Chuzo stared for a long, terrible second. Then he grinned. “You accountants. You’re all thieves.” He tucked the ledger under his arm and left.

“Jefe wants the November numbers,” Chuzo said.

Luis had first seen Peña three weeks ago, leaning against a gray Fiat outside his daughter’s school. The American didn’t look like the other DEA agents. He didn’t wear a tie or a badge. He wore a leather jacket and the tired eyes of a man who had seen too many bodies stacked like firewood.