Mark Gimenez - Accused

"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."

"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.

"Would you mind checking? It's about Trey Rawlins. I'm a lawyer representing Rebecca Fenney."

The thugs glanced at each other then at Hank; the taller one said, "Wait here." He took Scott's card and went inside. The other thug maintained his position in front of the door. A few minutes later, the taller one returned and gestured at Scott.

"Benito will see you."

They all took a step toward the door.

"Only the lawyer."

Scott turned to the others. "I'll be okay. Wait here."

"Mr. Fenney," Louis said, "if you want, I could break both their necks."

The thugs' eyes got wide. Hank chuckled.

"No, Louis, just be cool."

Scott followed the taller thug inside and to the elevators.

"Hands up."

Scott put his hands in the air. The thug patted him down then said, "Third floor."

Scott stepped inside the elevator and punched the button for the third floor. The elevator made a smooth journey up two levels then the doors opened on a young, handsome, meticulously groomed Latino man dressed in a pink Polo shirt that hung like silk, white creased shorts, and huaraches. His black hair was smoothed back, and his goatee was expertly trimmed. His cologne smelled expensive. He offered a bright smile and an open hand to Scott. He was unarmed.

"Mr. Fenney, I am Benito Estrada. It is an honor to meet you."

Scott shook Benito's hand. "Why?"

"The hooker's case, up in Dallas. Took cojones to go on national TV and call a U.S. senator a criminal… just like it took cojones to walk up to mis amigos downstairs and say you want to see Benito Estrada. I like that."

"Then you'll really like this: Did you kill Trey Rawlins?"

Benito chuckled. "Perhaps you would like something to drink, Mr. Fenney? Spring water, herbal tea, espresso-I have Starbucks?"

"No, thanks. And call me Scott."

"And I am Benito. Please, come in."

The elevator was at one end of an office that occupied the entire third floor of the building. A large desk stood along one wall and above the desk was a bank of closed-circuit TVs showing the street scene around the building. On one screen were Hank, Carlos, and Louis-mostly Louis.

"Now that is a bodyguard," Benito said.

A sitting area with a leather couch and chairs stretched along one wall of windows and a wet bar along the third wall with a flat-screen TV mounted above. It reminded Scott of Nick Madden's office, absent the game tables. And Nick and Benito had a mutual client.

"Why have you come to me?" Benito asked.

"Trey's last phone conversation was with you."

"Ah."

"Why'd you agree to see me?"

Benito smiled. "Never know when I might need a good defense lawyer."

"I don't represent drug dealers. I have kids."

"I do not sell to kids. I am a businessman, selling the people what they want."

"They may want it, but they don't need it."

"No different than the State of Texas selling lottery tickets to poor people."