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Ragsdale laughed. "Be nice to catch them playing cozy with one of the Zolars."
"I'm working on it."
"Good luck."
"Talk to you soon," said Gaskill.
"I'll call you later this morning."
"Make it this afternoon. I have an interrogation beginning at nine o'clock."
"Better yet," said Ragsdale, "you call me when you have something in the works for a joint conference."
"I'll do that."
Gaskill hung up smiling. He had no intention of going into the office this morning. Getting agency sanction for a joint task force with the FBI would be more complicated on Ragsdale's end than Gaskill's.
After reading all night, he was going to enjoy a nice, mind-settling sleep.
He loved it when a case that died from lack of evidence one minute abruptly popped back to life again. He began to see things more clearly. It was a nice feeling to be in control. Motivation stimulated by incentive was a wonderful thing.
Where had he heard that, he wondered. A Dale Carnegie class? A Customs Service policy instructor?
Before it came back to him, he was sound asleep.
Pedro Vincente set down his beautifully restored DC-3 transport onto the runway of the airport at Harlingen, Texas. He taxied the fifty-five-year-old aircraft down to the front of the U.S. Customs Service hangar and shut down the two 1200-horsepower, Pratt & Whitney engines.
Two uniformed Customs agents were waiting when Vincente opened the passenger door and stepped to the ground. The taller of the two, with red hair mussed by a breeze and a face full of freckles, held a clipboard above his eyes to shield them from the bright Texas sun. The other was holding a beagle by a leash.
"Mr. Vincente?" the agent asked politely. "Pedro Vincente?"
"Yes, I'm Vincente."
"We appreciate your alerting us of your arrival into the United States."
"Always happy to cooperate with your government," Vincente said. He would have offered to shake hands, but he knew from previous border crossings the agents steered clear of bodily contact. He handed the redheaded agent a copy of his flight plan.
The agent slipped the paper onto his clipboard and examined the entries while his partner lifted the beagle into the aircraft to sniff for drugs. "Your departure point was Nicoya, Costa Rica?"
"That is correct."
"And your destination is Wichita, Kansas?"
"My ex-wife and my children live there."
"And the purpose of your visit?"
Vincente shrugged. "I fly from my home once a month to see my children. I'll be flying home the day after tomorrow."
"Your occupation is `farmer'?"
"Yes, I grow coffee beans."
"I hope that's all you grow," said the agent with a tight-lipped grin.
"Coffee is the only crop I need to make a comfortable living," said Vincente indignantly.
"May I see your passport, please?"
