by Mark Wheaton
“It’s on a closed network with an internal server. A lot of security to protect church records, but I guess we know why now. But if you managed to get to the archdiocese yourself and could access the server locally, Miguel assures me he could take it from there.”
I’m sure he can, Luis thought.
“Then what? You’re an American deputy DA. You can’t exactly prosecute the archdiocese of Mexico City.”
“No, and nor would we want to. They’d lawyer up and keep this out of the courts for the next twenty years. I mean, ideally we’d get Sittenfeld to turn witness and take a jury through it, but that’s not going to happen. Our play is with the banks. If we can line up the transfers of all the middlemen from within the church and see who they were sending money to, we can go after the banks here. Kill the messenger, and they’ll find another messenger. Stop the banks laundering cartel money, and you’ve done something.”
Luis looked down at the note in his hand. The only writing beyond the phone number were the initials NC. Nicolas Chavez.
“What’s this got to do with my brother?” Luis asked.
“There was a flurry of money transfers and calls in Sittenfeld’s records between his last correspondence with Nicolas and the day of Nicolas’s death. I think Nicolas found something and, perhaps in ignorance, brought it up to Sittenfeld. I think he may have arranged, or at least had something to do with, setting up your brother’s murder.”
It fell into place like a reclaimed memory. Luis felt numb knowing, from what Michael had said previously, that prosecuting Sittenfeld for the crime would likely be as impossible as going after him for Naomi’s death. But maybe if Luis could discover the triggerman, the various intermediaries, the money that changed hands, somebody somewhere could make it right.
A single witness to tell the tale.
“By breaking into these accounts, we can track that name down?” Luis asked.
“The shooter was probably paid in cash, so there might not be a name,” Michael admitted. “But if someone in the cartel or—well, if someone in the cartel wanted him dead, we’ll probably see some money changing hands. You get me and the FBI what we want, and I’ll make for damn sure we get to the bottom of your brother’s case, too.”
Luis didn’t need Michael to clarify that it could’ve been someone within the church itself.
“Give me the names of the priests. I’ll contact you back when I’m set up.”
“Great,” Michael said. “Got a pen?”
“I’ll remember.”
Michael did so. Luis didn’t recognize a one of them. Their names burned into his memory regardless.
Michael had taken the call in a phone room Miguel had recommended off MacArthur Park. After he hung up, he texted a number that Miguel had given him a quick version of what was said. When he was finished, he removed the SIM card, snapped the cheap flip phone in half, threw it in the phone room’s recycling bin, and then headed out into the morning. He was going to call Special Agent Lampman next and fill her in, but then they’d both be stuck waiting for Luis to ring back. He decided he’d wait and hopefully deliver the FBI some actionable information later, but then—what? He’d still been quasi-fired, or at least had fallen out of favor with Deborah. He hadn’t even begun to think about lining up his next job. He was sure Helen would understand if he was late or short on child support, but that didn’t make him feel any better.
As he neared his car, he realized he didn’t even have anywhere to go. He’d driven all the way down here to make the call but had the rest of the day free. He could go for a run or to the gym, whose membership he would soon have to cancel. Maybe he should spend the day reaching out to old colleagues to discuss his next move.
That’ll do, he thought, already mentally working out how to frame the situation for others. I needed some time off. The cases were killing me. Too much political pressure to do my job properly. I resigned in protest.
He figured he’d go with a version of the last two.
So when his cell phone rang and he saw that the caller was within the mayor’s office, he wasn’t so much alarmed as amused. Oh, you haven’t heard? Yeah, I was fired.
It might even be fun.
As he raised the phone to his ear, he saw Deborah Rebenold looking back at him. Rather, it was her photograph on the front page of that morning’s La Opinión, visible through the glass of a nearby newspaper vending machine. The headline was in Spanish, and Michael’s translation abilities were poor, but one word stood out: resignación.
“Hello?” asked a voice on the other end of his phone.
“Sorry, this is Michael Story. How can I help you?”
There was a click, and the mayor’s voice came on the line. “Did you know about this, Story?”
“Finding out now, sir,” Michael said, banking on the fact that the mayor could only be calling about Deborah. “What I can’t figure out is why I’m learning this from a newspaper and not a phone call.”
“Then we’re on the same page,” the mayor said, though Michael couldn’t imagine he meant the pun. “What we’ve pieced together so far is that La Opinión got the story. Called Deborah sometime last night about it. And rather than call me, you, or anyone else that matters, went on the record right then with her resignation.”
Michael scanned the article, looking for anything that might shed a light as to the why. He was fairly certain the first three paragraphs were full of words like “La Opinión exclusive” and “interview with Rebenold,” but the fourth had the meat. There was a mention of triad lawyer Jing Saifai. She and Deborah went way back.
“How could you be prosecuting a case against the triad without knowing your boss was colluding with them?” the mayor asked, clearly having had the benefit of reading the entire article.
I did know.
“As far as I could tell, her interest was strictly oversight. She knew what we were doing, called a couple of plays, but that’s it. I had free rein.”
“There’s nothing you would’ve done differently without her involvement?” the mayor asked, his tone suggesting it was Michael’s future, not Deborah’s, that hung in the balance.
“Not one thing,” Michael said. “That’s why it’s such a surprise.”
“She might’ve known you’d be suspicious,” the mayor surmised. “All right. Be at my office in two hours for the press conference.”
“Press conference?”
“You’re the new interim district attorney of the great City of Los Angeles. And like it or not, one of your first assignments is going to be going after your former boss. Congratulations.”
Michael couldn’t believe his ears. He was about to reply when he realized the mayor had hung up. For a long minute Michael stood on the curb staring into the middle distance, wondering how on earth something like this could happen.
Then he pocketed his phone and glanced out to the skyscrapers of downtown to the east, all thoughts of Luis, the conspiracy, even Naomi momentarily pushed aside. Everything he’d ever wanted had been handed over on a silver platter.
Praise God.
Victor Canales’s body was found that evening. He’d been bound and tortured, his body then cut into five pieces before being dumped not in El Tule but on the steps of Uruapan’s city hall. Luis didn’t understand the significance until he asked one of his father’s coworkers at the construction site.
“Victor’s bosses control this region: Uruapan, Morelia, and much of the rest of Michoacán,” the worker said in a hushed tone. “10K’s bosses want them to know they’re coming for him next. Maybe they get a couple of the younger guys to switch sides, leak intelligence in hopes of staying alive.”
Luis glanced up to his father, who worked away on the roof. Sebastian didn’t look back. Luis turned and headed into the church. There he found Fathers Ponce, Feliz, and Barriga circled around Father Arturo, who was speaking quietly. Luis hung back until they were done. When the three other priests exited, Father Arturo spied Luis and waved him over.
Father Arturo scoffed and sat back down.
“I understand more than you know,” Luis admitted. “I, too, have held back the truth from my congregation. I have lost touch with God. There is no connection. I go through the motions even as I know it is me and not him acting as this vessel. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Father Arturo said. “I’m very sorry.”
“Which is why you should stay. You owe your congregants an explanation, your loyalty, and an apology. Your compromises are your own business and sins. What you owe God and his people is something you pledged long ago. You can’t turn your back on that. What you were or weren’t able to do for your son is the past. What you do now is what matters to God.”
Father Arturo eyed Luis suspiciously. “Which includes what? There’s something you want.”
“As you suggested, you’ve got only a few hours left before your name becomes a headline,” Luis said, leaning in. “Before that happens, I need you to bring me to the archdiocese in Mexico City. Tonight.”
“For what?”
“I need access to their internal network. Financial records, e-mail accounts, personnel records. I have the names of six priests who are allegedly colluding with the cartels to launder money into the United States. Now I need the proof.”
Father Arturo looked thoughtfully at Luis for a moment, then patted his wrist. “Only six?”
“So far.”
“I’ve only been there a couple of times, but enough to know there’s a lot of security,” Father Arturo said. “They log everyone who uses even the research computers in the library.”
“That’s why I can’t do it alone. I need you to come up with a reason that gets both of us through that door.”
Father Arturo considered this. “I’ve got a way in. Let me make a call.”
“Nina wet her bed again,” Yelena explained. “It wouldn’t be so bad, but the mattress cover was still drying in the bathroom after I washed it the night before. It ruined the mattress.”
Gennady closed his eyes and put the phone to his other ear. The shooting and his subsequent hospital stay had rattled everyone in the family, but Nina in particular. During the first few days she saw his injury like a game. If she worked at it, she could trick her father into speaking. After a couple of weeks of this, however, reality set in, and his wound quickly went from a novelty to a real source of fear. If it had happened to her daddy, couldn’t it as easily happen to her?
Can you have a new mattress delivered same day? Gennady typed into a text screen.
“That’s the plan right now,” Yelena said. “But it would be different if you were here.”
Gennady didn’t doubt it. Before he’d even come home from the hospital, Yelena had begun to make plans to fly to New York, where they could stay with her aunt, who lived off Prospect Park in Brooklyn. Nina had loved exploring the vast park the Christmas before, taking her father on trips to hunt for evidence of dragons, whether foot or tail tracks, eggs, or would-be scorch marks. But when Gennady had told his wife he needed to stay behind for a few extra weeks, they’d gotten in the worst fight of their marriage. Yelena left the next morning.
I’ll be there, Gennady typed.
There was a knock on the downstairs door. Gennady checked the security camera feed and unlocked the door via remote.
I have to go right now, Gennady wrote. FaceTime in the morning so I can see the kids and they can see me?
“Of course,” Yelena said. “I love you.”
I love you, too.
Gennady hung up the iPhone and went to the stairs. Miguel was already making his way up the steps, swaying back and forth from the weight of multiple satchels.
“You know, it’s impossible to find a parking space down there,” he said.
Gennady shrugged and led Miguel into the home office. Miguel opened the satchels and placed a number of laptops, routers, and a server box out around the room. He eyed Gennady’s Internet connection skeptically. “What is this? AT&T or something?”
Gennady shrugged again. He was getting good at that. Miguel went back to the stairs.
“I’ll be right back,” Miguel said. “Actually, you’d better come with me so I don’t get shot for trespassing.”
Gennady followed Miguel out of the house, the younger man holding a heavy loop of cable under his shirt. They walked down the canals, Miguel glancing right and left, but for what, Gennady had no idea. It hadn’t been Gennady’s first choice to even do this from his house, given that it had already been hit. But once he learned how many extra security guards his fretful neighbors had paid to patrol the perimeter of the canals, he figured familiarity trumped an unknown quantity.
Miguel indicated a Mediterranean-style minimansion that took up much of the end of Gennady’s block.
“Think anyone’s home?” Miguel asked, but in a way that suggested it didn’t matter much.
Gennady shook his head. The retired couple who owned it also owned a place in the Trastevere in Rome and spent most of their time overseas. Miguel jogged down the alley between the Mediterranean and the bungalow aside it, unspooling cable as he went. Gennady looked up to the closest windows, wondering who was watching. No matter how random and coincidental they were on the surface, the vandalism of Gennady’s house and the wound to his neck were connected in the minds of his neighbors. He caught them looking at him, their eyes full of accusation. He was no longer a member of the community but an outsider in need of excising. His perfect three windows on the Neva were no more.
No matter. He’d find them again elsewhere. He just couldn’t leave without salvaging his reputation first. That was everything in his line of work. People got hit. That was the price of doing business. How one responded was what mattered.
Miguel reappeared, trailing cable. “Let’s go.”
When they arrived back in Gennady’s house a moment later, Miguel checked his computers. “Excellent. Much faster now.”
Gennady typed on his iPad. Won’t my neighbors complain?
“By the time anyone knows what I did back there, we’ll be long gone,” Miguel said cheerfully. “Don’t worry about it.”
Gennady nodded and typed. Michael said that you know this Father Chavez.
“I do,” Miguel replied, though his tone was guarded. “He tried to help my family once, but things got worse. Maybe it was his fault, maybe it wasn’t, but that’s the kind of thing that strains a relationship, you know? When he offered to help me out after, I walked the other way.”
Gennady didn’t need to know the rest of the story. All he knew about Luis Chavez was that he’d be down in Mexico City at another computer and that Michael Story trusted him. That he was a priest mattered not at all. If there was anything he’d learned in his line of work, it was that no one makes money off the church for long except the church.
Once the laptops were arranged haphazardly around the room in a way that resembled an impromptu Wall Street trading desk, Miguel sat back.
Think anyone will know what we’re up to on that end? Gennady typed.
Miguel laughed. “Oh yeah. They’ll know immediately. Aren’t you glad you’re fifteen hundred miles away?”
XVIII
Father Arturo didn’t have a vehicle, but a pickup truck described as reliable was lent by one of Sebastian’s coworkers. Luis couldn’t remember the last time he’d driven a stick shift and was initially reluctant, but got the hang of it relatively quickly. He hoped he wouldn’t have to reverse.
The drive from El Tule to Mexico City was over six hours long. There was almost no traffic on the road to Uruapan, thou
gh Luis imagined it would pick up once they were past Morelia. He’d been unconscious on his initial drive in, so Luis took in their vast, empty surroundings as they went. He was reminded of the long stretches of low scrub that ran between Los Angeles and San Bernardino or farther out to Arizona. Only here in Mexico, without the constant barrage of billboards, gas stations, and fast-food joints, it felt so much more remote.
Father Arturo said little as they left El Tule and got underway. Luis understood why about an hour later when he nodded matter-of-factly out the window as they neared a bridge.
“That’s where they ran Victor off the road,” Father Arturo said.
Luis said nothing.
Three hours in and the topography changed. It became even less green, more rolling hills and flat valleys, the mountain roads even more precarious the higher they got. When they passed a sign indicating that Mexico City was 250 kilometers away, Father Arturo offered to drive for a while, but Luis declined. The drive had a calming effect on his nerves.
Also, as a Los Angeleno, he’d spent plenty of time behind the wheel of a car, but mostly in the city. Long drives out into the country were few and far between. He didn’t know when next he’d be in Mexico, if ever. He wanted to soak it up. The mountains grew higher and the roads more isolated, slowing the drive as they neared Tuxpan.
Before the sun went down completely, he could see the great forested mountains of the Sierra de Angangueo, where sign after sign announced them as the winter home of the mariposa monarca, or monarch butterfly.
They were a few dozen kilometers from the Mexican state border when they spied a detour up ahead. Luis could make out the dark-blue uniform of the Policía Federal on a man waving a red lantern alongside two fiery barrels. He indicated for Luis to pull to the side of the road. Luis slowed, but Father Arturo grabbed the wheel.
“Are you insane? Go around.”
“They’re blocking the road,” Luis said.
“Go around!”
Luis saw almost too late the pickup trucks parked off the highway, their beds bristling with the barrels of guns. They weren’t police. Or maybe they were, which might’ve been worse. Whatever the case, it was bad news. Given the revelations about Victor Canales’s parentage, it was possible Luis was driving the very person they were looking for.