by John R Cuneo
After doing the comparison, he’d found storage units in Phoenix, Flagstaff, New Mexico, and Texas that were owned by relatives and possible acquaintances of Salazar.
Agent Tygard looked at Detective Gore. “How did you make the connection to the storage units outside of Arizona?”
“I looked at the tax records from the Arizona facilities, and there were notes from the corporate meetings that showed ownerships in the other states,” Detective Gore said.
Agent Tygard sat up straight and fixed his attention to something outside.
“What’s wrong?” asked the detective.
After several quiet moments, Agent Tygard shook his head. “It all makes perfect sense. Salazar had been hiding all his cash in plain sight, and none of us thought that one man could be that smart. As far as the agency is concerned, the prevailing thought is that any money Salazar has taken in was somehow moved offshore to either the Cayman Islands or Switzerland—at least, that’s what the brainiacs back at the FBI have concluded.”
“If all this is true, then we need to completely rethink the investigation going forward. We need to stop thinking international drug cartel and start thinking like a local money launderer,” Detective Gore said.
As she stood in line waiting to pay for her orange juice and muffin at the FBI commissary, the very sexy Miss Fena LaStrange looked for a comfortable place to sit and enjoy her twenty-minute break. Unfortunately for Fena, she never really had any quiet time to herself during these breaks due to the fact that every young man who saw her tried to start up a conversation with her. Of course, she would, in her usual fashion, smile and brush them off.
The other female employees who saw her resented her overpowering sex appeal. The way she dressed accentuated her ample curves without revealing any skin. (To do so would be in violation of the FBI dress code.) But somehow, she exuded an aura of sexuality to the delight of every male employee that gazed upon her. Luckily for Fena, the only male she worked with was her supervisor, and he spent most of his day locked in his office, while the rest of her immediate coworkers were women at least fifteen years older than her, all of whom were married and career federal employees.
Before her scheduled breaks ended, Fena always made it a point to visit one of her security guard boy toys, finding an excuse to step into their office and give them a quick kiss while they in turn grabbed a handful of her tight butt. When returning to her work area, she would make the usual small talk with her fellow female coworkers, and while they talked about their husbands’ shortcomings or the mischief their children got into, Fena would talk about her studies at the university and how much she was learning.
Whether knowingly or not, the stories always hit a sour note with her coworkers. In their minds, the beautiful Fena would be moving on to bigger and better things as soon as her education was finished, and some of the women could easily envision Fena going to law school and perhaps someday coming back to the FBI as their boss. All the time the older women were outwardly pleasant to Fena, internally they were wishing it was them who had the youthful, sexy body and the chance to go to a prestigious university. Fena could see this in the eyes of several of her coworkers as they gazed past her. She could almost hear them thinking “If only I could do it again.”
In his office at the FBI facility in Phoenix, Agent Tygard’s staff briefed him on the latest intelligence about the disappearances of Nicholas Salazar and Mateo Mondaca.
“Our field agent in Los Angeles has confirmed José Vega has taken over the operations that Salazar held. We have documentation showing that records of ownership have been changed and indicate Mr. Vega is the sole owner of everything Salazar once owned.”
Agent Tygard asked, “Do we know who changed the ownership paperwork and all of the business licensing?”
“All of the licensing changed on the ninth of the month, and from what our field agent can find, the documentation on file with the city has been replaced with forgeries showing Vega has always been the legal owner of Salazar’s businesses and properties.”
Agent Tygard directed one of his men to go to Los Angeles. “Inspect the paperwork for yourself and get court orders authorizing us access to any security videos in the building. We need to find out who the son of a bitch was that did Vega’s dirty work for him, and as soon as we find out, we need to crawl up their ass and find out what they know.
“I want the rest of you to start looking into friends and family members of Salazar and Mondaca. Look at anyone that ever knew these guys, and make sure you’re quiet about it, because if these people even think we’re looking at them, then we could all end up dead.”
It was a windy afternoon in Washington, D.C., as Paul Rossi drove over to the address he had gathered from the employment application for Ms. Fena LaStrange. Finding a parking spot on the next block past the building, Paul walked back to the location, noting the entire area was extremely high rent. Unless she was sharing the apartment with a friend, how in the hell could she afford this place on a part-time government employee salary? Paul walked around the building, looking for any sign of security cameras, and made a mental note of all the access points to the building.
There was the main entrance, of course, but there was also a small loading-dock area in the rear and several emergency-exit doors on the sides of the building. Paul made his way into the main lobby and asked to speak with someone regarding renting an apartment. Shortly after making his inquiry, he was greeted by a well-dressed middle-aged man, who was the property manager.
“I understand you would like some information on possibly renting an apartment from us?” he said. “Yes, I would,” replied Paul. “I was referred to you by a friend of mine whose daughter is a tenant here.” “Oh, I see,” said the man. “Will you please step into my office so we can discuss it?”
The man directed Paul into a well-appointed office and asked him to take a seat. He presented Paul with a brochure that highlighted the amenities of the facility. They included a swimming pool, underground parking, health club, and twenty-four-hour security.
“You certainly have a beautiful building,” said Paul. “My only question is regarding rent.”
“Of course,” replied the man. “As with all the apartments in the neighborhood, the higher up in the building, the more expensive the rent. For example, from the fifth floor down to the second, the rent is $1,750 per month, and going up, rent increases an additional $600 to $800 per month, depending on the floor.”
“So,” said Paul “if I were to rent on the nineteenth floor, it would be approximately $2,600 per month. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s exactly right,” said the manager. “But I must tell you there is nothing available above the fourteenth floor. Every residence is occupied at this time.”
“Thank you. I’ll come back later when I have more time and fill out an application for residency,” Paul said.
“That would be wonderful,” said the manager. “By the way, I didn’t get your name.”
Paul looked at the man. “I’ll see you later.” He made his way out of the building and to his parked car. Paul knew he had to get a look at the apartment that Ms. LaStrange was renting, so he drove back to his office and changed his clothes, putting on a pair of dark-blue coveralls and a baseball-style cap with the insignia of a local utility company on it—something more appropriate for what he had in mind. He also went into his locked file cabinet and removed a badge with his photo on it stating he was an inspector from the utility company. Paul had done this many times in the past for his clients, and he had in his possession identity badges to just about every major company in the area. He was definitely a pro.
At the Washington, D.C., FBI building, as part of their duties, a security officer would check and inspect all the offices at random times of the day. On this day, the security officer was one of Fena’s boy toys. She had this young fellow so wrapped around her finger that he wou
ld do anything for her; once he’d gotten a taste of her luscious body, he was completely under her spell.
The officer’s first stop was at the office of the department manager. They talked for a moment, and then the officer made his way through the maze of cubicles until he was standing next to Fena.
The young officer looked at his clipboard. “May I see your security badge please?”
“Of course,” she replied, and, unpinning the badge from her blouse, handed it to him. She also rolled her chair back away from her desk and quietly raised the hem of her skirt high enough so that the young man could clearly see her panties.
The security officer’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, and it was all he could do to thank her.
“Oh, you’re very welcome,” said Fena. “Anytime.”
The security officer’s face was beet red at this point. He almost stumbled as he left her cubicle, and not wanting to stir suspicion, he stopped at one of Fena’s coworkers and asked for her badge as well. The security officer then departed the area and stopped at a drinking fountain for a cool drink of water, something he urgently needed.
In the parking lot behind Fena LaStrange’s apartment complex, Paul Rossi had gained access to the building through the loading dock access doors. He calmly walked up and showed his badge to the security guard, telling him he was there because one of the tenants had called reporting the smell of what could be leaking gas. The security guard quickly allowed Paul access to the building and offered his assistance, which Paul instantly refused.
“This is a routine call. I shouldn’t be very long. Thank you, though,” Paul said, and made his way into the building.
Entering the first available elevator, Paul went up to the floor that Fena resided on, and as part of his cover, he walked the entire length of the main hallway just in case he was spotted by one of the tenants on that floor. As Paul walked past Fena’s apartment, he was able to get a good look at the type of key required to gain access to it, and when he returned, he was ready to go into action. Paul glanced up and down the hallway one last time before taking the picklock he had in hand and, with great skill and precision, snapped the lock open and quickly entered the apartment.
He began looking for any type of security sensors that he might’ve tripped while opening the door. There weren’t any. Then he quickly made his way around the main living area, looking for cameras or recording devices hidden in books or furniture. Again, there weren’t any. Paul opened the refrigerator and inspected everything he could. He even conducted a careful inspection of the contents of the freezer. Again, nothing was found.
Off the living room was a small area with a desk and chair. He stood for a moment, observing the placement of the objects on top of the desk. Nothing seemed out of place or unusual to him. He then opened the drawers to the desk, going through neatly filed papers. The bottom right drawer he found locked, so once again using his picklock, he was able to quickly undo the lock and open the drawer.
At first, nothing seemed out of place. Paperwork for her utilities, rental agreement documents for the apartment, and then he found at the very back of the drawer a small metal box that was also locked. For a third time, Paul used his tools to pick the lock and opened the small metal box. Pay dirt, he thought.
In the box were copies of eight classified field reports from Arizona. There was also a handwritten letter that at first, he thought was written in Spanish, but the more he looked at it, the sooner he realized it was written in Portuguese. Paul remembered that the young lady’s place of birth was Brazil, and in Brazil, Portuguese was a common tongue.
Now, Paul was well-versed in a number of languages, and because he had done so much work in South and Central America, he knew Portuguese almost as well as he knew Spanish. With that knowledge, he was able to read the letter. While there were no signatures and no proper names mentioned, the letter did state that if she was able to supply him, whoever that was, with documentation from the FBI, then she would become a very rich woman.
Having read the letter, Paul put everything back as he’d found it, making sure to relock the metal box and the desk drawer. He then made his way into the bedroom and searched it thoroughly. He even looked under her mattress. Going into her closet, he noticed that in the far-right corner, there were several shoeboxes, one of which had fallen over.
This was enough to pique his interest, causing him to kneel down and move the boxes away from the carpet. There he found a large section of the carpeting was no longer tacked in place, and he quite easily lifted that section off the floor. She had done a poor job of replacing the floorboard; it was still raised about an eighth of an inch along the back wall. Paul removed the floorboard, finding in the hollowed-out space a folded brown paper bag.
His first instincts were to check the contents of the bag. But then he thought, if this woman has had any coaching or training in espionage, it could be her way of setting a trap for someone like me. He carefully replaced the floorboard, making sure it was raised along the back wall about an eighth of an inch. Then he put the carpet back and restacked the boxes just as he had found them including the one box that was tilted and lying on the floor.
Paul looks at his wristwatch and saw he had been in the apartment just over fourteen minutes. That was way too long, and he knew he had to leave, so he quickly reviewed the rooms as he moved through them, making sure nothing was out of place. Then, quietly opening the door, he exited the apartment, putting the lock back in the secure position. Making his way down the hallway to a stairwell, he went down several floors before going out into the main hallway, where he happened to encounter the same security guard that had let him into the building.
“So, there you are,” said the security guard. “I was wondering if you had gotten lost.”
“I got turned around somewhere on the fifth floor, and I hate to admit it, but I lost my way,” said Paul.
The security guard laughed. “It happens to everybody that visits this place. It took me six months to learn my way around before I was comfortable and not getting lost,” he said.
“Well, the good news is no gas leak,” Paul told the guard. “And I’m glad you’re here. Maybe you can show me how to get out of this place?” Both men laughed, and in short order, Paul was exiting the building out of the loading dock.
“Thanks for your help,” called the security guard. “Not a problem! That’s what we’re here for,” replied Paul, and he disappeared around the corner.
Once back in his parked car, Paul sat there, thinking he should do a little surveillance work. After all, he was already there, so he moved the car into a position where he could see anyone coming or going through the main entrance of the apartment complex. Noting the time, he calculated in his mind how long it would take Fena to leave work, get on the metro, and make her way home. If she didn’t stop anywhere, she could be here in the next fifteen minutes. After doing the calculations, Paul just sat back and waited.
There was no doubt in Paul’s mind that Fena LaStrange was the mole at the FBI. He also knew she had at least one powerful friend and ally because of the handwritten letter he had found in her room. In his mind, he remembered what he’d told Lank and Chuck: “We could be getting ourselves in some real deep shit here.”
We are indeed getting ourselves into something very deep.
As he watched the tenants coming and going from the apartment complex, he soon spotted Fena LaStrange casually walking to the front lobby doors of the high-rise apartment. Now that is what I call an eyeful.
Chapter 13
The Team
It was a quiet Wednesday evening when the telephone rang at Detective Adam Gore’s home.
“Hello, this is Detective Gore. How can I help you”? “It’s me,” Agent Tygard said.
“Hello, Lank. This is a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?” said Detective Gore.
“You need to take the ne
xt couple of days off,” said Agent Tygard. “Call in sick or take some vacation time. You and I need to go on a trip,”
After a moment of silence, Detective Gore said, “That’s not a problem. I’ll get in touch with my boss right away and tell them something came up and I have to be out of town. Will that work?” the detective asked.
“That’ll be fine,” said Agent Tygard. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at six. Have a bag packed and tell the wife you should be home for dinner on Sunday.”
“Okay, I’ll see you at six o’clock,” said the detective, ending the call. He contacted his boss at the Department of Public Safety to arrange for the rest of the week off. Detective Gore then went to his wife and told her he would be going out of town with Lank Tygard and should be returning before dinner on Sunday.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I really don’t know. Lank just said to pack a bag and that he will pick me up tomorrow morning at six o’clock. To be on the safe side, if anyone calls or comes looking for me, tell them I’ve gone fishing up north for a few days with a friend.”
His wife agreed, and after retrieving his suitcase, the two of them disappeared into the main bedroom to gather clothing for tomorrow’s trip.
At exactly 6 a.m., Agent Tygard pulled into the driveway of Detective Gore’s home. The detective was waiting just inside the front door with his wife, who walked onto the porch with her husband and gave him a goodbye hug and kiss. She waved to Lank, and he waved back. The detective put his suitcase into the back seat of the car, and then, after giving his wife one more wave goodbye, the two men drove down the street and out of sight. “Good morning,” Agent Tygard said to the younger man. “Good morning.”
