Down Among the Dead Men

55

Vargas reached into the satchel under the table, brought out the manila envelope, and handed it to Pasternak.

Pasternak said nothing as he pulled out the three photographs.

“She look familiar?” Vargas asked.

Pasternak was leafing through them now, staring at them with undisguised surprise. “What the hell is this?”

“I’ll tell you what it isn’t,” Vargas said. “It isn’t a Taco Bell parking lot.”

“I can see that. I assume this is in Juarez?”

“About a half hour or so south. Place called Dead Man’s Dunes.”

“And the woman with her?”

“A nun. There were four more found nearby and a fifth outside.”

It took Pasternak about two seconds to put it together.

“Holy…fucking…shit. The Casa de la Muerte murders?”

He’d said it fairly loud and several of the other customers turned and stared at him. But he either was oblivious or didn’t give a damn.

“I don’t fucking believe it. We got a couple bulletins on this, but nobody ever said anything about an American woman, let alone Crawford. Where’d you get these?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, but there’s a Chihuahua state police homicide investigator you might want to take a look into. Guy by the name of Rojas. He removed these photos and every other trace of Crawford from the official file.”

“Wait, wait, now,” Pasternak said. “Back up a bit. Start at the top.”

So Vargas did, telling him about the trip to Juarez and the tour of the Casa de la Muerte crime scene. About the Ainsworths letting it slip that there was an American woman named Angie, and about Rojas’s cover-up, including what Rojas had thought was a fatal shot to the head.

Vargas didn’t mention the ride in the trunk of his car or the executions at the egg ranch. No point in getting caught up in this thing as a material witness. Not right now, at least.

Pasternak would likely find out about it all himself-probably with Garcia’s help, once Operation Rojas kicked into gear-but Vargas planned to be long gone when that happened.

“You have anything in your files on a hit man with a half-burnt face?”

Pasternak shook his head. “I’m pretty sure I’d know if we did.”

“What about a religious cult called La Santa Muerte?”

“Doesn’t sound familiar.” Pasternak pointed to the photos. “They have something to do with this?”

“I can’t be sure, but it’s come up in conversation.”

“You wanna clue me in?”

“Apparently the cult is run by someone called El Santo,” Vargas said. “They’re into drug smuggling and God knows what else, and the guy with the burnt face seems to be their enforcer. I did a quick Internet search when I was down in Juarez and got zero hits. Which means they’re about as far under the radar as you can get.”

“And Juarez is so far out of our jurisdiction it might as well be Mars,” Pasternak said. “But since this is all directly connected to my case, it warrants a road trip, and I have a feeling the FBI’s gonna want to ride shotgun.”

“I have a feeling you’re right,” Vargas told him. “But all we’ve got so far is a rumored cover-up. We still don’t know how Elizabeth Crawford wound up in that house, surrounded by five dead nuns.”

“True, but what you’ve given me here puts me a step closer to closing an attempted-murder case, and if this fucker Rojas is as bent as you say he is, he’s going down.”

“You manage that one, you’ll make my source a happy man.”

Pasternak looked at the photos again. “I assume you’re gonna let me keep these?”

Vargas nodded. While he was at the Internet cafe, he’d paid a few extra pesos to use the scanner and transferred the images to his SD card.

Pasternak said, “I’ve gotta admit you managed to root out one helluva story.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself.”

“So what’s your next step?”

Vargas didn’t even have to think about it.

“California,” he said. “I’m headed back to California.”