by Fynn Perry
John now understood that Lazlo’s plan, at this stage, was simply to keep Hernandez out of action until the arraignment in order to further weaken El Gordito’s organization. However, keeping Hernandez locked up, awaiting trial, was looking increasingly unlikely given that sooner or later the inadmissible nature of Lazlo’s evidence against him would come to light.
Twenty-Four
At around 7:00 a.m., Daniel Lazlo got an unexpected call, waking him from a restless night of sleep. John caught up with him on the landing, outside his bedroom, to listen in.
“Dan, it’s Lee Chapman. I’m guessing you’re already up. I hope I haven’t caught you on vacation?”
“Lee! It’s been a while.” Lazlo’s tone wasn’t as welcoming as it might have been. “No, working as usual, same job, same shit! How’s it going at the FBI?”
John couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Lazlo has a contact at the FBI? And yet he isn’t using him?
“Got promoted last year. Now I’m leading a group of special agents,” Chapman boasted.
And a team leader? This just gets better! thought John.
“That’s great, and Teresa and the kids, all good?”
“We got divorced before the promotion. I guess being married to an FBI agent is hard.”
“Being married to anyone is hard,” Lazlo said knowingly. “What can I do for you?” he asked, starting to get impatient.
“There’s been a seizure of four hundred fake IDs at San Ysidro. A Mexican national was trying to get them through in a pickup truck.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” Lazlo replied, his annoyance starting to increase.
“Four hundred driving licenses, but only one hundred people pictured in them, meaning four fake identities, with different biographical data, per person. We’re running the photos through facial recognition. The true identities of the people shown in the photos are mostly New York City residents with no criminal record or just small misdemeanors and petty offenses to their name. Working and middle-class folks of all races. There seems to be no pattern other than they each have had the fake identities made for them.
“I still don’t get what this has to do with me. New York is full of ID scams,” Lazlo said, interrupting.
“This is not an amateur scam. These licenses are the best I have ever seen. They pass all the standard database checks and the quality of workmanship is outstanding. A highly professional job, probably done in China. I’m guessing we got lucky stopping one shipment of many that have already gotten through. That’s multiple identities for potentially thousands of people.” Chapman paused. “Dan, you know what that could mean, right?”
“I get it. Old-school money laundering on a massive scale,” Lazlo answered. “An army of people using fake identities to open numerous bank accounts, then deposit dirty money daily into them, below the ten-thousand-dollar laundering alert threshold, online and as walk-ins. We’re talking millions being washed,” Lazlo continued, his interest now piqued.
“Yes, and we think we know who they’re doing it for.” Chapman paused. “We got a facial recognition match on a couple of photos from the fake IDs that didn’t match the profile of the others: a drug dealer and a money launderer. Both are known to work with your man Miguel Vargas, Mr. Untouchable.”
“Not so untouchable now,” Lazlo corrected, “I’ve got one of his men under arrest for murder. It’s just a question of time before I bring him down, piece by piece.” His tone changed to one of warning as he added, “And I don’t need the FBI storming in and busting apart my hard work over some fake IDs that you think might be linked to Vargas.”
“You know as well as I do, if we can link the IDs to El Gordito it becomes a federal matter, Dan, and if El Gordito is operating across more than one state, it’s our jurisdiction.”
“Got it! I fucking understand what federal means, Lee,” said Lazlo in frustration. And he hung up. “Shit!”
John tried to process what he had just heard. Lazlo had clearly become too preoccupied with bringing down El Gordito on his own without anyone else interfering. Lazlo’s secret room, and the research on El Gordito that it contained, had initially seemed to John like a key asset in his quest to bring down Vargas, but now they seemed to be signs of a troubling obsession.
It was also clear that the FBI would only get involved when they could link the fake IDs to El Gordito, but that might take some time, particularly if Lazlo wasn’t going to cooperate because of an ego trip. Putting all this together, the conclusion was simple: John had to get the FBI involved in some other way—and he had to do it now. Lazlo’s plan to bring down El Gordito would take too long.
Lazlo arrived at the precinct, followed by John, an hour before Hernandez’s arraignment at 10:00 a.m.
Soon after, John heard the detective say to his colleagues that he was leaving for the courthouse. On his way out, John saw Lazlo stop by the captain’s office, but the captain seemed to be too involved with a call to want to talk to him.
John felt there was too much risk involved now in following Lazlo. He needed to think of a plan, rest, and recharge. And he also wanted to see Jennifer and her father again, to make sure they were OK. He considered a janitor’s cupboard to be safe, like the one he’d found at the hospital way back when all this began, so he found one in the main corridor, slipping through the door when he was sure he hadn’t been observed by any other spirits in the station.
As he crashed onto the floor, feeling increasingly exhausted, his thoughts turned again to Jennifer. If he was still capable of having a nightmare, it would be about losing her, about never being able to hold her, to kiss her––being destined to watch her grow old, never again able to experience the fragrant heat and softness of her body while his own mortal body withered.
When John awoke, he had no idea how much time had passed. But he found that Lazlo had returned from the arraignment and was sitting at his desk talking to Markle, who was sitting opposite at his own desk. John got the impression that they had already discussed the arraignment and he had missed it.
“Lazlo, you’re a goddamn liability most of the time but…” This was said in a thick Brooklyn accent belonging to one of the detectives in the bullpen, who had paused theatrically after walking up to Lazlo’s desk.
“But what?” Lazlo demanded defensively.
“But good work getting Hernandez sent down for trial, man! Arresting El Gordito and his men yesterday, just before the hearing into the health department’s closure of the clubs, was great timing!” The cop with the Brooklyn accent gave a throaty laugh, making his belly advance farther over his belt.
John swelled with optimism on hearing the news. El Gordito’s No. 2 would continue to be out of action.
“Yeah,” Lazlo acknowledged. “They had to move the hearing on the nightclub closures to this afternoon as El Gordito and his lawyer needed to be present for the arraignment this morning. I have the D.A. to thank for that. Every extra day of pain for El Gordito is worthwhile.” At which point he looked over at the stuffed head of El Gordito’s behatted, porcine namesake mounted on the wall.
“But all good things have to come to an end, my friend. My contact, who’s on the panel at the hearing, said they plan to change the hygiene rating from Grade C to a Grade B at the hearing today while the clubs work on the improvements. It means that they can soon re-open. The one time the health department gets enough violations to close El Gordito’s clubs, and that’s when the records go missing? Is there anyone here who doesn’t think El Gordito got to someone at the health department?”
The guy with the Brooklyn accent gave a knowing smile, shrugged, and went back to his desk.
Lazlo looked at Markle. “It had to happen, but it wouldn’t hurt to have the guys here on our side for once,” he said quietly.
“There was no way you could expect to keep the clubs closed for two weekends in a row. You managed one weekend, and you got his lieutenant put away. That has to hurt his delivery schedule and sales. He must be
pissing off some clients who he has every reason to not piss off.” Markle’s smile faded. “You know that El Gordito will focus all his blame on you?” he warned.
“I’ll be ready,” Lazlo said defiantly. His phone then rang and he answered it. “OK, I’ll be right there,” he said. He relayed the news to Markle. “There’s a homicide in Queens—looks like a drowning in a bathtub. I’ll see you later.”
John figured Lazlo had done all he could, for the time being, to weaken El Gordito’s operations. He didn’t have time to wait around and see if the setbacks would pressure El Gordito into making mistakes that were sufficiently serious to jeopardize his drug operations. Only through the catastrophic failure of those businesses, John believed, would he be rid of Santiago’s spirit and New York free of El Gordito. He had to make the errors happen now. He had to do something. Something that would make the Feds take notice and cause them to raid the fulfillment center and the port storage facility. After that and some further investigation, a raid of the medical research center was inevitable.
He pondered this further, looking for a way to achieve his aim. It seemed obvious that the drugs were most vulnerable to discovery during transit, and there was ample opportunity, as the fulfillment center in New Jersey was sending out many truckloads of appliances daily. After the raid by ICE, El Gordito would have been forced to hire new staff. With the replacement of so much labor, the operation would be running less smoothly, surely, and that, too, had to mean an opportunity for disruption.
John considered some ways in which he could cause an incident that would attract the attention of the FBI. The only thing he could think of was causing a truck to shed its cargo after leaving the fulfillment center in Newstone, on a highway in a state other than New Jersey, since offenses that crossed state lines were federal and automatically came under the jurisdiction of the FBI. As he considered this, Lazlo’s voice replayed inside his head: He’s not stupid, so he’s not going to pack drugs into every machine on the truck in case it gets stopped and checked…
Lazlo was right, and it meant John would have to ensure that all the contents spilled out of the truck. It would have to be one hell of an accident. It seemed to be the only way, and it could cost lives. Taking a bus to Newstone and then finding a ride to take him to the fulfillment center seemed like the easiest way to get there. It would also give him plenty of time to figure out how to avoid casualties.
John’s bus arrived at the Newstone Terminal in New Jersey after a two-hour journey from the Port Authority in Midtown Manhattan. Like most bus stations it was run-down and malodorous and situated in the poorer part of town where the wealthier classes rarely ventured. He noticed several homeless people sleeping on park benches, loitering gangs of teenagers, and many beggars. He had seen similar scenes in New York, but never on this scale in the mortal or spirit world.
He headed for a line of bus stops as quickly as he could, careful to avoid the marauding spirits of some gunshot and drug overdose victims. From the maps he had seen on Jennifer’s laptop, Bellevue Logistics Park, where El Gordito’s fulfillment center and his hidden drug operation were located, was close to Newstone’s northernmost city limits. It should therefore be accessible by bus, at least for most of the way. None of the timetables mentioned Bellevue Lane, which was the name of the street where Bellevue Logistics Park was located. As he looked at the schedule on the last timetable, he did, however, see the name Wiltshire Boulevard, which he remembered was the name of the street where he had left the truck driver he had possessed on his previous journey from the fulfillment center. Three routes had Wiltshire Boulevard as a stop. The next bus going that way was in ten minutes.
The faces of the passengers on the bus looked mostly tired, depressed, or desolate. Their eyes were resigned or vacant from drug abuse; some were scheming and duplicitous. The spirit passengers were a similar mix, with a couple of walking homicide victims. John had thought that Hamilton had been using journalistic license in exaggerating the desperation in Newstone, but from what John could see, he hadn’t been. People around here weren’t about to make a fuss over any illegal trade—they wanted to be part of it. With its corrupt administration and police force, Newstone was the perfect location for a large-scale drug business.
As soon as he saw a sign marking and a turning to Bellevue Logistics Park, John had jumped from the bus toward the trailer of a passing eighteen-wheeler, which he hoped was going in the right direction. Now lying on the floor of the empty trailer, after nearly falling underneath the vehicle in his attempt to haul himself into it, he figured he still had time to get some rest before the truck arrived at its destination. He was sure that he would need all his energy for later. The truck rumbled along and he fell asleep.
The sound of metal hitting metal roused him from his sleep. As soon as he opened his eyes and saw light pouring into the trailer, he realized one of the trailer’s curtain walls was being pulled back toward him. Lowering himself through the floor, he crouched in the gap between the underside of the trailer and the floor of a building.
He wasn’t in El Gordito’s fulfillment center. It was another warehouse. The racks weren’t bright orange or yellow in color, but were all a dull gray. He just hoped it was in Bellevue Logistics Park.
Warehouse workers were going about their business on forklifts or on foot, checking inventory. He scurried on all fours to the other side of the trailer. He couldn’t see anyone near the truck’s cab. Cautiously, he got out from under the trailer, turning to his left, toward the rear of the truck, where he could see into the warehouse. There was nobody close by, mortal or otherwise.
“Hello, John!” a voice said behind him.
John immediately spun around and saw the figure of a large man wearing a denim jacket, jeans, and square-toed boots. He looked hardened in both face and body, but it was the eyes that were most intimidating—they were glowing orange and staring at him.
John felt rooted to the spot, uncertain what to do. Had Santiago found him?
“Sleeping on the job, John?” the man said in a non-threatening tone, and a grin appeared.
This wasn’t what John had expected. He couldn’t help but look puzzled. Was this a trick?
The man continued. “It’s been fascinating following you!” His voice now changed, the baritone reduced to a softer tone, a more female one.
“You really are not having a boring afterlife...or is it a near-death experience? I guess we will have to wait and see.” At that point the man’s head started to faintly glow orange. The intensity of the glow gradually increased.
The face of the spirit within was about to show itself. First, the nose appeared, then the brow, chin, mouth and eyes. It was the face of a young woman—a roguishly attractive face that he had seen before. It was Nikki, the spirit girl who had explained The Game to him.
“You again?” John said with frustration. “What do you want from me?”
“I’m just checking up on you,” she said as her head disappeared back into her host.
“What’s the matter, are you bored with all the mayhem you create? Are ratings down?” John said crossly.
The host twitched a half-smile. “It’s good that you still have your sense of humor. Many lose it.”
“I can believe that. What do you want?” John pressed.
“So, you’re trying to get into the Supreme Logistics Fulfillment Center, where El Gordito is manufacturing drugs, right?” the female voice continued.
“How did you know?” asked John, taken aback.
“That doesn’t matter, John. What matters is that you’re now in an electrical goods warehouse on the other side of the same logistics park as the fulfillment center. Once this truck is loaded with appliances, it’s taking those white goods to his fulfillment center. It seems he has suffered a few setbacks with labor.” The host’s eyes flashed and gave a knowing smile before continuing. “And with demand for the pills increasing, he’s resorted to buying appliances from companies closer to his center, like this one, w
hich can deliver as soon as his new crew is ready for them.”
“So . . . you’re now helping me . . . to defeat Santiago’s spirit?” John stammered.
“Let’s just say your adventure has so far made an interesting little subplot which we want to conclude. Now, pay attention. This guy—my host—is your ride since he’s the truck driver,” she added as she stepped out of the man’s body. “Quick! he’s going to fall hard.”
The guy started to look disorientated and falter as her entire spirit form emerged. John rushed in to possess the man just as Nikki vacated him, making the host stand bolt upright. He regained his faculties just quickly enough to stick his hand out and grab the side of the truck to steady himself.
“Good save!” Nikki shouted enthusiastically. “Another hour and the truck will be stacked and ready to go.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said John.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she answered and disappeared through the trailer.
When the trailer’s cargo curtains had finally been pulled shut and strapped in place, just a few moments later, John’s host was handed some documents to sign.
As soon as they left the warehouse, John recognized that they were, as Nikki had said, already in Bellevue Logistics Park. The engine had hardly warmed when John saw the Supreme Logistics Fulfillment Center sign at the entranceway to the same large building he had seen before. There was a short queue of trucks, and not all the bays had trucks docked at them. Twenty minutes passed before the driver entered the delivery bay and was shown to an active dock.