Chapter 21 – When the Shadows Come to Call
"Don't you worry, while you sleep
All my love is yours to keep
All you wish for, all you know
Will be yours when you let go
You can let go"
----- "I Will Take Care of You" performed by the Bangles
Methodist Hospital ICU, early morning
They'd moved Walker up to a private room by the time CD and Alex were taken to see him. The corridors of the hospital were cool and quiet this time of night; their footsteps on the polished linoleum echoed in eerie counterpoint to the muffled sounds of medical equipment and the occasional sigh or moan. The whole place felt somber, devoid of life, and smelled of illness even with the pervasive scent of antiseptic in the air. Not a place in which I would ever expect to find Walker. He hates hospitals so much. Why do they keep these places so cold? Alex shivered and CD put a comforting arm around her.
"C'mon, honey," he encouraged her. His own voice broke with the effort of controlling his emotions. "We don't want to lose it now. Cordell's strong and he'll come out of this just fine."
"What if he doesn't?" Alex, angry with herself for breaking down so easily, wiped the tears with her sweater sleeve. "It…it's not like the other times…" The other times they had had something --- a deposition, a case needing preparation, a search for the perpetrator --- to keep them busy and keep their minds from dwelling too long on the circumstances. No wonder Jimmy decided to go back to the office and pursue the case they were working on. Right now they had nothing but time in which to think and to worry. A pathogen isn't something you can fight with the law. I don't know what I'd do without him! Alex found the thought of never again having Cordell Walker in her life more disturbing than she'd expected.
Dr. Heiss had stopped at a door just off the nurse's station. "Don't expect him to talk coherently," he warned. "He's in and out of it; he may not even know you're there."
"Go and see him, honey," CD said. "I'll wait here a moment, let you talk in private." Alex went in and CD pulled Dr. Heiss aside where they wouldn't be overheard. "How's Cordell really doing?"
"Right now it's a waiting game. We've got him on IV fluids for the dehydration and he's being transfused for blood loss. He's been given some medication which may reduce the fever over time. Ranger Walker does have pneumonia and he's on oxygen to help with his breathing. When the advance labs from infectious disease come back, we'll know more and can begin a more aggressive treatment."
"He'll pull through then."
"We don't know that," Dr. Heiss said, shaking his head. "Ranger Walker's case is atypical. These types of pathogens don't normally cause this much distress in a healthy man. Did Ranger Walker have any medical problems of which we were unaware?"
"Cordell's as healthy as a horse," CD responded stoutly. "He's had a few bumps and breaks, been shot a time or two --- it comes with the territory, you know --- but he's never been sick in his life."
"Does he drink? Do drugs?" Dr. Heiss pressed.
CD looked offended for a moment and then realized the doctor couldn't possibly know about Walker's strong sense of morals the way his friends did. "Not unless you count coffee. I don't think I've seen him take a drink more 'n' a handful of times. As for the drugs…Cordell wouldn't. He's seen too much of what it'll do to a man."
Dr. Heiss nodded and shrugged apologetically. "About what I'd expected, but I had to ask."
"I know you did, son," said CD, relenting. "We do appreciate all you're doin' for him."
"I'm expected up in surgery," Dr. Heiss said, shaking hands. "The staff knows to call me if you have questions they can't answer or there are further developments. Someone will let you know about Ranger Auguston and the girl."
It took CD a while to compose himself before he found the courage to enter the room. He stood quietly beside Alex, each of them trying to reconcile what they were seeing with the man they knew and loved.
Though not a large man, Walker had always possessed an unbridled vitality combined with quiet confidence which made his presence dominate anywhere he went. CD had seen hardened lawbreakers crawl meekly up into the back of the Ram because Walker had quelled them with a stern look. Once in a while one of them, overestimating the Ranger's slight frame and equating it with weakness, would press his luck and come in swinging. Those engagements usually ended quickly and decisively in Walker's favor.
Walker applied the same reckless joie de vivre evident in his occupation to his recreational activities, whether it was fishing or riding horses. He kept a modest profile, never seeking attention for himself, but people gravitated toward him. Some of the best nights at the bar and grill had been spent with Walker at the center of a group of officers from the various law enforcement agencies and their families while they shared some of their more interesting stories.
Whatever it was which made Walker important to them all wasn't completely gone but it had been dreadfully muted. With his eyes closed and that hair tousled on the pillow Walker looked vulnerable, almost fragile, and much younger than his age. The cotton hospital gown with some sort of faded geometric pattern on it seemed incongruous on a man more accustomed to wearing denims, boots, and a Stetson.
"Your hair wants cutting, boy," CD said quietly. He sighed and awkwardly gripped Walker's shoulder in a rough gesture of affection. "You…you do what them doctors and nurses tell you, hear? Don't give 'em no trouble and you'll be out of here in no time at all."
"Where are you off to?" Alex asked.
"I've got to go feed Cordell's horses soon," he explained. "I'll just pick get a few things for him from the ranch while I'm there. I s'pose Mabel can handle the restaurant for a few days but she'll gum things up proper if'n I don't leave her instructions. You stay right here, honey, and sit with him a bit. I'll be back when I can."
"It's Saturday anyway. No one at the office will be looking for me for a while yet." She sat down on the bed beside him, took one of his hands in hers, and studied it.
Blunt and brown, those hands which could knock out a felon with a single blow ---could even kill if Walker found himself sufficiently provoked --- could also be incredibly gentle. Alex had watched those hands calming a nervous horse, soothing a frightened child, had even felt those hands express affection during an unguarded moment. There were fewer of those moments than she would have liked; something always seemed to interrupt them and the impenetrable walls he'd built around himself went back up.
Walker stirred restlessly and groaned. He was sweating heavily from the fever and his hair had fallen forward across his eyes. Alex leaned forward and brushed the errant strands away with her fingers. The gesture became a caress which traced its way down his face and along the jaw line. Her touch seemed to comfort him. Walker nuzzled into her hand and relaxed with a soft sigh. She smiled tenderly and held it there against his face.
His voice, raspy and raw, startled her but it was Walker's. "Alex? Is that really you? Or is it just another dream?"
"It's not a dream," she reassured him. "I'm right here and I'm going to stay with you." A tear fell to the blankets, leaving a dark spot, and was followed by another. Irritated, she wiped them away again with the sleeve of her sweater.
His grip felt reassuringly strong as Walker captured her hand in his. "Don't cry, Alex. You know I don't like to see you cry."
"Sorry." She sniffled. "I…I can't seem to stop crying today." Do you…do you need anything? Can I get something for you?"
"I'm cold," he said.
The blanket and sheets were folded back neatly at his waist; Alex pulled them up around his shoulders and then spread another blanket she'd found folded at the foot of the bed over him. "There, that ought to help."
"I…I don't feel right." As long as Alex had known him, Walker had never admitted anything like that before. The last time she'd dared to suggest he didn't look well, Walker had thoroughly chewed her out in front of everyone at CD's. He sounded lost and uncertain, like a small frightened boy.
She slid up beside him and let him rest his head against her shoulder. "I know you don't," she whispered, stroking his hair. "Just try to rest, sleep if you can."
"Alex…what about Auguston?"
"He's having surgery to repair his collar bone. He'll be all right, but he's looking at desk duty for a while."
"How's Kathy doing?"
"They're doing the best they can but she was hurt pretty badly. Lane went up with her so she won't be alone."
"Where's Trivette?"
"He took John Quail down to headquarters with him; he said he was going to compare some of the leads you gave him with data Auguston was running." Alex put her finger to his lips. "No more questions now. I mean it! I want you to rest, cowboy."
Walker allowed himself to relax now that he knew Trivette had carried out his orders. Having Alex by his side like this felt good; he drifted off toward sleep. They lay together like that for a while, neither speaking, until Alex's sleepy voice broke the silence. "Walker? What is she to you? Why do you care so much what happens to her?"
"She's my life," he responded simply.
"What are you talking about?" she asked, wondering if he were delirious.
"I'm sorry, Alex, I can't explain it to you any better than that. You wouldn't understand." She recognized from his tone of voice that Walker wouldn't explain further; it was the same flat voice he used when turning aside queries about his Cherokee heritage. It conveyed politely but firmly: This is an Indian matter. Pursue it no further. Alex knew better than to ask more questions.
"I hope you know what you've gotten into," she said.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "I owe it to her."
Methodist Hospital Surgical Floor, early morning
In a mistaken attempt to make the trip up to the surgical floor less frightening, someone had gotten the bright idea to decorate with ceiling tiles painted by children on the cancer ward. Brightly painted rainbows and smiling stick figures aside, they irritated Lane and he didn't think many of the patients found much comfort in them either.
At the admissions desk, there was some sort of argument between the clerk and the orderlies who had brought Kathy's gurney up. The tension agitated her and she clutched Lane's hand more tightly. She hadn't let go since Trivette had introduced them. He squeezed back reassuringly and stroked the palm of her hand with his thumb. "Pay it no mind, sweetheart. They're squabblin' about shift changes, I think. If we could wind this up?" he said testily, clearing his throat. "You're scarin' the poor gal to death!"
The charge nurse, hearing the commotion, came up to them. "Is there a problem here?" she demanded, glaring at the orderlies and the clerk.
"You could say that," Lane commented dryly. "Your staff here is arguin' 'bout who's gonna get stuck with the kid and the poor thing's terrified of bein' left alone."
"I'll take care of it," the charge nurse said through pursed lips. After a few terse words with the clerk and the orderlies, she dismissed them. "I apologize on behalf of my staff. They've apparently forgotten their manners."
"'s all right, ma'am," the old Ranger assured her.
"I'll take care of her myself. You don't have anything to worry about," she told Kathy. "We'll take good care of you and you won't be left alone for even a minute. One of you may stay with her until the surgery but the other will have to wait in the lounge. It's right around the corner."
"I'll wait," Amie promptly volunteered. She grinned, unable to resist teasing the somber old Ranger. "Our little Mustang Talker seems to have a thing for Rangers!"
"Wh…eh…er….no, that's nonsense!" Lane blustered, his face suffused with red all the way to the roots of his iron grey hair. He rummaged in his pocket and thrust a handful of bills into Amie's hand. "Do me a favor, missy, and see if you can find a little somethin' in the gift shop to keep her company through the surgery."
"It ought to be open by now," the charge nurse volunteered. "Take that corridor down to the elevators and go all the way to the first floor. Come with me, Ranger, and will get this little gal settled."
She gave instructions to a new set of orderlies and they wheeled her into the pre-op area. Dark, quiet, and cool, it was divided into treatment bays with privacy curtains. Lane pulled up a wheeled stainless steel stool and crouched at Kathy's bedside holding tightly to her hand. A sense of sleepy timelessness permeated the area, punctuated only by the low murmur of doctors in consultation and the occasional groan of a patient or whisper of a monitor, and Lane found himself dozing off. He had no idea how long he'd been napping when the rustling of the curtain as it was pushed aside disturbed him. A doctor, this one female, stood at the foot of the gurney. She looked a little foolish with that horse plush in her arms.
"The paramedic out in the lounge asked me to bring it in to you," she explained, setting it on the bed and extending her hand. "I'm Kathy's anesthesiologist. I'm here to prepare her for surgery and I'll be monitoring her during the procedure. You can only stay with her until she goes under."
Kathy's hand tightened on Lane's and her eyes blinked furiously as she tried to convey her panic: You promised, you promised! Don't leave me alone. The doctor stepped away. "I'll just give you two a moment."
Lane continued stroking her hand with his thumb and made eye contact. He kept his voice soothing but firm. "Kathy darlin', you know they're not gonna let a dirty ole goat like me into their nice clean operatin' suite." He placed the stuffed horse beside her. "This here pony'll have to stand in for me. If you'll let go of Auguston's badge for a moment, I'll make 'im an official Ranger." Her other hand uncurled around the badge; he took it and pinned it to the ribbon around the horse's neck before tucking the whole thing beside her. "There, now he can do anythin' I would, even if I'm not with you. You be a good gal and listen to what the doc tells you, okay?" Kathy nodded bravely and he said to the anesthesiologist, "She'll be okay now. You can do what you need to do."
"I'm going to inject some medication to make you sleepy," the anesthesiologist told her as she did so, "and then there'll be a second injection to make sure you stay asleep. When you wake up, you'll still have the tubes in but we ought to be able to take them out soon."
Lane watched, murmuring soothing nonsense words, as Kathy struggled against the sedative. Her eyes rolled frantically, silently pleading for something he couldn't quite understand. "It'll be all right," he said softly, still stroking her hand. "You can let go."
His words seemed to be what she needed; the long dark lashes closed once, twice over hazel eyes grown cloudy and distant and then remained closed. Her hand in Lane's relaxed, went limp.
"She's out," the anesthesiologist said. "I'll take her up now and you can wait in the lounge. Someone will come get you when she's in recovery."
"Bye, darlin'," Lane said to Kathy, in case she could still hear. "I'll be waitin', just like I promised." Wondering just what it was about this one --- of all people --- that had gotten under Cordell Walker's skin, he dropped a grandfatherly kiss on the sleeping girl's forehead and left. Might as well be honest with myself. She's gotten under my skin too.
Company B Ranger Headquarters Dallas, Texas – early morning
Trivette drove Walker's Ram back to headquarters. He had debated turning it over to CD and asking for his own car back but decided the big Navajo might be more comfortable in the larger vehicle. They'd walked out to the truck and a flabbergasted Trivette had watched as John lowered the tailgate, climbed into the pickup bed, and sat hunched against the cab waiting for him to fasten the handcuffs to the roll bars.
I gotta talk to Walker about that little habit of his. Trivette opened the door on the passenger's side and then touched John's arm to get his attention. He made certain John could see his lip movements as he spoke. "Go on, get in. You're not under arrest. It's too cold for you back there anyway."
"Okay." John's disused baritone stumbled over the unfamiliar syllables. He frowned, uncertain he'd gotten the right word. Trivette smiled reassuringly and John clambered awkwardly over the side of the pickup. When he'd settled himself in the passenger's seat, Trivette had started the engine and they left.
This time of night headquarters was usually empty. Anyone who could arrange it had already gone home to bed. Trivette envied them but he knew if he went home to his apartment, he would only lie awake until it was time to go to work. The door was locked but a light shone through the frosted glass. Wondering who else would be around at this hour, Trivette let himself in.
Captain Briscoe perched on the corner of Trivette's desk.
"What are you doing here? Sir," Trivette added belatedly, his forced tone barely concealing the wealth of anger and frustration surging through him.
Briscoe uncrossed his arms and held up one hand in a placating gesture. "Don't shoot the messenger, son. I think you might want to hear what I have to say."
"So talk." Something small and silver sailed toward him and Trivette automatically snatched it out of the air. He examined the object in his hands: a computer key.
"Call it a good will gesture. Your computer privileges have been restored. You'll need them if you're going to work Auguston's case."
"Sir? I thought ---"
"Sergeant Trivette, I never did think you embezzled that evidence. A man has to obey his own judgment on occasion. I'll take a look at Walker's notes, see if I can come up with anything while he's laid up."
Trivette knew it was as close to an apology as he would ever receive from the Captain. "Thank you, sir! That means a lot, coming from you."
"How's Walker doing?" he asked as Trivette sat down at his desk, unlocked the station, and waited for the computer to boot up.
"They were still trying to stabilize him when I left. He…he didn't look good, said he was tired. Walker's never tired!" he responded as he entered his password. The pleasure Trivette normally felt when working with computers ebbed away.
"Damned shame," Briscoe remarked and meant it. He knew all too well what Trivette's guarded expression was really saying. "Walker's a good man." The Captain jerked his head toward Big John Quail. "Did Walker tell you what to do with him?"
"Walker didn't think the kid was voluntarily involved with the drug cartel. He suggested protective custody. I'd go with one of Walker's hunches any day." Trivette sighed and watched data begin streaming across the screen. "If what Walker told me is right, we're dealing with some big players here."
Briscoe raised an eyebrow. "How big, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Ever heard of Belmonte Industries?"
The Captain whistled. "Everybody in the metroplex has heard of Adrian Belmonte. He's one of the most influential people in Dallas --- philanthropist, developer, big contributor to the public schools and community recovery efforts. From time to time we get tips or hear rumors, but our investigations were never able to tie him to anything. He's squeaky clean as far as law enforcement is concerned and he's got powerful friends."
"Well, he didn't get away clean this time," Trivette stated with certainty. "Those two in detention will be ready to sing like canaries by tomorrow. We already know they committed the bombings. Walker seemed to think that John's testimony will connect them to Belmonte Industries. And that weasel of a DEA agent---"
"I'm not going to be able to hold off LaFayette much longer." Briscoe grimaced. "He was very insistent and it's only a matter of time before the courts rule in his favor and he gains jurisdiction over our prisoner."
"LaFayette's involved in this somehow," Trivette insisted. "I saw him shoot Auguston and the girl Walker had with him. It wasn't an accident."
"LayFayette claims Auguston froze and the gun accidentally discharged. Given Auguston's record ---" Briscoe began skeptically.
"A lot happened in a short time," Trivette admitted, "but I was there. I know what I saw. Auguston got a raw deal up at Company E; Boyd Hochreiter's death wasn't his fault."
"I heard he's gun shy, couldn't pull the trigger when the need arose."
"You heard wrong." Trivette's voice dripped bitterness and venom. "All due respect, sir, but someone at DPS ought to look into Company E's policies. Auguston was the victim of a nasty hazing prank and Boyd ended up paying for it. Auguston's a good officer…or he will be, if he's given half a chance."
Taken aback, Briscoe could only nod. "I'll look into it." He rose to leave. "Get to work, Trivette, and get us something we can work with. I want these guys. I want them all. Until Auguston recovers enough for desk duty, Lane or CD can help you out. I don't want you in the field without at least one of them there. I took the liberty of making a fresh pot of coffee," he called over his shoulder and paused, hand on the door knob. "Just make sure the charges stick with those yahoos you brought in and find the ones who ordered the Amarillo hit. I don't care what hornets' nests you have to kick over, just get it done."
John Quail looked questioningly at Trivette after the Captain left. "Everything's taken care of," Trivette told him, "but we haven't got much time. This could take a while, sit down and get comfortable."
Trivette returned to scrutinizing the data being generated on his computer screen. He'd already read over the files summarizing their findings to date; the information in this data set independently confirmed Auguston's original suspicion that the bars, angles, and hashes on the abandoned child's arm were the same as those used by the government to mark culled horses. Printing off a copy of the pictures the social worker had provided to them with, he finished the task Auguston had begun of translating the marks. For the moment, he ignored the initiating character which Auguston had said might be a company logo. When he had finished tracing and deciphering, he had:
└ ┘└v.┘║.
└ ┘ v ┌┌┘
The first three characters in the sequence were exactly the same and both marks shared the same spacing. "I'll bet Auguston was right and that first sequence is a birth year," Trivette muttered. "Assuming the other strings are origin and destination codes, it should be a simple matter for that program he started to run the zip codes. What about that middle character, though?"
He became aware that John Quail, who had been watching over the Ranger's shoulder with an expression of interest on his face, had been trying to get his attention. "Not now, John," Trivette said irritably. "I've got to figure this out so we can finally get a lead on this case." Frustrated and determined to be heard, John reached for a yellow legal pad and pencil in front of Trivette. "Hey!" he yelped and trailed off as he stared at the big Navajo's forearm. It had, the Ranger realized, a tattoo similar to the markings he'd been studying. "Hold it, can I take a look?"
John nodded eagerly and then pointed again to the legal pad. "I can write," he offered, "in English."
"Yeah," said Trivette thoughtfully as he gave the pen and paper to him, "you do that for me, John. Anything you've told Walker, you can tell me." While John dutifully began writing out his statement in block print, Trivette rummaged around the office until he found the camera they used for photographing evidence and took a snapshot of John's tattoo. The angles and lines bore little resemblance --- different locations and acquisition dates? --- to the other two examples but shared a logo, the one Auguston had noted looked like a triple mountain peak inside a bell framed within an "I".
"Find the logo, find the culprit," he said with satisfaction as he scanned his tracing into the computer and set a program to run comparisons against known brands and company trademarks. He'd just completed that task when his computer chimed with an e-mail notification. Wondering who could possibly be contacting him at this hour, Trivette opened the message:
From: Sheriff Bob Hendricks
To: Ranger James Trivette
Subject: Kiowa Grasslands Case
The attached photographs were found on a digital camera in the saddlebags of the horse Sergeant Walker was riding. I expect they may be connected to your case. Hope you've got a cast iron stomach; you'll need it. Good luck!
Trivette managed to look at only two of the photographs before, revolted by what he'd seen, he saved them to a secure file and closed the message. He looked at John with new respect and compassion in his eyes. "You sure have had it rough, buddy. If only I had more information on those brands…"
His computer chimed again; Auguston's program had finished running its zip code comparisons. "Hmmm, one of these is a zip code for a town in the Navajo Nation called Whitehorse Lake, New Mexico. This other one is local." Trivette tapped out another inquiry. "Deep Ellum, eh? Let's cross reference that with the logos. That ought to narrow down the possible culprits."
With nothing further to be done until the computer had correlated the results, Trivette read though the files regarding the abandoned child. He nodded in satisfaction when he saw that she had been placed with a Ranger family. The language she spoke, as Auguston had guessed, had been positively identified as Navajo. That makes sense, considering the zip code data, if they're taking these people off of their reservations. Wonder if anyone else has come across this? If the perps have been doing this a while…
Trivette flexed his fingers and then requested a database search for cases with similarities. It didn't take long for the computer to find a match. "Hey, this is a fresh case…" There wasn't much in the report, which stated that the body of a Hispanic female had been found in a dumpster on North Crodus behind a strip club known as the French Connection. However, both the crime scene technicians and the medical examiner had photographed an odd series of marks, described as "tribal tattoos" on the inside of her arm. Both also noted that the victim's hair had been shorn but additional marks were visible on the scalp.
"Now we're getting somewhere!" He didn't need to translate the new marks; he could tell at a glance that the scalp tattoo was the same originating zip code as the one found on the abandoned girl. What Trivette didn't expect, however, was for the second set of brand marks to match. "I'd call that collaboration," he said with satisfaction. Humming Madonna's You Must Be My Lucky Star, he asked the computer to cross reference the logo marks with businesses within a ten mile radius of the location of the victim's body. On intuition, he also tapped a query into the DPS database regarding photographs of similar tattoos. "Very interesting," he muttered. Several more of the brands had been photographed as part of a new program attempting to catalog probable gang identifications. He pulled the files for those prisoners and discovered that many of them --- too danged many for coincidence --- had recently met with apparent accidents…and that each prisoner had been requested for reassignment to federal jurisdiction by DEA Agent LaFayette.
Someone with enough money and power to buy off a federal agent is trying to cover their tracks. It's not enough to tie Adrian Belmonte to this…yet. But with any luck, it should get me to someone who can lead me to him. Trivette tipped back his chair and laced his fingers behind his head as he thought about the facts his investigation had revealed. "Well, I think we've got enough to keep you from being sent up the river," he said aloud to John Quail. "With a good judge, you might not serve time at all." The big Navajo didn't respond; he had fallen asleep in the chair.
The final database search seemed to take forever but came up with a partial match for one of the logos: the carousel silhouette belonged to a nightclub in Deep Ellum called the Painted Pony Carousel Lounge. The other, the one Auguston had noted, matched exactly to Belmonte Industries. "That doesn't prove anything," Trivette groaned. "It won't hold up in court. I need to find evidence that Belmonte Industries originated these brands and a connection between them and the Cottonwood facility." He dug through the city's property records until he found what he needed: the strip club was held by a shell corporation which traced back to Belmonte Industries and listed Adrian Belmonte as the main shareholder. He also sat on the board of trustees for the Cottonwood facility and had been one of the founders. "That, my friend," he said with satisfaction, "is what we call collaboration!" Trivette put a light hand on John Quail's shoulder. The poor man started awake and shied from the touch, eyes wild and searching for escape until he realized his surroundings. "C'mon, man," said Trivette, "let's get back to the hospital. We need to get you checked out and I need to tell Alex to start processing warrants. We ought to have news on your cousin as well."
"All right," John said in English.
Dawn had just begun to brush the sky with rose and gold when the two of them walked to the parking garage. Trivette started the Ram and the two of them headed for Methodist Hospital.
One block away, in an unmarked van
Wilson Two Tree pulled the earpiece out and swore. He'd given the two now in custody their instructions before they had been apprehended. They'd easily been able to plant the small listening devices around the office as they'd been processed. Wilson himself had placed a tracking device on the Ram and had dropped another of the eavesdroppers in an upholstery seam. That had allowed him to keep track of their movements and to learn what the Rangers' next move would likely be. Unfortunately, he hadn't counted on the tenacity of Walker's partner and he'd underestimated the man's computer abilities.
It's sheer luck that he figured out the zip code branding, but he wouldn't have gotten that close if it hadn't been for that boneheaded Lopez. He knew that Claudio had probably been the one to kill Jacinta as a means to cut his losses but Lopez's behavior would have made the action necessary. I warned Mr. Belmonte that Lopez was a poor choice for that position.
Adrian Belmonte had listened politely to Wilson's objections and then dismissed them. "I have my reasons," he said to his second in a gently chiding manner. "It disappoints me, Wilson, that you have so little faith in my business acuity." He'd taken a sip of cognac and then continued, "Consider it an act of reciprocation between organizations." Wilson knew then that his boss had placed a spy of his own in whatever cartel had loaned him Lopez.
All well and good but Mr. Belmonte's not going to like what it's cost him. Wilson couldn't do anything about the loss of assets but with a little help, he could make certain that the paper trail didn't lead back to Belmonte Industries. He placed a discrete phone call to a certain computer hacker….