The door had barely closed and O’Dell continued her march to Kunze’s desk. Instead of slapping the sheets of paper down in front of him, she placed them respectfully on the desktop, her compensation for barging in and interrupting.
He glanced at the papers and shook his head. “So what is it that has you all hot under the collar?”
She bit her lower lip to stop a comeback. Every time she thought she had made some headway with this man, he erased it with another degrading comment like this.
“Why don’t you just tell me what you know and save me a bunch of time?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The package in the Potomac.” She pointed for him to take a closer look. “It’s a drug hit, isn’t it?”
He rubbed his square jaw and took a deep breath, glancing at the top copy of the mangled driver’s license. In another life, Raymond Kunze could have been an NFL defensive back. Probably where he got his witty repartee. Usually he wore blazers that fit him a size too small, emphasizing his massive shoulders and tight abs. But the colors he chose — today’s was a shiny emerald green — made him look more like a cheap bouncer at a nightclub.
“What makes you think it’s a drug hit?”
She pulled out the photo of the victim’s left shoulder blade and set it on top.
“A tattoo? That’s your proof?”
She pulled out the photocopy of the crumpled, bloody driver’s license and laid it next to the tattoo, as if they were cards in a deck and she was presenting him with a blackjack.
“A driver’s license? Why are you wasting my time with this, Agent O’Dell? It looks like you have plenty of pieces to the puzzle, so you might be able to do what I sent you to do—investigate.”
She stood still, watching him and trying to determine whether or not he already knew any of this. Had she jumped to conclusions?
“You’re making a serious judgment on poor”—he sorted through the pages again to find the man’s name—“Trevor Bagley.”
“Are you saying this isn’t a hit by a drug cartel?”
“I have no idea, Agent O’Dell.” But he didn’t look up at her. There was something he still wasn’t telling her. “I suggest you go do your job and find out.”
“Stan Wenhoff believes Bagley was restrained… tied down. There are ligature marks on his wrists and ankles. He thinks he spent some time lying on a mound of fire ants. His entire back”—she pointed out the photocopy—“is covered in tiny pustules.”
Kunze winced. “And why don’t you think this is the work of a serial killer?”
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Crossed her arms over her chest.
“I don’t know that for sure.”
“That’s right, you don’t. I suggest you get back to work, Agent O’Dell.”
When she didn’t move he looked up at her and pointed to the door.
“Please shut it on your way out.” He pulled a file from his stack, shoving aside the pages she had placed on his desk and dismissing her with an exaggerated sigh of frustration.
She turned and left.
15
Ryder Creed never thought he’d actually be anxious to go back to searching for dead bodies. He was, however, certain he was finished with drugs. Hannah had promised this would be the last day, at least for a while.
They had been at it for hours. He’d refused to let Grace work on the tarmac today because of the heat. So instead of inspecting checked luggage before it made its way to baggage claim, they were inside the international terminal. They had been walking up and down Concourse F as hundreds of passengers arrived and were processed.
Creed kept Grace moving through the federal inspection station, along the carousels where the assortment of suitcases, duffel bags, backpacks, and boxes rode conveyor belts. He and Grace weaved through and circled around them and the security checkpoint, then they started the same route all over again.
His badge and Grace’s vest gave them access to anywhere they chose to go with barely a nod or a glance from the U.S. Customs and Border Protection officers. By now, Creed and Grace were well known. Even Grace recognized some of her favorite CBP officers, especially those who had given her treats or stopped to pet her. Both were things Creed did not appreciate people doing with his dogs while they were working, but Grace was an exception. The high-energy Jack Russell needed more interaction to keep her from getting bored.
In assignments like this, a dog handler’s top priority was to keep the dog engaged and motivated. A dog that tired from being in the same place and only ran through the motions would be antsy to leave and might miss an alert. The dog should never consider it work. It was supposed to be fun and interesting.
Creed remembered his marine unit sergeant drilling it into him: “Make the search more exciting than pee on a tree.” Whatever the dog wants and needs, the dog gets.
The marines even gave their canine comrades a military rank one notch above their handlers to reinforce that the dogs receive and deserve respect. It was something that Creed kept in the forefront of his mind, and something he made sure the handlers who he trained did, as well.
It was almost time for a break when he noticed Grace start to sniff the air. She pulled him along, toenails clicking on the floor as she went into what Creed called her scamper-mode. He tried not to rein her in as they quickened their pace through a new crowd of passengers that had been waiting for their baggage to come down the carousel. Grace seemed to ignore the squawking beeps on the machines that alerted the passengers that their bags were ready and would be coming down the conveyor belt. She’d been hearing those beeps for hours and they no longer were interesting. But something or someone on the other side of baggage claim was drawing her attention.
A CBP officer waved Creed over. He had stopped a man on crutches. A cast covered much of the man’s left leg, starting at the knee and running all the way down to his ankle. It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to smuggle drugs in a cast. But as Creed and Grace continued across the baggage claim area, Creed suddenly realized Grace wasn’t leading him to the man in the leg cast. Grace was taking him to someone else, and her nose was twitching.
16
Amanda tried not to grip her stomach. Zapata had already stared darts at her as she led the way through the baggage claim area. Today Amanda’s stomach hurt even worse. Leandro had promised that this would be the last time, if only she followed his strict instructions.
The only thing Amanda could think about was that one of the balloons had certainly burst open. It had to have. There was no other explanation for the pain in her stomach. Something was ripping away inside her. And once again, Leandro wasn’t here. Nowhere in sight. He had left her to Zapata’s care, and Zapata’s patience had obviously been used up on the last trip.
She waited by the restroom door while the old woman weaved her way through the crowd, attempting to retrieve their luggage. The designer suitcase was packed with belongings that Amanda rarely needed or used. It was all just another part of the disguise, because passengers traveling without luggage drew attention. It didn’t matter if the suitcase continued to look brand-new and never got unpacked.
Amanda sat on a bench against the wall. Sweat dripped from her bangs. She had pulled back her stringy hair but her bangs needed trimming and were constantly falling into her eyes. They didn’t fall now. Instead, they were plastered to her forehead.