“This should last a while. Hopefully this will all be cleared up before I run out. But one thing that disturbs me – how can you be so sure this isn’t related to the suit?”
“It’s been in the court system for…five years? Why suddenly would anyone want to eliminate you, and especially why the cartel? It makes no sense.” Navarro shook his head. “No, the likelihood is that you have something they want, and the only thing you have is your land. A simple deduction on my part.”
Indalecio took the bag and stood. “Very well, then. In light of my situation, I don’t want to stay too long. I’ll take you up on your generous offer of your assistant. Walking around with this much money makes me nervous. Can she take me to the bus station?”
“I’d rather she drove you to the airport. The cartel would expect you to take a bus. Watching an entire airport…well, it’s not practical. Although if I could make a suggestion, you might want to shave your mustache and lose the hat. It does stand out among the tourists.”
The farmer considered. “You mentioned some back stairs?”
“Yes. Come. I’ll show you the way.” Navarro dialed two digits, spoke rapidly, and stood again as he hung up. “Elma will be in a silver Corolla by the exit in two minutes. Have her stop at a barber shop or a pharmacy so you can trim the mustache.”
Indalecio touched the salt-and-pepper bristles with his fingers. “I…I’ve had it for over thirty years.”
“Yes, well, fortunately it will grow back. But that’s also the reason it needs to go before you arrive at the airport.” Navarro moved to the door, easily a foot taller than his client, his suit a sharp contrast to the farmer’s rustic apparel. “Don’t worry. We’ll get this straightened out.”
Indalecio fixed him with a penetrating stare, his eyes filled with intensity. “They killed Ruiz. Someone has to answer for that.”
Navarro held out a hand placatingly. “Of course. But for now, I’ll settle for you on a beach a thousand miles away.”
“I won’t let this go, Emilio. He was a good man. Loyal to the end.”
Navarro opened the door and put his hand on the farmer’s shoulder.
“I know you won’t, Emilio. I know.”
Chapter 32
Mexico City, Mexico
El Rey led the way to a small stand-alone house in the Iztapalapa neighborhood south of the international airport. Rusting iron bars adorned the windows on both stories. Its peach-colored paint had faded and was peeling off the mortar from acid rain. Colorful graffiti marked every inch of the high wall that protected the postage-stamp front yard and the one-car garage from the street. Coils of razor wire ringed the top along with bottle fragments that jutted from the mortar like broken teeth.
El Rey’s twenty-year-old Ford Explorer had raised no eyebrows as it crawled through the empty streets in the predawn hours. The assassin led Cruz into the house, which smelled of ammonia and was simply appointed with cheap flea market furniture. Mexican blankets affixed to wooden rods over the windows served as curtains, muting the worst of the traffic noise.
A laptop computer sat on the square dining room table, its power indicator blinking in the darkness as Cruz followed the assassin into the living area. El Rey flipped a wall switch, and the lower floor was bathed in light. He gestured at the stairs and eyed Cruz.
“Bedrooms are up. Three. Take your pick of the two smaller ones. I’ve got the master.”
“Fair enough. Is there anything in the refrigerator?”
El Rey nodded. “I stocked it yesterday evening. Water, beer, food, orange juice. Make yourself at home. I’m going to grab a few hours of sleep, and then I want to continue my research. I’m hoping you can help. I was focused on how to pull off your untimely demise. Now that that’s over, we can turn to figuring out what this is all about.”
Cruz walked into the kitchen, got himself a water bottle, and then mounted the stairs. The entire house was no more than fifteen hundred square feet, a cinderblock cube laid out with all the charm of a prison, but the beds were clean and inviting, and within five minutes of lying down Cruz was snoring, fully clothed, dead to the world.
He tossed and turned, his sleep fitful, his dreams otherworldly renderings of his funeral, an empty casket carried by fellow officers in full dress uniforms before a small crowd of co-workers. There were only a few faces he would miss, the most obvious that of his beautiful wife, a black lace veil over her face, tears streaming as a cedar box symbolizing her husband was interred on a drizzling gray day, Briones next to her, his young face angry and sad.
A crash from downstairs jolted him awake, and for a moment he was lost, the room plunged in gloom, his surroundings unfamiliar. Then it all came back to him – the cabin, the explosion, the run from the mountains. He looked at his watch and was surprised to see that he’d managed to sleep five hours.
He rose and used the bathroom. His reflection showed an unshaven parody of his official self – hair askew, bloodshot eyes puffy, the lines creasing his face deeper after the last twenty-four hours. When he came downstairs, El Rey was cleaning the last of a broken plate off the tile floor, looking fit and energetic.
“Morning. Sorry about the noise,” he said.
“No problem. I’m anxious to get going on figuring this out. You mentioned you had food?” Cruz asked, and then the aroma of coffee reached him.
“In the refrigerator. Help yourself. I made a pot, too. You’re welcome to as much as you can drink.”
“Thanks.”
When they’d fed themselves, Cruz joined the assassin at the computer, where it was obvious he’d been up for hours working, judging by the pad next to it covered with lines of neatly printed notes.
“What do you have so far?” Cruz asked.
“I’m trying to figure out what the link is between the admiral, the archbishop, the actor…and you. Have you ever met any of them?”
“No.”
“Were you investigating anything that could have involved them? A meth ring going through Tijuana?”
“Negative. Most of the meth I know of goes through Texas. So if someone was getting it into California, it would be a new one on me.”
“Think. What about the newswoman and the farmer? Anything there?”
Cruz shook his head. “No. None of them have anything in common that I can see, and certainly nothing to do with me. The closest to a connection among any of them is Carla Vega and the actor because they’re both in the entertainment business.”
“There has to be something. We’re missing it. But it’s got to be there. They want you dead, which means you’re somehow involved, even if you don’t know how.”
“Fine. I don’t dispute that. Why don’t we start with you bringing me up to date on the official dossiers on all the targets? That way we’ll be on an even playing field, and I may catch something you missed.”
El Rey squinted and waved in the direction of the coffee table. “I printed out everything. It’s all in that file. Read through it, and tell me if you have any breakthroughs.”
Cruz went to the sofa and began reading the materials as El Rey typed in Carla Vega’s name and watched some of the videos of her on YouTube. She had a thriving following, based on the number of clips and the views she received, and he killed time watching Carla report on meaningless silliness, starting at her newest clip, shot at the People’s Choice awards, and working backward in time.
Fifteen minutes later he called out to Cruz. “Come look at this.”
Cruz was just finishing up the file on the archbishop. He left it open on the table and joined the assassin at the computer. “What is it?”
“The attack on the admiral in Ensenada.”
“I saw it on the news.”
“Guess who features prominently in this footage?”
El Rey pressed the play icon and the video began streaming. Carla Vega was framed against a blue sky, the superstructure of a naval ship in the background. She was finishing up an unenthusiastic description of the new pride of the n
avy when the roar of a helicopter drowned out her voice, and then the distinctive chatter of automatic weapons sounded from the water amidst panicked screams from the crowd.
They watched the attack on the boat, captured by the quick reactions of the cameraman, and El Rey paused the clip.
“You said she’s a celebrity on Mexican television, right?” he asked.
“Absolutely. There’s nobody bigger in the news game. Don’t you watch TV?”
El Rey shook his head. “No. But if she’s all that, what was she doing at a ship launching in Baja?”
Cruz tugged at his hair in thought. “Beats me. Maybe it was a slow news day in DF?”
“She was in Los Angeles at an awards show rubbing shoulders with movie stars, an interview in Mexico City before that with Carlos Slim on the deregulation of the telephone scheme…and a ship christening even the navy barely cares about? Doesn’t that seem a little beneath her?”
“Maybe she doesn’t get to choose her assignments.”
El Rey stared at the image frozen on the screen and then sat back and snapped his fingers. “Damn. I can’t be sure, but I think she was at the hotel in Arizona.”
“What? Where’s that on YouTube?”
“It isn’t. I saw someone at the pool bar. But it was dark, and I was otherwise occupied. Only I remember seeing a woman who…who took my breath away. It looked a lot like Vega, now that I think about it.”
For the first time that morning, Cruz spoke with animation. “If it was, then there’s a connection between both the admiral and the actor. Tentative, but a connection. But what about me? I’ve never met her. I have nothing to do with her.”
El Rey nodded, lost in thought, eyes unfocused. Cruz left him to his ruminations and got a second cup of coffee. When he returned, the assassin was typing furiously.
“What are you doing?”
“Pulling up everything I can find on Señorita Vega. Starting with the layout of her home.”
“How do you know where she lives?”
“CISEN was kind enough to provide that.”
“Ah. I haven’t gotten that far in the files.” Cruz frowned. “How can you pull up blueprints on a random address in Mexico City?”
“Through the building department. They’ve recently automated and scanned most of their files.”
“How do you get into the building department?”
El Rey smiled. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
Cruz took a sip of coffee. “I thought you already did.” He returned to the couch and finished reading the dossiers. When he was done, he closed the folder and stood. “I don’t see anything you haven’t already described. If there’s a connection other than Vega, it’s well hidden. So now what do we do?”
El Rey drummed his fingers on the tabletop as he studied a set of drawings on the screen. “I pay young Miss Vega a visit and see if she can clear any of this up.”
Cruz’s eyes widened. “You’re not going to actually kill her, are you?”
“No. I want to talk to her.”
“You think you’ll be able to waltz into her home, past the inevitable security she’ll have, and strike up a conversation with one of the highest profile celebrities in the city?”
El Rey ran a hand through his thick mop of hair and fixed Cruz with a flat stare. “I can be very persuasive.”
“You’ll have to be bulletproof and invisible, too.”
The assassin gave the slightest of smiles and returned his attention to the screen.
“I’ve been known to be both.”
Chapter 33
The skyscrapers along the Paseo de la Reforma gleamed in the midnight sky as El Rey made his way along the wide boulevard to the exclusive neighborhood Carla Vega called home, Cruz in the passenger seat beside him. A police car edged alongside at one of the intersection traffic lights, and he could feel the driver’s eyes burning into his profile as he waited for the green. El Rey wasn’t worried about being recognized – he had a get-out-of-jail card with the president’s signature on it – but the last thing he needed was to get into an altercation with a bored cop who didn’t like the look of his vehicle. The squad car surged ahead when the light turned green, and he let out a small breath of relief. There were both positives and negatives to driving a beater car, increased suspicion from law enforcement among the drawbacks.
The assassin turned down Vega’s street, which boasted a stately mansion on the corner, and rolled along at a moderate pace, already confident about where he would park to avoid attracting attention. He’d walked the neighborhood that early evening, wearing the expensive slacks and fashionable jacket of a wealthy Mexican, and had singled out a number of likely candidate spots near the woman’s home – one of a row of multimillion-dollar townhomes in the toniest area of the metropolis, home to captains of industry, politicians, celebrities, and successful criminals.
He pulled to the curb around the corner from Vega’s townhouse and turned to Cruz. “If all goes well, I should be in and out in half an hour. Get a taco over at one of the late night restaurants on the boulevard, and I’ll call you when I’m ready for a pickup.”
Cruz nodded, the burner cell phone the assassin had given him seeming to pulse in his shirt pocket. “Will do.”
El Rey got out, leaving the door open for Cruz, and hurried away, his all-black outfit blending with the shadows as he strode off. Cruz slid behind the wheel and adjusted the seat forward, then pulled away, eyes roving over the empty street.
El Rey slowed as he neared the townhouse next door to Vega’s and eyed the light on in the downstairs room of her residence – the area that would be occupied by her bodyguards, who, according to the CISEN report, were with her round the clock when she was in Mexico City. The security was purely for deterrent value – nobody had ever tried to break in – but as a high-profile celebrity living in a private home rather than one of the city’s numerous high-security condominium developments, it was a necessary evil.
He glanced at the security camera near Vega’s front entrance, trained on the four stairs leading to her front door and, after a final look around, moved to the wrought-iron gate of the adjacent townhome’s side yard and knelt, invisible in the dark, and picked the lock.
The heavy gate swung open with a soft groan, sounding like a wounded animal’s moan on the quiet street. He glanced around as he crept past the threshold, taking care to push the gate closed again so any passing patrols would see nothing amiss.
He knew from his study of the permits online that the property was undergoing renovation, a major job judging by the construction permit value. On his walk he’d seen the windows draped with protection, confirming that the owners weren’t in residence while it was being gutted. The small mountain of construction supplies in the walkway and the backyard confirmed his deduction, and he pushed past sawhorses and granite slabs and stacks of imported marble, pausing to grab a fourteen-foot ladder as he made his way to the rear entry. That lock proved harder to open than the gate, but he was shielded from view from the surrounding buildings by a high wall, so he had time.
When the tumblers clicked, he eased the door open, the ladder gripped in his right hand. His eyes rapidly adjusted to the complete darkness as he felt his way down the corridor to the stairs leading to the upper levels. He manhandled the ladder to the third floor and located the attic hatch and in a few minutes was on the roof.
The ladder bridged the ten-foot gap between the buildings with two feet to spare on either side. He’d guessed that the windows on Vega’s home would have contact alarms on the second and third floors, the street level protected with bars, but one of the constants of alarm companies was that they overlooked the roofs of anything over two stories out of a combination of laziness and to avoid false alarms from birds or maintenance headaches from the constant battering of the elements.
He looked across the gap and took a deep breath and then carefully inched along the ladder until he was on Vega’s roof. The good news was that the ladder w
as rigid even with his weight. The bad news was that with only two feet of overlap on either side, his margin of safety was slimmer than he’d have liked.
The roof door had no lock, and he swung it open, taking care to ease the hatch onto the concrete so as not to make any noise. The attic below was pitch black, and El Rey retrieved a penlight from his pocket and twisted it on. A gossamer haze of cobwebs streamed in all directions, and he picked up a curtain rod by his feet and swept them away. The hatch that led to the third floor was to his right and had a wooden ladder integrated into it that could be lowered like a fire escape for access to the roof.
He leaned over the door and studied the mechanism and then fished out a small can of oil, which he applied liberally to the rollers and hinges. Done, he lowered the hatch and fed out the ladder, which thankfully made little noise due to his precautions.
The master suite was on the second level, the third relegated to guest quarters, and he placed one quiet foot in front of the other as he inched to the stairs. The floors were travertine so he didn’t have to contend with wooden planks creaking, for which he was grateful. A quick inspection of the window at the end of the hall confirmed that there was a magnetic sensor on the frame, vindicating his decision to enter from the roof.
He paused at the top of the stairs and listened for any signs of movement below, and when he didn’t hear anything, he descended to the second floor. Vega’s door was at the end of the hall on his right, her rooms occupying most of the level, along with an en suite office and library. When he cracked it open and stepped through the gap, he found himself in a massive bedroom that even in the dim light from the windows he could see was as sumptuous as any five-star hotel.
Vega was asleep on a pedestal bed, and he froze as she stirred. She rolled over, away from him, her cream-colored satin top shimmering as she moved. He held still as her breathing returned to normal, and then moved toward the bed.
Her eyes bugged out as he clamped one hand over her mouth and pressed on a pressure point on her neck with his other. Her stifled scream was little more than a whimper before she lost consciousness, her brain temporarily starved of oxygen.
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