Requiem for the Assassin - 06

by Russell Blake

  “Now I’m killing your staff?”

  Rodriguez eyed him without blinking. “She’s dead. If the shoe fits.”

  “Let’s say I play nice. What would it take to prove what I’m saying is true?”

  “A confession would be nice. But barring that, a reason why Tovar, or his superior, or anyone, would want to run an op to execute an admiral, a media star, our top cop, a religious dignitary…and an actor. A celebrity foreign national, I might add.”

  “You forgot the pig farmer.”

  Rodriguez threw a black glare at him.

  El Rey stood. “I’m feeling generous, so I’ll let you live. Here’s what I’d suggest you do. Tap Tovar’s phone and his boss’s phone, and go through their bank records for any large deposits. You may not believe it, but you’ve got a serious problem. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do about getting proof. But you have the capacity to do a lot of the heavy lifting yourself, and despite your doubts about my veracity, you’d be well advised to do so.”

  Rodriguez considered for a moment. “I suppose there’s no harm in that.”

  “I’ll contact you when I have the proof,” El Rey said, moving to the window.

  “Knock next time. Try the front door.”

  El Rey stopped by the window. “If I find out you lied to me, you’ll never hear me next time.”

  Chapter 48

  Carla clomped down the stairs in her sweats and hiking boots and sat at the dining room table, where El Rey was working on his computer. She gave him a warm smile, and he stopped what he was doing, distracted by the beauty sitting across from him. He reached out, grabbed his water glass and took a long drink, and then raised one eyebrow in silent inquiry.

  “I’ve got more on the farmer,” she said, sounding pleased.

  “Really. Such as?”

  “I tracked down where the lawsuit he was involved in was filed, but it’s in La Paz,” she said.

  “In Baja.”

  “Correct. And of course, everything’s hard copy. Nothing’s in the computer. I don’t think they’ve even heard of computers there.”

  Cruz looked up from his position on the couch. “It’s an antiquated system. We have to struggle with it all the time when we try to get any info out of them. Like pulling teeth.”

  El Rey nodded. “Nobody’s in a hurry in Baja. I spent enough time there to know the drill.”

  “Right. Well, anyway, if I want to know what the suit is about, I have to get on a plane, go to the courthouse, and get a paper copy myself.”

  “You really think it’s worth it?” Cruz asked.

  “Do we have anything else to go on?” Carla fired back.

  El Rey smiled. “She has a point. The farmer’s a complete mystery, and the only thing he’s ever been involved in of any note is this suit. Other than that, he’s a zero.”

  Carla glanced at him briefly, acknowledging his support, and continued. “Look, we can safely assume that they want to get rid of me because I was poking around Perry and the admiral. When you told me about the administrative assistant that had been shot during a carjacking, it all fell into place. That was my cousin. She was the one passing me the leads. She obviously didn’t know what she’d gotten me into, or she would have never done it. As it was, it backfired and cost her her life.”

  “I’m sorry, Carla,” El Rey said, and Cruz thought he sounded like he meant it.

  “Thank you. Anyway, that’s the link between CISEN, me, and the men on the list. They put two and two together and figured out that I must have been getting tips from inside the agency. Which explains my presence on the list.”

  “But there’s still no explanation for me,” Cruz observed.

  “Or the farmer,” she said. “But we have the chance to discover what the suit was about, and that might point us in the right direction.” She looked at El Rey. “How long does it take to fly to La Paz?”

  “Couple of hours.”

  “When’s the next flight?”

  El Rey tapped the computer’s keys, stared at the screen, and looked at his watch. “There’s one at four.”

  “Which would put me there at…six. Too late to make it to the courthouse.”

  “Seven,” El Rey corrected. “They’re in a different time zone.”

  “What about first thing tomorrow morning?”

  “There are no first-thing flights. La Paz isn’t a big destination, so it looks like there’s the afternoon flight and a late morning one, but that would put us in too late, too. So we’d be better off spending the night and hitting it first thing in the morning.”

  Carla eyed the assassin. “We?”

  “Not to alarm you, but your name’s on that list, and given what we know, I think we can safely assume that CISEN has someone else working it. So anywhere you go outside of this house puts you at risk. Which means I need to go with you as backup, because if anything goes wrong and you’re recognized, you’re dead.”

  She looked at Cruz, who held up his hand. “Don’t ask me. I hate flying.”

  El Rey leaned forward. “This isn’t a negotiation. I agree it’s worth a trip. For both of us.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly.

  The matter decided, the assassin sat back. “You need ID to get on the plane. Do you have any that doesn’t say Carla Vega?”

  She brightened. “I actually do. A fake driver’s license I had made for one of my investigations. I needed to be undercover.”

  “Let me see it.”

  She ran up the stairs and returned shortly with the license in hand. El Rey looked over both sides of it and tossed it to Cruz, who examined it more carefully and then nodded. “Not bad,” he said. “That should work. Señorita…Constance Leon.”

  “Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?” she said.

  “Then it’s decided. We’ll fly out this afternoon and be at the courthouse when it opens,” El Rey said.

  “How are your wounds?” Carla asked.

  El Rey shrugged. “I heal fast.”

  “Still. Shot twice…”

  “I’ll book the tickets. You good for a ride to the airport?” the assassin asked Cruz, brushing off Carla’s sympathy.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Carla returned to her room to pack while El Rey made the reservations and searched for accommodations near the courthouse. He booked a decent-looking hotel and switched the computer off, stood stiffly, and joined Carla upstairs to pack his overnight bag.

  Cruz was tired when he returned to the house after dropping the pair at the airport. He’d slept uneasily, his dreams troubled by visions of his wife being thrown out of the condo by his enemies on the force. When he stepped across the threshold, he decided to take a nap – a time-honored tradition on his day off. And it certainly didn’t get much more off than hiding out in a slum with nothing to do.

  He opened a Modelo beer and drained it in four swallows, belched loudly, and shuffled to the sofa. Within minutes he was snoring loudly, his mouth open, one arm folded across his chest, the other dangling off the edge of the sofa, the overhead fan orbiting with a dull whir.

  He almost fell off the couch when he sat up abruptly forty-five minutes later, his eyes wide, his heart palpitating.

  “Damn. The archbishop. I knew I’d seen him somewhere,” he murmured. He forced himself up, swung his legs off the sofa, and went in search of his phone. When he found it, he called Briones.

  “Briones.”

  “Lieutenant, call me back at the number I gave you.” Cruz hung up. Five minutes later, the little cell buzzed like an angry wasp.

  Cruz didn’t waste time with preamble. “Briones, I need you to get a sketch artist as soon as possible.”

  “A sketch artist? Why?”

  “I interrupted a carjacking a few weeks ago. I didn’t think a lot of it until just now. But I think I know why I’m on the list.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “There were two people in the car. One of them is the new archbishop of Tijuana.
”

  “Who was the other person?” Briones asked, his voice quiet.

  “I don’t know. But what do you want to bet that meeting somehow jeopardized something – that nobody was supposed to see them together? It’s the only thing that makes sense. I have exactly no connection with anyone otherwise. That’s the only intersection with one of the victims.”

  “I’ll see how quickly I can get someone. Where do you want to do this?”

  “Has to be someplace quiet, where we won’t be disturbed. Hotel?”

  “Fine.” Briones mentioned a place near headquarters. “I’ll get a room.”

  “Great. Call when you know a time. Think you can come up with a mask for me to wear? We probably don’t want anyone from the department seeing my face.”

  “I’ll bring one of the assault team balaclavas.”

  “Leave it at the front desk in the name of Señor Terranova. I’ll pick it up.”

  “Perfect. Let me get working on this. It’s been hectic here. We’ve located the kidnappers, and we’re preparing to take them down.”

  “Congratulations! When?”

  “I’m waiting for the go-ahead from the brass, but if we get the okay, probably early in the morning.”

  “All right, then. I won’t keep you. Just let me know when to show up.”

  Chapter 49

  The hotel Briones had selected had a faux mission-style motif, walls sponge-painted bright oranges and yellows with wagon wheels and cow skulls adorning the walls. Cruz parked a block away and threaded his way through the rush-hour pedestrian traffic, the stream of humanity dense and determined to get home.

  A courteous young woman with her hair in a bun greeted him at the front desk and, after checking for a package, returned with a padded envelope. He thanked her and took the stairs to the second level as he opened the parcel and removed a black balaclava. He discarded the envelope in a trash bin at the end of the corridor and rolled the knit mask onto his head, wearing it like a sailor’s cap so as not to alarm any guests as he made his way to Briones’ room.

  Cruz neared the door and, after glancing in both directions, knocked and rolled the mask down over his face. Briones swung the door open moments later and gestured for him to enter. A heavy woman in her thirties wearing a mannish blue suit sat at a circular table at the far end of the suite, and Briones led Cruz to her and indicated a seat.

  Briones cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming, Señor X. This is Lorena, our top sketch artist. She’ll try to get the drawing as close as possible for us. Right, Lorena?”

  Lorena, who looked as though there were any of a thousand places she’d rather be at dinnertime than sitting in a hotel room with a masked mystery man, nodded demurely and flipped the cover page over, revealing a fresh sheet of paper.

  “Okay, Señor…X. Let’s start with the facial shape, shall we? Many find it’s easier to envision the face and give a good description if they close their eyes and imagine looking at the person like they’re watching a movie they paused. Just pick a time when you had a good look at him, pause it, and let’s begin.”

  Cruz nodded as Briones moved to the chair near the door and sat down, thumbing through emails on his phone as preparations for the warehouse assault escalated, and Cruz began the lengthy process of describing a man he’d seen for maybe thirty seconds several weeks earlier, under highly charged circumstances.

  An hour and a half later Lorena sat back, looking drained. “Is there anything that doesn’t seem right?”

  Cruz studied the finished drawing for several long beats. “No, that’s him. You got it perfectly. Even the eyebrows.” One of the man’s distinguishing features, besides his obviously dyed dark hair, were his eyebrows, also dyed, but bushy. Cruz eyed the portrait – this was a man whose power and arrogance showed through any civilized veneer he constructed. A man who would kill without hesitation or, rather, have his underlings do his dirty work while he sipped a martini.

  Briones thanked Lorena, who placed the drawing on the table, collected her purse and tablet and, after nodding to Señor X, hurried from the room. When the door had closed behind her, Cruz removed the balaclava and handed it to Briones and then rubbed a tired hand over his face. Briones pocketed the mask and examined the portrait.

  “I’ll take this and run it through that new software that the Americans sent us. It’s supposed to be good at getting closest matches to Identi-Kit drawings. No guarantees, but it’s a place to start. It’s a fairly unusual face, so hopefully that will narrow it down.”

  “We’re looking for someone with a lot of clout. Money or power, or both. You can discard any card sharks or burglars that come up.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get the assault team on deck and go over the plan. I got the go-ahead while you were giving her the description. We’re going in at five a.m.”

  “That’s great. I’m sorry to pull you away for this, but it’s obviously time sensitive.”

  “I understand. No problem at all. I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”

  “How long will it take?” Cruz asked.

  “No way of knowing, but I’d expect something by tomorrow. It has to be cropped and then scanned and then input correctly, and the person who knows how to do that well won’t be in until nine.” Briones paused. “My hunch is tomorrow afternoon if we’re lucky.”

  “So far that hasn’t been the case.”

  “Always a first time,” Briones said.

  Cruz stopped at a corner stand three blocks from the house to get asada tacos to go. He ate a lonely dinner of chewy beef at the dining room table, reading the newspaper as he washed his meal down with two beers, and then packed himself upstairs to sleep, tired from the alcohol and full stomach. He stood at the window, looking out at the harvest moon, and after a long pause lay on the bed and closed his eyes, for the first time in days satisfied that he’d done everything he could to return to the arms of the one he loved.

  Chapter 50

  La Paz, Baja California Sur, Mexico

  Carla met El Rey outside the hotel restaurant, where they had a quick breakfast before driving to the courthouse in their rental car. He’d disappeared the previous night for two hours, and when they’d met for seafood dinner across the street from the beach, he was armed – there was an infamous source for illegal goods in La Paz, an old man who could get any request filled in minutes, and he’d prevailed upon the arms dealer to sell him a Glock 9mm with two spare clips for only double the going rate in Mexico City.

  “That’s highway robbery,” the assassin had complained, inspecting the heavily used piece.

  “It’s inflation. Everything goes up each year.”

  “It looks like it went through the revolution.”

  The old man had shrugged pragmatically. “No extra charge for the historical value. You want it or not?”

  “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “It’s a dangerous world. A smart man is a prepared one.”

  The courthouse was a mile and a half from the bay. The heat and humidity were cloying as they walked from the parking lot to the main records building next to the courthouse. They pushed through the double doors and followed the signage to the main reference desk, where several bored clerks were attending to a large waiting room filled with attorneys and plaintiffs, all trying to get updates or documentation for their cases. Carla took a number, and they waited half an hour, and when it was called, a short man with salt-and-pepper hair and steel-rimmed spectacles greeted them with bored resignation.

  “We need to see the records for case A9-4721-2009, please,” El Rey said. “Arellano vs. Juvenetud.”

  The man scribbled the number on a scrap of paper and disappeared without a word, and they returned to their seats. Twenty minutes later, he reappeared and signaled to El Rey, who approached the desk while Carla remained seated.

  “We’re looking for the file. It wasn’t where it was supposed to be,” the clerk explained. “Are you sure t
hat’s the right case number?”

  El Rey repeated the number, and the clerk returned to the vaults. Almost an hour went by before they saw him again. When he emerged from the back, the assassin strode to the counter, where the man waited, ill at ease.

  “I’ve looked at all the places it might have been misfiled, but it’s not there. I’ll keep looking, but it’s going to take longer than usual. Perhaps you’d like to come back after lunch?”

  El Rey checked the time. “We really need the file. We’ll wait here. Are you sure you wrote the number down correctly?”

  The clerk held up the paper scrap nervously. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like I said, it isn’t there.”

  “Is that common? For an active court case to go missing?”

  “With a manual system, it’s not as uncommon as you’d think. All I can do is keep looking.”

  A tall man with a goatee neared, carrying an armload of folders. “Is there a problem, Ernesto?” he asked with a supervisorial air.

  “Misfile.”

  “What’s the case number?”

  El Rey repeated it, maintaining an even tone even as his annoyance with the incompetence and sloth of public sector employees grew. Their only job was to file and safeguard court documentation and retrieve it when asked. How hard could it honestly be?

  The goateed man glanced to the side. “Ah, yes. I remember that one. Title dispute, I think. Rather a thick one, which is why it impressed me.”

  “Title dispute?”

  “Yes. A large tract of land near Magdalena Bay. Someone from mainland claiming it didn’t really belong to the ejido – you know, the agricultural collective – due to a preexisting title grant from the Spanish governor. We don’t see many of those. Usually it’s a more recent title issue contesting the legitimacy of the transfer. This one caused a local stir, as I recall.”