Troubleshooter

by Gregg Hurwitz

  “They should file for hazardous-duty pay,” Bear said.

  Jan directed them to chairs and sat behind a metal desk. “It’s a brilliant plan they hit on—especially given the lead lining of tranport caskets. The only way to detect a drug packet in a corpse’s stomach is to open the casket, pull the body, and X-ray it. Which, as I said, we aren’t technically supposed to do.”

  “But you have,” Tim said.

  “Hell, yes. We spot-check. Now and again.”

  “Cargo from certain airlines and flights stands a higher likelihood of getting X-rayed?”

  Jan’s mouth arranged itself into a smirk. “Now, why would you say that?”

  “Are foreign carriers more thoroughly checked than American carriers?”

  “No, but yes.” Jan paused, hesitant. “You didn’t hear it here, but we might be more inclined to take extra precautions when it comes to foreign carriers. Suffice it to say, if a body’s coming in from Jakarta, it’s gonna get zapped.”

  “Racial airline profiling,” Guerrera said. “How quaint.”

  “Wait a minute,” Rich said. “Terrorists kamikaze four of our airplanes, and now you’re screening Aer Lingus. What’s that logic?”

  “Our airlines screen our own planes when they take off at any point in the world. For other planes that we can’t screen, we’re less concerned that people will blow them up than that they’ll smuggle something in. So we screen them on our end—for drugs and weapons.”

  Tim removed the sets of blank film from his pocket and dropped them on her desk. “That explains these.”

  She pulled out the black photographs and thumbed through them. “What’s with the Rothkos?”

  “My guess is they sent the film through with the bodies. Highspeed film, more sensitive to—”

  “Ionizing radiation.” Jan thumbed out the negatives and found the first two sets cloudy from the X-ray exposure. “These were foreign airlines?”

  “Yes. Mexicana and AeroMéxico. Villarosa and Andovar were X-rayed.”

  “But Sanchez?”

  “Flew the friendly skies with American,” Bear said.

  “That’s United,” Jan said.

  “What?”

  “The slogan. ‘Fly the friendly skies.’ That was United.”

  “Oh,” Bear said.

  Tim cut in: “They found their carrier route on their third try. American Airlines Flight 2453 into LAX—no X-ray.”

  Jan checked her monitor. “That flight’s slated for a nine A.M. arrival. From today on, we’ll be crawling all over it. And any other inbounds from the area.” She blew her bangs off her forehead. “There’s no way we catch this without your intel. When the dogs give their once-over, a decaying body loaded with formaldehyde would cover the scent pretty good. No way they’d hit on heroin inside a corpse.”

  “AT gives off a strong scent,” Rich said. “They had to come up with something strong to overlay it.”

  Jan said, “Nearest international airport down there is … what? San José del Cabo? You alert Mexican Customs?”

  “Yes,” Rich said. “President Fox made a round of bullshit reforms, but there’s still so much goddamn corruption at the ports it’s hard to tighten up down there. You know what they say—Con dinero, baila el perro.”

  “I didn’t know they said that. Live and learn.” Jan said it without looking at him. “How are they getting the drugs into the stomachs?”

  “We haven’t figured that out yet,” Tim said. “But we’re assuming in some way that gives no overt indication that the bodies have been altered.”

  “Right, so even if a dog gets a soft hit and we take a closer look, run a hand along the coffin lining, peek under a blouse, everything’s copasetic. No Y-pluck, no stitching. Lowers the odds that we’ll yank the body out of there for an X-ray, especially if it’s riding a domestic carrier.”

  “Maybe they force the victims to swallow a drug packet before they’re killed,” Guerrera offered.

  “Either way,” Bear said, “someone’s getting paid to prep the bodies on that end.”

  “What do you have in the way of a paper trail?” Tim asked. “What’s required to ship in a body?”

  As Jan dug in her file drawer, Tim’s eyes pulled to the photo of her newborn on the empty bookshelf behind her. She followed his gaze when she came up for air.

  “Congratulations, Jan,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve talked since …”

  “Thank you.” Her face softened. “I’m sorry about Dray. I didn’t bring it up because … you know. You holding up?”

  Tim sensed Rich’s stare and felt his face get hot. “Holding up.”

  Jan plunged into the paperwork. “Lead-lined coffin, proof of grounds of burial or place for cremation, passport, two certified copies of the death certificate, a letter on funeral-home stationery describing the preparation and treatment of the remains signed by the embalmer and notarized, a letter from the local health department verifying the absence of any contagion.”

  “And where are the caskets received on this end?”

  “A standard holding area. Nothing unusual there. If it’s going straight to a service, the mortuary usually sends a hearse or van for the pickup.”

  “Can we get copies of all the paperwork from our three victims?”

  “Absolutely. We’re a bit of a mess here, but I should be able to pull it together in a few hours. What?”

  “We might not have a few hours.”

  “Then I’ll do it quicker.”

  “Thank you, Jan. We’re gonna get you a joint Service-FBI team in here.”

  Jan drew her head back, wrinkling her chin. “Jesus. Really? You want to give me the full story now, Rack?”

  Because the al-Fath angle was under FBI jurisdiction, Tim deferred to Rich, who scrunched up his face in an expression that was almost endearing and shook his head.

  “Sorry, Jan,” Tim said. “I’ll tell you in a few weeks over a drink.”

  “The sound of this,” Jan said, “we might not be around in a few weeks.”

  44

  Tim’s Explorer followed Bear’s Ram, Rich fiddling with the radio like a teenager. AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” seemed to please him. He rocked for a while, scratching the slope of skin that formed his weak chin.

  They twisted up Century Boulevard, leaving the rumble of LAX behind. At the Sepulveda intersection, fifteen glowing pylons built of steel and frosted glass sculpted a gateway to the airport. Each piece of the installation, illuminated internally by color-changing fixtures, rose a hundred feet out of the landscaping. The pylons strode down the lawned median of Century, descending to mimic an aircraft’s landing or, from the other direction, ascending in symbolic takeoff. Tim watched the monoliths morph from lavender to emerald. Because of its chameleon effect, the mile-long lightwork had been dubbed “Psychedelic Stonehenge” by locals. Mayor Riordan had flipped the ceremonial switch in 2000, and ever since, the $112 million piece of marketing had greeted arrivals to L.A. The pylons had a quality that was quixotic, lavish, and seductive, much like the city itself.

  Dray had once likened them to glowing tampons.

  Tim’s lips pursed at the memory. Dray had been in the ICU for three days now. And every day she remained under, the doctor had warned, the odds diminished for a viable return. The last three days had been nearly unbearable without her. He couldn’t imagine another fifty years.

  The lights transformed to a vivid orange—the same shade the sun turned the smog at dusk, making the lung-cancer risk seem worth it. Tim felt the glow on his face. The pylons had watched a lot of life go by. They’d welcomed movie stars and tourists and immigrants. They’d seen off heads of state and diplomats and extraditable war criminals. They’d looked on as girls drove past in cars and returned in hearses. They were unyielding and unmoved, like cops, like doctors, like soldiers, like any bystanders on a thoroughfare. And if Tim failed, if the task force failed, if Rich and Malane and Smiles failed, the pylons would welcome Allah’s Tears t
o the city with the same mute indifference.

  Bon Scott finished his muttering, and Rich clicked off the radio. “Who’s Dray?”

  A car veered into their lane, and Tim swerved and honked. By the time Rich finished yelling out the window and settled back in his seat, he seemed more pensive.

  “That was some really fine investigative work,” he said.

  “Yeah?” Tim said. “Maybe you could’ve cut us in earlier, and we’d be farther along.”

  Rich made an irritated noise and looked out the window.

  They drove a few minutes, wheels rattling over asphalt.

  Then Tim said, “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. You’re the one who tracked the shit down.”

  “I meant for Tom-Tom. You risked your cover to save my ass.”

  Rich watched the cars fly by on the far side of the road, his tongue poking a mound in his cheek. “Yeah,” he said with the faintest grin. “I did.”

  45

  By the time they returned, the command post had kicked back into high gear. About ten minutes prior, Haines had finally synced up with the graveyard shift’s watch commander at the Cabo San Lucas police department. The force had been busy that morning investigating a murder and the disappearance of an American girl, Lettie Guillermo. She’d been staying at the Costa Royal as part of a complimentary trip issued by Good Morning Vacations. A witness, who charitably described her as gordita, reported seeing her book a snorkeling trip from a street vendor. The boat had been found in a nearby cove, the diver killed gruesomely with a gaff. No sign of Lettie Guillermo.

  “You track down her parents?” Tim asked.

  “They’re coming in,” Haines said. “Merry fucking Christmas.” Tim checked his watch: 4:30 A.M., December 26. Three days since the paramedics had carried Dray off the asphalt.

  “We can use them.” Rich glanced around at the morose faces. “Hey, we were all thinking it, I just said it.”

  “That’s why I’m bringing them in,” Haines said. “But I’m not sure they’ll be useful. The dead diver, you know?”

  “What?” Tim asked.

  “Well, the Sinners no longer care about keeping things clean in Cabo by staging an accidental death. That means this isn’t another dry run. It’s the run.”

  “Unless things went bad. I mean, unplanned bad. But point taken.”

  “So I doubt they’re gonna bother having Good Morning Vacations inform the parents. They have the body they need. They can forge documents—we know they’re good at it—ship the girl in under a false name, and dump it when they’re done. Why do the extra work of coordinating with a family and risking the extra exposure?”

  “But killing her instead of posing it as an accident sends up a flare,” Tim said. “Why would they risk that?”

  “First, another accidental death of a Hispanic SoCal girl in Cabo would almost be more conspicuous. This breaks the pattern. And second, the Sinners have no idea we’re onto the body-packing scheme. An American girl goes missing in Mexico, everyone assumes she’s been kidnapped or killed locally. The last place anyone’s gonna look for her body is at the American Airlines baggage claim getting smuggled back into the U.S. in a coffin.” Haines held up his hands. “Look, of course we’ll monitor the parents, see if they’re contacted, I’m just saying let’s not pop any bottles of Cristal.”

  “Has this opened up any more inroads into Good Morning Vacations?”

  “No, nothing’s tracking.” Thomas threw down his pen on the conference table, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his face. It emerged from his hands red, the hairs of his mustache tweaked up. “The hotel’s a spring-break college shithole. We could barely get the basics.”

  “How about the paperwork from Jan Turaski?” Tim asked.

  With the help of Malane and additional FBI support, Jan had managed to produce the CBP records with alacrity. Malane had, surprisingly, rushed copies of all documents over to the command post. Rich’s hushed call from the phone banks might have had something to do with that.

  “Everything looks airtight,” Freed said. “Fraudulent top to bottom, but they got real seals and forms from the health department down there. The funeral home on the letterhead—surprise, surprise—doesn’t exist, nor does the embalmer who signed off on the body.”

  “How about shipment payments?” Tim asked.

  “Just like the passenger tickets, casket fees were paid by check from a dead-end account. We’re still on it, but the forecast is cloudy, chance of rain.”

  “Don’t be so dreary,” Maybeck said. “All we have to do is wait till the package lands, then nab ’em coming in to pick it up.”

  “Right,” Rich said. “Because Den Laurey and Lance Kaner are gonna ride their Harleys into LAX for a pickup. Hell, maybe the Prophet’ll show, too, with a T-shirt says ‘Kiss Me, I’m an Islamic Fundamentalist.’ ”

  Jim chuckled, and then a few of the others joined in, Maybeck offering each a good view of his middle finger.

  “Jim, you talk to Aaronson about the embalming biz?” Bear asked.

  Jim put a knee on the tabletop and tapped the pad against it. “You got your embalming fluid, preservatives, cavity fluid, preinjection solution. There’s this trocar, really cool, sucks out the—”

  “Stay on message.”

  “Sorry. Bottom line: nothing in the way of traceables. Aaronson said the bodies were prepped with customary materials. We might as well look up every mortuary in Mexico.”

  “Good idea,” Tim said. “Let’s put together a list, starting in Cabo and radiating out. Coordinate with the local police down there.”

  “Because they’ve been so helpful.”

  “I can help you there, you need it,” Rich said.

  “We do,” Tim said. The Service’s field office in Mexico City, consisting of two deputies, wasn’t staffed to handle a major work request.

  “We been working closely with the attorney general’s office down there, and AFI,” Rich said. The Mexican Agency of Federal Investigation had broad-ranging authority and was centrally organized, making its agents less susceptible to local corruption. “I’ll ask my hook to start checking out mortuaries and funeral homes in the area. But I’d guess this is a mortician—or a doctor—working freelance.” He tapped a cigarette from a pack of American Spirits, tossed it toward his lips, and caught it perfectly in the corner of his mouth. He lit a match off his thumbnail, held his first inhale, then shot a stream of smoke at the ceiling. “What happened with the hearse? The one you said was by the curb at Chief’s house?”

  “Gone,” Miller said.

  “Anything with an outdoor security cam on the block? Gas station? ATM? We review those tapes, maybe we spot it driving by. We pick up a plate, we could put it out on the street.”

  Tim’s right thumb and forefinger went to his wedding band. His voice came fast, excited. “We don’t need to.”

  Bear offered him a what-the-fuck eyebrow raise.

  “Guerrera, you took the Impala that night, right?” Tim asked. “You parked right behind the hearse.”

  Guerrera smiled, realization dawning. “Our old friend, the vehicle cam.”

  Glad I’m good for something.

  “I’ll pull the tapes,” Haines said, “get you a plate number.”

  A flicker of concern crossed Guerrera’s face. “But the Impala’s on an evidence hold in the impound lot off Aliso. It was shot to shit. The footage probably got Swiss-cheesed in the trunk.”

  Haines stood, grabbing his notepad. “Worth a check anyways.”

  He was almost at the door when a married couple who looked to be in their fifties entered the command post tentatively. They appeared lost, and the woman seemed deeply concerned. They were both overweight.

  “I’m sorry, this is a restricted area,” Haines said.

  “We were told to come in,” the man said with a pronounced accent. “Something about the vacation company.”

  “I’m sorry. Reception should’ve directed you to the conference ro
om. Please come with me.”

  “Our daughters are okay, sí ?” The woman’s voice took on a note of pleading. “Please tell us they okay.”

  “Daughters?”

  “Sí, Lettie y Monica Guillermo. They won a trip to Cabo San Lucas. They’re down there now.” The man took note of the sudden silence in the command post. His face registered dread, as if he knew before being told. “Why? Por favor, tell us what’s wrong.”

  The wife took in the crime-scene photos pushpinned to the wall and let out a little gasp. Haines moved a step over to try to block her view. He extended his arm, steering them out into the hallway.

  The command post filled with a sheepish silence. Rich put out his cigarette on the bottom of his boot. An anguished cry from the hall broke the quiet. A conference room door opened and closed, and there was silence again.

  Thomas rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Morning on the East Coast. I’ll see if I can track down any of Chief’s credit-card charges originating there.”

  “Sunday, day after Christmas,” Rich said. “Good luck.”

  Tim grabbed the credit-card statements and passed them around, everyone taking one. He perused Chief’s September charges. “He ship a lot from back east?”

  “Chaps, clutch plates, chain drives. All under the fake name to the safe house.”

  “What’s this one? In Florida?”

  Thomas leaned over, squinting at the statement. His eyes were getting old, but he refused to buy reading glasses. “Orange mark. That means it’s on my follow-up list.”

  “Lite Companion Inc.”

  “I figured it for a bike-part joint. Taillights, headlights, something.”

  “Spelled wrong.”

  “They call that,” Jim said grandly, “rationalized orthography.”

  “They like their gear light,” Thomas said. “Lite lights, ya know?” Tim swung a monitor around and slid over a keyboard. He did a search on the company, found a Web site. He clicked the link and waited for the page to come up.

  The blank screen loaded, rendering the HTML block by block.

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