Shutter(33)

“We’re investigating Detective Garcia on a few cases that he handled a couple of years back.” He wrestled with the huge file and took out his notebook. “Has he done anything that you’ve seen that can be construed as . . .”

“Crooked?” I offered.

“Well. Have you noticed anything suspicious or out of the ordinary?”

“He’s a jerk. But, aside from lifting money off a few hoods and stealing newspapers from the café in the courthouse, no, I haven’t seen anything.” There was something nagging at the edge of my blurred recollection of the hours before I woke up in the hospital—Judge Winters’s little boy’s ghost pointing at a crowded doorway.

“Are you on a lot of the same calls as Garcia?” Declan frowned.

“Yes. Unfortunately.” My salad had arrived. I worked hard not to send bits sailing across the table as I attacked it.

Declan took out a couple of photographs and laid them on the table. The two men in the picture were gruff and haggard. Their style made me think of the drug dealer types we’d see coming up from cartels in Mexico, with their fancy sweat suits or embroidered jeans. One was gigantic, with curly, dark hair and hands that looked like the ends of wings. He sported a huge scar that crossed his neck from ear to ear. I was pretty sure I had seen him before, or at least his silhouette—suspending the desperately struggling Erma over the highway. The other man had eyes the color of the ocean, which looked strange when coupled with his deep brown skin and black hair.

“Have you ever seen Garcia with either of these men?” Declan stared at me. “Look at the pictures closely.”

The cartels were the source of a lot of drug-and property-related crime in Albuquerque. Whatever these guys were involved in, I was sure Garcia had the capacity to be involved. The pieces were coming together in my mind, but telling Declan about my dreamy night with Erma wasn’t going to help. I had to think quickly.

“I think I would remember the big guy,” I said. “That is an incredible scar he has on his neck. It’s surprising that he survived a cut that big.” I scooped up the last crouton on my plate. “You know, Garcia was on that murder case I was on the other day. A real mess.”

“What case was this?” Declan was finally perking up.

“Erma Singleton. The fatality that was pushed off the bridge the other night. Or jumped,” I corrected myself. “We aren’t sure yet.” I hoped that Erma didn’t hear that.

Declan was quiet. His forehead buckled under the pressure of his next question.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I asked. “What is Garcia involved in?”

“We don’t really know yet. Our witnesses have been dropping like flies. If you know something, my hope is that you would tell us.”

“Well, the other day, when I first met you at the drive-by-scene—you know, at the hotel . . .” I wondered if I should even say anything. “He was acting a little strange. He watched me like a hawk and looked pretty pissed when I noticed some coke spilled on the rug.”

Declan was scribbling in his pad. “And?”

“And? Well, that’s it.”

The rest of our food arrived, and I dove right in. My body forced me to.

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” He seemed disappointed, and I’m sure he was disgusted by the way I downed my burger.

“Who are the two guys in the mugshots?” My mouth was full.

“They were two former higher-ups in a huge drug and gun cartel that has been shipping all their product through Albuquerque for the past two or three years.” He pulled one of the photographs out again—the guy with the huge cut on his neck. “Ignacio Marcos has a network here in town. They get called on to move the product on to other states and up to other networks in Farmington, Las Cruces, and some reservations.” Declan pulled out another photo. “This is the man they are working with.”

I knew who “El Mayo” Zambada was. He was a major player in the Sinaloa Cartel in Juárez, México—a lieutenant in El Chapo’s army. This guy was no joke. At the southwest command center, the department always brought up the Sinaloa Cartel and its easily negotiable border through our state. We knew that the Nogales and Tijuana portal used to be the major hubs, but the cartel was beginning to push even more cocaine, meth, and heroin through our isolated border into El Paso.

Declan was looking through his files. He laid another photograph on the table.

“This is Cedric Romero. The cartel has between five and seven cells here in Albuquerque, and he is one of the leaders. His family runs an upholstery shop and has a taqueria up on Fourth Street.” Declan finished his coffee before continuing. “He relates to Garcia in some way. We haven’t figured out how—haven’t made the connection. But money is passing between them.”

“I’ve never seen him.” I handed back the photo.

“Neither have we, really. He keeps a low profile.” Declan put the photo back. “APD is busting some of these meth traffickers, but a lot of them are still getting away with murder.”

“And you think Garcia is the eyes and ears of the cartel inside the department.”

“Yes. We do. And we think he’ll do anything to keep that a secret.”

I picked up the photographs and looked again, staring at the cut on the guy’s neck. It was brutal. I needed to figure out who he was.