He sat and typed a series of commands into his computer, then clicked his way through a clunky, five-year-out-of-date interface. Entering a name, he waited while the hamsters in the basement pulled up the results. Eventually, another screen popped up, and he was looking at a photo of Dinah, from her passport. That was one hot passport photo, he had to admit. Who looked good in their passport picture? Cruz’s looked like road kill, or some sort of animal that had been startled while feeding. Life had indeed been kind to young Senorita Tortora. Okay, maybe not too kind, given that her dad had just been filleted with a samurai sword. Still, she really did look great.
He read the rest of the data, more to give his mind something else to focus on while he waited for Briones to get done, he told himself…
Dinah Montaner Tortora was thirty years old, and had graduated from university with a teaching credential. Rented a condo near the school, didn’t own a car, had never been arrested. Bank balance was two thousand dollars. Paid all bills on time. Had a cell phone, internet and cable TV, a credit card she paid off every month, and no delinquencies. Had a current gym membership two blocks from her place.
Not a particularly exciting bio. Then again, if you looked that good on your passport, maybe you didn’t need much more trimmings. It was a thought.
His rumination was interrupted by Briones knocking politely on his door jamb, Arlen, the sketch artist, in tow.
“Come in. What have you got?”
“This is as close as we could get it, sir. I only saw him for maybe a second or two, so it’s a little hazy, but I think it’s in the ballpark,” Briones apologized. He felt like an ass. He’d known there was something off about that guy…
Arlen put the sketch pad down on his desk, and Cruz studied the drawing.
“Great. So we’re looking for Enrique Iglesias?” Cruz asked, deadpan.
Arlen and Briones looked at each other, then at the drawing.
“You know…you’re right. It does look a little like him,” Briones admitted.
“Are you sure you weren’t describing a music video you downloaded?”
“No…although that is kind of funny now that you mention it. But this is as near as I can remember what the guy looked like, only scruffier. Still…”
“All right, then. All we need to do is wait at the Latin Grammies, and we’re sure to nail him.” Cruz turned his attention to Arlen. “Thank you for doing this. We appreciate it.”
She gave him a wan smile and departed, leaving the drawing on his desk.
“It doesn’t look that much like Iglesias,” Briones started.
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just been a tough day, and I was hoping for something more distinctive. But it is what it is. You’re sure this is the closest you can get?” Cruz asked.
“That’s the guy. Or pretty close.”
Cruz groaned audibly, and then thanked Briones, asking him to close his door behind him when he left.
Cruz now had to consider the other item he’d been procrastinating dealing with. How El Rey had known. It was almost impossible to believe they had a leak in the department, but he had to proceed as though they did. Which meant he couldn’t trust Julio, Ignacio or Briones. His mind wanted to veer from the idea that any of them could be involved, especially Briones. He debated back and forth internally, and decided that Briones couldn’t be the leak. He’d been with Cruz for five years, and there had never been the slightest hint of anything untoward. No, if there had been a tip-off, it was either Julio or Nacho.
The problem was that Cruz had not the faintest idea how to vet either man conclusively, leaving him with the compromising prospect of having to exclude them from any more involvement in the investigation. That would permanently harm his relationship with them and deprive him of intelligence, but it was the only safe course.
Another knock interrupted him. He went to his door and opened it, and was presented with an x-ray sized envelope from Tomas.
Cruz returned to his desk and extracted the four drawings from the sheath and spread them out, holding Briones’ sketch next to each. The only one that was even close was from the church, and that was a stretch. Still, there was a similarity to the chin and the nose. Which told him that El Rey probably looked about like twenty percent of the younger males in Mexico.
Some days weren’t so good.
Chapter 11
Cruz welcomed his associates from the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency into his office and closed the door. He’d worked closely with John Rode and Bill Stephens for years. While not exactly friends, the men had mutual respect for each other. John and Bill had been doing a thankless job for over a decade — trying to plug a cork into a fire hose of a product that gushed daily into the United States. They were world-weary, had seen a lifetime of disappointment, and knew they were fighting an unwinnable battle. The U.S. had been the largest consumer of illegal drugs for generations, and regardless of what steps were taken, it continued to be. Trying to stop that by terminating the supply was akin to the efforts to prevent alcohol consumption during Prohibition. That experiment had not gone well, and neither had the drug war.
John and Bill were in town for a panel discussion on law enforcement in the 21st Century at the Camino Real, and Cruz had convinced them to come by and check out his operation. They’d agreed, arriving at eleven on Monday morning to be given the nickel tour. After making appropriately complimentary noises, they’d retired to his office and settled comfortably in. Both Americans spoke fluent Spanish; they talked shop for a while, comparing notes and sharing war stories, and then Cruz got to the point of the meeting.
“What kind of contacts do you have with the Secret Service or the NSA?” Cruz tossed out.
“Why, you thinking about switching sides?” John quipped.
When the laughter subsided, Cruz said, “No, I just was wondering how to proceed with some potentially troubling news about an assassination attempt on your president.”
The atmosphere in the room dropped several degrees.
“What are you talking about?” Bill leaned towards Cruz, who now had both men’s full attention.
“It all started with a contract killer, a hit man, famous in Mexico for pulling off the impossible. He’s called El Rey in the tabloids…” Cruz went on to describe his investigation to date, including the theory about the G-20 being the likely assassination spot.
Aside from the frustrated buzz of a fly at the window, there was complete silence in the room. John was the first to break it. “I see your problem. Your security service won’t go to bat on the basis of an investigation, even if the circumstantial evidence is compelling,” he observed.
“That’s probably the same in your country. Nobody wants to stick their neck out and then be wrong, so it’s easier to do the safe thing than do the right thing…” Cruz said.
“Some things don’t change no matter which side of the border you’re on,” Bill agreed.
“My thinking is that maybe I can go in through the back door and lean on our relationship. Which is why I need to determine whether you know anyone with either agency who could help me out here.”
“My sister-in-law actually works at the NSA, so maybe that would be a decent place to start,” Bill said.
“You don’t have strong enough relationships with those agencies to get some face time?” Cruz inquired.
“It seems your relationship with your intelligence service is about like ours with the NSA. And we have zero contact with Secret Service. So…no help there. Although, I’d be happy to write this up as a formal report and pass it on. I just wouldn’t expect much, for the same reasons you encountered with your team,” Bill advised.
Cruz rose, went to the window and opened it to let the bluebottle escape into the heat of the day. He sighed and said, “This is so frustrating. I know I’m right, and yet I can’t get the attention of the agencies chartered with keeping our heads of state safe. It’s really unbelievable.”