Tenderloin (Abby Kane FBI Thriller)

by Ty Hutchinson

  “We’re hoping to get answers from the autopsy. If you didn’t already know, the medical examiner’s office in San Francisco is top notch. They’re one of the best. The body arrived here yesterday.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “This is moving fast.”

  “They lost an agent. They’re eager to get to the bottom of this. That’s why I’m putting you on this case.”

  “Wait, what? I know nothing about the drug cartels.”

  “You’ll have help,” he said. “You saw that body. It didn’t look human. We need to nip this in the bud, fast.”

  Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have a problem taking on a case like this, but the whole drug/South America thing threw me off balance.

  “There’s one more thing I should tell you, Agent,” Reilly said, shaking me from my thoughts. “There’s a witness, but it’s a little suspect.”

  I crinkled my nose. “Why?”

  Reilly scratched his forehead and then rubbed his chin. “Well, the witness mentioned the muerto viviente.”

  I raised my shoulders. I still had no idea what my boss was trying to tell me.

  “It’s Spanish for the living dead.”

  I threw my head back and let out a loud laugh. “You can’t be serious?”

  Reilly wasn’t smiling.

  “Wait… you know you’re talking about ‘zombies’, right?” I emphasized my question with air quotes.

  “I said it was suspect, didn’t I?”

  “So then why are we following this up?”

  “Zombie or not, we have a job to do. A DEA agent was killed. It’s our duty to help figure out who did it and bring them to justice. There’s a lot of pressure coming down the pipeline from above. I’m counting on you. I already got my supervisor making my job harder than it needs to be; I don’t want to give him any more reason to get up my ass. Got it?”

  “Do you have a file for me?”

  “I do. You can pick it up in Bogotá.”

  Chapter 7

  Before heading home, I stopped by the medical examiner’s office for a closer look at the body Reilly had showed me earlier. I hadn’t bought into the whole zombie thing yet, not sure I would. There had to be a reasonable explanation. The muerto viviente was nothing but old folklore.

  Even with my Chinese ancestry, I found it hard to believe. My people had more legends passed on from generation to generation than I cared to count. I should have been hooked by the living dead story, but I wasn’t. I didn’t believe any Chinese folklore, except for one: Ling Chi, death by one thousand cuts. Growing up, I thought it was a tale used to scare children into being good until I came across a victim who had suffered it—well, until I came across what was left of him.

  The Office of the Medical Examiner was located on Bryant Street inside the Hall of Justice. The trip here was a first for me, given that most of the cases I investigated were fraud related. Of course, that was by choice.

  While serving as chief inspector for the Hong Kong Police, I spent my days chasing serial killers and taking down gangs. During that time, I was in charge of the Organized Crime and Triad Bureau. Climbing the law enforcement ladder ended when my husband, Peng, was found murdered in his office. His sudden death was hard for me to accept. There I was, a hotshot inspector fighting crime, and I couldn’t even keep my own family safe. What did that say about me? I burnt myself out proving to all the naysayers that I could catch the killer. I never did. I knew that I needed to make a change. That’s when I quit, picked up the family and moved to San Francisco. Greener pastures, right?

  The examiner I was scheduled to meet with was Timothy Green. Reilly told me he was one of the better ones. “Extremely smart and known to be a big help in solving crimes,” he said. He also warned me that most deemed him to have an eccentric personality. Didn’t most San Franciscans?

  I took a seat in the cold yet functional space they called a waiting room. No magazines to read, so I counted my split ends and cursed that thirty-dollar bottle of shampoo the salon said would help. Add the humidity I’m about to face in Colombia, and I’ll have frizzies to contend with as well. Great. In the midst of my split end hunt, I heard the faintest of voices call out my name.

  “Agent Kane?”

  I quickly stood up only to face off with a man who stood no more than a half of an inch taller than me. Surely I looked like some starstruck fan; perhaps I was. At five-foot-one, I don’t often come across a man similar in height in the world of law enforcement.

  He stood there with a grin that climbed up higher on one side of his face. He wore frail, wire-framed spectacles I had thought only existed in Ben Franklin museum exhibits, but there they sat, balanced on his bony nose. His brown and bushy eyebrows matched his unkempt hair, and the diamond earring sparkling in his left ear told me he wasn’t your traditional pathologist.

  “I’m guessing you’re Timothy Green,” I said, offering my hand to him.

  He took my hand and shook it twice. “That I am. Could I get you something to drink? Coffee perhaps?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you.”

  “Well then, follow me, please.”

  Green turned around and led the way. His oversized lab coat fluttered behind him like an orthodox priest’s cassock. I couldn’t help but stare. We had practically the same body size and height. We could share clothes—t-shirts most likely.

  “Tell me, Agent: how much do you know about the victim’s death?” he asked without looking back.

  “I know he was beaten to death.”

  “Yes, that would be a way to describe it. The victim suffered severe blunt trauma to almost ninety percent of his body.”

  “You say that like it’s uncommon.”

  “It’s unusual in the sense that the person causing the trauma usually tires early on in the process.” Green stopped and turned back toward me. “It takes tremendous amounts of energy and time to beat a body.” He then opened a door next to us. “After you, Agent.”

  I entered the autopsy suite, and that distinct aroma immediately hit me. Green must have sensed my uneasiness because he held up a tiny bottle.

  “I prefer lemon oil, a little under your nose should do it.”

  I took him up on it and dabbed my finger above my lip. Ahhh, lemony fresh.

  Green led the way past six stainless steel tables that were spaced three feet apart. Four of them were occupied. We stopped in front of the last table, the only one with an uncovered body. It vaguely resembled the picture I saw back in Reilly’s office. “I almost don’t recognize it,” I said, my brows crinkling as I leaned in a bit for a closer look.

  “I’ve drained the fluids from the body. It helps with the swelling.” He moved to the other side of the table. “As you can see by the open cavity in the chest, I’m not finished.”

  No shit. “Anything you can tell me so far?”

  “I can confirm your assumption from earlier. I found no sharp force trauma or signs of a gunshot wound. What’s interesting, though, is the severity of the broken bones—like they were crushed,” Green said.

  “Crushed?”

  “Yes. Imagine if you had a bag of chips and you squeezed it tightly.” He emphasized his words by slowly balling his fists. “What’s left are tiny pieces. That’s essentially what happened to this man.”

  “Are you saying something crushed him?”

  “It would be the easiest way to do it, but that’s not the case here. Step around this way. You see this bruising? The pattern doesn’t follow that of a cylindrical object like a bat or a pipe, or a flatter object like the front of a car.”

  I watched Green snap on a glove and then place his fist right against the bruising—an exact match in shape.

  “Whoever did this had incredible strength and excellent conditioning. The contusions were all formed within close proximity in time, not over hours or days, giving one the option to rest. I’d say it all took place within minutes.”

  “These marks are all over the body.”

  “I’ve counte
d 250 so far.”

  I looked at the examiner. “Who would have this sort of strength and stamina?”

  “A boxer comes to mind.”

  Chapter 8

  I stood over my bed, sorting clothes and packing them into a suitcase. It had been a little over eight months since I had last been sent out of town for work, but Reilly was adamant my trip would be a fact-finding mission and not take longer than a week, a week and a half at the most. My orders were to gather information and help their investigation, not solve it for them.

  “Here you go, Mommy.” Lucy wanted to help me pack and placed my swimsuit in my suitcase.

  “No, Mommy won’t be swimming. It’s not that kind of a trip,” I said, removing the two-piece.

  “Do they have zoos? You can go to the zoo.”

  I smiled at Lucy. “Yes, they have zoos. Maybe I’ll have time to visit.”

  She beamed back at me. “And you can bring me a present.”

  “A present, huh? Only if you promise to be a good girl while Mommy is gone.” I pinched her nose before tickling her.

  She let out a loud shriek and twisted herself out of my grasp to catch her breath.

  Ryan peeked his head in. “Did you look at the camp information I gave you?”

  Shit! I had totally forgotten to go online and research the camp. What was I going to tell him? I didn’t want to lie, nor did I want to look like the bad mom. I’m trying to be the good mom here.

  “I’m sorry, Ryan. I still need to look at it.” I had cringed a tiny bit after saying that.

  Ryan let out a groan but stopped short of stomping the floor. “Abby, it’s going to be too late by the time you get back.”

  “No, it won’t,” I quickly said.

  “Yes it will. All my friends are going. I really want to go.”

  “Ryan, I promise you: I will look at the camp on the flight.”

  “And then what?”

  “Well, we’ll see.” Their summer break was fast approaching, and the first deadline for signing up had already past. Time was running out. I don’t know why I kept stalling. Of course it would be safe, and he would have fun. I could afford the price, so what was the hold up? If I’m being honest, I knew the answer: All I wanted was to bring the family closer, yet here he was trying to get away.

  Ryan had his head down while he kicked methodically at the carpet.

  Get over it, Abby. I cleared my throat to grab his attention. “All right, you can go.”

  Ryan’s eyes widened, and his torso straightened up. “I can?”

  “Yes. I’ll register you before I leave for the airport.”

  “Awesome! I can’t wait to tell my friends.” Ryan had disappeared before finishing his sentence. I didn’t hear a “thank you,” but I knew he was grateful. I caught Lucy’s eye; she had a large smile on her face.

  “Are you happy for your brother?”

  “Yes. Because now Ryan can’t hog the bathroom.”

  I smiled at my openly loyal child, my little shadow, always happy to help me with whatever I needed. When she’s a teen, she’ll hate me, but until then, I’ll enjoy her.

  Chapter 9

  Before leaving, I made good on my promise and registered Ryan for camp. I told him I should be back to see him off. My time in Bogotá, Colombia was short term, about a week. That seemed to make him happy.

  I arrived at El Dorado International Airport on United Airlines flight 1007 a little after 8:30 p.m. I was scheduled to meet my DEA contact, Special Agent Dominic Cabrera, at the baggage claim. I had brought a carry-on, so no bag to claim. On my way over to our meeting point, I passed a bevy of restaurants, and my stomach reminded me I needed food. Parts of the airport still held on to its fifties architecture, but when I reached baggage claim, it had clearly been renovated: lots of shiny metal, a current array of well-lit shops and a color palate that went beyond brown.

  The weather was warm and the humidity noticeable. Most of the people around me were dressed casually—lots of exposed skin hugging and kissing. No matter which direction I looked, I noticed people having intense conversations paired with wild hand movements. Surely not everyone was returning from a vacation with incredible stories to tell—such passion for everyday conversation.

  Reilly wasn’t able to pin down a picture of Cabrera for me, so I told him to let my contact know I would be wearing jeans, a blouse, and an Oakland A’s baseball cap.

  Outside of not knowing what he looked like, all Reilly could tell me was that he was known to be friendly and easy to work with. Shouldn’t everyone be that way? I continued to scan the crowd in hopes I would somehow be able to pick him out. I knew he had gotten to me first by the tap on my shoulder.

  I spun around and faced an Antonio Banderas look-alike—complete with the long, wavy hair—except Cabrera had broader shoulders and meatier arms. He smiled at me and extended his hand. “Agent Kane. I’m Special Agent Dominic Cabrera, but you may call me Dom. We’re not big on formalities down here.”

  I shook his hand and returned a smile. “If that’s how it works around here, you can call me Abby.”

  Cabrera and his team worked alongside Colombia’s law enforcement to curtail the drug trade. From my understanding, the DEA’s role in Bogotá was to gather and decipher intelligence.

  “You hungry?” he asked, rubbing what I could only imagine to be toned abs. “I know a great place where I can introduce you to some delicious Colombian fare.”

  I expected him to brief me on the case and then drop me off at my hotel, but when he mentioned dinner, I jumped at the opportunity. “Sure.”

  He grabbed my carry-on. “Follow me. My car’s parked outside.”

  “Is it only you? I mean, are there other agents here?”

  “Sorry, Abby. You’re stuck with me for now. Hopefully we’ll get along,” he said with a chuckle.

  We approached a large American car amongst a scattering of small two-seaters. “Maybe someone in your position should blend,” I said.

  “Not my style. This is a Dodge Dart. Chrysler had a plant here in Bogotá back in the sixties and seventies. It’s very reliable, which is important, plus it’s got a V8 under the hood that I tinkered with if you know what I mean.”

  “I know Chrysler very well.”

  “You own one?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  I didn’t feel the need to elaborate as he shook off my odd remark. He put my bag in the trunk and opened the passenger door for me. “Hurry. I’m hungry.”

  Rude and polite at the same time. How charming.

  After a ten-minute drive winding through narrow city streets, Cabrera parked his car on the sidewalk across from what I could only describe at best as a canteen.

  “This is what we call a típico restaurant. They serve traditional food and are all over the city, but this one is my favorite.”

  Inside there were maybe ten wooden tables with plastic covers substituting for cloth. I stepped carefully across the cracked tiled floor with the odd piece missing here and there. The place, surprisingly, had a lively crowd of people dining and talking. Speakers blaring Colombian music added to the party atmosphere. My eyes scanned the women in the crowd; they were all casually underdressed, so again, I fit in fine. I should have known better; Cabrera had on knee-length cargo shorts and a light blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up over his forearms.

  We moved around tables and avoided the fast-moving waitresses who shouted their orders into the kitchen instead of using a ticket. Cabrera directed me over to a small table near the back of the restaurant. “It’s quieter here. We’ll be able to talk.”

  No sooner had I sat than a woman, with ample bosom barely contained in a spaghetti-strap tank, stopped at our table. Her hips were wide, her stomach was flat as a board, and I couldn’t help but stare and wonder what I would look like with those curves. A closer look at the other waitresses, and I realized the look was a job requirement. I suddenly felt like a string bean and very out of place.

  Cabrera
rattled off something to the woman in Spanish. “I ordered for both of us. I hope you’re okay with it,” he said, smiling.

  “I’ll let you know after I’ve tried the food.”

  “Deal.”

  The woman returned and placed two open beer bottles in front of us.

  “It’s the local water.” He raised his bottle. “Here’s to fighting crime.”

  “Here, here,” I said. I watched him take a sip of his beer; his eyes never left me; even when he put his bottle down, he continued to smile my way. Not normal co-worker actions, but Reilly did say Cabrera was nice and easy to get along with. He sure was easy to look at. The dimples were a nice surprise in his otherwise rugged features. However, my mission there wasn’t to find a good time.

  “So, Abby, you’re here to help investigate the death of Agent Riggs.”

  “I thought everyone went by their first name here.”

  “We tried calling him Ferny, but it didn’t take.” Cabrera took another swig. “It’s unusual, this type of arrangement. I never heard of the FBI investigating DEA matters.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess it’s not often a DEA agent is found in that condition.”

  Cabrera lowered his head and nodded. He seemed to be bothered still by the death.

  “How long did you know him?” I asked.

  Cabrera’s eyes shot up, and his faced warmed a bit. “Not long, about three or four months. He was new to the team.” He wrapped both hands around his beer bottle and tilted it slowly, side to side. “We were all friends, so anything that happens to one of us affects the others.”

  “Being stationed in a foreign country, well, it’s natural to spend a lot of time together.”

  Cabrera laughed. “Sure, but I was born in Colombia. This is my home. I moved to the states when I was a teen to attend the university and then later joined the DEA. But I’m no gringo.”

  “Gringo?”

  “I have family here and roots here. I’m seen as a local. Agents that visit from time to time—they’re gringos.”

  “How many are there?”