Curious to know how he would respond, she put the question directly to her commander. “Why does Flag care?”
“We’ll hear from Crime Scene next,” Webster said. “Detective Kim will answer your question.”
“Wait.” Mac looked confused. “Can someone loop me in?” He looked around. “I know the Villalobos cartel is involved, and I’ve seen news reports about them like everyone else, but more details would help my investigation.”
All eyes turned to Veranda, the subject matter expert. Taking the silent cue, she kept her response brief. “The Villalobos cartel is the largest criminal organization in Mexico, and they’re into narcotics, computer hacking, financial crime, weapons smuggling, human trafficking, and the sex trade among other things. The leader, Hector Villalobos, has four adult children. Two of them are dead. The two left standing are Adolfo, who failed when he tried to take over their North American operation seven weeks ago, and Daria, who specializes in weapons and explosives.”
Mac grinned. “My kind of woman.”
“If you’re into sociopaths.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Nobody’s perfect.”
“I’ve studied the Villalobos cartel too,” Diaz said. “Haven’t found a case where they used bombs inside the US against law enforcement.”
Veranda had also been disturbed by the new threat. “I’m guessing this is Daria’s move to show she’s ready to step up and take over.”
Mac looked intrigued. “What do you mean, step up?”
She outlined the crime boss and his family structure. “Hector Villalobos goes by El Lobo, which means ‘the wolf.’ His children—named in alphabetical order—are his retirement plan. In order to do that, he needs an heir who can run the whole organization. In the past, he’d divided areas of responsibility between his kids. One of them has to step up and consolidate power.”
“How is it divided?” Mac asked.
“His firstborn son, Adolfo, is the cartel’s CFO. He handles financial crime and keeps the books. The next in line, Bartolo, comandante in charge of narcotics, died in a shootout in July.”
Mac leaned back. “I remember that fiasco.”
Rather than rehash one of the department’s greatest embarrassments, Veranda plowed on. “El Lobo’s third son, Carlos, used to manage the coyotes, who run human trafficking operations across the border and maintain sex slave rings. Carlos … got in the way of a bullet recently.”
Mac snorted. “Yeah, I heard something about that. On every news channel. Every day. For a solid week.”
His remark reminded her just how public her run-ins with the cartel had been. She let out a long breath and continued. “His youngest is Daria. Supposedly, she has a munitions-manufacturing plant somewhere near their compound in Mexico. Satellite images are inconclusive, and the federales haven’t had any success sending an operative inside. The intel we get is mostly from people they arrest shortly before the cartel manages to shut them up. Permanently.”
At the far end of the table Marci spoke up. “So Daria’s trying to take over then?”
She considered the question. “A female leader of a cartel is rare, but not unheard of. I don’t know how El Lobo feels about women, but some of these guys are full-on sexists. Daria will have to prove herself if she wants the top spot.”
“I don’t understand,” Mac said. “If Adolfo’s the firstborn son, why isn’t he in charge?”
Diaz provided the answer. “He’s viewed as weak, both inside and outside the cartel. Everyone thinks he’s brainy but lacks the killer instinct. His father gave him a shot at the throne recently. Rival criminal organizations moved in on cartel territory, resulting in that turf war last month.”
Tony Sanchez, another member of her Homicide squad, weighed in. His heavy Brooklyn accent carried through the room. “They’re still digging rounds out of the sides of buildings downtown.”
Mac turned to Veranda. “The murder this morning involved an unknown subject burned with a branding iron. How does that fit in with the cartel’s MO?”
“The cartel brands their property,” she said. “It’s a sign of ownership. They put their mark on packages of narcotics, prisoners, and sometimes, sex slaves.” She fought to keep the anger out of her voice. “Because they consider them property.”
Marci muttered an expletive under her breath that drew a glare from their commander.
Veranda caught her eye in tacit agreement before she continued the briefing. “They also use the brand to terrorize and punish enemies and traitors. The hot iron burns the outline of a wolf’s head on the upper left chest over the heart.”
She schooled her features to hide her feelings about the next part, drawing a deep breath before proceeding. “A tattoo of a black wolf’s head in the same place, on the other hand, is seen as an honor reserved for those loyal to the Villalobos family. It’s something you have to earn.”
She felt everyone’s gaze on her and hoped no one noticed how she’d kept her voice flat and her eyes on the table as she added, “Except in my case.”
Her comment met with silence. The fact that everyone knew why she bore the tattoo didn’t ease the awkwardness of the moment. Or the sting of her humiliation.
“You mentioned they also branded traitors,” Doc said. “Could the subject in the storage unit have been part of the cartel?”
She welcomed the distraction of the question. “Not possible. I got a good look before the bomb went off, and the guy only had a Mexican army tattoo. If he’d been a cartel member, the brand would have gone directly on top of the wolf tatt. The idea is that the ink didn’t sink in far enough, so the cartel’s mark is burned into the flesh to make a deeper impression. Normally, this is followed by immediate execution. Once in a while, the person is given a second chance to prove himself.”
Doc winced. “These people are barbarians.”
Marci gestured to Tony. “Hey, Tony here happens to be a Barbarian-
American. Don’t disparage him by comparing him to those assholes.”
“Detective Blaine,” Webster began, a note of censure in his voice.
Marci held up a hand in apology. “Excuse me, Commander.” She leaned toward Veranda and lowered her voice. “What’s the word in Spanish?”
Before Veranda could answer, Marci straightened. “Wait, I remember it now. I meant to say don’t compare him to those pendejos.” She feigned a look of innocence that deceived no one. “It’s okay if I say it in Spanish, right?”
As usual, Marci had managed to ease the tension in the room. She’d also taken the focus away from Veranda and her unwanted tattoo. Marci’s wink told her she’d done it on purpose.
“No, Detective,” Lieutenant Diaz said over the sound of chuckling around the table. “It’s not.”
The trace of a grin lifted the lieutenant’s lips before he turned to the man sitting to Mac’s right. “Let’s hear from the Laboratory Services Bureau. Detective Kim, you mentioned a report that will explain why Agent Flag from DHS is involved?”
Veranda had worked with Tye Kim before. As detective liaison, he ran interference between the forensics lab and hundreds of detectives constantly pressuring the scientists to push their evidence to the front of the line for examination. She had heard Tye describe his job as triage on a tight rope, and he did it well.
Tye bent down to reach inside a black leather satchel slouching at his feet on the factory-grade blue carpet. “I’ve got a bit of information you might find interesting.” He pulled out a manila folder and a letter-sized brown envelope. Every eye followed Tye’s deft movements as he unclasped the envelope slid a lab report out with a flourish.
Though he said nothing, Commander Webster’s knowing look indicated he’d already been briefed.
“What is that?” Diaz asked, apparently not in the loop.
A satisfied smile lit up Tye’s face. “The identity of the bomber.”
5
Veranda’s breath caught in her throat. Tye’s announcement had shocked the War Room into silence. Then everyone started talking at once. Commander Webster held up both hands. “Before we get to the suspect, Detective Kim, could you please ID the victim? Your findings will make more sense.”
Tye reddened. “Sorry, Commander.” Straightening, he addressed the group. “I’m glad everyone already took a lunch break, because the details of this one are … unpleasant.” He reached for the manila folder resting on the table in front of him beneath the opened envelope. “The bomb destroyed the evidence collected at the scene before it detonated.” He scanned the page. “Photographs, measurements, and samples. All gone. We had to go back in after the explosion and collect what we could.”
Veranda suppressed a shudder as she recalled walking back inside the storage unit after it had been deemed safe to enter. She’d never forget the sight of a Crime Scene tech scraping bits of flesh from the walls.
Tye looked up from his notes. “As Commander Webster mentioned, we made a positive ID off three good fingerprints and two partials from what was left of his hands. We ran them through the United States AFIS first and struck out. We resubmitted through I-24/7 to Interpol’s AFIS and got a hit. The victim’s full name is Oscar Cristóbal Flores-Cabrera. Went by Oscar Cabrera.”
Veranda had used Interpol’s I-24/7 system to run prints of foreign nationals when she worked narcotics. The “I” stood for Interpol, and the “24/7” indicated its continuous availability. In an effort to track fugitives across borders, Interpol had established their own Automated Fingerprint Identification System, or AFIS, so local law enforcement agencies worldwide could access various databases. While not all-inclusive, the system had proven useful when she’d investigated citizens of other countries.
“Turns out Mr. Cabrera has been a guest of the Mexican prison system on several occasions,” Tye said. “I requested a photo and rap sheet through Interpol. Should have it later today.”
Commander Webster cut in. “Detective Cruz, you mentioned a Mexican military tattoo on the subject’s arm.” He arched a thick, sandy brow. “Since we don’t have any photos of the victim before the explosion, could you elaborate?”
“Sometimes cartels recruit former military personnel,” she said. “They can acquire trained men at low cost.” She slid a paper out from a file folder and held it up. “I sketched what I saw from memory.”
Diaz squinted at her pencil drawing. “Are those knives?”
She shook her head. “I’m no artist. They’re supposed to be a pair of swords.” She pointed at the page. “I only know about these tatts because they’ve been catalogued in the prison and arrest records of other offenders over the years. Most of the tattoos have a unit number and a flag. The ones showing crossed swords are for the Mexican special forces.”
Doc’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean this guy was like a Ranger or a SEAL or something?”
She put the paper down. “Not necessarily. Anyone can get the ink. Doesn’t prove anything.”
In typical down-to-earth language, Tony posed the question plaguing her since she’d first laid eyes on the tattoo. “What the hell was he doing in the US and how did he piss off the cartel?”
Commander Webster took off his readers and laid them on the table. “Which brings us to Detective Kim’s earlier announcement.” He gave Tye a nod.
Tye took the cue. “The techs found fragments of a plastic water bottle at the scene in the back corner of the storage unit.” He paused. “Part of the bottlecap survived the blast.” He looked around, apparently waiting for them to catch up. When no one reacted, he leaned forward to emphasize his next words. “That section of the cap was still screwed onto a piece of threaded nozzle from the bottle.”
She had seen forensic experts gather trace evidence from tiny pieces of detonated bomb material. Partial fingerprints, DNA, and origin codes had been successfully recovered in terrorism investigations even after a sizable bombing attack. The device at the storage unit wasn’t an enormous fertilizer bomb, but a relatively small IED. Pieces of a bottle tucked into a corner several yards away from the detonation point could yield usable evidence.
Veranda’s pulse kicked up a notch as she took a logical leap. “There was DNA under the cap?”
“Bingo,” Tye said, unable to hide his excitement. “The heat from the explosion melted the mouth of the bottle to its cap, forming an airtight seal around a droplet of saliva, trapping it between the piece of cap and a fragment of plastic.”
Sam grinned under this mustache. “Did you get a DNA hit?”
“Not yet,” Tye said. “We’ll run it through CODIS if the sample turns out to be viable. But in the meantime, we got something else just as good.”
Everyone traded bewildered glances.
“Quit playing around,” Sam said. “What the hell did you find, Tye?”
“A partial fingerprint,” he said, slightly abashed. “And we got a definitive hit.”
Veranda didn’t understand. “Daria Villalobos doesn’t have prints on file. She’s never been arrested. How could you get a hit?”
“You’re right. Daria hasn’t been arrested,” Tye said. “But Adelmo Salazar has.”
The name sent a shockwave through her body. “But Salazar’s in Mexico. He couldn’t have …”
Tye tapped the lab sheet with his pen. “A partial print matching his left index finger was on a shard of clear plastic lying next to the piece of bottle cap in the corner of the storage unit.” He dragged the pen’s tip down and poked the paper again. “Both pieces of evidence were found in the same location inside the storage unit. Those are the only two points we can prove. Everything else is speculation.”
“But Daria’s the explosives expert,” Veranda said, almost to herself. “She has to be behind this.”
“Wait,” Mac said. “Who’s Salazar?” The Bomb Squad tech looked from one end of the table to the other in confusion.
His question snapped her out of her reverie. “The cartel’s fixer. He goes by El Matador.” A realization sparked. “And he was in the Mexican Army’s special forces.” She turned to Commander Webster. “That’s the connection, isn’t it?”
Webster steepled his fingers. “Agent Flag seems to think so. He’s meeting with an alphabet soup of US agencies now. Once word spread about the fingerprint hit, the Mexican government got interested. They think Salazar’s in Phoenix and they want him extradited if we catch him.”
“This Salazar sounds high profile,” Mac said.
“He’s a stone-cold killer,” Sam said. “Specializes in taking out cops, judges, and anyone else in law enforcement who gets in the way.”
“And he’s targeted Detective Cruz before,” Diaz said, drawing everyone’s attention to Veranda.
Her heart pounded under the cartel tattoo on her chest. The mark Salazar had put there. Her mind dredged up an image of his pitiless black eyes boring into hers as his powerful hands wrapped around her neck, slowly squeezing until darkness overtook her. She had barely survived their last encounter. Now he’d come back to finish what he’d started.
6
Veranda caught the smile playing across Cole Anderson’s lips. She put down her glass. “What?”
The sun had set hours ago, casting her small kitchen table in a warm glow from the overhead light, softening the planes and angles of her boyfriend’s features. He looked into her eyes. “Don’t tell your mother I said this, but your enchiladas taste just as good as hers.”
She tilted her head back and laughed. “Oh, I am so telling her.”
“I’ll deny it.”
“Chicken.”
“Yeah, I like them with shredded chicken too.”
Veranda had dated Cole off and on for more than three months. Probably a record. Long enough for her Homicide squad to quit teasing her about getting involved with a fir
eman. Long enough for her mother to start entertaining hopes. Too many failed attempts at fix-ups with every eligible Latino north of Yuma had left her mother considering the tall, blond gringo her best option. Or perhaps just the last man standing. As long as she and Cole were together, Richard Diaz would remain her mother’s backup plan.
They had both gotten off their shifts late and opted for a home-cooked dinner at her house. Already past ten o’clock, she had just enough energy to do the dishes and head for bed. So much the better if her hunky fireman decided to join her.
She pushed back from the table and stood. “Let me have your plate.” She scooped up her earthenware dish and held out a hand for his.
He gathered the glasses and silverware after she took his plate.
She carried the dishes to the sink and put them in. Cole sauntered up behind her, setting two amber-colored drinking glasses down on the counter before reaching around her to place the flatware in the oversized sink. He pressed his chest against her back, nuzzling the top of her head with his jaw. He slid his left hand along her arm, gliding it up to her shoulder. She winced when he squeezed.
“Oh, crap.” His hand stilled. “I forgot.”
She pushed down the stopper and turned the faucet on. “It’s okay. Just a nick.”
“Let me see.”
She squirted a dab of dishwashing liquid into the running water. “You’re an arson investigator, Captain Anderson, not a paramedic.”
She heard the smile in his voice as he spoke from behind her. “Some of my best friends are paramedics. I’ve learned a thing or two from going to fires over the years.” His tone grew serious. “I want a look.”
Why did everyone insist on checking her injury? She thought about refusing, then decided it wasn’t worth another argument. Heaving a sigh, she swept her thick mane of hair to one side, exposing her left shoulder.
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