Perdido County- Fentanyl Page 2

  “What kind of narcotics?” Carpenter said.

  “Don’t know yet,” Wolfe said. “Barney is on his way to the drug lab in El Paso to get it analyzed.”

  “Know who they are yet?” Carpenter said.

  “The one who checked into the motel room was a Mexican from Ensenada named Octavio Lopez,” Wolfe said. “We don’t have a name on the other one yet.”

  Carpenter walked over to the bulletin board and looked closely at the photographs. Pointing to one of them he said, “This must be Lopez.”

  “You know him?” Wolfe said. “No, but I know the other one. He’s not from Mexico. He’s from right here in the county. His name is Rudy Martinez. He was working for Blair Construction the last I heard.”

  Judy, the receptionist stuck her head in the doorway and said, “Owen, Bonita Martinez just called. She said her grandson hasn’t come home for three days. She wants someone out to take a missing person report.”

  “Martinez?” Wolfe said. “Did she give you her grandson’s name?”

  “Yes she did,” Judy said. Looking down at the note in her hand she said, “Rudy, Rudy Martinez.”

  “Okay, Olivia will go see her,” Wolfe said. “Olivia, run over to grandma’s house and see if she has a recent photograph of her grandson. I’ll send his photo to your mobile. I want to make certain we have the right person.”

  “And if we do?” Alvarez said.

  “Then go ahead and make the death notification,” Wolfe said. “You can kill two birds with one stone.”

  Alvarez smiled grimly. “I guess that’s one way to look at it.” She got up and left the office.

  “How did a kid from Kimble end up dead in a stock tank tied to a Mexican drug dealer?” Wolfe said.

  “Got to be a drug thing,” Carpenter said. “Maybe Lopez was Martinez’s supplier. We busted Martinez for dealing pot and meth when he was still a juvenile. He was affiliated with a gang back then. Maybe he still was, and the gang is importing directly from Mexico now.”

  “That theory suggests cartel involvement,” Wolfe said. “What the hell is the Mexican Cartel doing in Perdido County.”

  “They are everywhere along the border, Owen,” Carpenter said. “What did the stuff look like you found in the motel room?”

  “It was a bag of a white substance,” Wolfe said. “But, granular like salt, not powdery like cocaine.”

  “Know what that sounds like?” Carpenter said.

  “What?”

  “Fentanyl, a synthetic opioid,” Carpenter said. “It’s granular, and it’s white. It also makes sense. Ensenada is a deep port and they get a lot of container ships in there from places like China. Much of the illicit fentanyl and precursor chemicals to make it too goes into ports in Mexico. Then the cartel moves it north across the border. Fentanyl is the going thing now. It’s a hundred times more potent than morphine. I’ve read only fifty grams, which costs less than four hundred dollars wholesale, is enough to make ten thousand doses for recreational use.”

  “Isn’t fentanyl a pain killer they came up with for cancer patients?” Wolfe said.

  “Yes, the pharmaceutical variety comes in pills and patches. But, in China, and I’ve heard the Mexican Cartel is doing it too now, they cook it up in drug labs the way they do meth. Then addicts inject it. Usually, the fentanyl is mixed with heroin to give the heroin an extra kick. It’s dangerous stuff though. Two milligrams of straight fentanyl, which is about the size of a few grains of salt, is a lethal dose for most people.”

  “I see the attraction then,” Wolfe said. “Not only from the profit potential for drug dealers, but you wouldn’t have to carry it in large amounts like you would with say cocaine for it to be profitable.”

  “Exactly,” Carpenter said.

  “The motel manager said Lopez was driving a black Jeep Cherokee. It wasn’t at the motel, and we didn’t see it on the Bar 7 where we found the bodies. Go back out to the ranch and see if you can find it.”

  Wolfe gave Carpenter the directions to the stock tank where the ranch hand had found the bodies as a point of reference. He also gave him the tag number for the Jeep. Carpenter went out.

  About fifteen minutes after Carpenter had left to look for the Jeep, Olivia Alvarez returned. She walked into Wolfe’s office.

  “That was fun,” Alvarez said. “You try to think of what to say on the way, but once you’re there facing the person, you can’t remember any of it.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Wolfe said. “It’s always tough.”

  “Anyway, Rudy Martinez’s parents both died when he was a child. His grandmother raised him, and they were very close. So, she took it very hard. She wants Rudy’s personal effects when we can release them. She mentioned a Saint Christopher’s medal. You see anything like that?”

  “No,” Wolfe said.

  “Well, she said Rudy never took it off,” Alvarez said. “I feel we should try to find it. It seemed important to his grandmother.”

  “It might have fallen off inside the stock tank,” Wolfe said. “I want to go out to the Bar 7 and see the owner, anyway. I want to know whether he or his ranch hands have noticed any traffic coming from the border crossing his place. I’ll ask him to have someone drain the tank so we can have a look.”

  A few minutes before five, Wolfe got up from his desk to leave the office for the day. The desk phone rang. Wolfe pushed the flashing button and answered the call. It was Barney Riggs calling to let Wolfe know he was on his way back from El Paso.

  “Did they tell you what the drugs were?” Wolfe said.

  “They will run a full analysis, Sheriff,” Riggs said. “But, they ran a preliminary test. They said it is something called methylfentanyl.”

  “Okay, thanks, Barney,” Wolfe said. “Be careful driving back.”

  Wolfe hung up the phone. Carpenter had been right. It was fentanyl.

  ◆◆◆

  On his way home, Wolfe’s mobile rang. It was Chase Carpenter.

  “Found it,” Carpenter said.

  “Where?”

  “About two miles east and a mile north of the stock tank,” Carpenter said.

  “How did you find it so fast?”

  “Easy, I just followed the smoke.”

  “Smoke?”

  “Someone torched it,” Carpenter said. “They removed the VIN plates and tags, but it was a Jeep Cherokee. I had to get the volunteer fire department out here to put out the grass fire.”

  “Impound it,” Wolfe said. “Tell the wrecker driver when it cools off to get the partial VIN off the frame for us.”

  “Okay, Owen. And, Owen, a guy named Martin from the border patrol said to tell you hello.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “Said the CBP saw the fire from one of their drones,” Carpenter said. “He said he was in the area and came by to see what was burning.”

  After he had disconnected the call, something occurred to Wolfe. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen or heard a drone in the area the entire time he had been at the Bar 7 that morning. Yet Agent Martin had given the same reason for his appearance at the stock tank. He’d said the CBP had spotted Wolfe and his team by drone camera. It seemed odd that Martin was showing up everywhere the sheriff’s department was since the case had started. Was it only a coincidence? Instead of driving home, Wolfe went to the Palomino Club, a local bar, for a beer and he hoped a little information.

  ◆◆◆

  Wolfe walked into the bar. He stood for a moment inside the front door to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. Then he surveyed the bar interior. In a booth near the back he spotted the man he had hoped to find, Brandon Krems. Wolfe walked over to the booth. Krems looked up at him with jumpy, dilated pupils. Krems was tall and emaciated looking, with thin brown hair, and rotted teeth. There was a twitchiness about him, and Krems seemed immediately agitated at Wolfe’s appearance.

  “Hi Brandon, how’s it going,” Wolfe said.

  “Sheriff.”

  “Brandon we
need to talk,” Wolfe said.

  “Not in here, Sheriff, please,” Krems whined while scratching at a sore on his arm. “People see me talking to you and the word will get around I’m a snitch or something.”

  “Sure, Brandon, I understand,” Wolfe said. “But, I need your help on something. Remember the favor I did you a while back. Well, now it’s your turn to do a favor for me.”

  “I’m glad to help you, Sheriff,” Krems said. “But, I can’t talk to you here in public.”

  “That’s fine,” Wolfe said. “Meet me behind the county maintenance barn in fifteen minutes. We’ll talk there.”

  “Okay,” Krems said, scratching feverishly at another sore on his other arm.

  “And, Brandon, you better be there,” Wolfe said. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  “I won’t,” Krems said getting up from the booth. “I’ll be there. I swear.”

  Wolfe nodded and walked over to the bar. He sat down on a stool and ordered a Lone Star. He watched Krems out of the corner of his eyes shuffling out the front door. Wolfe looked at his watch after the bartender set the Lone Star on the bar in front of him. He took a long pull on the bottle of frosty cold beer.

  Ten minutes after he had sat down, Wolfe finished the beer. He put a five on the bar, got up and walked out to his Tahoe. Five minutes later he turned onto the gravel road that ran behind the county maintenance barn. He saw Krems’ beat up old Chevrolet pickup parked on the right side of the road. Wolfe pulled the Tahoe up close to the truck window- to-window and stopped. Krems looked nervous and irritable.

  “What did you want, Sheriff?” he said.

  “I need some information about the local drug trade,” Wolfe said.

  “Sheriff, I’m clean now,” Krems protested. “I quit the meth after you gave me the break the last time.”

  “Brandon, I can tell by looking at you you’re still using,” Wolfe said. “But, I’m not concerned about it right now. I only want information.”

  “Are you looking to arrest me, Sheriff?”

  “No, anything you tell me is only between us,” Wolfe said.

  “Okay, just making sure,” Krems said. “I know you’re a man of your word.”

  “You ever bought meth from Rudy Martinez?” Wolfe said.

  “A few times,” Krems said cautiously.

  “Lately?”

  “No, Rudy doesn’t deal meth anymore.”

  “What’s Rudy into now?”

  Krems had become more nervous and agitated. He looked in his rear-view mirror and all around as if it worried him someone might observe the conversation. “Look, Sheriff, I can’t really talk about Rudy,” he said. “Rudy is running with a rough crowd now. If word got back to him I’d been talking to you about him, it wouldn’t be good for my health.”

  “I need to know what you know about Rudy,” Wolfe said. “If you want to stay on my good side, you better tell me what I want to know, Brandon.”

  Krems sighed and looked defeated. “Okay, Sheriff.”

  “What’s Rudy into these days?”

  “A little Mexican brown, but mostly Poison a guy told me.”

  “Poison?”

  “Yeah, you know. Let’s see, some people call it He-Man or Tango & Cash.”

  “Fentanyl you mean?”

  “Yeah that’s it. I couldn’t remember the regular name for it.”

  “You know where Rudy gets the fentanyl from?”

  Krems was shaky and had broken into a sweat even though it wasn’t overly hot out. “Someone told me Rudy had a connection in Mexico he was getting it from,” he said. “He used to go down there, pick it up, and pack it back across the border.”

  “Sounds like you’re talking in past tense,” Wolfe said.

  “Yeah, well, this guy told me someone in Mexico taught Rudy how to cook the Poison. Wouldn’t be hard for him. He used to cook meth, so he has the skills. Anyway, now Rudy gets the chemicals from his connection and he cooks the stuff here. It’s only good business. He can deal in volume and doesn’t have to risk packing the finished product across the border anymore. Rudy is more into wholesale now.”

  “He was cooking it right here in Perdido County?”

  “That’s what the guy told me.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, Sheriff. I swear. All the guy said was Rudy and his partner have an old travel trailer the use for cooking. They move it around to different out of the way places when it’s time to cook so they don’t draw suspicion.”

  “Partner? You know who the partner is?”

  “No, I’ve never heard a name,” Krems said. “No one seems to know who he is.”

  “You ever hear of anyone with Mexican names connected with Rudy’s operation? Like maybe someone associated with the Mexican Cartel?”

  “Sheriff, I don’t want to go down that road,” Krems said. “If they found out I’ve been talking about them, I’m screwed.”

  “Names, Brandon,” Wolfe said. “You heard any Mexican names?”

  Krems looked around again to make sure no one was hiding and observing them. “Just one name,” he said. “Rudy used to call him El Fantasma. I don’t know his actual name. That’s all the name I’ve ever heard.”

  “The ghost?”

  “Is that what it means, El Fantasma?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s about all I know about any connection with the Mexican Cartel. Well, except a guy told me they are pissed off at Rudy now. He has taken a lot of their business since he started cooking his own product.”

  “His operation was that big?”

  “Hell yeah. Rudy is printing money with his new operation. He is becoming the Amazon of fentanyl. Guys are driving from Phoenix, Los Angeles, Chicago—from all over the country to buy Rudy’s stuff.”

  “What do you know?” Wolfe said. “A major drug manufacturing and distribution operation right here in my own county.”

  “Sheriff, you have to promise me you won’t say a word about me telling you any of this,” Krems said. “If word gets back to Rudy, he will kill me.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, Brandon. Rudy is long past caring who is talking about him now.”

  “What do you mean, Sheriff? Wait. Was Rudy one of the dead guys you found out on the Bar 7 this morning?”

  “Yes, someone shot him in the chest and left him in a stock tank.”

  “Is that why you’ve been asking about a connection with the Mexican Cartel? You think they killed Rudy?”

  “I’m considering the possibility,” Wolfe said. “Even more now after you told me they have been unhappy having Rudy as a competitor.”

  “Sheriff, if it involves them you better be real careful. Don’t you watch the news? Those guys cut people’s heads off and shit. Sheriff, you have to keep my name out of this.”

  “Don’t worry, no one knows we talk, Brandon,” Wolfe said. “While we’re on the subject. Brandon, why didn’t you ever mention Rudy to me?”

  “You never asked until now, Sheriff,” Krems said. “Ain’t that how it’s supposed to work. The cops ask the informant for information?”

  Wolfe stifled a laugh. “Yes, I suppose it is, Brandon,” he said. “Okay, you’ve answered my questions. I appreciate it. You can take off now.”

  Krems started his truck. “Sheriff, I mean it. You better be real careful if what you’re investigating involves the Mexican Cartel.”

  “I will,” Wolfe said.

  Krems put the truck in gear and drove away. Wolfe drove toward home.

  “What the hell is happening to my county!” Wolfe said out loud, slamming his fist on the steering wheel.

  4.3

  The next morning, Wolfe briefed his deputies on what he had learned from Brandon Krems though keeping his word to Krems he didn’t reveal the name of his source.

  “I don’t know whether Octavio Lopez and El Fantasma are one and the same, or two different people,” Wolfe said. “I'll call an acquaintance in Dallas to see if I can find out.”

&nbs
p; After he had filled in the deputies, Wolfe went to his office and called Denny Franklin, a DEA agent he knew from his days at the Dallas police.

  “El Fantasma?” Franklin said. “Yes, I’ve heard the name. We’ve been trying to track him down for years. We think his name is Ernesto Gutierrez, but we haven’t been able to verify it. The guy really does seem like a ghost. What we know is he is one of the chief lieutenants in the Mexican Cartel. He is primarily an enforcer. If the cartel wants someone to disappear, they send El Fantasma to take care of it.”

  Wolfe thanked Franklin for the information, promising before they hung up to call him back if Wolfe developed information El Fantasma was in Perdido County. Then Wolfe and Olivia Alvarez left the office to go back to the Bar 7 to speak with the ranch owner.

  ◆◆◆

  “How did we miss that?” Riggs said to Carpenter after Wolfe and Alvarez left. “A major fentanyl manufacturing and distribution operation right here in Perdido County.”

  “We didn’t miss it,” Carpenter said. “We’re not in charge around here.”

  “It’s not the Sheriff’s fault, Chase,” Riggs said. “He has only been back here a few months.”

  “Maybe,” Carpenter said. “But, it’s a good thing he found out about it now if the Mexican Cartel is getting a foothold here.”

  ◆◆◆

  “You know the owner of the Bar 7?” Alvarez said.

  “John David Bell ran it when I was growing up here,” Wolfe said. “The ranch has been in the Bell family since the days of the land grants. But, John David would be pretty old now. I seem to recall he had a son, and maybe a daughter. I expect the son is running the ranch now.”

  “That’s a sexist assumption,” Alvarez said. “Why do you automatically assume the son is running it? Maybe the daughter runs the ranch now.”

  Wolfe laughed. “Maybe she does,” he said. “Or maybe they run it together. I’m only certain John David would be too old to run it himself.”

  A few minutes later, Wolfe turned the Tahoe into the drive and followed it to the ranch house. He’d been to the Bar 7 ranch house once before with his father when he was a kid. They had come out to look at a horse. Besides cattle, the Bar 7 had been renowned for producing excellent cutting horses. Wolfe noticed some new construction going on as they neared the house. He parked the truck, and they went to the front door and knocked.