Vail turned away and continued her analysis. Nothing here that would indicate the owner was anything but a wealthy businessman.
She stepped into the spacious walk-in closet and stood there a moment, taking it in. Dark suits lined both sides of the room, the apparel evenly spaced on the bars. Highly polished shoes resting on an angled display stand. Cedar trees pressed inside each pair, keeping the leather age- and crease-free.
As she stood there, she asked herself, Who is Carlos Cortez? An organized, intelligent, mildly obsessive compulsive man. Does that help me? How?
In the center of the closet, a double rack held more meticulously arranged dress clothing—slacks, sport coats, shirts. Vail riffled through everything, looking for—what? She wasn’t sure.
She knelt down and spied the walls. No safes or hidden compartments she could see. Her entire time in the house, she hadn’t found one useful tidbit. No lead at all.
Dixon located her and stepped into the closet. “Well?”
“His mind is organized. Either he or his wife is into fine art, and they have good taste. He’s intelligent, detail-oriented. He enjoys the wealth he’s accumulated and doesn’t mind spending it.” She thought back to the photos she saw in the living room. “He’s got young children, and they’re important to him. He appears to have a circle of friends—” She stopped and locked on something. What is it? Something about the pictures.
Vail pushed past Dixon and headed downstairs, back into the living room, where Mann was sifting through items in a desk drawer and DeSantos was on his cell phone.
DeSantos covered the handset microphone with a couple of fingers. “I’ve got someone putting together a dossier on Cortez for us. NSA and CIA contacts, I’ve got them searching for any known cartel hideouts, family members, business associates . . . ” He watched her lift the framed photos, examining each one carefully. “Karen? What is it?”
Vail pulled her BlackBerry. She scanned through the call history. Shit. Not here. Dialed information. “I need the phone number for the Microsoft corporate campus.”
Dixon said, “What do you see?”
Vail handed her the framed photo. “Get the picture out of here. And keep your fingers off the surface.”
Dixon took it and flipped it over, then dug a fingernail into the brown paper backing.
“Yes,” Vail said, “please connect me.” She waited a moment while the phone rang, then said, “This is Karen Vail with the FBI. I need to talk with someone in the Office division; we’ve worked with a guy who handled security stuff.” She turned to Dixon. “The guy Eddie knew, the one who helped identify Mayfield—”
“Tómas,” Dixon said.
“His name’s Tómas,” Vail said into the phone.
“You think they can help us with this photo?” Dixon asked.
“Worth a shot.”
“No—no,” Vail said into the phone. “I can’t wait. Is there anyone else on his team I can talk with? I’ve got a picture of some violent criminals and I need to see if someone can tell me where it was taken. And I don’t have a lot of time.” She listened, then said, “Sure, that may work.” While on hold, Vail called Mann over.
“What’s up?”
Vail rotated the handset away from her mouth. “Those Mayfield photos you sent over to Microsoft. How did Tómas figure out where they were taken?”
“He said he analyzed stuff like textures, lines, vegetation, topography. Then he compared it to some database.”
Seconds later, a woman’s voice came on the line. “Athena Hu.”
Vail nodded at Mann, then turned her attention to the call. “Athena, this is Karen Vail, FBI. A few days ago we worked with a colleague of yours on a case, and I’ve got another photo here I think will give us some important clues as to where a kidnapped law enforcement officer’s being held. Your guy analyzed some photos based on textures, lines, vegetation, that sort of thing. He then compared that to some kind of database.”
“Sounds like he used the Flickr GPS-tagged database. Can you email me the photo?”
Vail took the picture from Dixon, who was holding it by the edges. “It’s not digital, but I guess I can have it scanned.”
“That’ll work. Make sure you scan it at a decent resolution.” She gave Vail the email address, and Vail gave Athena her contact info.
“As soon as you’ve got something—a man’s life depends on it.”
“Do my best.”
Vail disconnected the call, then spun around. Facing her were DeSantos and Mann.
“Can they help?” Mann asked.
“We need to get this photo to the DEA field division ASAP.” As Vail spoke, Turino walked through the door. “I assume you have a scanner at your office?”
Turino’s brow bunched. “We do. But why—”
“I’ll explain on the way over.”
On the ride back, Vail told Turino that cutting-edge digital photo analysis could determine where in the world a particular picture was taken. It was highly accurate—but a bit of a crapshoot on Vail’s part. The photo showed Cortez with two buddies mugging for the camera, Dos Equis bottles in their hands, shirts off, looking as if they were having a stellar time. But the background was what Vail was interested in. She would also send the image to the FBI for analysis of the other men in the photo in hopes that could generate other leads: known accomplices, people they could track down and interview.
They arrived at the San Diego field division, a modern three-story structure with a solitary American flag flying by its front entrance. Outside, there was no DEA sign proudly displayed, no seal or any indication that it was a building where vital government business was transacted.
Vail and the task force entered and passed through the X-ray scanner. They surrendered photo ID and were cleared to take the elevator up to the third floor. While waiting for the car to arrive, Vail noticed the sign on the wall behind the security guard: they were in the Enrique “Kiki” Camarena building.
Within minutes of entering the field division facility, Vail was in the command center, a cavernous room on the third floor replete with high-tech gadgetry: along the side walls were computer stations, while the front stage was fitted with an outsize rear projection screen, sliding white boards that rode in vertical side tracks, and a Windows PC designed to project PowerPoint presentations and pictures to those in attendance.
Vail set the photo down on the scanner and watched the bright white light pass beneath its surface, turning analog colored ink and paper to digital ones and zeroes. A moment later, the jpeg image was on its way to Athena Hu at Microsoft.
And then Vail was pacing the hall, like a 1950s expectant father waiting for word of his child’s birth.
But Vail was hoping for the birth of something far different: a lead they could pursue hard, and fast. Something that would bring her closer to finding Robby.
65
Robby awoke to the sickly sour scent of rotten eggs. Not rotten eggs—sulfur. Why? He didn’t know, and in his current state, it did not matter. He had greater concerns. But before he could consider those issues, he drifted off again.
Sometime later, Ernesto Escobar knelt in front of him. A large gleaming silver pistol with a diamond-encrusted handle caught a crack of light and sparkled off the black of Escobar’s eyes. His captor made an exaggerated point of displaying the handgun, its power inherent and unspoken, a method of control as effective as a set of handcuffs.
The naps had done Robby good. He glared at Escobar, a newfound defiance etched in the tight set of his jaw.
“You probably don’t know it,” Escobar said, “but you are a fortunate man. If it were up to me, you’d have been killed days ago. We usually behead traitors like you. Then we cut up your body and cook it in acid. I’ve done it in the reverse, too. Cook you in acid, then while you’re screaming in unbelievable pain, I slice off your head with a machete.”
Robby frowned. “I got what you meant when you said you’ve done it in reverse.”
“It’s cal
led levanton,” Escobar said, ignoring Robby’s comment. Apparently Escobar felt that using its official name would make it seem more real. He shifted his weight left and pulled a long, thick machete from a scabbard along his right thigh. The silver gleamed except for a red smear that coursed the blade.
Robby kept his face impassive, his gaze riveted to Escobar’s, refusing to direct his eyes to the weapon. He was not going to give his captor any ground in this escalating war of nerves.
Escobar leaned back, appraised Robby, and smiled. Then he pressed the knife’s edge against Robby’s cheek, brought it down swiftly and drew a bead of blood. “I’m looking forward to doing levanton on you.”
Although the pain was searingly sharp—the nerve endings in his face were already hypersensitive because of the beatings Escobar had inflicted—Robby did not flinch.
Escobar tilted his head, appraising his prisoner’s lack of response. His eyes narrowed, no doubt in frustration and anger. If there was one thing Robby was able to draw upon from all that Vail had taught him about psychopathic killers, it was the issue of control. And Robby was not going to accede any to Escobar by giving him the fear he expected and wanted—no, needed.
“Because of your attitude,” Escobar said, “I will do it in reverse. Cook you first, then cut off your head. What do you think?”
Robby grinned. The broadening of his face opened the cut wider, and the blood trickled across his lips, into his mouth. He licked it, brought his eyes level with Escobar’s, and said, “I think, Ernesto, that you are a coward who needs big guns and knives and whips to take me on. Because without all that, I’d wipe the walls with your pinche ass.” He made a quick move with his head toward Escobar, who recoiled. “So enjoy your advantage, asshole. Because to me, you’re just a piece of shit.”
Escobar looked down at his knife, tilted it, and examined it as if for the first time. “You think you are a brave man, talking like that. But we will see, won’t we? Because in the end, you’ll just be a pile of bleeding, burning flesh.”
“I may not survive to have my revenge,” Robby said. “But I guarantee my friends will hunt you down. And you will pay for whatever happens to me.”
Escobar laughed. “Your police buddies? I’m shivering in my boots, amigo. If that’s the best you’ve got, I’m disappointed.” He rose from his crouch, walked to the door, and knocked. “Coming out.”
It swung open and Escobar disappeared into the bright sky. The door slammed shut and Robby was, once again, alone. “Not just police,” he said under his breath. “Karen Vail. You know not the wrath you have wrought.”
66
The hour passed like honey dripping from a spoon. Outside, the sky was beginning the changeover to dusk. As the clock ticked beyond 6:00 PM, the fading light was yet another reminder that the day was coming to a close. Vail had made a point of perusing the wall displays in the command center, including the photo array and brass bust devoted to the revered and fallen DEA undercover agent, Kiki Camarena, the building’s namesake. Farther down was a depiction of the decals and logos of the eighteen state and federal agencies that served on the San Diego County narcotics task force.
As the room lights brightened and the sky shaded a deep steel blue, Vail walked into the next room over, the break room, where she grabbed—and downed—a can of Diet Coke. She then paced the hallway, where she fended off Dixon’s attempts to keep her mind focused on other matters. But Vail found it difficult to concentrate on anything other than Robby.
At some point, Mann had ventured downstairs and gotten a status report on the downed SWAT officers. They had suffered moderate concussions and one would likely have a temporary hearing deficit, but otherwise they would fully recover.
DeSantos, after talking with a number of agents and support personnel in the building, now had his sleeves rolled up and was huddled in the corner of the conference room. He seemed deeply committed to working his phone, trying to track down known associates who could provide a lead for them to pursue—some way of narrowing their search in a meaningful manner.
“I’ve left messages,” he told Vail. “We’ll see if anything comes of it.”
“Yeah, well, jury’s still out on the value of Sammy’s lead.”
DeSantos pushed the glasses up his perspiring nose. “You’re a tough person to please, Karen, you know that?”
Vail feigned surprise. “No, Hector, I’ve never been told that before.” A moment later, she apologized. Then she resumed pacing.
When Athena’s call vibrated her belt, Vail startled, then fumbled the BlackBerry as she attempted to answer it.
“Agent Vail, this is Athena from Microsoft. I’ve got some good news for you.”
“I can use some of that.”
“Can’t we all?”
Athena, you have no idea what I’ve been through.
“I’ve run the photo through that Flickr database,” Athena said, “as well as through some new image matching technology called robust hashing that we’ve developed. And I think I’ve got a hit for you.”
“What’s robust hashing?”
“Microsoft Research created it for our digital crimes unit to match up signatures, or hashes, in photos. It’s part of our PhotoDNA software, which we developed for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children to help them catch child pornographers. The idea is to match color grading variations between known and unknown photos using a mathematical algorithm. It codes the colorations across the unknown image to establish a specific signature that can then be matched against the signatures in a known database. I took your photo, applied the robust hashing, then cross-referenced that information with Flickr GPS data. And I’ve got something.”
Vail felt her respiratory rate drop precipitously. She wanted to speak but had to force air up through her lungs, scrape the words from her throat. “So where is he—I mean, where was the photo taken?”
“The picture appears to have been taken in a desolate area near San Diego, east of the Cleveland National Forest. Clover Creek, to be exact.”
Vail motioned to Dixon, whose attention had been roused by the phone call. Vail rotated the handset away from her mouth and said, “Clover Creek.”
“There are no maps in here.”
Vail’s eyes searched the room. “The PC,” she said. Dixon moved behind the podium and tapped the touchpad. The screen woke, displaying the Windows desktop. “Hang a second, Athena.” Vail dropped the BlackBerry from her face and walked into the back room, where the projection and audiovisual equipment was located. A technician stood there stacking digital media. “Can you turn on the projector? We need to find a map on the Internet.”
“Sure thing,” the woman said. She moved to a stack of electronic equipment, threw some switches, then followed Vail out to the podium. Dixon moved aside and watched as the woman opened Bing maps and pulled up the bird’s-eye view of San Diego. Behind her, on the large rear projection screen, the countryside appeared.
“Clover Creek,” Vail said to the technician.
The woman typed in the location, then rotated and zoomed, and Clover Creek appeared onscreen.
Vail brought the phone back to her mouth. “Okay, Athena. I see Clover Creek.”
“I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got. If you want, I can continue to work on it, see if there’s someone else here who can refine that a bit more.”
“I’d appreciate that. Anything breaks, call or text me. And thanks for your help.” Vail slipped her phone away while eying the map.
Dixon, who was still examining the region identified by Amanda Hu, pointed at the screen. “Look what we’ve got here.”
Vail stepped closer and the bold print nearly hit her like a poke in the eye: three Indian reservations—Mesa Grande, Los Coyotes, and Clover Creek. Given what Turino had told them about some reservations serving as drug trafficking portals, the text didn’t need to be highlighted. It jumped from the screen.
“Hey, look at this,” Dixon said to Mann and DeSantos, who were huddled a
gainst the far wall, looking at a display case of Challenge Cup trophies won by the field division.
Before they could move, the command center door swung open with a whisk of air. A clean-cut mid-forties man rushed in holding a sheaf of papers. “Which one of you is Agent Turino?”
“That’d be me,” Turino said from behind the man as he came through the door. “You are?”
“Jack Jordan, NTF. Narcotics task force. I’ve got something you people might be interested in.”
Vail’s heart rate ticked up a notch. “Rob—Roberto Hernandez?”
“No,” Jordan said. “But some definite activity in the area. It’s a bit of a long shot, but Agent DeSantos told us that if we came across something of interest, anything, you people’d want to know.”
“We’re scrambling for leads,” Dixon said. “We’ll look at anything you’ve got.”
Jordan slapped the bundle of papers in his hand. “When the economy tanked and the real estate market collapsed, the flood of foreclosures caused some unwanted side effects. Houses were left empty, abandoned by owners skipping out on their mortgage. Renters lost their jobs and moved out. Home builders suddenly had new houses they couldn’t sell. Bottom line, there are a lot of vacant homes. In some cases, large sections of communities are vacant or abandoned.”
“And an abandoned house anywhere near the border is a haven for illicit drug trafficking,” DeSantos said.
“Exactly.” Jordan stepped up to the map. “And illegal human trafficking. The illegals are smuggled across the border for a fee, usually around a grand, paid by family members in the U.S. But when the illegal gets here, the price jumps to five grand or more, and their loved one is basically held for ransom. The cartels, looking to expand their business model, got into human smuggling several months ago. It’s been a real big problem.”
“How do the houses play into this?” Dixon asked. “They hold the relative there while waiting for the ransom to be paid?”
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