The Dig (The Blackwell Files Book 9)

by Steven F Freeman

  Mura tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and brushed the knees of her dungarees in a vain attempt to remove ground-in soil. Her countenance reflected none of the warmth of the bright April day. “I’ve talked to the police three times already. What do you want now?”

  “You said you’d do whatever you could to help us,” snapped Vasquez. “Now it’s too much trouble to talk one more time?”

  Mura lowered her gaze to the tabletop. When she raised it again, her eyes glistened. “Dr. Miller was a special man, almost like a father to me. Every day I miss him. It is already difficult to continue this work without him. When I speak of him so much, it’s more difficult.”

  “Ms. Mura,” said Alton. “We understand that Dr. Miller was threatened before he disappeared. We’re hoping to learn more about that incident.”

  Mura nodded. “I wasn’t there when it happened, but I remember that day. The axel on our wheelbarrow broke. Dr. Miller wanted to keep working. He is impatient like that…” She trailed off and cleared her throat before continuing. “He says, ‘There’s a big warehouse right across the street. They might have one we can use.’ I told him don’t go, that people say gangs use that building. But he didn’t want to wait for the new wheelbarrow to come. So he went there.” She pointed to a dilapidated building located across four lanes of traffic. “But he came back pretty soon.”

  “What did he say then?” pressed Alton.

  Mura’s face darkened. “He said a guard told him to leave or something bad might happen.”

  “‘Something bad might happen.’ Those were his exact words?”

  “Yes.”

  “So then he told Dr. Cornick about the incident?”

  “No. I told Dr. Cornick after Dr. Miller disappeared. Dr. Cornick said he had received the same warnings, only worse. The gang members knew he led both teams. They tell him they’ll kill anyone who comes to their property. And Dr. Miller…he didn’t want to say anything about it to anybody.”

  “Why?”

  Mura shifted in her seat. “He said raising a fuss would be more risky than staying quiet.”

  Vasquez frowned. “Did he say why he thought that?”

  “Yes. Like I said, he didn’t know Dr. Cornick had been threatened, too. He was afraid Dr. Cornick would go to the warehouse or maybe even the police.”

  “And why is that bad?”

  “He said he hasn’t seen any drugs and neither has anyone else. He said if the people who threatened him are gang members, they wouldn’t mess with us if we left them alone.”

  “Did he ever mention the idea that the gangs hid their drugs in the ancient tunnels?” asked Vasquez.

  “Yes, that same day. He wondered if that’s why they don’t want to help him—that they’re worried we’re going to find their hidden drugs. But he said that’s why we should stay quiet. He says the gangs won’t do anything to us unless we actually found a load of drugs and were dumb enough to move it.”

  Vasquez shook her head. “He doesn’t know the cartels like we do.”

  “There was another reason he stayed quiet,” said Mura. “He also said that as an American working on a Mexican site, he’s better off keeping a low profile. Relations between our countries aren’t so good right now. He say, ‘The way social media is these days, if someone here in Mexico decides to make a stink about my presence and it goes viral, I’ll have some tough sledding the rest of our time here.’ I didn’t know exactly what he meant by ‘tough sledding.’ I think it means a hard time.”

  Alton nodded.

  Mura continued. “Dr. Miller said it might be enough of a ‘political football’ that he’d have to leave. He loves this site. He’d do anything to keep working here.”

  Vasquez cocked her head. “Even if it means staying silent about threats?”

  “Yes. And at first, it worked. All this happened three months ago, back before the murders. I haven’t heard of anything about the gang members since then.”

  “Maybe you heard from them when your teammates were murdered and Dr. Miller disappeared. Maybe you just didn’t know it.”

  Mura teared up. “I think this all the time. I wish now we hadn’t stayed silent. Now it might be too late for Dr. Miller, too…”

  “I think this is a good time to talk to the people in the warehouse,” said Vasquez.

  “Ms. Mura’s statement about the threat against Dr. Miller is second-hand information,” said Alton. “Is that enough to get a warrant?”

  “Hard to say. Maybe we go over there and see how nice they are without one. One way or another, we need to have a talk with Gustavo Cruz—el tiburón.”

  CHAPTER 12

  With no more questions for Adriana Mura, Alton and Vasquez thanked the archeologist for her time.

  “De nada,” she said, standing to return to her work in the cathedral’s subterranean passages.

  Alton waited until Mura had traveled out of earshot before speaking. “I like your idea, but you said we’ll have only one chance to confront the gang members at the warehouse before they clam up. Are you sure this is the best time?”

  “I think so,” said Vasquez. Alton’s doubt must have been written on his face, for she continued. “The court system here…well, let me just say that if we submit a petition for a warrant to search the warehouse, Cruz will know about it a long time before we arrive.”

  “He’s paid someone off?”

  “The Sinaloa cartel has paid off many officials. It is one of the reasons they are so powerful.”

  “So we’re better off just showing up there,” concluded Alton.

  “Sí.” She turned to O’Neil and Silva. “If we bring too many people to the warehouse, the workers will be nervous. And we need someone to keep watch from outside and make sure they let us out. Why don’t you two keep watch from here in the plaza?”

  “Sounds good to me,” said O’Neil.

  Vasquez used her head to motion towards the warehouse. “Ready?”

  Alton stood and stretched his bad leg. “No time like the present.”

  Despite crossing at the corner streetlight, Alton considered the journey across four lanes of dense city traffic the most dangerous part of this investigation to date. His permanent limp didn’t improve his time across the busy intersection, either.

  Vasquez seemed unfazed. She had clearly unlocked the mystery of local traffic patterns, especially from a pedestrian’s point of view. Good thing one of them had.

  Reaching the other side in good health, the pair moved down the sidewalk towards their objective. In contrast to the grandeur of the gothic cathedral across the street, the warehouse sported faded images scarcely discernible through peeling paint; the wall depicted an assortment of industrial engines from a company that had long ago abandoned the building. A lone flagpole atop the building flew no banner, and a sagging main door and a row of grimy windows completed the desolate picture.

  Vasquez pressed a button at the building’s entrance, eliciting a buzzing sound from within. No one came, so she pressed the button again.

  She had opened her mouth to speak when the door creaked open.

  An early-twenties man with a buzz cut squinted into the bright sunlight. A once-white tank top hanging from his scrawny frame partially covered an Aztec war-bird tattoo on his neck. Baked-in grime on his face and arms suggested the man viewed bathing an optional activity.

  “Qué quieres?” he asked. “What do you want?”

  Vasquez held up her police badge and continued the conversation in Spanish. “We’re with the Health Inspectors’ Office. It’s time for your annual inspection.”

  The presumed gang banger rubbed his scalp. “What are you talking about?”

  “The annual exam of your facilities. Weren’t you here for it last year?”

  “No.”

  Vasquez shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter. We still need to perform the inspection.”

  The man hesitated a moment before breaking into a crooked grin. “Come on in. We got nothing to hide.”<
br />
  Alton had followed the conversation as best he could, a task rendered easier than usual due to the flunky’s limited vocabulary.

  He and Vasquez passed through the threshold and entered a vast warehouse. Remnants of old machinery littered an oil-stained, concrete floor punctuated with a regular pattern of load-bearing columns. Windows covered in decades of grime allowed sunlight to pass through only where they had been shattered. A row of offices with black paper plastered over their glass doors lined the back wall.

  The lieutenant pulled a spiral-bound notebook from her briefcase and flipped to an open page. She began to stroll around the perimeter of the room, examining it carefully. From time to time, she shook her head in mock concern.

  She finished at the back of the room with the offices, then scribbled more onto a blank page.

  “So did we pass?” asked the sneering gang member without the least trace of concern.

  Vasquez glared at the man. “It doesn’t look like you’ve made any improvements since last year’s inspection. We’ll need to speak with the owner.” She made a show of flipping through the spiral notebook. “Gustavo Cruz, right?”

  “He’s not here.”

  “When do you expect him back?”

  The gang member shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s off in the cenotes again. There’s no telling when he’ll be back.”

  “Cenotes?” asked Alton.

  The gang member’s eyes narrowed. “You a gringo?”

  “He’s training with me,” interjected Vasquez, “learning how we do it here.” She turned to Alton and continued. “Cenotes are flooded, underground caves—places where limestone collapsed and exposed the groundwater. They’re all located in the Yucatan Peninsula, same place as the tourist resorts, so they’re popular for boating and scuba-diving.”

  “Scuba-diving in caves? Sounds dangerous.”

  “It’s not so bad. I’ve done it a few times myself. It’s chevere—cool, you would say. You just have to keep track of where you are.” She turned back to the flunky. “You said he was in the cenotes again. He goes there a lot?”

  “Sí. He grew up in the Yucatan, so he goes whenever he has a chance. The flight there isn’t so long—only two hours.”

  “Do you know which cenote he visits?”

  “No,” said the man. “He don’t tell us. He just goes.”

  “Okay. Let him know we’ll return to discuss the…questionable state of his facilities, will you?”

  The man stared at her without responding.

  “We can find our way out,” said Alton, sensing the gang member’s patience wearing thin. He turned to Vasquez. “Let’s go.”

  In the bright sunlight on the sidewalk outside the warehouse, the duo began their return journey to the plaza.

  “Are you surprised he let us in?” asked Alton.

  “Yes,” said Vasquez. “They didn’t have any product on-site. It’s the only reason they’d allow any government official to enter without a warrant.”

  “That’s what I figured, too. And what better time to show the ‘health inspector’ they’re clean than when they’re between shipments.” Keeping one eye on careening cars flying through the upcoming crosswalk, he glanced at his partner. “Do you think our friend back there was telling the truth about Cruz visiting the cenotes?”

  “Probably. But we still have a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Cruz represents our best shot at finding Miller. But there’s a lot of cenotes. It’s going to be hard to find Cruz if we go from place to place looking for him.”

  “If we search at random, yes. But I have an idea for honing in on the right one.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Alton and Vasquez passed through the busy crosswalk and angled across the Guadalajara Cathedral’s plaza towards the police woman’s car, picking up O’Neil and Silva on the way.

  In a nearby gazebo, members of a Mariachi band in traditional black-and-white attire unpacked their instruments in front of a gathering crowd.

  Alton explained the outcome of the warehouse meeting to his comrades.

  “You said you had an idea for narrowing our search for the cenote Cruz is visiting,” said Vasquez. “Let’s hear it.”

  “You said all the cenotes are in the Yucatan Peninsula, right?” asked Alton.

  “Yes.”

  “In the U.S., cities that are far from snow have only a few shops that sell snow-skiing equipment. There isn’t enough local demand for that kind of specialized equipment in cities that aren’t located near the place you’d use it. The same is probably true here. Guadalajara is hours from the ocean on either coast, so you probably don’t have too many scuba shops around here, do you?”

  Vasquez smiled. “That’s right. We don’t. We’re too far inland to have many places selling the kind of equipment Cruz uses.”

  “Assuming he doesn’t buy his equipment at the Yucatan itself.” Alton pursed his lips. “A lot of people would rather use their vacation time having fun, not buying their gear. We’ll have to hope Cruz is one of those people.”

  Behind them, the Mariachi band began playing a lively tune for the festive onlookers—a positive omen, perhaps?

  “If we check those few scuba shops,” continued Alton, “maybe someone will know Cruz. And if they know him, there’s a chance they might even know where he likes to scuba dive. Guys with hobbies like that usually like to talk shop, especially with someone as knowledgeable as an equipment seller in the business.”

  “Yes, good idea,” said Vasquez, already Googling on her cellphone. “Proveedores de Aqua is the biggest one. Let’s start there.”

  Two scuba companies later, Alton’s enthusiasm for the idea had cooled off. Neither proprietor had heard of Gustavo Cruz or recognized the photo Vasquez produced on her cellphone.

  The four investigators stopped for an antidote against the sweltering heat.

  Alton sipped a Coke and let the drink’s cool tendrils work their way down his torso. “How many shops are left?”

  “Two,” replied Vasquez, “and I’m not sure the last one is still open for business.”

  “What’s the other one?”

  “Mundo del Buceo. It’s on the west side—actually not far from Cruz’s warehouse, but kind of upscale. Not the kind of place I’d expect him to go.”

  “Might as well check it out,” said Alton. “Maybe he has expensive tastes.”

  Like before, O’Neil and Silva posted themselves outside the scuba shop to prevent the investigators from being trapped inside. If any gang thugs were looking for a chance to jump the investigators, there was no point making the job too easy by allowing themselves to be trapped.

  A bell over the door tinkled as Alton pushed it open.

  Moderate lighting inside the dive shop provided a welcome contrast to the blinding sun outside. The pair made their way to the back of the building. The shop’s length doubled its width. Along the walls, glass cases displayed the latest high-end gear—with prices to match. This was no place for amateurs.

  At the back of the store, behind a case filled with regulators, depth meters, and other electronic diving gear, a bald man looked up. His tanned skin had the appearance of leather, evidence of years spent under the hot sun. He smiled, sending wrinkles branching out from the corners of his eyes.

  “Can I help you?” the shopkeeper asked in Spanish.

  “Yes,” replied Vasquez in English, showing her police badge. She withdrew the cellphone from her pocket and showed a photo of Cruz to the proprietor. “Do you recognize this man?”

  The shopkeeper’s eyes widened just a hair. “Gustavo Cruz. Sure, I know him.”

  Alton shot Vasquez a look. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  “How?” she asked.

  “He’s been coming in here for years.”

  “You’ve worked here that long?” asked Alton, a bit surprised the man spent that much time out of the sun.

  “Sí. I’m the owner of this place. I’ve been here all eleven
years it’s been open.” He leaned his arms on the glass countertop. “Señor Cruz is a good customer. He is very particular about his equipment. It has to be just right, or he won’t buy it.”

  “We heard he likes exploring underwater caves,” said Alton. “Has he mentioned that to you?”

  “Of course. That’s what he uses his equipment for—diving the cenotes.” He leaned over and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “A few months ago, he tell me about a new cavern, one he just discovered.”

  “I thought people found new ones all the time,” said Vasquez. “There’s hundreds of kilometers of underwater caves.”

  “Ah, but Señor Cruz told me he found a cavern with air, a big one. He said there were no signs of people going there before. That is not so common, I think.”

  “We heard he’s diving one of the cenotes this week. Do you have any idea which one that might be?”

  “Not for sure. He likes Dos Ojos and the one at LabnaHa, but I don’t know which one he’s visiting now.” He shrugged. “He could be at a whole different place for all I know.”

  Vasquez turned to Alton. “At least that narrows it down.”

  Alton nodded and turned back to the shopkeeper. “Does anyone go with Cruz on his dives?”

  The man broke into a leer. “Yeah, his ‘assistant,’ Señorita Garcia.”

  “You saying she’s more than an assistant?”

  “You saw the picture of Cruz. He ain’t much to look at. But Garcia…?” He emitted a long, low whistle. “A guy like Cruz isn’t going to hire a bella like that for her keyboarding skills.”

  “Any idea what her first name is?” asked Alton.

  “I don’t—wait. Yes, I do. Last time he was here, he called her ‘Veronica.’”

  “Do you know where can we find her?”

  “No. With Cruz, I guess. If you hired her, you wouldn’t let her out of your sight, either.” He broke into a laugh.

  “Thanks,” said Alton. He turned to Vasquez and looked the question. Anything else?

  Vasquez removed her business card from her wallet and slid it across the glass top of the display case. “If you see Cruz again, I’d appreciate a call.”