Michael McGarity - Serpent Gate

Rose Moya arrived and Kerney intercepted her at the foot of the stairs.

She wore pleated brown cord slacks and a ribbed off-white wool sweater, and carried a canvas laptop computer case. An attractive woman with high cheekbones and full lips. Rose looked at Kerney with serious dark eyes.

"Senor Kerney," she said.

"Surely you must know that Enrique De Leon will try to kill you if he learns you are injuarez."

"I will not be in Juarez long," Kerney said.

"Please join me for a coffee."

Rose brushed her dark hair back from her forehead, searched Kerney's face, gave a quick glance at his table, and waited for more of an explanation. Behind Kerney the customers' chatter faded away.

"Is there a problem if you're seen talking to me?"

Kerney asked.

Rose laughed sharply.

"I do not have a death wish, Senor Kerney."

"Does my presence place you in danger?"

"Apparently Francisco Posada made it known that you reached him through me. I was questioned extensively after your visit by a high-ranking police official with ties to the Mafiosios. The meeting was cordial, but the threat was dear. It would be unwise for me to continue to cooperate with any mjrtea.menca.no police officers or drug agents."

"Have the Mafiosios silenced your reporting?"

Rose forced a small smile.

"Not completely, but I walk a fine line. They like to read about themselves. They expect to have their political assassinations reported-it reinforces the terror and fear they spread. And they enjoy articles about their wealth and influence as long as any account of government corruption is not too specific."

"Have you been instructed to report any contact by nortea.merica.no agents or police?"

"Of course," Rose replied, looking over Kerney's shoulder at the cafe patrons.

"And if I don't, someone else will."

"Give me a few minutes to tell you why I'm here. If you cannot help me, I'll understand. Disclose everything to the Mafiosios' police official when you make your report. Hold nothing back."

"What do you want, Senor Kerney?"

"Enrique De Leon And this time I plan to get him."

Rose's eyes widened with curiosity.

"You make an appealing offer. Buy me a coffee, and I will listen to your story."

At the table, Rose drank coffee while Kerney filled her in on the art theft and the facts pointing to De Leon complicity.

De Leon enjoys stealing from norteamericanos," Rose said, touching the small mole under her right eye.

"He delights in it, and has been very successful over the years. Not once has he been charged with any crime on either side of the border."

"I understand that."

"If you truly wish to put De Leon out of business, you face much more difficult obstacles than before. He is virtually untouchable."

"Has he hired more bodyguards and goons?" Kerney asked.

Rose laughed.

"Nothing quite so commonplace. In our last national election, several Juarez politicians won prominent government positions. They benefited from major Mafiosios' campaign financing. De Leon donated several million dollars and was rewarded with a minor cultural affairs appointment and a diplomatic passport."

"That's unbelievable."

"I thought you were better acquainted with our country, Senor Kerney.

You can buy anything in Mexico.

We have a fugitive ex-president living in Dublin who has millions of stolen dollars in a Swiss account. He cannot be touched; we have no extradition treaty with Ireland. At one time, he was compared to your Jack Kennedy. He turned out to be nothing but a common thief."

"So what is De Leon doing with his new diplomatic status?"

"Business as usual, only more so. I understand he is now investing in foreign real estate and buying into many maquiladora enterprises, businesses jointly owned by American and Mexican corporations."

"Is he going legitimate?"

"That, and diversifying."

"Do you have any specifics on his holdings?"

Rose shook her head.

"I'm afraid not."

"Does he still usejuarez as his base of operations?"

"When he's here," Rose replied.

"Do you know where he is?"

"Traveling, I've heard, but I have no idea where.

Allegedly he has houses in the United States, the Caribbean, Central America, and Spain. But he could be at his hacienda outside of Juarez, or at one of his ranches. He won't be easy to find. You aren't planning to go to the Little Turtle, are you?"

"No," Kerney answered.

"Is Francisco Posada still alive?" Posada was the information broker who had set up Kerney's first and only face-to-face meeting with De Leon Kerney had finessed Posada into connecting him with De Leon by posing as a rogue ex-cop trying to smuggle valuable merchandise across the border. He had hooked Posada with some up-front money and the promise of a percentage from the proceeds.

"Barely. His niece now lives with him. She will inherit his estate. A private nurse cares for him. I don't think it would be wise for you to try to see him."

"I learned that firsthand a while back," Kerney said.

"Does Juan Diaz still work for him?"

"The houseboy? No. He moved out and is now brokering for the contrabandistas in El Paso. He specializes in the low-end trade to avoid any conflicts with the drug jefes. He arranges buyers for smuggled cigarettes, liquor, cosmetics, and pharmaceuticals."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"He rents a cottage in a development near the Casa Grande Highway. He should be easy to find."

"Gracias," Kerney said as he slid five one-hundred dollar bills into Rose's hand.

"What's this?" she demanded warily.

"It's confiscated drug money taken from a Mexican smuggler," Kerney answered.

"I read your article on homeless refugees. Use the money to help some of them."

Rose's hand closed over the bills.

"Are you a policeman with a sense of poetic justice, Senor Kerney?"

"A character flaw, no doubt," Kerney replied.

"No doubt," Rose echoed, as she picked up the laptop computer case.

"Move quickly, Senor Kerney. I have a telephone call I must make."

"Will you say that you told me how to find Juan?"

"I believe that would be in my best interest."

"it is good to see you again, Senor Kerney," Juan said.

"I owe you a great deal." He sat behind an expensive tubular-steel-and-glass desk, which held a computer and a laser printer. The rest of the home office furnishings consisted of a chair and love seat with plush cushions and bolsters, some sleek brushed-metal floor lamps, and a large Guatemalan folk art weaving on one wall.

Kerney sat in the chair across from the desk.

"You owe me nothing, Juan," he said.

Juan's cottage was in a middle-class subdivision outside the Juarez city limits. The area had an Americanized look to it, with neatly tended houses on small lots.

Juan no longer dressed like a domestic houseboy: His white linen costume had been replaced by a button down broadcloth shirt and a pair of twill slacks. The change in attire was a striking contrast that heightened Juan's full-blooded Indian features. His long, thick black hair was pulled tight against his temples and tied with a band so that it draped down the back of his neck.

"But you're doing well, I take it," Kerney added.

"Very well. And I have you to thank, in part, senor.

The customs agent you put me in touch with was able to get me a green card. I now have an apartment in El Paso and, in return for information I pass along now and then, I cross freely over the border.

It has made doing business much less complicated."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"How can I help you, senor?"

"I need to locate Enrique De Leon I want to know exactly where he is."

Even before Kerney had finished speaking, Juan shook his head.