Read Online Triple Crossing by Sebastian Rotella - Free Book Online
Authors: Sebastian Rotella
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outcome of his troubles, it was hard to imagine going back towork. He felt as if he had broken through a wall. He had worried for weeks that Garrison was pulling him into something demented
and dangerous. It had been inevitable.
After Pescatore had made it back across The Line on Tuesday night, Garrison was the first to reach him. Lying in a vehicle
waiting for an ambulance, Pescatore told him about his pursuit of Pulpo.
“OK, fine,” the supervisor hissed. “You’re bleeding all over the place, so play it up big. We’ll have ’em take you to the
hospital. Don’t you admit anything about anything, Valentine, you hear me, buddy?”
Pescatore was X-rayed, cleaned up and sent home to take a few days off. But early Wednesday, a supervisor called and told
him to come in to the station ASAP. Garrison called minutes later to tell him they all had to tell the same story and write
the same reports and not mention the Game or anything else, goddammit.
The Patrol Agent in Charge and his deputies received Pescatore with stern looks. He denied everything and exaggerated his
grogginess. Luckily, the cameras in the area where the incident had happened were either defective or had been shot up by
smugglers. He got the impression that the brass had no hard evidence to back their suspicions that he had crossed into Mexico,
just scuttlebutt. They told him to write a memo and report directly to the Federal Building to be interviewed by Special Agents
Roy Shepard and Isabel Puente of the Inspector General’s office.
“Isabel Puente? Oh man you are just totally fried,” Galván hooted when they crossed paths later at the Coke machine. “She’s
a menace. She’s on a crusade. Some little
malandrín
says a PA slapped him upside the head, she goes after it like the Kennedy assassination.”
“Don’t spook him, you stupid asshole,” Garrison said. He pulled Pescatore aside. “Don’t worry about a thing, buddy.”
Pescatore glanced around the small station lounge. Hewhispered: “Nobody saw it, right? I don’t need a union rep, do I? Or a lawyer?”
Pescatore didn’t trust lawyers. And he knew the agents’ union representatives didn’t like or trust Garrison or anyone associated
with him.
“Nah. The bosses rode out this morning with this OIG guy, Shepard. They found some old
borracho
tonk by the fence claims he saw you in the middle of Calle Internacional. But he’s a wino. They just hope you’ll get scared
and start babbling.”
“Not gonna happen.”
At the Federal Building, Pescatore decided gloomily that he should have put on his uniform. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt
under a green bomber jacket. It occurred to him, with his bandaged hand and head, he looked more like a suspect than an agent.
A stern receptionist in the Office of Inspector General, the internal affairs arm of the Department of Homeland Security,
showed him into a conference room and told him to wait.
A good half hour later, they came in. Shepard was in his forties, sleepy-eyed, a bit overweight, with blond hair thin on top
but longer than usual. He seemed constricted in the beige suit too—more like DEA or an undercover man than OIG. He started
talking, but Pescatore was distracted by Isabel Puente.
Especially in the face, she reminded him of the spectacular, unattainable Puerto Rican girls he had yearned after as a teenager,
the ones who lounged in halter-topped glory in front of Roberto Clemente High School when he rode the bus through the Division
Street neighborhood. The face of a panther. Skin the color of cinnamon; he imagined he caught a scent of cinnamon across the
table. She wore a tight gold-colored outfit: a turtleneck, corduroys, high suede boots. She half turned, knees together, to
slide into the chair. He took in taut curves and an achingly small waist with a holstered gun on the belt. Damn, he said to
himself. My executioner is fine. But she doesn’t look happy to see me.
“Agent
and dangerous. It had been inevitable.
After Pescatore had made it back across The Line on Tuesday night, Garrison was the first to reach him. Lying in a vehicle
waiting for an ambulance, Pescatore told him about his pursuit of Pulpo.
“OK, fine,” the supervisor hissed. “You’re bleeding all over the place, so play it up big. We’ll have ’em take you to the
hospital. Don’t you admit anything about anything, Valentine, you hear me, buddy?”
Pescatore was X-rayed, cleaned up and sent home to take a few days off. But early Wednesday, a supervisor called and told
him to come in to the station ASAP. Garrison called minutes later to tell him they all had to tell the same story and write
the same reports and not mention the Game or anything else, goddammit.
The Patrol Agent in Charge and his deputies received Pescatore with stern looks. He denied everything and exaggerated his
grogginess. Luckily, the cameras in the area where the incident had happened were either defective or had been shot up by
smugglers. He got the impression that the brass had no hard evidence to back their suspicions that he had crossed into Mexico,
just scuttlebutt. They told him to write a memo and report directly to the Federal Building to be interviewed by Special Agents
Roy Shepard and Isabel Puente of the Inspector General’s office.
“Isabel Puente? Oh man you are just totally fried,” Galván hooted when they crossed paths later at the Coke machine. “She’s
a menace. She’s on a crusade. Some little
malandrín
says a PA slapped him upside the head, she goes after it like the Kennedy assassination.”
“Don’t spook him, you stupid asshole,” Garrison said. He pulled Pescatore aside. “Don’t worry about a thing, buddy.”
Pescatore glanced around the small station lounge. Hewhispered: “Nobody saw it, right? I don’t need a union rep, do I? Or a lawyer?”
Pescatore didn’t trust lawyers. And he knew the agents’ union representatives didn’t like or trust Garrison or anyone associated
with him.
“Nah. The bosses rode out this morning with this OIG guy, Shepard. They found some old
borracho
tonk by the fence claims he saw you in the middle of Calle Internacional. But he’s a wino. They just hope you’ll get scared
and start babbling.”
“Not gonna happen.”
At the Federal Building, Pescatore decided gloomily that he should have put on his uniform. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt
under a green bomber jacket. It occurred to him, with his bandaged hand and head, he looked more like a suspect than an agent.
A stern receptionist in the Office of Inspector General, the internal affairs arm of the Department of Homeland Security,
showed him into a conference room and told him to wait.
A good half hour later, they came in. Shepard was in his forties, sleepy-eyed, a bit overweight, with blond hair thin on top
but longer than usual. He seemed constricted in the beige suit too—more like DEA or an undercover man than OIG. He started
talking, but Pescatore was distracted by Isabel Puente.
Especially in the face, she reminded him of the spectacular, unattainable Puerto Rican girls he had yearned after as a teenager,
the ones who lounged in halter-topped glory in front of Roberto Clemente High School when he rode the bus through the Division
Street neighborhood. The face of a panther. Skin the color of cinnamon; he imagined he caught a scent of cinnamon across the
table. She wore a tight gold-colored outfit: a turtleneck, corduroys, high suede boots. She half turned, knees together, to
slide into the chair. He took in taut curves and an achingly small waist with a holstered gun on the belt. Damn, he said to
himself. My executioner is fine. But she doesn’t look happy to see me.
“Agent
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