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Puente is a supervisor in our office currently detailed to BAMCaT, the Border Area Multi-Agency Corruption Task Force,”
     Shepard announced.
    A supervisor? Corruption task force? That woke Pescatore up in a hurry.
    Isabel Puente watched, her chin propped on her hand, her fingertips playing along a smooth cheekbone, as Shepard said: “We’ve
     got your memorandum, but you just tell us your account again.”
    Pescatore ran his injured hand through his short thick curls near the bandages. He said he had come down right away to get
     things cleared up, even though he wasn’t feeling too hot. He repeated the version he and Garrison had concocted: It edited
     out the Game, the escape of the aliens from the Wrangler, and the chase into Tijuana. He said he had surprised a smuggler
     trying to spring an alien from a vehicle near the Gravel Pit and pursued him down a ravine to the fence. They struggled. The
     smuggler struck him on the head and escaped.
    “I musta lost consciousness,” he concluded, “ ’cause next thing I knew the helicopter was there, everybody was around me.
     The fellas used a towel to stop the bleeding and took me to the hospital.”
    They didn’t buy it. Shepard opened fire. Pescatore kept his answers short and polite.
    “Mr. Pescatore, how did you injure your hand?” Puente asked without warning.
    “I’m not sure. We were wrestling around and there was rocks and glass on the ground. That’s probably when I cut it.”
    “Interesting. The medical report indicates it’s a gash or gouge consistent with the hand injuries the aliens get climbing
     over the fence.”
    She did not have an accent. But there was something about her consonants, a musical echo of Spanish in her crisp English.
     The wide-spaced eyes locked in on him like searchlights.
    “I didn’t go over the fence. He went under.”
    “And you went after him across The Line,” Shepard said, shaking his head at such colossal folly. “Otherwise why did the agents
     take so long to find you? There are eyewitness statements that you were seen in traffic on Calle Internacional.”
    “If somebody said that, they musta been drunk,” Pescatore said. Puente’s eyes enlarged. Bingo, homes, Pescatore said to himself,
     that’s the only witness they got. “Listen, no offense and everything, but are you guys saying I’m suspected of a crime, or
     breaking the rules, or what? Is there a complaint or allegation here?”
    “If you crossed that line, you know it’s a crime and a violation of the rules and about the worst thing a Border Patrol agent
     could do except kill somebody,” Shepard said.
    “Except I didn’t do it. Sir.”
    “Bullshit.”
    “I’m not crazy. If a PA even puts a toe on that line, he’s fried. Diplomatic protests, investigations, media gone apeshit.”
    “Is it true you give out money to the aliens on a recurring basis? Especially the women?” Shepard asked.
    Pescatore felt truly frightened for the first time. After a moment, he told himself: They’re not gonna indict you for that,
     get a grip. He was about to deny it with every breath in his body when he registered the surprise on the woman’s face. Her
     mask had slipped. Shepard had apparently developed this information on his own. It apparently had a positive impact on Puente.
     Pescatore wanted very much to see that look on her face again.
    He took a breath, aware that he was slouching. “How you figure that? It’s not especially the women. Kids too. Families.”
    “So you admit it.”
    “Hey man, it’s my money, right? I don’t got any mouths to feed except me.”
    “You realize giving money to women you’ve apprehended creates a problem of appearances out there? Like you expect something in return?” Shepard spoke with melodramatic disgust. “Don’t play stupid, son.”
    Pescatore did not need to exaggerate his indignation for Puente’s benefit.
    “Listen up, Jack.” He leaned forward, a finger leveled at Shepard. “Don’t you dare accuse