Coyotes in Winter: Part 3 of 6
Rossi and Lopez meet unexpected resistance and the conflict turns physical.
This is part three of a six-part serialized mystery story. If you forgot where we left off, see Coyotes in Winter Part 2. For the first part, see Coyotes in Winter Part 1.
We’ve been watching the coyotes. And they’ve been watching us.
Lopez set her elbow on the table and covered her mouth with her hand. A mixed gesture: Partly worried and partly excited. From her perspective, we’d stumbled on an ongoing crime that’s been under the radar of every agency.
“Why don’t you run?” I said.
“So many reasons. They have my sister. Someone is always sick or needs a nurse. And the big boss keeps our papers. If we try to run, we get picked up by ICE and deported. That is why I came here. To meet Frank and get papers for me and my sister.”
“Why don’t you go to the police?”
Fuentes gave me an are-you-kidding face. “Police work with ICE. ICE puts us back over the border. Do you understand my life in Guatemala? Some people are at the top. They live in the good zonas, in the city. There is no middle. We are the bottom. We live on the edge of the city. No clean water. Guns shooting. People disappearing. I got lucky and joined the army. But everyone in my family cannot join the army. Please. Let me go.”
Lopez responded with a frosty stare.
I put my hand on Lopez’s elbow. “Let’s see how far this goes,” I said.
She arched an eyebrow, skeptical.
Fuentes studied us for a moment. “You are married?”
Lopez snorted.
“Here’s the deal,” I said to Fuentes. “You help us, we help you. Your sister gets help. The other people get help.”
“If you don’t help us,” Lopez said, “I call ICE. Nobody gets help.”
Fuentes crossed her arms over her chest. “You are police. You call ICE anyway.”
“You know what a sanctuary city is?”
“No.”
Lopez said, “It’s a city that limits its enforcement of immigration law.” Fuentes fell behind on translation and I motioned to Lopez to slow down. “The city doesn’t work with ICE.” Lopez pointed to the road. “Rochester is a sanctuary city. It’s a few hours that way.”
“Cities can do that? And the army does not come?”
“America is different,” I said. “The laws are different.” At least for now, I thought.
“You will let me go?”
“If we catch the coyotes,” Lopez said. “I’ll have to pay a lot of attention to them. Lots of paperwork. Might take a few days to process it all.”
“While she’s doing that,” I said, “I have to go back to Rochester. I work there.”
Fuentes thought about it, her brow furrowing. I got a sense of her carefully thinking about the meaning of every word.
“I think I understand,” she said.
“Now that that’s settled,” Lopez said, “tell us about Frank.”
“He does papers,” she said.
“Sounds like a forger. Or maybe a fixer.”
Fuentes looked confused.
“Forgers make fake documents. Fixers make deals, threaten people, steal stuff, do whatever’s needed to solve a problem. Frank sounds like his specialty is fake documents.”
“Yes, that is what I understand. I find out about Frank by accident. One day, my driver called Frank while he drives me to a patient. But Frank didn’t want to talk on that number. He gave another number and the driver repeated it. I heard that number and remembered it. I call Frank and make a deal.”
I waved at the waitress for more coffee.
“You want to try Frank?” Lopez said to me.
“If we stop here,” I said, “her sister remains in danger, and we don’t stop the medicine thefts or help the sick workers.”
“Or arrest any of the coyotes.”
Fuentes agreed to call Frank. We used the pay phone at the back of the diner. I was surprised any place still had them. Further indication that they used this diner as part of their operation. They probably never used smart phones and only used pay-as-you-go phones when necessary. That helped explain why it was so hard to track them.
“What do I say?” Fuentes said.
Lopez said, “Tell them you’re at the diner and you want the papers.”
‘What if they do not have them?”
“Then they’ll say you’ll have to wait another couple of days.”
“What if they say they will come now?”
“Then they’re going to turn you over to the coyotes. Or worse.”
Fuentes let out a deep breath.
“Don’t worry,” Lopez said. “We’ll protect you.”
I dropped coins into the phone. Fuentes dialed.
About forty-five minutes later, a man and a woman arrived in a salt-splattered blue GMC pickup truck. We watched them get out. The man looked like an oil drum stuffed into a camouflage hunting jacket. A guy who never did leg day. The woman had a heavy walk and wore a plain black hoodie and sweatpants, but they were high quality and fashionable. Sleeves pushed up, showing off muscular forearms. Change the blonde hair to black and you had a shorter, younger version of Lopez.
The bell above the door jingled. The woman came in first, which made sense. If the man had come in first, he would have blocked her view of any danger to the front.
Lopez sat at the counter, closest to the the door. I sat farther away, also at the counter. Beyond me, in a booth, Fuentes nibbled a donut.
The woman and the man walked right by Lopez.
When they were exactly between us, Lopez casually slipped off her stool and said, “You got the papers, Frank?”
They both whirled to face her. They paused there for a second.
Lopez started to draw her coat back, to clear her pistol, and the movement set off the big guy. He lowered his shoulders and tried to bull his way through Lopez like an offensive lineman blitzing a quarterback. It caught her by surprise—I could tell by the look on her face—and she had no more than a split second to pull her elbows down, into the guy’s collarbone, as he charged.
In that instant, the blonde woman unfroze and started for Lopez. I got off my stool made a loud hey taxi whistle.
She turned to me, one hand up in a guard, the other reaching into her jacket.
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