Briones tapped out a series of keystrokes and then brought up a window with satellite coverage of downtown Mexico City.
“All right. The red X is the shop. You can see there’s an alley running alongside of it, and it backs onto another building, so there’s only the back emergency entrance on the alley and the front doors to worry about. At street level are single story shops, with apartments above, but they’re accessed from a separate lobby next door to the shop. According to what information we could get, Tortora leases a one bedroom apartment there, and also owns a home in one of the suburbs. Drives a VW Golf, three years old, paid for,” Briones recited, pointing at the screen for emphasis.
“What else do we know about this guy?” Julio asked.
“He’s fifty-eight, been in the same location for twenty years,” Briones said.
“Where is he originally from? Here?” Cruz asked, his skin subtly darker from discreetly applied base, and his hair slicked straight back under a sheen of pomade. The transformation was subtle, but made him unrecognizable — a tribute to the skill of the theatrical makeup woman they’d hired to alter his appearance. A pair of round stainless steel spectacles completed the disguise, and Cruz had been truly surprised when he’d inspected his made-over profile in the mirror.
“Hmm, no. Sinaloa. Culiacan,” Briones said, switching screens to access the information.
“Drug capital of Mexico. Coincidence?” Julio wondered.
“Yeah, but population well over a million,” Cruz pointed out. “And fifty-eight years ago, the only thing that was going on in Culiacan was tomatoes and a little marijuana. So inconclusive at best if we’re looking to make him the handmaiden to the cartels.”
“Fair enough. I was just making an observation. It’s all just information,” Julio countered.
“Says he’s divorced, ten years. One daughter. Not exactly the profile I would expect for this line of work.” Briones was tapping away, and finished, sat back. “What do you think an agent for a hit man would make, per job?”
“Probably at least ten percent or more, if he’s getting the jobs. But in this case it would be the other way around. So maybe less. Why?” Cruz asked.
“And he’d probably deal with the payments for him, too, right?” Briones ignored the question, obviously driving at something.
“I’d imagine. Where are you going with this?” Cruz demanded.
“What’s he doing with all the money? Even if he passed most of it on to El Rey, if he’s dragging down, what, two to three million a pop, pardon the pun, Tortora should have millions lying around by now, or at least a couple of million, easy. But look at the neighborhood and the business. It’s a zero. And his house? Maybe worth a hundred thousand, maybe two. Very modest. Says here he has a grand total of eighteen thousand dollars in the bank across all his accounts, which is a lot by Mexican standards but nothing in the scale of what we’re looking at. So where’s he keeping the money?” Briones asked.
Cruz finished his coffee with a swallow. “I suppose if he’s sophisticated enough to be money laundering for El Rey, he probably has an offshore bank account, don’t you think? And that wouldn’t show up anywhere. So just treat this like a cartel financier, and you’ll be in the loop. All the money is underground, or in cash. So an absence of money proves nothing, unfortunately.”
They went round and round on Tortora, but in the end, the obvious course was just to meet him and see what he said. They wouldn’t wear a wire, because a pro would have detection equipment and they’d be instantly blown. So the plan, such as it was, involved meeting him, seeing how it played out, and then come down on him like a falling piano.
They finished their coffees and folded up shop, descending the escalators to the parking garage where Julio’s Humvee was parked. They’d agreed they would take two cars and drop Briones off to watch for anything suspicious while they found parking spots — probably one of the most difficult aspects of their foray into that neighborhood.
They drove across town and located Tortora’s street using the handheld GPS in the Humvee, and Cruz dropped Briones off a block away so he could meander over and keep an eye on the shop for the ten minutes it would probably take to park. Briones moved into position on the same side of the street as Tortora’s, and bought a churro from a sidewalk vendor, pretending to be engrossed in a text message conversation while eyeing the target. He felt a brief sensation of apprehension, given the stakes involved in this meeting, made worse by the double dose of caffeine over the morning’s briefing. He made a mental note never do that again before a field op.
Briones started, nearly jumping, when he felt a hand on his windbreaker. He spun around and found himself facing one of the city’s transient population — a filthy, disheveled woman, obviously high on something, grabbing at him while muttering a begging mantra incoherently. He shook her off and handed her a few pesos, eager to be rid of her. She didn’t even register the money as she continued down the sidewalk, hands outstretched to accost someone else.
Thankfully, there wasn’t much pedestrian traffic on the street, which made it easier for Briones to eye the pawn shop. If at all possible, he wanted to avoid having to stand conspicuously near Tortora’s to monitor things, preferring a discreet distance. He considered moving across the thoroughfare so he could keep watch on both the deserted alley and the storefront, and then he saw Julio and Cruz, walking together down the sidewalk from the opposite direction. It was game time.
Reassured by the weight of his Sig Sauer in his shoulder holster, he elected to stay on Tortora’s side of the road and move down the block before circling back and eventually taking up a position across from their objective. Briones strolled towards the shop, figuring he would glance down the alley and then jaywalk across to the opposite side when he was fifty yards past it, and almost collided with another vagrant — this time a man emerging from the squalid alley, wearing grubby brown slacks and a tattered sweater. He clutched a satchel that no doubt contained his few worldly possessions. Both men instinctively started when he rounded the corner, and the two haltingly mumbled apologies to each other as they continued on their separate ways.
Momentarily thrown by the near miss, Briones turned and followed the man with his eyes. Great. Now he was jumping at panhandlers and bums. He needed to rein in his caffeine-augmented imagination and focus on the task at hand, before Cruz and Julio reached the front door. Briones was going to be no use to them if he let his nerves distract him. He mentally shook himself and pulled his act together, concentrating on seeming nonchalant as he strolled at a measured pace. Crossing the alley, he took a hard look at the two dumpsters next to the emergency exit side doors, noting they were overflowing with trash uncollected for weeks. The alley was short, which he remembered from the satellite image, and dead-ended into a brick wall covered with graffiti, the filthy ground littered with stinking refuse around the battered receptacles.
Briones brushed past Cruz and Julio without revealing anything, and continued down the block fifty more yards before seeming to change his mind. Waiting for a break in traffic he jogged across the street, where he took up position with a good view of both the shop and the mouth of the alley.
Julio pushed the door open and heard a buzzer sound from the back of the building, behind the barred window that kept intruders at bay. After a few moments, hearing nothing, Julio called out.
“Senor Tortora? Hola. Senor Tortora. Buenos dias. Is there anybody there?”
Nothing.
Cruz studied the shabby merchandise in two tired display cases while they waited, having registered the mirrored half globe on the ceiling that was a surveillance camera.
“Maybe he’s in the bathroom?” Julio suggested.
Cruz pushed a button mounted by the window, and they heard a bell sound in the back, but no ensuing sounds of movement.
They exchanged troubled glances, and Cruz peered through the bars while Julio tried the handle of the heavy steel access door.
“It’s locked,�
�� he said.
“That figures. What do you want to do?” Cruz asked. This was Julio’s show.
“I think we wait a few minutes. Maybe he stepped out to grab a snack or some coffee,” Julio said doubtfully.
Ten minutes later they were still standing in the shop, with no evidence that anyone was ever going to show up.
“All right. This is bullshit. I’m going to go around and try the other door, and if that’s locked, we fold this up and get someone who can open this. Either he’s made us and bolted, or something’s wrong,” Cruz said, moving to the door while withdrawing his cell phone from his pocket. He called Briones.
“There’s a problem. Nobody’s here. I’m going to go around and see if I can get in the back way. If not, I need a locksmith and a tactical team down here fast, so we can tear the place apart. Have you seen anyone exit the building — including the apartments?” Cruz asked.
“No, although I did…never mind,” Briones said, feeling stupid for even bringing it up.
“What?”
“I almost ran into a homeless guy. He was coming out of the alley you’re about to head down,” Briones explained.
“When? How old was he?”
“I don’t know. Younger than me…” Briones guessed.
“Then it wasn’t Tortora. He’s older. And he isn’t a vagrant, as far as we know.”
“Right.”
“Okay. Keep your eyes peeled. I’m walking out the front door right now, and I’m going to try the alley entrance. Stay on the line, but watch the surroundings,” Cruz instructed, moving down the grim little dead-end street to Tortora’s rear door. He tried the knob, and it, too, was locked.
“Shit. Okay, call a tactical team in, stat, and get someone who can pick this lock.”
“All right, boss. I’m on it.”
Cruz fumed at how close they’d gotten, only to be stymied at the one yard line. He returned to the shop and briefed Julio. The pair settled in to wait for the tactical team. That could take a while.
“Looks like we got made somehow,” Cruz said.
“I don’t see how, though. Really. It makes no sense,” Julio answered.
Cruz paced back and forth. This wasn’t how the day was supposed to go. His phone began ringing, but before he could answer it both Julio and he were startled by a figure opening the front door of the shop. A young woman entered, as surprised to see them as they clearly were to see her.
“Oh. I’m sorry…I…you surprised me. May I help you?” she asked them.
Cruz took her in. Medium height, maybe early thirties at most, huge brown eyes and wavy black hair. A face that was unconventionally beautiful. Conservatively dressed. Counterfeit Dolce and Gabbana purse and sunglasses, he noted — one of the many occupational habits of being a cop.
Julio spoke first.
“What do you mean, can you help us? We’re waiting to see Senor Tortora,” he said with what probably passed in his mind as a charming smile.
“Oh, well, he should be here. Let me go back and see,” she said, returning the smile with considerably less enthusiasm. She eyed Cruz and shot him a smile, too, then moved past them to the door. She fiddled with her keys, and turned to face them.
“Uh, do you mind? Could you move over by the front door? I’m feeling a little crowded here, and I don’t want to open this with you standing beside me. Security and all. No offense,” she apologized, holding her keys at the ready.
Julio glanced at Cruz.
“Of course. I’m terribly sorry. It was thoughtless of us. Please. We’ll just be right here.” Julio motioned at the area by the front door and moved there, pulling Cruz’s sleeve. He stepped over as well.
“Will that work for you?” Cruz asked.
“Thank you. I’ll see where he is.” She slipped through the door as she spoke.
They waited patiently, Julio tapping his foot, Cruz cleaning his nails. She returned to the little showroom area a few moments later, puzzled.
“That’s strange. He’s not here. He’s always here. Hmm. I wish he would carry his cell phone; then I could call him. He leaves it in his apartment upstairs, or in the car. He’s lousy with things like that,” she explained. “I didn’t get your names…”
“I’m sorry. Very rude of us. This is Senor Albon, and I am Raphael Contreras. And you are?” Julio extended his hand.
“I’m his daughter. Dinah Tortora. Pleased to meet you both. Is there something I can help you with since my father has, erm, disappeared for a few minutes?” she asked, shaking their hands in turn.
“We were really hoping to speak to him in person. A delicate matter he was helping us with,” Julio said.
Dinah looked confused.
“Delicate matter? Hmm, okay…you know, if you don’t mind, I’ll run upstairs and check on him. Now I’m a little worried. Maybe he slipped and hurt himself or something,” Dinah said, and made for the front door. Both men stepped aside, Julio making a courtly mini bow. They watched as she left the shop and made a right, going to the apartments.
“What’s with the Don Juan act?” Cruz chided.
“Are you kidding? She’s gorgeous. What, are you blind?”
“Her father is El Rey’s agent. We’re working. Does that ring any bells?” Cruz reminded.
“Party pooper. I didn’t get the hit man vibe from her. Did you? I don’t think she knows anything. That’s where my money’s at.” Julio winked.
“Maybe. But there’s no way to be sure-”
They were cut off by a scream of horror from the apartments.
Chapter 9
Cruz and Julio raced to the small apartment entrance’s foyer, to be greeted through the glass door by the sight of Dinah staggering down the stairs from the corridor above, obviously in shock, with blood on her hands and dress. The street door was locked, so they had to wait for her to reach them and open it, tears streaming down her pale face as she grabbed at the handle reflexively.
Once the door was open, Cruz grabbed her by the shoulders.
“What’s wrong, Dinah? What happened?” he asked, processing the blood on her and fearing the worst.
“It’s…my father…”
Julio looked up the stairway with trepidation, and then back at Cruz.
He nodded, and Julio mounted the stairs while Cruz hugged Dinah, who was sobbing against his chest and howling her agonized grief. He had done this hundreds of times in his career, but it never got any easier; each time took a little out of him. Her slender torso shuddered as she struggled to breath, fighting for air between strangled exclamations of pain. Any doubts he had about whether she was involved in her father’s business slipped away — this wasn’t a woman accustomed to the business of death.
Julio returned from the apartment looking wan. He was in the cesspool every day, dealing with the parasites of humanity, not in a combat squad, so he wasn’t used to seeing corpses on a weekly basis. He looked like he was going to be sick.
“It’s bad.”
“Call Briones, and have him get a full crime scene team here. Take care of Dinah. I want to go take a look at what we’ve got,” Cruz instructed, gently pushing Dinah into Julio’s arms.
At the top of the stairs, he was greeted by a short corridor with four entries, one of which was now ajar, and one of which squeaked on its hinges as he slowly walked to the open door. An old woman’s head poked out, scowling with disapproval.
“What’s all the yelling about?” she demanded loudly.
“There’s been an accident. Go back inside, and lock your door,” Cruz answered.
“What, are you fighting with a girlfriend? Did you hit her? Is that the story?” the woman stormed, sure that Cruz was up to no good.
“Senora, please. This is now a crime scene, so go inside, bolt your door, and an inspector will be by later to take a statement.”
She spat an expletive under her breath, and then the door slammed shut, the sound of multiple deadbolts engaging filtering into the hall. The other occupants were probably a
ll at work, so for a while there would be some peace in which to process the scene. That was the only good news so far.
He pushed the door open cautiously with his toe, avoiding touching the knob even though he knew Dinah had already done so. It creaked open. Cruz entered the tiny living room, wishing he had his gun with him, and stopped when he saw the body lying on the floor in a puddle of blood. He’d seen hundreds of corpses in his time, but nothing like this — the man was nearly bisected, from his shoulder to his hip. Cause of death wouldn’t be too tough on this one. What the hell could cause this kind of butchery? A splatter pattern at least six feet wide surrounded the body, evidencing that he’d been cut down where he lay.
He scanned the room and answered his own question. A plaque holding a short Japanese dagger in its scabbard was mounted to the wall, and the pegs above the dagger were empty, dust clearly indicating where a longer katana had resided. Cruz took several more steps into the room and saw the weapon lying on the floor, covered with blood, the scabbard discarded nearby. The blood was fresh, no more than an hour old, he knew from jaded experience. Soon the flies would come, but as of now, it was just the two of them.
Jaime Tortora, whatever his sins, had seen his last morning, and their hopes of closing in on El Rey had died with him. Unless they could find some clues in his shop or his homes, this was, as they said, a dead end. The timing couldn’t have been worse, forcing Cruz to confront the ugly thought that had been circling in his head; nobody but he, Briones and Julio had known about this meeting, so either they had a leak within their ranks, or El Rey had decided to egress from the business and close down his conduit.
Cruz would like to think it was the latter, because it confirmed what he already now believed; that the assassin was planning a hit on the G-20, and getting paid enough to exit the game for good. Perhaps Tortora had contacted him with news of the new potential client he was going to meet, and that had triggered the ugly murder. Maybe Felipe had bragged to the wrong person, and this had nothing to do with El Rey. Possibly, it was a burglary gone wrong, or retribution for something else. Or perhaps it was all coincidence.
King of Swords a-1 Page 11