Troubleshooter Read online

  “If I’m gonna put my name out, I need it on my desk already.”

  “Then just hold all incoming caskets from Mexico. Cabo San Lucas in particular. Give me an hour.”

  “Without any hard evidence? Or a warrant? Not an easy PR move to slide past grieving families. Let alone my SAC.”

  A three-month maternity leave earlier in the year hadn’t landed Jan in the graces of the special agent in charge running the field office downtown.

  Behind Tim, Bear waved off the backhoe like an airplane marshaller gone mad. Four deputies with shovels descended into the plot.

  Clods of dirt flew.

  “How about with a personal call from the marshal?” Tim offered. “From the marshal? What are you into here?”

  “More than a drug operation.”

  Jan made an exasperated noise, something like a growl. In the background Tim could hear the annoying Christmas Muzak piped through the airport terminal.

  “One hour, Jan. Please.”

  A heavy sigh, then the sounds of Jan typing.

  Zimmer walked by, and Tim covered the phone and said, “Has Haines reached the Cabo police yet?”

  Zimmer said, “Last I checked in, he couldn’t get anyone, but he’d left a few messages. Cabo, ya know? They’re probably out arresting girls gone wild.”

  Jan came back on. “In the next hour, we’ve only got one inbound from Mexicali. So fine, I’ll give you till three.”

  “And if a coffin comes in on that flight?” Tim asked.

  “I’ll call in the duty agents, persuade them to run behind schedule. The way they work, shouldn’t be tough. But Mexico flights start rolling in early, and I’m not gonna have coffins piling up on the tarmac.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see you in an hour.”

  “Bring me something concrete or don’t bother,” Jan said, and hung up. Tim snapped his phone shut and inhaled deeply as the deputies hauled out the casket. Four grasped the swing bars, reverse pallbearers, and two tugged on a nylon strap looped under the fine wood.

  Maybeck’s boot slipped, and he stumbled, a streak of mud across his thigh. The casket hit turf with a thud.

  “Good thing we’re doing the Feebs’ job for them,” Guerrera said. “This is for our case,” Tim said. “We follow the drugs to Den Laurey.” Aaronson, dressed ridiculously in pajama bottoms, a sweatshirt, and a corduroy blazer, tapped the casket’s seam excitedly with a fingernail.

  “Lead lining is required for international transport aboard a common carrier. Lucky.”

  “Why?” Maybeck asked.

  “Keeps the maggots out.” Aaronson’s face gleamed in the harsh spotlight. “Know what else is required for importing a body?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Embalming. That’s more good news for the home team.” Aaronson held up his palm, and Maybeck reluctantly gave him five before handing him a chisel and hammer.

  Jennifer Villarosa’s father had been exceedingly helpful. Despite being woken up Christmas night by Tim’s knock on the door, he’d signed the documents for his daughter’s body to be exhumed. Tim was relieved to proceed with the family’s consent, glad to let the backup court order expire in Bear’s glove box. Jennifer was their sole shot to corroborate Tim’s theory; Lupe Sanchez had been cremated shortly after her return to the United States. No family members had showed up to claim her body—not a big surprise, given their illegal-alien status. Her occasional work as a cleaning lady hadn’t left enough money to provide her with a burial. She’d been interred in a common plot with the ashes of the destitute and itinerant, a wretched homecoming from a free vacation that must have seemed to her heaven sent.

  The task force had moved like a tornado since the revelation at the command post. Screeching tires, faxed pages, wake-up calls. Freed had pulled a rabbit out of the hat, backtracking the online promotion code Good Morning Vacations had used to book Villarosa’s plane ticket, and hitting upon another girl killed on a Cabo trip. Maribel Andovar had suffered a fatal heart attack while sleeping in her beachside hotel. The cause of death was plausible because she was nearly 150 pounds overweight.

  She, too, had been shipped home through LAX and cremated. She hadn’t shown up among the names Thomas had pulled for review because she’d lived in Kern County, north of their designated search area. Tim glanced at his notepad, the pattern evident.

  Jennifer Villarosa. Died October 29, Cabo San Lucas.

  Body cleared LAX Customs November 1 on Mexicana Flight 237.

  Diamond Dog, Toe-Tag, Whelp in Mexico October 28–November 2.

  Maribel Andovar. Died November 8, Cabo San Lucas.

  Body cleared LAX Customs November 9 on AeroMéxico Flight 13.

  Diamond Dog, Toe-Tag, Whelp in Mexico November 6–November 10.

  Lupe Sanchez. Died November 30, Cabo San Lucas.

  Body cleared LAX Customs December 1 on American Airlines Flight 2453.

  Diamond Dog, Toe-Tag, Whelp in Mexico November 28–December 1.

  The women had been lured to Cabo and then murdered, Tim believed, so that their corpses could serve as dry runs to assess the shipping route and test the airlines’ security systems. The Sinners had to ensure that the bodies were processed smoothly before the actual drugs were risked. The bikers were zealous in their disregard for life; these women had been killed merely to determine how incoming caskets were screened at baggage claim.

  In Cabo each victim had been put up in a different hotel on a different beach to delay local authorities from discerning the pattern. Not surprisingly, no corporate, tax, or International Air Transport Association records had turned up for Good Morning Vacations, all imaginable variants on goodmorningvacations.com turned up no Web site, and Google drew a blank. The contact e-mail on the letter to Jennifer Villarosa—the sole means of communication employed—had been discontinued. Guerrera had been the one to spot the clause hidden in the Terms & Conditions’ small print: In the event of the death of the award recipient during the period of the vacation, Good Morning Vacations shall assume sole responsibility for the body’s preparation for international transport, conveyance to the country of origin, and delivery to the family of the deceased. Neither Villarosa’s nor Andovar’s stateside funeral director could offer any helpful information on the delivering vehicle.

  The gas charge of 24.92 gallons had tripped Tim’s memory of the beat-to-shit hearse outside Chief’s safe house, the one on which Guerrera had rested his watch just before the ART entry. Larger vehicle, larger tank capacity. Miller had redlined over to see whether it was still languishing at the curb. Given the sophistication of the Sinners’ plans, Tim doubted it would be there.

  To avoid arousing suspicion, the Sinners had wisely targeted women from jurisdictions covered by different law-enforcement agencies. After the army had gotten involved after Villarosa’s death— however minimally—the Sinners had dropped further down the socioeconomic ladder, selecting victims they thought no one was going to miss. Choosing women with family members illegally in the United States ensured that no one would raise a fuss.

  Since the new victim—and first actual drug carrier—would be dead, she certainly couldn’t pass the drugs through her system like a body packer; the AT packages would have to be cut out of her. The task force was desperate to get a lock on her but had no way of identifying her. If the Sinners had sent her to Cabo on the free-vacation ruse, as Tim suspected, they’d wised up, dispensing with the traceable promotion code when booking her ticket. Tim knew only that the woman the Sinners would single out for this ultimate task would be overweight, to accommodate and disguise the drugs stored in her dead belly.

  Aaronson had offered the best explanation for why the dry-run victims were also obese, despite having no drugs to conceal in their bodies. Their corpses would provide practice for the Sinners on the receiving end to learn how to navigate through excessive abdomen fat. Because the heroin was liquid, there’d be little room for error on the extraction— a misjudged incision would pop the package, spilling Allah’
s Tears throughout the corpse’s innards. After being used as dissection fodder, the women would be stitched back up and turned over to their grateful families for burial or cremation, thereby preserving the Cabo scheme for another round.

  Marisol Juarez, whom the Nomad Sinners had picked up in Chatsworth on December 22, seemed to shore up Aaronson’s theory. Den had implied that she was the practice “heifer.” The body hadn’t been disemboweled, but the intestines had been exposed and the stomach sliced open. Den, the new cutter, had been rehearsing for when the stakes were higher, for when he’d be unable to afford a stray slip of the knife.

  Tannino was working up a press statement now, warning the public and soliciting information about Good Morning Vacations. He was weighing whether to put it out in the upcoming news cycle or sit on it a few days. Obviously a media statement would alert the Sinners, probably causing them to abort the mission. The task force had nailed down quite a few of the variables, and the marshal was understandably reluctant to blow an opportunity to trap Den and Kaner and seize the drugs. Still, there were lives at stake.

  The next victim, the carrier for Allah’s Tears, was probably vacationing in Cabo right now, under the watchful eyes of Toe-Tag and Whelp.

  Time to liaise with the Feebs.

  “Jesus Christ, Dray, they’ve been nothing but detrimental,” Tim muttered.

  Guerrera paused, his back to Tim. He turned. “What?”

  Tim waved him off.

  Forgive and forget. And fast. You can’t afford to play Lone Ranger. Not with what’s riding on this one. You need to pool intel.

  We have the intel.

  Then maybe they need it. Or maybe they’ve got the missing jigsaw pieces. So you’ve got info on their case—you think they don’t have their own dirt on the Sinners? Quit pissing in the corners and work together.

  Bear stripped the rubber gasket from the casket seal, Aaronson gave the chisel a final whack, and the lock caved through the softened wood. The lid hopped an inch or two, the odor sending Bear, Guerrera, and Maybeck back a few steps. Tim moved forward as Aaronson threw the coffin open.

  The face had rotted first, as faces do, but the combination of the sturdy casket, the cool ground, and the embalming had left the body surprisingly intact. Guerrera and Maybeck coughed, but Aaronson leaned in, unperturbed, and went at the soiled clothes with paramedic shears. Though Tim’s eyes were watering, he stepped forward as the criminalist beckoned him closer.

  “Now, with a drowning there should be minimal marks on the body,” Aaronson said. “The corpse wasn’t autopsied, so we shouldn’t find any Y-pluck incisions.” He peeled back the two sliced halves of Jennifer Villarosa’s service jacket, revealing a dress shirt. “The trocar and cannula used during the embalming process to puncture the body cavities for fluid aspiration leave only a small circular scar in the upper …”

  The shears ran up the length of the shirt, revealing a tight-fitting plastic undergarmet, like a toddler’s onesie, no doubt superglued into place before her body was turned over to the Sylmar funeral home to be dressed in her uniform. Another slide of the shears, and all at once Jennifer Villarosa’s considerable stomach came into view, incisions and sutures traversing the loose gray flesh like railroad tracks. Aaronson crouched to take in the scene up close and personal. The abdomen had been punctured several times with sloppy slashes. Even the stitches had been hastily tied. No wonder Den’s knifework was now required.

  Still bent over the corpse, Aaronson muttered, “I’d say you’ve got your probable cause.”

  42

  Ready to answer some questions, scumsuck?” Bear grabbed Rich by the hair and the union of his cuffs and slammed him against the cell block’s wall. The detention enforcement officer buzzed the door, and Guerrera held it open. Bear shoved Rich out into the hall and walked him into an empty conference room. Tim unlocked the cuffs, and Rich stared at the three of them, rubbing his wrists, his face red.

  “Christ, I know you’re covering my ass, but go easy on the method acting.”

  “I’m not acting,” Bear said.

  “We’ve got information,” Tim said.

  Bear said, “You want to work together or you want to play your Feeb games?”

  Rich’s eye darted around. “You talk to Malane?”

  “He’s a paper-pushing prick.”

  “We’ve been ordered to liaise with the FBI,” Tim said. “We’re running down some leads. If someone’s gotta ride along with us, we’d prefer to deal with a field operator. You can coordinate with your team from there and nail the Prophet. What we want is your intel on the bikers.” He crossed his arms. “You get your guy, I get mine.”

  Rich cocked his head, a fall of hair blocking his good eye. “Why you so hot for Den Laurey? Want a Top Fifteen on your résumé?” Bear said, “He has three.”

  Rich started to respond, but Tim cut him off. “What’s it gonna be?” Rich held up his hands, a gesture of surrender. “Okay.”

  “Where’s Goat?”

  “We’re holding him in the Federal Building in Westwood. He’s drugged up, under heavy medical supervision. We haven’t been able to get shit out of him—he’s too scrambled. What’s your information?”

  “Not yet,” Tim said. “I know you’ve been working Uncle Pete.”

  Rich bounced his head from side to side as if debating whether to give up the goods. “We intercepted some of Uncle Pete’s cell-phone transmissions, but I’m not at liberty to disclose—”

  “Then we’re not at liberty to take you along.” Bear snatched the cuffs from Tim and descended on Rich.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. We know he’s in on the drugs. But we need to let it play out.”

  “So you can get the Prophet?” Tim asked.

  “And because we need material evidence to make a case against Uncle Pete. We need the drugs, or else all we’ve got are recorded conversations about shit that we can’t prove happened.”

  “You got enough for a warrant?” Guerrera asked.

  “Again, not without material evidence to support the recordings.”

  Bear said, “Maybe we get a warrant. We’re tighter with the bench.”

  Rich laughed. Even in the brighter light, his skin looked yellow. “Dana Lake’ll put her pump so far up your ass you’ll taste the Gucci logo. And besides, the evidence isn’t with Uncle Pete. Or at the clubhouse. He’s too smart for that. That’s the whole reason he has the nomads. This ain’t about warrants and kicking down doors.”

  Bear made an aggravated noise. Guerrera raised his hands when Tim glanced at him—your call. Down the corridor two prisoners were having a mouth-off in opposing cells, yo’ mamas flying like shrapnel.

  Rich grew uneasy from the pause—he wanted back in. “Help us get the drugs, and we’ll sink Uncle Pete.” He eyed Tim. “And you can get Den in the process.”

  Tim chewed his lip, still deciding. Finally he turned for the door. “Let’s take a ride.”

  43

  Wisps of steam curled up from Jan’s styrocup of McDonald’s coffee. She inhaled it, as if trying to snort the caffeine. The skin under her eyes was pouched and gray, and her rumpled blouse sported stains at the right shoulder. New mom and resident agent in charge. Not an easy schedule. She kept walking purposefully through the late-night travelers straggling between the gates of Terminal 1, with Tim, Bear, Guerrera, and Rich moving swiftly to keep up. For the brief public walk, Rich kept between the deputies, his head lowered. Though he had left behind his armband and originals, he still had his shaggy rock-star hair, eye patch, and jail-cell odor. Upon meeting him, Jan had regarded him with a cocked brow, then turned her eyes to Tim with an unvoiced question, waiting for Tim’s nod before cutting him in to the conversation.

  “Inbound caskets rank right up there with diplomatic pouches,” Jan continued. “In other words, they aren’t checked.”

  “What’s the real story?” Rich asked.

  She gave a quick glance around. “Under the right circumstances, even a diplomatic pouch mi
ght require a furtive scan.” She pointed to the sheaf of documents in Guerrera’s hands. “But now we’re in the clear. This is sufficient probable cause to buy us X-rays on all inbound caskets. If we get a hit on body packing, we’ll need a warrant to cut open the corpses, but we can cross that bridge then.”

  “What if they’re lead-lined?” Tim asked. “The caskets?”

  “They will be, by federal regulation. We’ll have to pop the lids and remove the bodies to do the scans. It’s invasive. That’s why I needed strong probable cause in my back pocket.”

  “Do we need to worry about private planes?” Rich asked.

  “Good luck getting a corpse through here in a private plane. It’s against regs—security and health—and we screen all large incoming cargo. But I’ll put out a whistle, just to be safe.”

  She ducked through a doorway, and they followed her down a staircase to an open space on the lower level that had been transformed into a temporary workstation. A few irritable-looking duty agents reviewed paperwork at school-size desks. The desks were oddly arranged, leaving a square of central floor space unoccupied. A tarp draped across the ceiling provided the only separation between them and the restricted-access section of the luggage carousel overhead.

  Jan had to raise her voice to be heard over the rumble. “This way.”

  She led into a separate office and closed the door behind them. The noise reduction was a welcome relief. Through the wide window, Tim watched a duty agent shoving a phone to his cheek, one finger plugging his other ear.

  “I see your funding isn’t keeping pace with your responsibilities,” Tim said.

  “They want us doing twice the work with the same resources,” Jan said. “We make do.” She looked from Tim to Rich. “Like we’ve all had to.”

  A sapphire blue Swiss Army suitcase tumbled through the ceiling tarp and crashed onto the empty floor space between the carefully arranged desks. The agents kept working, unperturbed.