Nothing but Trouble_ A Kevin Kerney Novel - Michael Mcgarrity [120]
He drove the main strip to get his bearings. There were a few older buildings that harkened back to the town’s founding as a railroad stop in the late-nineteenth century, but for the most part the strip consisted of stand-alone gas stations, automotive repair shops, mom-and-pop businesses, eateries, and moderately priced motels.
Kerney had left Patrick behind in the care of the nanny, and he didn’t feel good about it. But he was determined to find out what he could about Agent Fidel’s undercover operation. Maybe he’d learn enough to let him step aside from it completely and give Patrick more attention.
Following Officer Flavio Sapian’s directions, he took the main street east toward the Florida Mountains and followed the road that led to Rockhound State Park. He made a hard right at an intersection and bumped down a gravel road to a 1960s ranch-style house, where Sapian’s state police cruiser was parked under a tin-roofed carport.
He pulled into the driveway and stopped in front of the house, shaded to the south by a row of tall poplars. Under the trees a trampoline and a swing set occupied a swath of green grass. Beyond the trees stood an old railroad boxcar that probably served as a storage shed.
Kerney tooted his horn and Sapian stepped out the front door. Off duty, he wore jeans, boots, a long-sleeved Western shirt, and a faded, sweat-streaked baseball cap. He got into Kerney’s truck and the two men drove away.
“Your phone call took me by surprise,” Flavio said. “I thought the Border Patrol was handling the death of that Mexican you found on the highway. Why are you still involved?”
Kerney ran it down for him, leaving nothing out. He concluded with his misgivings about Fidel’s undercover operation. “I just want to know if things really are as they seem,” he said.
“So that’s why you asked me to set up a meeting with the agent in charge of the Deming Border Patrol Station.”
“Exactly. How well do you know him?”
“His name is Steve Hazen and he’s good people,” Sapian answered. “Been here five, maybe six years. If he can tell you anything, he’ll play it straight.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
The station, located just outside of Deming on the highway to the border town of Columbus, was a modern brick building with a sloping metal portal that covered the entrance. Shrubs and trees planted along the front of the building softened the monotonous façade, and an American flag waved from the top of a pole that towered over the building.
Inside, Steve Hazen invited them into his office. A heavyset man in his forties with wide shoulders and a thick neck, he had a military-style hair-cut that showed the bumps and ridges of his deeply tanned skull in full relief. His shipshape office contained all the personal and professional memorabilia some cops loved to display. Framed family pictures, official citations, university degrees, and recognition and award plaques from civic organizations lined shelves and filled walls.
Highly arched eyebrows gave Hazen’s face a persistent quizzical expression. He held up a coffee mug that read # 1 DAD in big red letters. “Can I get you some?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” Kerney answered.
“Not for me,” Sapian said.
“Flavio said you have some questions.” Hazen motioned to a table next to a tall bookcase that held volumes of government documents. “Take a load off and fire away.”
The men pulled out chairs and sat. “What can you tell me about the undercover operation at Playas?” Kerney asked.
Hazen smiled. “Domingo Fidel’s little feint. He said you might not fall for it.”
“Feint?”
“Yep,” Hazen replied. “Eight months ago we got a contingent of National Guard soldiers from a Lordsburg unit assigned to assist us apprehend illegals crossing the border from Columbus west to Antelope Wells. Soon after that human trafficking volume picked up in the Bootheel, especially in those areas manned by the troops. We believe some of the soldiers have been taking bribes