"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Juan no longer dressed like a domestic houseboy: His white linen costume had been replaced by a button down broadcloth shirt and a pair of twill slacks.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.
"As much as I would like to, I cannot help you. De Leon is out of the country. He travels often and does not announce his itinerary."
"Does he fly out ofjuarez?"
"No. El Paso. It is much less suspicious to the norteamericanos for him to do so."
"I understand he owns houses in many countries.
Can you get me exact locations?"
"Your friend at Customs asked for the same information, and as much as I tried, I was unable to supply it. It is my belief that whatever property De Leon owns outside of Mexico is not in his name."
"You have no sources of information that you can tap into?" Kerney prodded.
"There must be some information on his whereabouts floating around."
"Do you wish to have us killed, senor? De Leon has bought more than diplomatic immunity from our government with his riches. He now has former federal intelligence agents on his payroll. Simply asking questions could make us both targets for assassination. And if the former ruraks didn't murder us, either De Leon gangsters, the Juarez policia, or one of your corrupt Drug Enforcement Agency operatives surely would."
"That's not what I want to hear."
Juan raised his hands in an expression of helplessness.
Frustrated, Kerney changed the subject.
"There may be a shipment of stolen art moving into Mexico sometime soon." Kerney handed Juan the inventory.
De Leon is behind the theft. Will you keep your eyes and ears open?"
"That, I will gladly do," Juan replied.
Kerney extracted an envelope and laid out three thousand dollars.
Juan's long, dark eyelashes fluttered.
"You pay me more than my normal fee," he said, "and I have given you very little in return."
"Use what you need to buy information, and consider the balance a retainer."
"As you wish, senor."
"You may be questioned about my visit."
"Do you have a cover story you wish me to use?"
"Tell them about the art theft, but try not to disclose that I'm looking for De Leon "I will do my best to maintain the confidentiality of our conversation." the road to the Rancho Caballo clubhouse where the O'Keefie Museum fund-raiser had been held was barred by electronic security gates.
Gilbert Martinez pulled to a stop next to the guard station. A young Hispanic male wearing a green sweater and khaki pants popped out of the small building, flashed Gilbert a big smile, and informed him that he needed a visitor's pass to get in.
Gilbert flashed his shield in response. After a few minutes of bickering with the kid over whether or not he had the right to proceed with police business on private property, Gilbert got testy. He made dear the implications of interfering with an officer in the performance of his dudes, and the guard grudgingly opened the gate.
Gilbert drove a mile down a paved private road to the clubhouse and coasted to a stop, his mind disbelieving what he saw. The clubhouse had a two-story central core with single-story wings that stretched out on either side. At the front of the building, stone walkways wandered through landscaped rock gardens to a wroughtiron bridge that spanned a man-made pond. A flagstone driveway led to a portal reserved for valet parking.
Behind the clubhouse, the lush green of a fairway flowed up to pinon-studded hills. With a Spanish-tile pitched roof, the place had the feel of a Palm Springs resort. It was uncommonly glitzy looking, and the fact that Santa Pc had become just another trendy resort destination for the wealthy depressed Gilbert.
The sprinklers were on, pumping fine streams of water in arches over the golf course, and the grass glistened in the soft light from a hazy sun. As he parked and walked toward the entrance, Gilbert wondered what bureaucratic idiot had approved such a waste of water. Arid New Mexico survived on groundwater and snowpack runoff; it was not a commodity to be wasted on a rich man's playground.
Before he reached the entrance, the door opened and a stylish woman in her late forties stepped out to meet him. Her blond hair was carefully curled and tinted. She wore a long Santa Fe-style dress that accentuated her trim figure and a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots. She held a cellular telephone in her hand.
"I'm afraid we're closed today," she said, before Gilbert could introduce himself.
"I need to speak to the concierge," he replied.
"I'm the concierge," the woman replied with a casual glance at Gilbert's badge and ID.
"I can't talk to you right now. I'm very busy."
"I'd like to ask you about the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum benefit event held here last month."
"What do you want to know?"
"Who attended the function?"
"I'm sorry, I can't help you."
"Don't you keep a guest list?"
"Of course we do. But this is a private club. We don't release any information without the permission of the board of directors."
"Your cooperation would be helpful," Gilbert replied.
"Could you bend the rules this time?"
"Certainly not," the woman said.
"If you want access to any information, you'll have to talk to our legal counsel. If your request is approved, I'll be glad to cooperate with you."