cartels. All that stuff you've seen on TV about the drug war in Mexico- kidnappings, eight thousand murders last year, headless bodies hanging from overpasses and dumped into the Rio Grande-that's the Muertos ' handiwork. Those guys make the Mafia look like middle-school bullies. And they control the country. We've put Mexico on the verge of collapse as a nation.'

'How?'

'Drug money. Mexicans send the drugs north, Americans send weapons and twenty billion in cash south to the cartels-every year. Imagine if the Saudis sent twenty billion a year to Islamic extremists in the U.S. and they used that money to kill eight thousand Americans every year-we'd want to bomb Saudi Arabia back into the Stone Age. But we tell the Mexicans to keep the dope south of the river 'cause we know Americans won't stop using. Easier to blame it on the Mexicans than to accept responsibility for all those people getting killed.'

'And these Muertos are in Texas?'

'They're everywhere now. Five dealers in Atlanta, they owed the cartels two hundred thousand dollars, didn't pay, so they sent the Muertos in. They beheaded the guys, put it on YouTube. You cross the cartels, you're a dead man. Usually after being tortured and sliced up like a side of beef. Los Muertos don't just kill people-they send messages.'

'Where can I find Benito? I need to talk to him.'

'Benito's not going to talk to you.'

'Never know till you try.'

'Except trying might get you a bullet in your head.' Hank snorted. 'Look, Scott, I don't know how you do things in Dallas, but you don't just drive over to Market Street and talk to Benito Estrada. You either wear a badge or you go in shooting. Preferably both. Scott, Benito's got thugs bigger than buses.'

'I've got Louis.'

TWENTY-FIVE

'Just like in the book, Mr. Fenney,' Louis said. 'Ain't no country for old men.'

Benito Estrada maintained offices in a renovated three-story historical structure situated between a yoga studio and the Black Pearl Oyster Bar on Market Street in the trendy part of downtown Galveston. It had the appearance of a real-estate office, except for the two thick-bodied Latinos standing guard out front under a red awning like unhappy doormen. Hank was right: Benito's thugs were big. Their loose Mexican wedding shirts bulged at the waist, obviously concealing handguns. They were armed and dangerous and perfectly within the law in Texas. As long as their guns were concealed, they were legal.

'Working for the cartel,' Carlos said, 'you ain't gonna grow old.'

Scott had sent Bobby and Karen back to the beach house. They were soon to be parents, and they were the girls' guardians under A. Scott Fenney's Last Will and Testament. They didn't need to be in the line of fire. Scott had driven past the building then stopped a half block down the street to plot out a strategy. No strategy had occurred to him when Carlos said, 'I'll handle this, boss. These are my people.'

Carlos stepped smartly down the sidewalk, clad in black leather from head to foot, past a silver Maserati parked along the curb and over to the thugs. He gave them a hearty smile, stuck his hand out, and said, ' Buenos dias, amigos. '

'Fuck off,' the taller thug said.

Carlos recoiled and withdrew his hand. The smiled dropped from his face, and his shoulders slumped. He looked like a kid who had been dissed on the playground. He beat a retreat back to Scott and Louis, who patted him on the shoulder.

'Must not know they're your people.'

Carlos exhaled and shook his head as if faced with an imponderable mystery.

'Folks these days, they just can't be friendly. Why is that?'

'We live in a conflicted time,' Louis said. 'Folks struggling to find meaning in their lives. When they don't, their frustrations manifest in hostility toward their fellow man.'

'You really think that's it, with those guys?'

Louis stared at the thugs. 'I think those guys are assholes need to be stuffed down a concrete culvert.'

Louis said it as if he had some experience with that sort of thing. Scott was about to take his chances with the thugs when a familiar unmarked sedan pulled up to the curb next to them. Hank Kowalski got out. His big gun was prominently displayed on his hip.

'Rex thought maybe I should drop by.'

'Thanks, Hank. But let me take a shot at these guys first. So to speak.'

Scott walked over to the thugs and held his business card out in front of him like a white flag of surrender-but he was relieved to hear the others' footsteps behind him.

'I'm Scott Fenney. Is Mr. Estrada available?'

'No, he ain't available,' the shorter thug said.