by Marc Rainer
"I think so," Sam said. "Let me check to make sure." He pulled a small spiral notepad out of his pocket, and flipped page after page backward until he found the entry.
"Yeah. Same number. November twenty-fourth. Last year. Little guy driving a ton-and-a-half with Texas plates dropped his cell phone outside a convenience store. That's the number that was displayed on it. Like I said, that's the year—"
"Did you say a ton-and-a-half?" It was Trask's turn to cut McInnis off.
"Yeah. Texas plates. I ran 'em. No hit on the company it was registered to, but I remember it was located in Laredo."
"Light-colored cab?" Trask asked.
"Yep. We followed it to—"
"To The Dome Racquet Club?" Lynn interrupted.
"Are you guys all mind readers or something?" McInnis asked, exasperated.
A waitress showed up at the head of the table. "You folks ready to order?"
"Not yet," Trask said. "Give us about five minutes, okay?"
"Sure," she said, walking toward another table.
"Wait a minute," Doroz said, looking at Trask. "I know how Lynn knows about the phone number, but how do you know about the cab color—"
"On the truck?" Trask finished the question for him.
"See?" Randi patted McKinnis' arm. "They do it to each other, too."
"I've had a pole cam on the racquet club for a few weeks. I have a nice still shot of that truck from south Texas—a known supply route for the Zetas drug cartel and their China White heroin—leaving the joint. That is, if you'd like to see it."
"How the hell did you—"
"Get a pole cam up when you wouldn't authorize one, Bear?" Trask shrugged. "I have other contacts in law enforcement, some that are—"
"Some that are retired, I bet, and named Willie Sivella." Doroz shook his head. "I should have known that you wouldn't take 'No' for an answer."
"This is why I keep my mouth shut around them most of the time," Wisniewski said, looking knowingly at Officer Randi Rhodes. "I like to finish my own sentences." She giggled.
Oh my God. It's on for those two, Trask thought. He turned back to Doroz, not saying a word, but just raising his eyebrows. I'll hold onto the info from Luis Aguilar for a while; I don't have to play that card yet.
"Alright dammit. It's back on." Doroz threw his hands up in mock futility.
"Great." Trask nodded. "One thing we need to do is look at the records for that 1969 number and see who it might connect to in the Laredo area. That okay with you?"
"Makes sense," Doroz said, turning toward Lynn.
"I heard him," she said.
Trask motioned the waitress back over. "We're ready to order now, Miss. And the check goes to the gentleman at the head of the table who's shaking his head and frowning a lot."
5:30 p.m.
"So what songs were running through that crazy brain of yours at lunch today?" Lynn asked.
Trask steered the Jeep onto the Indianhead Highway, their first leg of the drive back toward Waldorf. "Let's see. Tim looks at Randi. That would have been "Infatuation" by Rod Stewart. Sam McInnis looks at Tim looking at Randi. That was The Gin Blossom's "Hey Jealousy."
"What about when you first saw Officer Randi Rhodes?"
"Silence is Golden."
"What?"
"It's an old song by The Tremeloes. Lots of falsetto. One of their biggest hits from the 1960s. I think 'Here Comes My Baby' was their other one."
"You're gonna get it when we get home, you know."
"I certainly hope so."
Hart Senate Office Building
Washington, D.C.
March 23, 2011, 1:45 p.m.
"Thank you for seeing me, Senator," Trask said. "I know I didn't give you much notice, but we've had some developments that I wanted to tell you about, and you asked to be kept current." He glanced at the chair to the side of Heidelberg's desk, noting that Senator Graves' schedule had to coincide closely with that of Senator Heidelberg's. These guys really must be joined at the hip. I wonder which one has the dirty pictures of the other one.
"Not a problem, Mr. Trask. What kind of developments?" Heidelberg crossed his arms and leaned back in the monstrous leather chair behind the desk.
"We've been able to identify both the Mexican drug cartel which is probably responsible for the China White coming into the District, and have made some significant progress identifying the local businessman who seems to be the local funnel for the drugs."
"Who's the businessman?" Graves asked.
"I'm sorry, Senator, but it's our department's policy not to provide names until after the suspects are charged." Trask gave Graves a warning glance. Don't think you can push me off of that square, Digger.
"Even to the families of the victims?" Heidelberg uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, his hands on the edge of his desk.
"To anyone, sir, including surviving family members. I'm sure you understand that some people might not be as controlled as yourself, and might try and take matters into their own hands, or could prematurely confront the suspects, all to the detriment of the investigation." My playing field, not yours.
"Do you have anything linking this businessman' as you call him to Janie?" Graves asked.
"Not yet. I'll make another appointment to let Senator Heidelberg know when and if that happens. Even at that point, I won't be able to provide an identity until we've charged him—or her. As soon as the indictment is unsealed, Janie's father will be the first person I notify." He's got the victim's notification rights here, Digger;you don't. Trask saw a long glance pass between Heidelberg and Graves, the latter breaking it off with a slight shrug.
"Very well, then," the older man said. "I'm glad you're making some progress, and am grateful for the update. Please call my secretary when you need to see us again."
"I'll certainly do that, Senator." Trask stood and made his way out of the office. "Us"not "me"If I need to speak to him without Digger in the room, how do I set that up?
FBI Field Office
Washington, D.C.
March 31, 2011, 3:12 p.m.
"All the Laredo calls from our 1969 phone—to our friend Adipietro—are from a damned prepaid cell. I couldn't get subscriber info on that Laredo phone if you gave me a subpoena and an IRS badge. The caller isn't using a credit card to put minutes on it, so we can't trace it through that, either. He's being careful." Lynn threw her arms up. "Sorry."
"You did what you could," Trask said. Maybe Luis will have a name for me soon.
"We could squeeze the driver," Carter suggested. "Grab him on the next trip in, catch him holding a load for delivery. If it's a substantial amount of heroin, he's looking at quite a bit of time to serve."
"A good idea, Dix, assuming we can stop him before he makes the drop," Trask said. "Since Bear has provided us with a spiffy new, real-time pole cam for surveillance of the racquet club, it's only a matter of monitoring it twenty-four-seven to make sure we're alerted, and then responding instantly to put the habeas grabbus on the truck driver and Adipietro when they're making the exchange."
"You know that's not likely," Doroz said. "Be glad you got your pole cam, Jeff. I have asked the security team to try and watch their monitor when we're not here—we have one monitor on the squad and they have one in the video room—but it's a crapshoot whether they'll spot it in real time, and a bigger problem to roll on it when we get the call."
"Dix, what about putting the word out on the western side of town to have the patrol units on the PD watch for the truck and give us a heads-up?" Trask asked.
"Your Metropolitan Police Department is ready to serve," Carter said, "but that's another crap shoot. We'd have to have the right car—with alert officers—in the right place at the right time. Couldn't really count on it."
"What about a tracker? A GPS unit?" Wisniewski offered. "Put one on the truck after it leaves the racquet club."
"Not a bad idea if it stops long enough and if we can get close to it without being seen," Doroz said. "If we ge
t enough notice to follow it—"
"Then we follow the damned thing, whether we get close enough for a GPS or not," Trask said.
"To where?" Doroz asked.
"Wherever." Trask leaned over the conference table. "Look. Odds are good, really good, that this isn't his only stop. He's probably got customers in other towns." At least that's what Luis tells me. "I know the new generation of federal agents wants to solve every crime from the comfort of their chair in front of a computer, but this is one time when we're probably going to have to do some old-fashioned police work."
"We?"Wisniewski asked. "You coming along on this joyride, Jeff?"
"Maybe I shoudn't," Trask said. "My credentials lose their authority at the District line. You guys, however, are all either federal agents or are federally deputized. You can follow this guy anywhere he goes in the country."
"We'll need several cars and drivers to avoid getting burned," Doroz mused. "The guys on our surveillance squad would like a road trip."
"So would I," Trask said. "I guess I am coming."
"What?! What about your credentials?" Lynn asked.
"Just an observer along for the ride, on his own time," Trask said.
"What about me?" she asked.
"Someone has to feed the pups."
"I've been to surveillance school," she protested. "You haven't."
"I'll just be a tourist," Trask said. "Not on duty, remember?"
"As if," she snorted.
"I like it," Doroz said. "Our own forward legal advisor. Mobile, hostile, agile, and lee-gile."
"Just have somebody watch the pole cam, and have the cars and drivers ready," Trask said. "Everybody keep a bag packed at the office, and pack Tim's GPS, too. When this guy stops for sleep, we might get our shot to put it on the truck. At any rate, Tim will get a change of diet."
"Huh?" Wisniewski looked confused.
"I just hear that you've been taking all of your meals—lunch and dinner anyway—at the FOP," Trask said. "Since you forgot to ask for Randi Rhodes' number, don't you think it would be easier to have Dix call her partner and get it for you? She might not eat there again for another month."
"Shit. Thanks, Dix," Wisniewski said.
"Just concerned about my young and foolish partner's nutritional habits," Carter said innocently.
Laredo, Texas
April 2, 2011, 6:15 p.m.
The broker waited on the porch as the truck made its way up the road to the ranch house. The little man pulled the ton-and-a-half to a stop in front of the house and jumped down from the cab.
"Any problems?" the broker asked him.
"Nahh. Everything routine. Piece of cake." The little man handed him the gym bag. "Money and receipts are inside."
"Gas still going up?"
"Still high. Especially in the northeast and upper Midwest."
"Come on in and we'll settle up."
The broker sat down behind his desk and began tallying the receipts on a calculator, turning over those he'd already processed and placing them into a new stack to his right. He paused for a moment, and retrieved one from the stack on the right. He held it up next to one he'd just picked from the unprocessed stack on the left.
"I have a question."
"Sure," the little man said. "What's up?"
"Come take a look at this."
The little man came around the desk to where the broker was seated, and started to look at the two receipts. The broker's right hand shot up and grabbed the driver by the collar, then jerked his head down violently, bouncing the man's head on the edge of the desk.
"Dammiti" the little man yelled. "What the h—"
The broker's fist slammed into the smaller man's left eye socket and sent him sprawling.
"You stupid, greedy little son-of-a-bitch," the broker growled. "You want to get us both killed? That rat-faced Zeta bastard I have to deal with has already been asking me about your gas charges, and I find out that you're double pumping receipts on me. Why the hell do you think I ask you to keep the damned things?"
"Shit," the driver said, rubbing his eye as he rose from the floor. "I take all the risks, and you just sit here—"
Another right cross sent the little man sprawling again.
"I just sit here?" the broker mocked him. "Those bastards woke me up with a damned gun in my face in my own bedroom. They know where I live, and it's only because of me that they don't know your name or where you live. Maybe I should tell 'em. Just show 'em the paper and let 'em take your sorry little ass with them. I'm sure they'd have a lot of fun with you."
"Alright, already. Sorry. You didn't have to beat the shit out of me. It was just a few bucks."
"More like seven hundred over the last few trips, you stupid little weasel. Hang around another hour and wait 'til Ramón gets here and you'll have more to bitch about than a couple of punches to the head."
"What do you want me to do?" The little man was shaking now. "I'm sorry."
The broker stared at him. "Just go. I'll pull the double receipts out so he doesn't come looking for your ass, and I'll deduct the seven hundred from your pay for this trip, and give it to the Zetas. Maybe they won't force me to give you up. If they do, you're a dead man, 'cause I'm not dying for you. Now get the hell out of here."
The little man scurried for the door. The broker followed and watched as the driver ran to his car and sped off up the half-mile road to the gate, leaving the ton-and-half parked by the ranch house. As the car neared the gate, it had to make room for a red Bronco that was entering the property.
The broker hurried back to his desk and finished totaling the receipts, checking to make sure that he pulled any that had the same dates and locations indicated on them. He was done before the knock on the door.
"I found our expense problem," he told Domínguez as he handed him the bag of cash. "My problem, actually. The driver I hired has been throwing extra gas receipts in with the real ones. I figure I owed you an extra seven hundred. It's in there with the rest of the money, and the expense receipts."
"How did you handle this problem, my friend?"
"I kicked his ass, Ramón. Hard. It won't happen again."
"He should be replaced."
"That's easier said than done. He knows all the routes and the customers, and they trust him. I don't think we'll have the problem again."
"I know we won't. I will trust your judgment for now. I'll see you in a couple of weeks. Continue to show me the receipts until I can be sure the problem has been taken care of."
"You'll get them, and the money will be right."
La Joya Ranch
San Fernando, Tamaulipas, Mexico
April 26, 2011, 9:17 a.m.
"The papers are already calling it the 'Second San Fernando Massacre.' For once, I have no disagreement with them." Torres led Aguilar from one excavated pit to another. "We located seventeen different burial sites, Major. A hundred and ninety-three bodies." Torres wiped his brow with a handkerchief. "It's good to have you back, sir. I just wish—"
"We had no advance warning this time," Aguilar said, waving aside Torres' concern. "My informant was in Colombia. The Zetas had sent him there to check on some opium crops, and he had no idea this was happening. He called me when he returned to Nuevo Laredo. What did the survivors tell you?"
"There were two survivors. One younger man, one woman. Their stories were consistent, both with each other and with the three Zetas who were willing to talk after we arrested them and applied some persuasion. The victims were on buses headed for Reynoso. The buses were diverted from the main road by Zetas who blocked the highway with SUVs. They were holding automatic weapons, probably assault rifles. They boarded the buses and forced the drivers to drive to the ranch here. The men were split into two groups. Those that appeared to be able-bodied were paired up and forced to fight to the death, gladiator style, using sledge hammers and machetes. The survivors were invited to join the Zetas. Those that agreed to do so were spared. Those that refused were shot."<
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"What about the others?"
"The older men and those who appeared to be sickly were bound and forced to lie on the roadway. A Zeta then held a gun to the bus driver's head and forced him to drive the bus over them. After he did so, he was shot as well. Some of the women suffered the same fate. The prettier ones were taken to some of the buildings where they were raped first. Then they were shot. One of our survivors was being kept by a Zeta for more abuse, but we found her before she was killed. The dead were pushed into these pits and covered up."
Aguilar shook his head. The smell of decomposing flesh still hung in the air even though the last of the bodies had been removed. "How many Zetas have you rounded up?"
"More than eighty." Torres looked at the ground before returning his gaze to Aguilar. "I have to confess something, Major. After first speaking to the witnesses, we were able to arrest about forty Zetas. They were spread throughout San Fernando, sleeping drunken thugs occupying deserted homes. I had our men form a circle, and I told the Zetas to pair up inside the circle. I had them strip naked, and told them that they were going to fight to the death with their bare hands, and that only the winners would be allowed to survive. I told them that the survivors would then have to rape each other, and that any who refused would be shot."
Aguilar stared at his subordinate. "Did that happen? Did you force them to kill and rape each other, Capitán Torres?"
Torres shook his head. "No sir. I fired one shot to command them to start fighting, but fired another and stopped it after a few seconds. I'm sorry, Major. I was blinded by anger, and just wanted those degenerates to experience some of the same terror they'd caused."
Aguilar nodded. "At least you stopped it before you completely lowered yourself to their level." He looked around at the pits, smelling the stench. "If I had been here a few days earlier, I might not have stopped it myself."
"It always seems to be San Fernando," Torres said.
"It's the roads, Torres. This is the transportation hub leading to Reynoso, and Reynoso is the gateway to Nuevo Laredo, the big prize. Control Nuevo Laredo and you control the drug routes in the east into the US. My man inside the Zetas told me he heard that Lazcano ordered the bus attacks because he found out that Chapo Guzman was bussing people into the area for reinforcements—trying to take back Nuevo Laredo from the Zetas. He ordered his second-in-command, the one they call El Ratón, to purge any buses carrying passengers who had cell phones with numbers linking them to Sinaloa or Michoacan."