Birds of a Feather. Don Easton

keep the money. Local charities had done well from his kindness.

      Rubalcava’s position did not demand that he wear a uniform, so he tended to dress casually with grey slacks and a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. Today his shirt was a light charcoal colour that matched his hair. His wife said it made him look handsome.

      Rubalcava knew better. At one time he was considered handsome, but the constant worry had caused him to look much older than he really was. His hair was prematurely greying and deep crevices cut through the dark sacks of skin below his eyes. His eyes once held sparkle and were quick to smile, but in the last few years they had found little to smile about.

      From the outer office, Rubalcava heard a ripple of excited, gleeful whispers spread amongst his men. Something was going on, but he decided to ignore it. He knew he was not completely trusted. Rumours persisted that he talked to the Americans too much.

      Police commanders were in a position where it was expected that they might talk to the Americans on occasion. The drug lords actually welcomed it as a way of finding out what the Americans were up to. The information Rubalcava obtained for the cartels, however, was usually insignificant or too long after the fact to be of benefit. When confronted about this, Rubalcava said perhaps the Americans did not trust him, either.

      There was another small commotion in the outer office and he decided to take a look. This time the voices were not whispers. One of his men, Detective Sanchez, had given the secretary a gift. She had always ignored his advances before, but appeared delighted with the small silver frog pendant dangling from a chain. The frog’s red eyes matched her lipstick.

      Rubalcava forced a smile and tried to look pleased with the happy atmosphere. I wonder who was robbed or killed in order for him to give that gift? He saw Sanchez eyeing him and their eyes met briefly. Sanchez smirked and turned his attention back to the secretary. He knows what I am thinking …

      Sanchez was protected by a drug cartel headed by Rafael Aguilar Guajardo. It was the top drug cartel in the region, although their supremacy was being hotly contested by the rival Sinaloa cartel.

      The Sinaloa cartel was originally based out of the Mexican states of Baja, Sinaloa, Durango, Sonora, and Chihuahua, but had expanded operations and as of late had been encroaching on territory long held by the Guajardo cartel. At the present time, the Guajardo cartel still remained firmly in control of most of Juarez and Sanchez knew he had nothing to fear from his commander.

      Rubalcava casually scanned the office again. The excitement and whispers I heard earlier are not over a stolen pendant. Something else has happened … His thoughts were interrupted when his telephone rang and he went back to his office to answer it.

      He immediately recognized the sexy voice asking to meet him again. Her husband had stepped out. They only had a few minutes of precious time before he would return. Rubalcava agreed and hung up the phone. I wonder what John Adams’s wife really looks like …

[1] As shocking and unbelievable as it may seem, nothing in this paragraph is fiction.

      chapter four

      It was late Friday afternoon when Jack arrived home and called the RCMP Telecommunications Centre to check Earl Porter’s name on the Canadian Police Information Centre’s computer. The CPIC query did not show any criminal record, but a notation did come back to say he was of interest to the Vancouver RCMP Drug Section.

      Jack’s next call was to Sammy in Drug Section.

      “Porter, yeah, he used to be of interest to us,” replied Sammy. “Not now, somebody must have forgotten to remove him from CPIC.”

      “What’s the scoop?” asked Jack.

      “Two years ago, Porter came up as a close associate of a guy who was our main target in an undercover operation. A fellow named Clive Slater.”

      “What’s the story on Slater?”

      “He’s a real pompous ass who likes to throw his money around in the night-club circuit. He drives a red Ferrari 430 F1 Spider and tries to act like he is a mafia don or something. We had a snitch who told us Porter and Slater were involved in coke in a big way.”

      “Do you still have the snitch?”

      “No. Last I heard the snitch is in jail in Ontario,” said Sammy. “He wasn’t deemed to be all that reliable, anyway. He was one of those types of guys who just suspects something, but then relays it as fact.”

      “How did your investigation end up?” asked Jack.

      “Well, at the time we did some checking and it turned out Porter and Slater had business connections in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. Porter owned a company that made tourist trinkets and Slater was involved in a fruit company. We had our liaison officer out of Mexico City make some inquiries for us. According to the Mexican police, the companies are legit, but the LO said the police are so corrupt down there that you have to take everything they tell you with a grain of salt.”

      “Sounds like the companies might be used for laundering money,” said Jack.

      “Could be, but neither of them have ever been caught with any coke.”

      “Maybe they’re the financiers?”

      “There’s always that possibility,” Sammy agreed. “We tried to snare them both in a UC operation, but Slater was too smart. Our undercover operator spent three months befriending him. Then he was with Slater in a nightclub one night and Slater, being the asshole he is, laughed and said he appreciated the RCMP buying him all these drinks.”

      “Who was the operator?”

      “Ken Hales, out of Calgary.”

      “I’ve worked with him. He’s a hell of a good operator,” Jack commented.

      “Yeah, I know.”

      “Maybe the Mexicans tipped Slater off after the LO made inquiries.”

      “Possibly.”

      “No problem then if I take a look at Porter and perhaps Slater?” asked Jack.

      “Fill your boots,” replied Sammy. “Neither are on our target list. Like I said, someone forgot to remove them from CPIC. We’ve had to reprioritize. Known gang members who are killing each other off are our number-one concern.”

      Adams crossed the Bridge of the Americas and was waved through customs. He had not bothered to go to the office and get a car, instead opting to use his own car. Time was of the essence. He had little hope that his office, currently going through channels with the American ambassador in Mexico City, would have any luck in getting Patton back alive.

      The four FBI agents had agreed to stay in Juarez to assist … providing assistance was still possible. That hope lay in the person Adams was going to meet.

      Adams cursed and glanced at his watch. The minutes were ticking past and he accelerated along cluttered narrow streets to get to one particular back alley.

      chapter five

      Rubalcava saw the questioning glances of his men as he hurried to leave the office. As a commander, he was normally at his desk all day, except for three o’clock in the afternoon, when he went to pick his children up from school. Picking them up was more than a safety issue. Seeing the bright happy faces of his two sons gave him hope. Hope that someday the future of the Mexican people would also brighten. He had sworn he would do what he could to make that possible.

      “Commander?” the secretary asked, while glancing at her watch. “It is only two o’clock.”

      “I know. I have to meet an old friend,” he replied.

      Like Adams, Rubalcava drove at high speed with a constant eye in his rear-view mirror. Even though he was satisfied he wasn’t being followed, he still parked his car two blocks away from his destination. From there he cautiously