“¿Bueno?” the voice on the other end said.
“I’d like to order some bait,” she said in Spanish.
“Of course, señora. What kind would you like?”
“Minnows, please,” she said, indicating a semiautomatic handgun.
“What size container do you need?” the voice asked.
“A number nine should do it,” Leine replied, denoting a nine millimeter. “And could I also get a box of night crawlers?” One box of ammunition would be more than enough.
“No problem. Your order will be ready for you to pick up within the hour. Do you need this bait on ice?” On ice meant a suppressor.
“No, thank you. However it comes will be fine.”
The man on the phone gave her directions to the pickup location and ended the call. He didn’t ask for payment. Lou would have already taken care of that. Leine left immediately to make it to the drop before the delivery happened.
It was still dark, which suited Leine. She preferred darkness when dealing with activities the local authorities tended to frown upon. After a quick reconnaissance of the abandoned gas station parking lot, she continued behind the building and up a rise with a good visual of the drop site, and cut the lights.
Fifteen minutes went by before a late-model pickup pulled into the gas station and continued around to the back. Leine reached into her bag for a pair of night vision binoculars and trained them on the new arrival. A man carrying a package exited the truck and walked to a large metal barrel next to a tree. He looked behind him before placing the package inside and returning to the truck. A few minutes later, the pickup’s taillights blinked on, and the man drove out of the parking lot and back onto the highway, heading south.
Leine remained where she was another ten minutes, waiting to see if anyone else showed up. Once she was satisfied no one lurked in the shadows, she drove around and pulled into the gas station, continuing behind the hollowed-out structure to the rusty blue barrel. She parked and got out, scanning the area as she walked over to the drop.
The package was sitting on top of a cardboard box, a foot below the rim of the barrel. Leine picked it up and returned to her vehicle. The gun and a full magazine wrapped in dirty flannel had been stuffed inside a plastic grocery bag, along with a box of ammunition. Leine worked the slide and snapped the magazine into the grip. Everything worked the way it should. She looked at her watch. There was time before her meeting with Herrera to head out into the desert for target practice. She hated not having firsthand experience with a firearm that she might need to use.
After an hour of shooting an old beer can and satisfied with the accuracy of the gun, Leine pulled up next to Agent Herrera’s pickup in the parking lot of the Happy Cow restaurant. The place was closed up tight. She rolled her window down and he did the same.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Morning,” Leine replied. “Yours or mine?”
“I know the roads. How about you ride with me?”
Fifteen minutes later, they drove through the white arch and proceeded into the abandoned Vista del Mar housing project. The absence of streetlights and sidewalks and the crumbling shells of houses with weed-filled front yards should have been enough of a deterrent to anyone looking for a party.
They continued to the location shown on the map given to her by the ICE agents. Herrera shifted into park and killed the engine. They both got out and scanned the area. There was no indication that the police had even been there.
“This doesn’t look like a crime scene,” Leine said.
“No body, no car, no crime,” Herrera replied. “The guys from ICE already took photos and went over the area.” He looked around and shook his head. “Man, I got two teenagers at home in San Diego. I hope they’d know enough to turn around and get their asses back to a well-lit, populated place if they saw this instead of what they were expecting.”
“Promises of going to a party hosted by a celebrity tend to trump a lot of people’s common sense,” Leine said. “And it’s not just teenagers. I’ve seen adults go off the charts when it came to associating with the rich and famous.” Leine thought back to when she worked security for an A-list movie star in LA the previous summer. She’d balked at the sycophantic hangers-on surrounding him like so much confetti after a parade. She didn’t understand the allure.
“They found the phone over there, in the weeds.” Herrera pointed to the right side of the road.
“Then that’s where I’ll start.” Following a grid pattern, she methodically walked back and forth across the area, scanning the ground for anything the local police or ICE agents might have missed. Herrera did the same on the opposite side.
“The blood’s over here,” he called. Leine made a mental note of the section where she’d stopped and walked over to join Herrera. The dark patch was about two feet in diameter with a distinct footprint to the right of center. Herrera squatted to take a closer look.
“Whose footprint do you think that is?” Leine asked.
“My guess would be police.”
Leine gave him a sharp look. He glanced up at her, squinting against the sun. “Evidence gathering is kind of hit or miss in these parts.”
It didn’t matter. They’d have the results back from the lab soon, telling them whose blood it was. The suspects had likely covered their tracks by now. Leine hadn’t expected to find much.
They resumed searching on opposite sides of the road. They’d been at it for the better part of an hour when the sound of a car approaching brought them up short. They both turned as a dark blue Suburban with tinted windows and a shiny gold grill appeared, heading toward them.
“Who is it?” Leine asked, her voice low.
“Locals,” came Herrera’s clipped reply.
Leine wondered if the DEA agent was armed. By the way he was acting, this wasn’t a social visit. The semiautomatic resting at the small of her back eased her mind slightly.
The SUV slowed to a stop but continued to idle. Both the driver and passenger wore dark sunglasses. Leine couldn’t make out more than that through the windshield. Herrera stood next to his pickup, waiting for whoever was inside to make their presence known.
The driver cut the engine and the front doors slowly opened.
Chapter 13
The man in the passenger seat emerged first. Dressed head to toe in black, his Fu Manchu mustache and goatee gave him a mildly evil appearance, although a beer belly the size of the Bronx somewhat ruined the look.
Herrera turned toward him, hands at his sides where both men could see them. The driver hopped out of the jacked-up truck and stood near the golden front grill, leaving the door open. Several inches shorter and just as heavy as the other man, he wore a Hawaiian shirt, black jeans with spit-shined cowboy boots, a flashy watch, and a major attitude. Leine deepened her breathing in order to slow the adrenaline dump into her veins.
“Ignacio,” Herrera said, acknowledging Fu Manchu. Ignacio inclined his head but didn’t smile.
“Who’s your friend?” Ignacio asked, nodding at Leine. The driver leaned against the fender, silent.
“The parents of a missing girl hired her to investigate her disappearance.”
Ignacio’s lips curled into a smile. “An investigator, eh? Maybe she’ll want to investigate this.” He grabbed his crotch and leered.
Leine cocked her head but didn’t say anything, gauging the distance between them. The guy would be easy. Herrera could take out the driver. Plausible scenario, but she wasn’t excited about the fallout. When Ignacio didn’t get the reaction he was expecting, his mouth curved down into what could only be described as a pout.
“Our mutual friend is not happy,” he said, speaking to Herrera but still looking at Leine. “Just this morning he said to me, ‘Ignacio, you must be sure that this woman is escorted safely from our city. We wouldn’t want something terrible to happen to her while she is here.’” Ignacio removed his sunglasses and stared at Leine. His gaze held the hint of menace.
<
br /> “Tell our mutual friend that he has nothing to worry about,” Herrera replied. “As I said, she is here at the request of the parents of a missing teenager. Nothing more.”
“Why doesn’t she speak?” Ignacio asked, irritation apparent in his voice. “Doesn’t she understand Spanish?”
“I understand Spanish very well,” Leine answered. “I just didn’t feel the need to add to what he said.” Or antagonize an asshole who clearly doesn’t respect women, she thought.
“You are wise, señora.” Ignacio brushed his hand against his hip and briefly lifted his shirt, flashing the butt of a pistol.
“I hear the lines are very long at the border,” he said, watching her intently. “You may want to get there early so that you have no problems returning home.” He turned to Herrera with a smile and saluted. “Have a good day, my friend.”
Ignacio returned to the Suburban and climbed inside. His silent sidekick did the same. The driver revved the engine, turned the SUV around, and slowly drove away. Leine and Herrera watched them leave.
“Well, that was enjoyable,” Herrera said.
“I assume the mutual friend he referred to is Otero?”
Herrera nodded. “Yep.”
“You did say he’d have me watched. I’m surprised he sent someone to warn me away.”
“Me too.” Herrera frowned. “In fact, I’m more than surprised. Otero isn’t usually so ham-fisted.” He glanced at Leine. “Santa never did give me your background.”
Leine shrugged. “I worked security for a low-level diplomat for a few years, but that shouldn’t have raised any flags.” There was no way that Otero could have found any information about her previous profession. She’d had a friend in her old agency do a series of high-level background checks on her. Nothing had come up. At least that was one thing Eric hadn’t lied about. Her old boss had promised to scrub her past when she left the business. Apparently, he’d kept his promise.
“Obviously, Otero feels threatened by my presence. How far do you think I can push things without turning this into an international incident?”
“His sending Ignacio and his BFF tells me there’s more to the story. I’d watch your back from this point on.” Herrera scanned the development. “I think we’ve done all we can do here.”
Leine sighed. “I really hate it when someone threatens me.”
Herrera squinted at her. “Santa told me you had a rebellious streak. I’d be remiss if I didn’t strongly advise against antagonizing Felix Otero or Ignacio. But, you gotta do what you gotta do. Just don’t make my job harder, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.”
***
Herrera dropped Leine off at her vehicle with another admonishment that she take Ignacio’s warning seriously. She was taking it seriously, all right. But first, she had one more errand before she left Mexico.
She ordered two tacos from the now open restaurant and asked the woman making tortillas where she could find a hardware store. The woman gave her directions to one a few kilometers away. Leine thanked her and drove there as soon as she finished eating.
She picked out several meters of heavy rope, a pulley, some clips, a machete, and a pair of leather gloves, and paid at the front counter. Then, following the crude map Willy gave her, she drove to the place where his “friend” had purportedly driven the car over the cliff.
Six kilometers past the white house with the fence, Leine slowed as she came to an area missing several meters of metal barrier. The spot was remote, with no visible homes or businesses. She pulled over just beyond the break and parked. Grabbing the binoculars from her bag, she got out and walked to the edge of the road.
Steep and composed of heavily eroded soil with sparse vegetation sprinkled near the top of the cliff, the slope grew less severe approximately halfway down. A mixed palette of desert trees and shrubs partially obscured the bottom of the ravine. Leine scanned the slope for pieces of Porsche, but nothing stood out. She was about to chalk Willy’s story up to a lame attempt at a payoff when something far below in the dry brush caught her eye. She trained the binoculars on a small red patch of color between two straggly mesquites and zoomed in. In between the branches, she picked out a slim, metallic letter R resting against a red background.
Well, what do you know? Leine lowered the glasses and studied the area surrounding the ravine. A sturdy mesquite grew by the edge of the road near the terminus of the old, rusty barrier, half of its roots gripping the shoulder, the other half weaving their way into and out of the cliff face, seeking a stronger hold.
Leine walked back to the rental and stowed the binoculars in her bag, which she took with her to the rear of the SUV and placed in the cargo area. She grabbed the equipment she’d purchased, slid her phone into her back pocket, and shut and locked the door.
After looping the rope around the tree trunk, she threaded the other end through the pulley, making sure it was secure. Using the clips, she rigged a harness with the remaining line and tested the combination. Then she tied the machete to her back and slid on the leather gloves. She gripped the rope and stepped backward down the steep slope, allowing the line to slide through her gloves as she went.
Halfway into her descent, she stopped, gagging at the putrid stench filling the air. Leine pulled her T-shirt over her nose and took shallow breaths through her mouth. It didn’t do much to mask the nauseating odor.
Memories from a time in Morocco years before came flooding back. In search of a target she’d been sent to kill, Leine walked into an abandoned building and was greeted by the sickly sweet smell of a decomposing body. An unlucky associate of the intended target had been shot twice and left to die in the stifling room as a message to potential traitors. She never forgot the smell, like a month-old chicken carcass doused in maple syrup and left to rot in the sun, only worse.
Regretting the tacos she’d eaten earlier, she continued to pick her way down the cliff. A few yards further, the cliff face began to level out and she found the going easier. The closer she got to the Porsche, the thicker the brush and the stronger the smell.
The car had wedged itself at its widest point between two trees about a third of the way up from the bottom of the ravine. Shrubby vegetation blocked both doors. The windshield on the driver’s side had been smashed and the side mirror was missing. The front end, where the trunk was located, had buckled from the impact of the car’s journey down the cliff. Dozens of flies droned at the opening.
Leine untied the machete and brought it to the front. With one hand on the rope, she hacked at the brush near the passenger side with the other, clearing a path to the front of the car. The temperature in the canyon had spiked with the climbing sun. Leine wiped the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her arm between swipes with the machete. Due to the heat, the stench emanating from the trunk took on a more robust aroma and Leine finally gave in to her gag reflex. The tacos quickly became lunch for the local coyotes.
After several passes with the sharp blade, Leine cut through enough to allow her access to the trunk. She slid the machete behind her back and secured it before she let out more line, permitting her to climb onto the roof and slide over the right fender to the front of the car.
Leine gagged again from the intense odor, but she had nothing left to offer and dry heaved into a nearby jojoba bush. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and repositioned the T-shirt over her nose as she peered into the trunk. Unable to see into the shadowy recesses, she wound the rope around her leg, gripped the hood with both hands, and pushed. With a metallic screech, the trunk opened the rest of the way. Excited by the interruption, dozens of flies scattered and regrouped, buzzing her face and shoulders.
Oh, shit. Almost too late, she clamped her lips shut in case one flew into her mouth. Santa said it happened to him once, during an investigation, and she didn’t want the same experience. Breathing shallowly with her lips barely apart, Leine swatted the insects away and peered into the trunk.
The bloodied cor
pse laid on its side, missing a shirt, the skin dark and mottled. The body had ballooned from its decomposing gasses, resembling a freakish piñata. Maggots crawled around what was left of the face, making efficient work of cleaning flesh from bone, and something had gnawed at an arm. By the looks of the shoes and pants, hair, and body composition, the deceased was a male. Something else caught her eye, and she held her breath as she peered closer.
Blood had congealed along a jagged, six-inch gash on the corpse’s back, near where the right kidney would have been. She moved the body to get a better look at the rest of the back. A similar gash could be seen on the left.
Leine slipped her phone out of her back pocket and held it in front of her. Focusing on the body, she took several pictures from different angles, zeroing in on the gashes and the expensive clothing. Next she took a couple of wide shots of the car and the VIN tag on the dash. Gunderson or Nabokov could run the number to confirm the car’s registration.
She put her phone back in her pocket and closed the trunk as far as it would go to prevent access by the larger scavengers in the area. Then she made her way back to the passenger side.
The door initially wouldn’t open more than a few inches, having sustained damage during its trip down the cliff, but with dedicated effort she was able to widen the gap enough to squeeze inside. Still breathing shallowly, she rummaged through the console and dug behind the seats and under them, but came up with nothing. Leine sat in the passenger seat and studied the interior.
Her gaze drifted lower. Her foot rested on a bump in the floor, near the dash. Leine slid out of the seat and onto her knees outside the car and peeled the carpeting back. On the floor lay a hot pink iPhone. Leine picked it up and held it to the light. She hit the button to turn it on, but the battery was dead. The words Elise’s phone were prominently displayed in gold on the back.
Elise had been inside the car. Brittany’s story was beginning to look a lot more likely.
The Body Market: A Leine Basso Thriller Page 8