Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(106)
“I’m counting on it. We’ve got a team of agents on their way, just in case.”
DeSantos ended the call and informed Dixon and Mann what the narcotics task force had discovered.
“I have a good feeling about this,” Dixon said.
“If we can turn good feelings into reliable intel,” DeSantos said, “that’s the kind of thing that’ll get me excited.”
They arrived at the Clover Creek reservation moments later. After traversing an ancient paved road that needed a seal coat two decades ago and a repaving some time after that, they arrived at a used brick building with a flag mounted atop a white pole. The whipping material, spot lit from below, depicted the logo of the Clover Creek tribe: a maroon clover leaf with a blue body of water flowing through its center.
They parked and DeSantos entered the structure alone, preferring a low-profile approach. Several federal agents marching into the police station might send the wrong message. DeSantos badged the support personnel and was led to the office of the police chief, whose nameplate read, “H. ‘Sky’ Thomson.”
Thomson was seated behind a bare metal desk, papers pinned to a cork board that covered half the wall to his left. The room was large and vacant save for the chief’s furniture and a lone guest chair. DeSantos shook the man’s hand and explained that he was working on a DEA task force looking for an officer who had been kidnapped by a cartel they had reason to believe was operating off the reservation.
Thomson nodded silently, his hands perched in a triangle in front of his mouth. He motioned DeSantos to the empty chair. “We’ve been battling the illicit drug trade for many years. Worse now than I have ever seen it. But I assume you know that.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Problem is, we’ve got 40 percent unemployment. We have a little casino, but there are so many tribes in the area with big, fancy gambling operations that we’re small fish. So the tribal commission does what it can with what we have. Which isn’t much. Our people need money, and the drug traffickers have plenty of it. Carlos Cortez, his people run a lot of their coke and high-potency marijuana through here. And from their point of view, it makes sense. They transport the contraband across the border, then up here on the 805. They store the drugs in any number of houses on the reservation until one of their lieutenants and a crew come by to pick it up. Then they’ve got a straight shot up the 5 to LA, the 15 to Las Vegas, or the 40 to points east. In any one of these directions, they’re headed to cities where they’ve set up shop to distribute and sell it.”
DeSantos shoved his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “Very convenient.”
“You know about Cleveland National Forest, I assume.”
“Don’t assume anything.”
Thomson rose from his chair and stepped over to a dog-eared topographical map of the region. He circled an area with his index finger. “They grow marijuana right here, in the middle of the forest. We’re not talking a few small plants. One of your colleagues told me DEA seized a million plants last year alone. Just in California. Street value, if I remember right, was something like $5 million.”
Thomson sat down heavily in his chair. “Cortez’s people typically cut down trees and use toxic chemicals, pesticides, and fertilizers that pollute the watershed, dig ditches, and set up irrigation pipes and dams to divert water from streams and rivers. And the bastards are heavily armed, so you’d better not be backpacking near their farm. Lucky for us, that terrain up there is mountainous and rocky, so they’re limited in where and how much they can grow. Problem is that they truck the marijuana here, where they process it, package it, and ship it out all over the country.”
“Another good reason to have the stash houses in Clover Creek.”
“What’s that saying? Location, location, location.”
They shared a chuckle.
“Do you know which houses on the reservation the cartel uses?”
Thomson’s smile disappeared like water droplets in the high desert sun. “The houses, they change constantly. And the drugs are rarely there more than a few hours. We try to keep a watch over areas we know have been used in the past, but looking at the past isn’t usually helpful in predicting where they’re going to store them in the future.”
“Kind of like the stock market,” DeSantos said. “Past results aren’t a guarantee of future returns.”
Thomson looked at him a moment, a blank stare indicating he was not familiar with the reference, then said, “Because we’re understaffed, it makes our job harder if not impossible. We pay some informants, but they have to be very careful. Some have been killed. And we can’t pay them enough, not compared to the cash Cortez throws around. A year ago, someone I grew up with told me he saw suspicious activity around a particular house. Next day, I found him nailed to the front door of that house. His heart was cut out and shoved into his mouth.”
“Sorry to hear about your friend,” DeSantos said. “Cortez is among the most ruthless, I know that. Obviously we’re trying to prevent that from happening to our officer.”
“We do have successes. I don’t want you to think we’re totally at the mercy of the cartel. But if you’re with DEA, you probably know all about the seizures we’ve made.”
DeSantos knew nothing of the sort. Despite the crash course they’d been given, he felt more unprepared for this assignment than any he’d previously taken on—which, at this point, spanned several continents and numbered . . . quite a few. “You know who Arturo Figueroa is?”