Vasquez removed a photo of the scientist from her briefcase and slid it across the table’s surface to Alton and Mallory.
A tall, thin man with a pencil mustache and serious countenance gazed into the camera. Salt-and-pepper hair and a spider web of creases around the man’s eyes suggested an age of mid-fifties.
“Dr. Oscar Salazar,” said Vasquez. “Age fifty-seven. He earned his doctorate degree in nineteen eighty-eight. He worked his way through Mexico’s university system, each time advancing to better jobs as a teacher and researcher. At the time of his death, his primary focus was on this Zapopan project. But he also served as a part-time professor at La Universidad De Guadalajara and guest lecturer throughout Mexico.”
“Make that throughout the world,” added Mura.
“Indeed,” said Cornick with a shake of his head. “His death is a blow to our team—a very great blow.”
“Why is that?” asked the normally reserved O’Neil.
“In a lot of ways, he was our compass,” said Cornick. “He kept us on track…motivated. To be honest, the dig isn’t the same without him.”
“Claro,” whispered Mura, almost to herself. She glanced up. “Yes, is very different now.”
“And from a more practical perspective,” said Cornick, “our funding is in danger. Remember Elias Tan mentioning earlier how Dr. Salazar excelled in soliciting financial assistance from the Mexican government? Well, he’s not here to do that anymore.”
“But you already have a ton of equipment in the cave,” pointed out Silva.
“Yes, but archeology is dirty work. Even with regular maintenance, our equipment breaks down all the time and must be either repaired or replaced. Dr. Salazar’s government connections kept the money for such work flowing in. Now…?” He shrugged.
“All the more reason to bring his killer to justice,” said Alton. “Did Dr. Salazar have any enemies?”
Cornick screwed up his face in concentration. “A few colleagues in Mexico City disagreed with his theory of the timing of Cortez’s northern march after conquering the Aztec capital. One of them, Melendez, even sent a few heated messages. But that’s normal behavior in our line of work. Nobody kills someone because they take a different slant on an academic topic.”
Vasquez turned towards the Blackwells, who sat together. “We’re looking into this Melendez, just in case.”
Mallory nodded. “What about the financial angle? Did any of the murder victims or Dr. Miller have any money troubles?”
“What kind of troubles?” asked Mura.
“Unpaid bills, people coming around to ask where they are, a gambling problem, an expensive boyfriend or girlfriend.”
“We checked into this,” said Vasquez. “We don’t see any problems with money.”
“Oscar—Dr. Salazar, I should say—did tell me he would be paying off his mortgage in three more years, but that’s good news, not bad,” said Cornick. “Ms. Grey said she had student loans, but I have no idea how much.”
“Again, not something that would cause financial troubles,” said Mallory. “At least not here in Mexico. As a student, she wouldn’t be required to start repaying them yet.”
“This is what our research showed,” said Vasquez. “As far as we know, none of them had any unpaid debts. Whatever led to their murders, I don’t think it was money.”
Cornick leaned back in his chair and exhaled. “You know, archeology involves drawing the right conclusions from disparate pieces of evidence. I like to flatter myself that I’ve grown pretty good at that skill over the years. But damned if I can figure out who’s behind these crimes.”
“It’s a puzzle,” said Alton. “And it’d be a lot for any one person to solve. But now we have more heads to put together. And Lieutenant Vasquez has clearly done some terrific work on the case. That reminds me…” He turned to the police woman. “Would you mind if I took home a copy of the case files for the three crimes?”
“You can access them online,” she replied, “but they’re in Spanish.”
“That’ll work.”
“You speak Spanish?”
“A little. I won’t win any prizes for my language skills, but I get by.”
Vasquez nodded. “Okay. I’ll text you the logon information. What’s your cellphone number?”
Alton passed along the information and turned to the rest of his team. “Let’s go back to the Hilton and grab some chow. We need to be ready to be back here tomorrow.”
“What’ll we be doing then?” asked Silva.
“Planning our next steps,” replied Alton, “and making sure Dr. Miller’s disappearance is the last crime against this team.”
CHAPTER 8
Down the street from the Zapopan Basilica, the investigators and Dr. Cornick gathered for an early lunch the next day. The restaurant’s colorful depictions of Mexican life on its walls and the lively reggaetón tunes pumping from corner speakers offered a strange contrast to the somber topic of their conversation.
Alton blew on a spoonful of pozole, a thick soup made with hominy, chicken, and a potpourri of spices. After taking a sip of the piping-hot liquid, he chased it with a gulp of Pacifico, a local beer.
“Did you have a chance to read my case notes?” Vasquez asked him.
“Yes,” he replied. “And I translated for Mallory, as best I could.”
“What’d you learn, boss?” asked David.
Alton paused to consider. “That the police follow-up was thorough. Mallory confirmed the forensic techniques looked spot on. And the notes of the follow-up interviews officers conducted with the victims’ work colleagues and relatives were consistent with our conversations yesterday. None of the victims had money issues or anyone with a personal vendetta against them—as far as anyone can tell.”
“Where does that leave us?” asked Silva.
“That’s the question of the hour,” said Mallory. “It’s great that Lieutenant Vasquez and her team have been so thorough, but it means there’s no obvious next step.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Vasquez, “and I have an idea.”
“Let’s hear it.”
The lieutenant cast her eyes to both sides to ensure the team’s privacy. No one sat within earshot of their long table. “We visited two tunnels yesterday, under two different churches. But there are dozens more, perhaps hundreds, running underneath this city’s ancient structures. Dr. Salazar and other archeologists have been researching these tunnels for years. He had been quoted as saying that many have not been discovered.”
“That’s right,” said Cornick.
“That’s cool,” said Silva. “But how does it help us?”
“I have a theory,” said Vasquez, “based on two different facts. One: Dr. Cornick said the people at the warehouse next to the Guadalajara Cathedral were threatening to Dr. Miller. Two: all seven of Mexico’s largest drug cartels run product through Guadalajara on its way up north. I’m not talking about small packages, either. I’m talking trucks full of illegal drugs. If you’re going to store so much illegal stuff, where would you put it?”
Mastana spoke up. “Maybe a warehouse that makes no money but yet has people working in it.”
“It could be,” said Vasquez, “but that’s a risky location. Put my two facts together. If you’re a narco—a drug runner—what other place would be a good hiding spot?”
“The tunnels,” said O’Neil. “The ones no one knows about.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Reminds me of how Al-Qaeda troops used to hole up in caves back in Afghanistan—only they hid themselves.”
“Exactly,” said Vasquez. “What if the cartels used one of these undiscovered tunnels to store their product? I can’t help but wonder if Dr. Miller and his crew ran across a shipment.”
“And were killed to ensure no one else knew about it,” finished Alton.
“That’s what I am thinking. So this morning, I checked on the background of Gustavo Cruz, el tiburón, the guy who owns the warehouse next door to the Gua
dalajara Cathedral. Remember I said he is suspected of drug running? Well, when I checked this morning, I discovered that three years ago, Cruz married Alicia López.”
Silva shrugged. “And…?”
“Alicia is the daughter of Ramón López, one of the northern leaders of the Sinaloa cartel, the most powerful drug organization in Mexico.”
“So Cruz joined this cartel by marrying into it?” said Alton.
“Yes. That is how this cartel stays so powerful. It doesn’t have one boss like the others. Instead, it’s more like a collection of many different groups that use blood and marriages to form alliances. You take out one boss or one regional group, it doesn’t hurt the cartel so much.”
Alton nodded. “Let’s suppose Cruz is part of the Sinaloa cartel. And he’s storing Sinaloa drugs bound for the U.S. in ancient tunnels. Everything’s great until Dr. Miller knocks and asks to borrow a wheelbarrow. Cruz does a little digging and discovers Miller is working the tunnels right across the street from the warehouse—probably close to where drugs are stored.”
For the first time since their meeting, Vasquez smiled. “You are thinking just like me.”
Alton paused while the waitress removed a few empty dishes from their table. “Miller and his team might not have even found a drug stash. They may have simply been close. And that was a risk Cruz couldn’t afford to take.”
“Could be. Why else would someone want to kill a bunch of archeologists?”
O’Neil set down his beer. “This theory explains why Dr. Miller was abducted, but what about the two that were murdered? How does that fit in? They weren’t even working at the Chapalas site.”
“Insurance,” said Mallory. “I see that kind of thing all the time in my FBI job—criminals intimidating or killing anyone who could testify against them.”
“So Cruz was afraid Miller talked with Salazar and Grey about drugs he’d discovered and killed them, too?”
“That’s the idea.”
“But why just those two?” pressed O’Neil. “I get that Salazar was one of the lead researchers, but why Grey? She was just a grad student.”
“Maybe they were the only two Cruz has been able to get to so far,” replied Mallory.
Cornick shuddered. “You’re saying the rest of us might have a bullseye on our back?”
“It’s a possibility we should consider.”
Deep in thought, Alton ran a hand through his hair. “The cartel angle seems like a solid line of investigation. But it’s not the only one. My gut tells me there’s more to be learned at the dig sites. We’ve just scratched the surface there—no pun intended.”
Vasquez bristled. “You think we didn’t—?”
Alton raised an interjecting palm. “Everything you’ve done so far is spot on. Now it’s time to take those investigations to the next level—more interviews with other team members, with neighbors, with local businesses, anyone who might be able to supply pieces to the puzzle. My only concern is that it’ll take a lot of time if we do all these tasks together as one team.”
“You want to split into two groups?” asked Vasquez.
“Yes. One group investigates Cruz and his cartel buddies. The other conducts the interviews I just described and follows up based on whatever they discover.”
“I will lead the cartel investigation,” said Vasquez. “You won’t get far if I don’t. I know the members of the Sinaloa cartel and the best ways to track them down. I’ll assign Sergeant Pineda to help with the other team.”
“Based on her FBI experience, Mallory should probably work the other team,” said Alton. “In fact, she should lead it.”
“You’re not going to lead it?” asked Mallory.
“I think I’ll be able to contribute more on the cartel investigation.” How to tell his wife he didn’t want her facing off with drug-running thugs? Yes, she was capable, but why put her in that kind of danger? “That means the dig-site group needs a lead. And you’re the most qualified.” He glanced at the rest of the group. “Unless anyone else has FBI experience and has made exploring ancient sites their hobby for the last six years.”
O’Neil flinched backwards in a hell no, not me gesture. The others acquiesced as well.
“All right,” said Mallory with a half-smile. “Sign me up.” Had she read her husband’s silent thoughts?
“What about the rest of us?” asked O’Neil.
“Good question,” replied Alton. “You and Silva both have combat experience. In case things get rough with the cartel members, I’d prefer to have you on Lieutenant Vasquez’s team with me.”
They nodded in assent.
“That reminds me…you asked about firearms yesterday. I have Heckler and Koch pistols in my truck for each of the official team members,” said Vasquez, smiling an apology towards Mastana, “along with temporary permits and extra ammo.”
“Cool,” said David.
Mastana cleared her throat. “When I found I was going on this trip, I did some reading to learn more about the Aztec civilization. Maybe I can help Mallory with the questions she will have for the archeologists.”
“Great,” said Mallory. “Why don’t you join my team?”
“I’ll be on your team, too,” said David. “I promised my wife I wouldn’t drag Mastana into the kinds of danger we ran into back in Australia. Best way to keep that promise is to stay close.”
Alton nodded. “Sounds good. And your Secret Service background is just what we need here to fulfill the second part of our mission: keeping Dr. Cornick’s team safe.”
David nodded but remained silent. No need to voice the concern he shared with Alton: with violent cartel members potentially gunning to take out the rest of Cornick’s team, the dig sites were anything but safe. Vasquez’s policemen seemed to be providing good security at both sites, but they couldn’t accompany each researcher every hour of the day. David and Mallory would need to call on every scrap of experience to keep the dig sites protected while continuing the investigation. The best protection would involve pushing forward until the criminals perpetrating these crimes were brought to justice.
CHAPTER 9
Alton had to hand it to Vasquez. The lieutenant wasted no time launching into her investigations of the drug cartel. Perhaps the discovery of Cruz’s Sinaloa connection had sparked her interest, like a wolf picking up the scent of blood.
She and the rest of the cartel team began with downtown’s Guadalajara Cathedral. She made her way around the plaza fronting the church, moving from business to business. She neglected no one. Whether a business had an established location or worked from a wheeled cart, it was subjected to the police woman’s questioning.
As expected, Vasquez spoke with the locals in Spanish. If she was making any effort to slow down the tempo of conversation for Alton’s benefit, he couldn’t detect it. He understood the majority of the conversations but experienced regular lapses in comprehension, too. O’Neil and Silva kept an eye on their surroundings.
After three hours of interviews, they bought coffee from a street vendor and took seats around a circular, wrought-iron table in the plaza near the cathedral. The play of water in the nearby fountain served to mask the sound of their conversation. A bright, yellow bird with green wings flitted onto the top of a vacant chair, looking for a handout.
Alton turned to Vasquez. “I’ve followed most of your conversations, but would you like to get Silva and O’Neil up to speed?”
“Hey, I understood it all,” said Silva with a devilish grin. “But Daniel—I mean O’Neil—didn’t.”
Alton recriminated himself. Based on her Puerto Rican background, of course Silva would speak Mexico’s native tongue. “My bad,” he said with a rueful shake of the head. “So, Lieutenant, care to debrief?”
“I am asking the business owners if they have seen any questionable activity, something that doesn’t look normal—packages being moved in and out, people they see regularly but who don’t work around here, things like that. And I am asking them if th
ey saw anyone being taken away against their will.”
“No luck?”
“No. I threatened them with the consequences of lying to the police, but everybody says they don’t know anything.”
“Do you think they’re telling the truth?” asked Alton.
Vasquez’s eyes took on a thoughtful look. “Hard to say. Some of them, definitely. Others…?”
“You think they’re hiding something?”
“I think so. But I can’t prove it.”
“Are they working with the cartel or afraid of it?” asked O’Neil.
“Afraid. What’s their reason to talk? It’s not like they’re going to get some reward. If the cartel finds out, anyone who talks won’t be alive for long.” She tipped back the last dregs of her coffee. “Let’s finish up here, then head over to Zapopan.”
Two hours later, Alton and the cartel team arrived at the Zapopan Basilica.
Winding their way through heavy folds of tarp on outside scaffolding, they entered the sanctuary and encountered Mallory and Cornick deep in conversation.
Alton debriefed Mallory on their earlier activities.
“Sounds a lot like our work,” she said. “We didn’t have much luck, either. But we’re not done yet. I heard about a guy who is president of the local business cooperative, kind of like our Better Business Bureau. Sounds like he’s pretty connected around here, the kind of guy who might know about shady activities in the area.” She glanced at her watch. “His son said he’d be back at six, so we were just getting ready to interview him. Want to come along?”
“Sure.”
“If you don’t mind,” said Cornick, “I’ll stay here. There’s always plenty to do.”
“Of course,” said Mallory.
Exiting the church, the investigators cut a straight path across the brick plaza until reaching a street blocked to vehicles. Restaurants and shops adorned by strings of white lights lined the road.
Mallory led the team to the entrance of El Escondite, a spacious restaurant sitting at the corner of the first intersection. Tables with Pacifico umbrellas blocked most of the view of a roof covered in Spanish clay tiles. The place had a comfortable, casual feel, offering an oasis of serenity from the brightly lit street and crowds of tourists which must be more prevalent at other times of the year. No wonder its name translated to The Hideout.
The Dig (The Blackwell Files Book 9) Page 4
