Death Rattle
Page 19
Klein shook his head. “How’d the snake get in the car?”
“Someone put it there.”
If Klein was dubious, he didn’t show it. “Who?” he said.
“Mona’s suing the BSCA. Someone wants her to drop the suit. It was a message. Not the first.”
Klein absorbed this. “Some message,” he said. “She must’ve gotten the fright of her life.”
Finn nodded. The coffee was ready. He poured Klein a cup. “You want cream?”
“Sure.”
Finn fetched the half-and-half from the fridge.
“I’m putting you on compassionate leave,” said Klein. “Two weeks, full pay, not counting the time you’ve already taken. You need more time, you let me know.”
“Thanks,” said Finn. He handed Klein the cream.
“Not a problem. We need you, but she needs you more.”
Klein poured cream into his coffee. He glanced quickly back into the living room, then turned to Finn and, in a near-whisper, said, “I’ve been speaking to the commissioner. He says the FBI think they have him. The mole.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know. But he told me that they’re going to make an arrest soon. Maybe as soon as next week.”
“That’s good news,” said Finn.
“That’s not all. I started putting Interceptors in the corridor. We’ve busted two drug boats so far.”
“Even better,” said Finn.
Finn glanced over Klein’s shoulder. From where he was standing, he could see Mona sitting on the sofa in the living room. She was laughing at something Chinchilla had said. Finn quietly closed the door and turned to Klein.
“Listen. There’s something I didn’t tell you. I think I know who put the snake in Mona’s car,” he said, lowering his voice even further. Klein leaned in.
“Who?”
“A Caballeros enforcer named Soto. The woman Mona was representing, the one who died in Paradise?”
“The one you rescued from the sinking panga?”
“Yeah. Carmen Vega. She was mixed up with the Caballeros in Tijuana and ran with Soto for a while. But she left him, and he didn’t like that. When he found her, he burned her with acid. She got away again. That’s when I found her. Mona says she saw him.”
Klein looked shocked. “Here in the United States?” he whispered.
“Yes. In the parking lot of a bar in Paradise. The day she crashed.”
“She tell this to the cops?”
Finn nodded. “Yeah. I don’t think they believe her.”
Klein looked thoughtful. “What’s this cartel guy got to do with Mona’s lawsuit against the BSCA?” he said.
“I don’t know,” said Finn, thinking but not saying that he intended to find out. He liked Klein and trusted him, but he intended to kill Soto, and he didn’t want to put his friend in an awkward situation. Still, his expression must’ve given him away, because after a moment, Klein put his hand on Finn’s shoulder, fixed him with his intelligent eyes, and said, “I know sometimes Mona doesn’t get what we do, Finn, but right now that doesn’t matter. Today, she’s one of us. You understand? You need help, anything at all, finding this son of a bitch, you let me know. Not just my help. I mean the whole of Customs and Border Protection. You’ve got sixty thousand CBP agents backing you up.”
Emotion welled up in Finn.
“Thanks,” he said. He used the pretext of putting the cream back in the fridge to turn away.
* * *
Later, after everyone had left, Finn went to the bathroom and ran a bath. While the tub filled, he foraged through Mona’s clutter in the cabinet under the sink until he found the fancy bath salts he’d seen her use, then poured them into the steaming water. He fetched a broom from the kitchen closet, taped a towel around its handle, and put it across the tub. He went back to the kitchen, got a large, extra-strong trash bag and some masking tape, and went to Mona.
“Ready?” he said. She nodded. He helped her out of her clothes, wrapped the trash bag around her cast, then taped it shut to her thigh. He helped her into the bath, making sure to keep her broken leg out of the water.
She pointed at her cast resting on the broom handle.
“Clever,” she said.
“Put your head back,” he said.
He used a saucepan to pour water over her hair. He massaged shampoo into her scalp.
Mona closed her eyes. “This is nice.”
Finn washed his wife’s hair. The day after Mona had been threatened over the phone, Finn had cleaned the Glock 19 semiautomatic he had given her but which she had refused to take. Now, kneeling on the hard bathroom tiles and looking at the bruises on Mona’s naked body, he decided he would keep the gun loaded and on him. It was no use in the gun safe. Klein had given him compassionate leave. He would stay close to Mona, and he would carry a weapon. Not that she could go far on crutches and with no car, but Finn wasn’t going to let her out of his sight. Not until he had found Soto.
“What are you thinking about?” she said.
“Who said I was thinking?”
“I can tell. Your fingers don’t lie. Something’s on your mind.”
He rinsed out the shampoo. “I want to get this guy,” he said.
She opened her eyes and met his gaze.
“I may have a lead,” he said.
She reached out and held his forearm. “Give it to the police. That’s their job.”
He shook his head. Mona looked uneasy. Like something was bothering her, but she wasn’t sure how to articulate it.
“Nick,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I need some conditioner.”
While she waited for the conditioner to work, she said, “Soto is a killer. I mean, that’s his job. The thought of you coming face-to-face with him terrifies me, Nick. I want you to know that.”
Finn had been so scared for Mona, it hadn’t occurred to him that she might be scared for him.
“Don’t worry. I’ll have backup.”
“Who?”
“You remember my Fish and Wildlife buddy? Wilkins?”
“Can’t you ask your colleagues? Chinchilla, Gomez, Klein?”
Finn considered this. “I thought about asking them. They’d help if I asked.”
“So why didn’t you?”
Finn chose his words carefully. “It might go a certain way that would mean the end of their careers.”
“Nick. Please don’t say things like that.”
“I’ll speak to Klein. He’s retiring anyway.”
She nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “Joaquin called. The trial’s been rescheduled to next week.”
“So soon? Isn’t it too early?”
Mona lay back in the tub. “Don’t worry, I’ll have backup,” she said.
TWENTY-NINE
THE next day, Finn went out to LAX to meet Wilkins at a coffee-chain outlet in the landside food court. Wilkins, who was in his Fish and Wildlife inspector uniform, had the physique and demeanor of a high school football coach: a barrel-chested man with close-cropped hair and good humor twinkling in his blue eyes. At Glynco, he and Finn had bonded after figuring out that they had both grown up by the beach in Southern California—Wilkins was from Carlsbad. They sat down at a table looking out at the crowded departures hall.
Finn told Wilkins what had happened to Mona. How she’d veered off the highway when a rattlesnake slithered out from under her seat. How a cartel enforcer, Soto, had put it there. Unlike the accident investigators, Wilkins didn’t hesitate.
“There are some crazy sickos in this world,” he said. “Speaking of which, that’s why I texted you. Last week, we busted this guy trying to smuggle a dozen king cobras. So we’re interviewing him, seeing if he could fill some gaps we had with other cases, other animals we’d intercepted, and he starts talking how last April, this guy paid him $10,000 for a black mamba.”
Finn put down his coffee.
“We’re holding him in Torrance,” Wilkins said.
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* * *
The California base of the United States Fish and Wildlife Service is located in a business park out by the refinery in Torrance. Wilkins led Finn into an interview room, then went off to get the reptile trafficker. He’d given Finn the guy’s background: his name was Zhao Wei, originally from Laos, ethnically Chinese, a naturalized U.S. citizen, currently living in Garden Grove. “But on the forums, these guys never use their real names,” Wilkins said. “His herper handle is Ofis.”
* * *
Zhao Wei, a.k.a. Ofis, was a slender man in his midthirties who didn’t waste time. As soon as he sat down, he looked directly at Finn and said, “So we make a deal?”
Wilkins sat down next to Finn. “Slow down, Ofis. Let’s see what you’ve got first. Tell Agent Finn what you told me about the mamba.”
Zhao nodded. “Last year, beginning of April, one of my clients sends me a message. He says he wants a black mamba. No one ever asked for one before. I knew it was hard to get, but he’s one of my best clients. I said I would try and that it would be expensive. He said he didn’t care; he needed a gift for his girlfriend.”
Finn felt a chill.
Zhao went on, “I said okay, whatever. I’ll find one. Then I say it will cost $10,000, because I figured it’s so much money, he’ll drop it and save me a lot of trouble. But he said okay, fine. Money’s no problem. So then I have to find the snake. Not easy!”
“Why not?” asked Finn.
“Because the black mamba is so dangerous. Nobody likes handling them. It’s so quick, you know? The fastest striker. Also, my suppliers are all in Asia. The black mamba is an African snake. It cost me money to find someone I could trust there.”
“What was the buyer’s name?”
Zhou shook his head. “I want a deal first.”
“Where did you meet him? For the handover.”
Zhou shook his head again and made a loud smacking sound with his lips. “I never meet clients face-to-face. He wires the money. I mail him the snake. Usually, they use temporary post boxes. Never the same one twice.”
Finn was incredulous. “You sent a black mamba in the mail?”
Zhou seemed to think it was nothing unusual.
“What service do you use?” said Wilkins.
“Delta. Delta’s very good. The animals usually arrive alive.”
“I’m curious, how do your customers find you? Online, I mean. Is it on the dark web or something?” asked Finn.
Zhao shook his head. “My customers don’t know how to use the dark web. They’re not weirdos. When I want to sell a snake, I put an ad on Craigslist. Herpers know where to look.”
Craigslist. Finn thought, What a world.
“So we make a deal and I give you black mamba guy, yeah? No jail time?” said Zhao.
Wilkins looked to Finn. Finn shook his head.
“You haven’t given me anything, Ofis. All you’ve told me is about some person you met on Craigslist. No name, no address, nothing. How do I know if it’s my guy?”
“If you’re looking for someone who has a black mamba, this is your guy. No other herper in the country has one.”
“What, you know every herper in the country?”
Zhou gave Finn a look that said, Pretty much.
Finn said to Wilkins, “Can I talk to you outside for a moment?”
* * *
In the corridor, Finn said, “You trust him?”
“He’s facing a solid decade in jail,” said Wilkins. “I think he’s legit. And anyway, if he’s feeding us BS, we just prosecute as we would have for the cobras.”
“Okay. So how would we set it up? I need to actually locate Soto, not just mail him a package.”
Wilkins thought for a moment. Then he said, “You ever collect trading cards?”
Finn shook his head.
“Stamps? Marbles? Anything?” said Wilkins.
Finn said no. He hadn’t had that kind of a childhood.
“Okay. Well, I did. And the thing I remember about collecting cards is that even when I got the card I wanted, the one I’d wanted all semester, I’d feel happy when I got it. But not for long. After a while, my treasured card became just another card, and then I’d start craving another. That’s the thing about collecting. Your collection is never complete. You never have enough. There’s always one more out there.”
Finn nodded. That kind of craving was something he could understand.
“Your guy, Soto. If he’s really one of these guys, one of these collectors, then my guess is he’s always adding to his collection. He’s always on the lookout. There’s always a snake he doesn’t have, a rarer snake, a prettier one, a deadlier one, whatever. You want to catch this son of a bitch? You need to bait him with a prize. Dangle something in front of his eyes. Something that he’ll risk anything to have.”
“So, what, I advertise a snake on Craigslist?”
Wilkins shook his head. “Not you. Zhao. The herpers know him; they trust him. Zhao advertises the snake. You deliver it.”
Finn considered this. “Okay. So where do I get the bait?” he said.
“Remember that guy I told you about, that Mona spoke to? Butterfield? Go see him. He has snakes.”
* * *
The next morning, at 7:30, Finn went to meet Stewart Butterfield. Butterfield lived with his wife in a modest-sized house surrounded by a huge garden in South Pasadena. The exterior was standard Spanish Mission; the interior was more unexpected—in the entrance hall was a display cabinet containing scores of snake skeletons. Butterfield introduced Finn to his wife, Jen, who greeted him warmly and asked with genuine concern about Mona. It was Tuesday morning, and she offered Finn coffee, which he declined. Then Butterfield took Finn down to a vast basement area where most anyone else with the money for that kind of house in that neighborhood would’ve put a home cinema or a pool table or a bar.
What Butterfield had built down there was nothing less than a private reptile breeding program. Finn saw five rows of trestle tables; on each table, he saw white boxes with perforated PERSPEX tops. Power cords ran from each box to power boards located in the middle of each table. Inside the nearest incubators, Finn could see, through the perforated PERSPEX lids, eggs resting upon little piles of wood shavings.
“You mentioned on the phone that your target has a weak spot,” said Butterfield. “Well, welcome to mine.”
Finn absorbed everything he was seeing. “Wow,” was all he managed to say.
“I hasten to point out that this is all perfectly legal,” said Butterfield. “Well, it’s legal as per the law as it stands now. They’re always changing it. It’s hard to keep up.” There was a hint of irritation in his voice.
“I wouldn’t know,” said Finn. “Not my area.”
“Well, I don’t show this to many people,” said Butterfield. “Especially not federal agents. It’s just a hobby, you understand. But I was shocked to hear about your wife, whom I’ve met. I’ve been able to be of service to the Fish and Wildlife people on one or two occasions, so when you called about your plan to trap the perpetrator, I thought I may be able to help.”
He started showing Finn through the room. “Here, you have the incubators,” he said, waving his arm over the white boxes on the trestle tables. “Each one is temperature controlled to ninety degrees.”
“These are all rattlesnake eggs?” asked Finn.
Butterfield shook his head. “Rattlesnakes don’t lay their eggs. They keep them inside themselves until they hatch. These are python eggs, mostly. Some other kinds, too,” Butterfield said vaguely. He led Finn to some terrariums lining the wall. “And here they are hatched.”
The front of the terrariums were made of glass, the sides were made of plywood, with air vents in them. Each terrarium was about six feet long, two feet wide, and about four feet high. Some contained a floor of gravel, others of sand. Many contained green plants, branches, small hollow logs, and even small ponds, as well as wooden bars across the top for the snakes to hang from. And indeed,
Finn observed several serpents coiled around them. Above each terrarium was a heat lamp.
“It’s like being at the zoo,” said Finn.
“Actually, I had these custom made. The zoo doesn’t give them this kind of space,” said Butterfield with a sniff.
Finn heard a scurrying sound from a large plastic box on the ground that looked a bit like a pet carrier.
“Sounds like one of your pets is keen for a walk,” he said.
Butterfield laughed. “My pets don’t walk,” he said.
He opened the top of the plastic box to show Finn what it contained: scores of mice.
“I’m afraid their next walk will be their last,” said Butterfield. A chill ran down Finn’s spine.
“Let’s move on,” said Butterfield. He led Finn to the other side of the room, where a terrarium stood all on its own, in pride of place.
“Here’s what I wanted to show you. The White Queen.”
Finn looked inside. At first, he couldn’t see any animal—just white gravel, branches of what looked like eucalyptus leaves, a couple of big sticks, and a couple of pale rocks. After a moment, he realized that the larger of the pale rocks was in fact a snake—except this snake was entirely white. It was coiled up on itself, but Finn could tell it was a big animal. At least four feet long. Then he noticed the flare behind the head.
“Is that…”
“A cobra, yes it is,” said Butterfield. “In fact, a king cobra. One of the most beautiful snakes, but quite common in India and Sri Lanka and therefore not particularly sought after by collectors. Unless, of course, it’s an albino.”
“Albino. Right. That’s why you call her the White Queen.”
“Yes. She’s a king cobra, but she’s a female.”
“Why ‘king’?”
“I’ll show you.”
Butterfield opened the lid of a nearby terrarium and with his bare hand reached in and pulled out a small, thin green snake.
“What’s interesting about the king cobra, the Ophiophagus hannah, is that its diet consists mostly of other snakes. It’s at the top of the serpent hierarchy. That’s why it’s the king. In fact, Ophiophagus means snake-eater in Latin.”