Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) by J. Mark Bertrand Page A

quantities, can amass quite an arsenal over a short period of time, stockpiling the rifles for transport to Mexico. Assuming they spread the activity out, it might go unnoticed. If they hit the gun shows, buying from private sellers to take advantage of the so-called loophole, then they can fly under the radar longer.
    “But if a guy wants twenty rifles,” I say, “and he’s covered in tats and takes a rubber-banded wad of cash out of his pocket to pay for them, that’s gonna raise some red flags, right?”
    “You ever heard of racial profiling? That’s against the law.” He chuckles at his own joke. “Sure, common sense dictates that if a gangbanger walks in wanting twenty-five identical assault rifles, something’s up with that. But you’d be surprised how many people don’t have common sense. And honestly, even a gun dealer’s gotta feed his family. You know how it is. Didn’t you say your uncle used to be in the business?”
    “My uncle wouldn’t have sold to somebody he got a bad vibe from. He reserved the right not to serve whoever he didn’t like.”
    “Those were different times.”
    “And anyway, you don’t make a living by arming the cartels.”
    He shrugs. “The guns may flow down, but the drugs are flowing up. We may be hurting them a little, but they’re hurting us a lot.”
    I hold up my hand. “You’re not helping yourself with that argument. They’re not just killing each other down there. They’re killing cops.”
    “I’m not saying it’s right. You wanted to know how it works, so I told you.”
    “Let me ask a different question. If I was a gun dealer and I wanted to get in on the action, how would I go about it? The way you’re talking, it sounds like that initiative’s on the cartel’s side. What if I wanted to make a big score?”
    “And by ‘you,’ you mean Brandon Ford?” He shakes his head. “I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Brandon doesn’t hustle the cheap stuff. If you want a Romanian AK, which sells for four hundred, you don’t call in a specialist.”
    “For the sake of argument, though, assume he wanted to sell to the Mexicans.”
    “He’d have to know somebody, I guess. They’re not a number you can call to volunteer your services. I assume he could have made a contact. If you’re asking me for a name, I don’t have one. This is pure speculation.”
    A name is exactly what I want. If I push too hard, I know he’ll dig in. Before Sam Dearborn will cooperate, he needs a little time to think it over. I decide to give it to him.
    “I appreciate your help,” I say. “And if you think of anything else, you’ve got my number. It never hurts to have a cop in your debt.”
    “If you say so.”
    Back in the car, I unsnap my briefcase and pull the Filofax out. I keep a plastic divider tucked in next to the blank note sheets. Before I forget, I write down everything Dearborn told me. Looking at the process on paper, I’m baffled. The FBI operation must be about guns and the cartels, otherwise what would it have to do with Brandon Ford? What I can’t figure out is why they would need him. The straw purchaser scenario doesn’t fit here. Like Dearborn said, Ford would need some kind of contact with the cartel, someone he could approach with an offer to supply guns. But then I’m back to the original problem: what’s the point of a sting operation targeting a notorious cartel? Is it really so hard to make a case against the drug lords?
    I dial Lorenz on the phone.
    “How’d it go?” he asks.
    “Nothing here. But I just had a thought. Where are the guns we’re thinking Ford wanted to sell? I didn’t see a gun safe when we went through the house.”
    Silence.
    “Maybe you should swing by that office he rents. If there are crates of AK-47s lying around, we might want to know.”
    “I’m on it,” he says. “You wanna meet me?”
    “I trust you, Jerry.”
    He sounds gratified as he hangs up. The fact is, I already know what he’s