Triple Crossing by Sebastian Rotella Page B

crossed into Tijuana, but we can’t prove it. Our Mexican contacts will do the same.
     You tell Garrison we asked about him. We were interested in cases of excessive force. That’ll point him in the wrong direction.”
    “That’s what I told him.”
    “Valentine,” she said as he buckled his seat belt. “What exactly happened in that situation in Chicago with the hotel thieves?”
    “Like I said. I got to know these guys, I found out what they were up to. I decided to go undercover on them. But they weren’t
     bad guys, it turned out. After a while I wasn’t sure what I was doing, tell you the truth.”
    “Interesting.”
    The sun lowered toward the ocean, igniting crimson circles in the water. On the way back, Puente said nothing until they drove
     downhill into Little Italy.
    “I want you to know something,” she said. “I was in The Patrol. For a year.”
    “No kidding. Where at?”
    “Nogales.”
    “How come just a year?”
    “Long story. But I wanted you to know. When Agent Shepard got on you about giving aliens money, I thought he was out of line.
     I understand about the money.”
    He was so drained that this did not cheer him the way it should have. He said: “I’m glad. I’m not sure I understand it myself.”
    The Mazda stopped behind his white Impala. The sun blazed in her dark glasses.
    “Listen, Valentine,” she said. “The doctors told you to rest. You do that. Monday you go back to work and we’ll be ready to
     roll. Good luck.”
    She shook his hand, all business, like she had sold him a house or something. He did not want to get out of the car. He wanted
     to prolong the moment with her. And he did not want to be alone to think about his predicament.
    “Alright then.” He gave her a sheepish raise of the eyebrows. “So I’m in your hands, huh, Isabel? I got nobody to trust but
     you.”
    She took off her sunglasses. He had overplayed it, coming off like a bullshitter, even though he had meant it.
    Isabel Puente gave him a tight smile. Moving slowly, she rested her hand on his knee. He wanted to enjoy it, but the combination
     of the touch and the smile was as scary as it was seductive.
    “That’s right,” she said. “So if you let me down, or try to pull something slick, I’m in charge of making you regret it for
     the rest of your life.”

4
    T HERE WERE PROTESTERS OUTSIDE THE OFFICE of the state human rights commission. They had been joined by Porfirio Gibson and his camera crew.
    Méndez sat in the car watching. The protesters presented themselves as families of police officers who had been unfairly persecuted
     by the human rights commission and gotten fired, making the streets unsafe for the citizens. There were quite a few women
     and children. But Méndez noticed a number of “organizers”: ex-cops or para-cops sporting cowboy hats, sunglasses and quality
     leather.
    Once again, Porfirio Gibson was on the wrong side. Méndez watched the reporter conduct animated interviews with protesters.
     Their signs bore proclamations such as ARACELI MUST FALL, AGUIRRE PROTECTS CRIMINALS , and HUMAN RIGHTS FOR POLICE !
    “Look at this bastard,” Méndez said. He patted his driver on the shoulder. “Turn up the radio. It’s noon, we get to watch
     and listen to Porfirio at the same time.”
    In addition to covering law enforcement for television, Gibson hosted a taped radio program called “Radio Patrol.” At first,
     his nasal Mexico City accent hadn’t gone over well. But then he had turned the cop-blotter show into a weapon for extortion
     and intrigue. He had acquired influential contacts. He got scoops onraids and murders. He led the assault when the mafia decided to go after competitors or crime fighters. His growing audience
     had helped him expand into television work, but “Radio Patrol” remained an institution.
    The program began with a wailing siren and radio chatter. Then Gibson read the day’s police reports at top speed with minimal
     editing. The menu