J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

“I talked to the man’s ex-wife. I saw his kids.”

“And she’s known him for how long? A few years?”

“His mother does the baby-sitting.” I take the photo from the garage out of my pocket: Brandon and his two friends, with his mother in the background. “ She’s known him since he was born.”

As she studies the image, the corner of her lip curls down. “Oh, I know her. And there’s more to the situation than you realize.”

“Let me lay something out for you, Bea. This started off as a murder investigation, and now a Houston police detective, my partner, is dead. From where I’m standing, I’d say there’s more to this situation than you seem to realize. You’re withholding information, pure and simple. Now either start at the beginning and tell me everything you know, or I’m gonna walk.”

“You’ll walk? You’re the one who called me.”

I shrug. “I’m not gonna stand here and be lied to again.”

She’s mad, that much is obvious, even though she tries to keep it bottled up. Maybe she thinks I’m not showing her enough respect. Whatever illusion she had of controlling the situation is starting to crumble.

“This is off the record,” I say, giving another little push.

“Here’s what I can tell you. I inherited Brandon. I inherited the whole operation. Another agency put it in place, and for some reason had a change of priorities. This thing goes back years. But I was only put in charge of it four months ago.”

“When exactly?”

She does the math in her head. “Early February. Going on five months, I guess.”

In other words, not long after Andrew Nesbitt’s death.

“And the other agency that was responsible for putting the operation in place?”

“I can’t tell you that. Seriously. I have my suspicions, but there’s a certain. . imprecision to the way things like this happen.”

“But we’re talking about the CIA, right?”

“Maybe,” she says. “Or somebody working with them.”

“Earlier, you said you had information that the computer would blow Ford’s cover. Where did that come from?”

“A phone call,” she says. “A tip.”

“From?”

She stares into the water, not wanting to give it up.

“Bea, who tipped you off? You realize whoever it was set you up, right? We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for that call.”

“You said Brandon’s mother baby-sits his kids. Did you actually talk to her?”

That was on Lorenz’s list, but we never got that far. I shake my head.

“Well, you might have a hard time finding her now. That’s who called me. Hilda. And she was Brandon’s handler, not his mother. What a piece of work.” She shakes her head. “I haven’t been able to reach her since that call.”

“This operation,” I say. “What’s it all about?”

She takes a half step toward me, touching her right arm against my left. She talks so softly I have to bend closer to hear. “This cannot go any further than you and me. I’m telling you this in good faith.”

The story she tells concerns a war between the powerful Gulf Cartel and the renegade enforcers called Los Zetas, now a cartel in their own right. Los Zetas was originally from the Mexican special forces, recruited by the Gulf Cartel’s then-leader, Cárdenas Guillen, to take out the competition. After defying the FBI and DEA, Guillen is now doing time in a U.S. prison without possibility of parole. A Federal judge in Houston sentenced him not long after Bea was handed her undercover operation. “Suddenly I had an inside man in Matamoros, home base of the Gulf Cartel.”

The volume of good intel coming up from Matamoros was staggering. The first report to come across her desk read like a soap opera digest of cartel gossip. Some of this she routed to contacts at the DEA, some she delivered through channels to the Mexican government. Everything came through the woman posing as Brandon Ford’s mother. She gave Bea the initial rundown on the organization and introduced her to Brandon, who would make the 350-mile trip to Matamoros every couple of weeks to collect information.

“Brandon had ideas of his own,” she says. “He wanted a larger role in the operation. He was tired of being the courier.”

So with the help of their cartel insider-Bea won’t share the man’s name, or even his code name-they set up the scenario she’d hinted at in our first interview. Brandon would use his gun-dealer cover to offer arms to the cartel. The plan was to expand his business until he had deals in place with the rival outfits, too.

“It would have been a delicate operation,” she says. “We’d have to set up new deals before the original ones were fulfilled, then arrange the deliveries close enough together to where the initial arrests wouldn’t tip the others off.”

There was another side to the sting, which made it appealing to Bea’s higher-ups. With a bankroll from the FBI, Brandon would purchase guns from U.S. dealers. With luck he’d be able to rope in manufacturers or importers, too.

“How far along had all this gotten?” I ask.

She sighs. “He had the money.”

“And what about the arms?”

“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “This first deal had already been worked out. Things were going smoothly. The last time we talked, he was heading to Matamoros for the final arrangements. I guess something went wrong.”

There’s a tremor in her voice.

“Bea, look at me.”

She turns. Her smooth face twists into a knot. She puts a hand over her nose, like she’s trying to stifle a sneeze. But it’s more than that.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head. She chews her lip and wraps her arms tight around her body, squeezing herself still.

“You and Brandon. .?”

“Whoever did this, I want them as bad as you do.”

“The two of you. .”

“I don’t want to talk about it. But, yes.”

The idea forming in my head puts all my earlier conspiracy theories to shame. Suppose this fellow, Brandon Ford, finds himself running information back and forth across the border. He’s looking for a payday and suddenly finds himself working for Bea, who’s not as tough and streetwise as she’d like to make out. He insinuates himself into her life, and pretty soon she’s going to her superiors for the cash to fund this sting operation.

“How much money did you actually sign out?”

“Not much to begin with,” she says. “Two hundred and fifty grand.”

Is that enough? I guess it depends on the situation. If Brandon Ford was ready to decamp before the opportunity came along, an extra quarter million to jump-start his new life wouldn’t have gone amiss. And if he was ready to leave behind an ex-wife and kids, then saying goodbye to a new love interest-and leaving her in the lurch-would not have presented any problem. How this connects with Andrew Nesbitt’s death and the way the dumped corpse was arranged, I’m not sure. A message to his so-called mother, maybe? Given time, I suspect I can work it all out. But Bea still seems oblivious.

“You’re not going to like the sound of this,” I say, “but I suspect you’ve been played. He wasn’t in this to hand you a sting operation. All he wanted was the money.”

She walks away from me, then turns. “You didn’t know him.”

“Neither did you, Bea. I think he was using you. Once he had the money, it was only a matter of time.”

“You. Didn’t. Know . Him.”

She punctuates each word with a jab of the finger, speaking loud enough for the breakfasting office workers to turn and watch. I close the distance, put a hand on her arm. She shrugs free but stands her ground.

“You can at least do me the courtesy of not questioning my professional judgment!” Her words come out in a hiss. “I thought I was doing you a favor, putting you in the picture. I could get in serious trouble even for talking with you.”