They wanted to avoid passing the photo around indiscriminately, because it could tip the assassin that they were actively looking for him in Los Cabos; once this professional was on high alert, he’d vanish, leaving them holding air until he struck from out of nowhere. They would wait until a day or two before the summit commenced to take that last-ditch step of desperation and circulate the sketch to all law enforcement and armed forces in the area.
A big obstacle was that the local police were usually corrupt. Average salary was three hundred fifty dollars a month, so most augmented their income by taking bribes for all manner of favors — letting off traffic offenders, hassling business competitors, demanding money to protect shops and restaurants, and selling information to underworld connections; which presented the problem — El Rey would doubtlessly be plugged into the underground buzz, and would hear about a manhunt within hours of their going widespread with it.
Every prisoner taken into custody would be interviewed and shown the sketch, just in case somebody had encountered him. Additionally, the undercover cops would spread the word through the local drug dealers, in case El Rey had a habit, which many criminals did. Once the undercover officers had bought a few times, they would show the dealers the sketch, concocting a story that the man had stolen property from a connected cartel boss, who was willing to reward anyone who could help locate him. It wasn’t unknown for those hiding to do so in Baja — it was considered the boonies by mainland Mexicans; a wasteland out in the sticks that nobody in their right mind would want to go to if they could help it.
It wasn’t a comprehensive strategy, but it was a good start, and as the sun began to dip behind the Sierra La Laguna mountains the undercover team prepared to begin the first of many long nights in southern Baja’s dens of iniquity, searching for an illusive man with no name other than that of a tarot card.
Chapter 14
Cruz felt like he’d been through the wringer after the last two days’ back-to-back meetings. Ten hour shifts were customary for him, but with all the work piling up while he met with his team leaders, he was clocking twelve to thirteen, and it still was not enough. He hated this part of the job; but the administration aspect was an essential part of Mexican management, and whether he liked it or not, he was in Mexico…managing.
Now that the teams had departed for Los Cabos, he felt like they were beginning to become pro-active. But it was an emotional roller coaster. He had the sense of time racing by as the summit drew nearer, yet they were really no closer to getting hard proof than they had been a week before. He’d taken the sketch of El Rey to CISEN and described the interview he’d had with the robber from Culiacan, but they’d seemed unimpressed. That didn’t surprise him given their first meeting. He knew from experience that, when bureaucrats fought turf wars instead of doing their jobs, there was no way of forcing them back on track. He’d tried shaming them, but they hadn’t budged — preferring to spin out lame assurances that all necessary steps to ensure the President’s safety had been taken. They’d told him not to worry — they were on the case.
Cruz had left a copy of the sketch with them and hoped they’d wake up, but he wasn’t optimistic. For whatever reason, they hadn’t been interested in anything he had to say, so that looked like a dead-end.
His meeting with the DEA hadn’t gotten any traction either. Bill had been noncommittal about the Secret Service’s reaction, which Cruz took to mean that he’d fared no better than he had with CISEN. It was possible that the Americans were taking the danger more seriously than Mexico was, but he thought it unlikely, given that nobody had touched base with him or asked for any additional information.
It was a classic catch-22 situation. He couldn’t prove that the pawn shop owner had been killed by El Rey, and had nothing new to report on that slaying, which meant that his sketch could have been of anybody — there was nothing to confirm it was the infamous killer, any more than the other sketches, besides the testimony of a jailhouse snitch, which was notoriously unreliable anywhere in the world. And Santiago’s statements had carried no weight — a cartel boss who’d died of brain damage after threatening to kill the two presidents; it was hardly pristine testimony. Cruz understood that. He’d been quick to distrust Santiago’s threats as well, until he’d had time to process his reactions and consider the man’s tone and demeanor. None of which was proof of anything, even if it was convincing.
Cruz’s stomach growled. He glanced at the clock on his wall, surprised that it was already eight o’clock at night. The day had flown past yet again. Staring at the never-shrinking pile of paperwork in front of him, he felt demoralized. He wanted to be in the field, chasing down leads, questioning people, not acting like a goddamned CPA.
He took a swallow of the now cold coffee from his oversized cup and, grimacing at the bitter brew, decided to call it quits for the night. The slush pile of documents would still be there tomorrow, awaiting his perusal and signature. Of that he was sure. He rose, stretched his arms and rotated his head to get the kinks out, and then experienced a stab of guilt. It was unlikely he’d have a house full of hookers and booze tonight, so he reasoned that he might as well take the work home and plow through it as he ate, rather than watching TV. At least he’d have less unpleasantness waiting for him the next morning, and it would certainly put him to sleep.
Toting his newly-stuffed briefcase through security to his car, he decided to put in for a secretary. He’d always dismissed the idea, believing it sent the wrong message to his team, but he couldn’t go on like this. Cruz needed to be active operationally, especially now there were less than four weeks till the summit. Finding one wouldn’t be a problem, as all the other captains had administrative assistants, so he didn’t have any worries in that regard. He made a mental note to have Briones send out an inter-departmental memo notifying the staff, so if there were any candidates internally they’d get first shot. He’d prefer someone familiar with the labyrinthine processes imbedded in the Federal Police system; otherwise he was just further adding to his task load trying to bring someone up to speed.
He tossed his briefcase onto the seat, returned to his office and grabbed a cardboard file box crammed full of the week’s worth of papers he’d been meaning to attend to, but never seemed to have the time for. The container weighed a good forty pounds. Had he really allowed things to back up that much?
Cruz heaved the container to the car and slid it onto the passenger seat, wedging his briefcase next to it so it wouldn’t go flying if he had to stop suddenly. Satisfied, he fired up the big V8, giving it thirty seconds to warm up before pulling out of the lot. He waved goodnight to the guard and swung into the night-time traffic of Mexico City, his vision blurred from fatigue and eye strain.
The trip to Toluca was clearer than usual, probably due to the later hour, and he made it to his off ramp in under forty minutes — a kind of minor miracle. Spying one of the ubiquitous OXXO convenience store signs, he calculated the state of his refrigerator and decided to get beer and bread for his dinner; the current loaf had started to turn an alarming shade of green around the edges, and he didn’t want to tempt fate any more than he already had. Cruz was on his cell phone with Briones getting the evening download on day two of the operation in Baja, so he barely registered the truck that pulled into the space on his passenger side as he eased next to an ancient Impala that he knew belonged to the manager.
“All right,” he told the lieutenant over the phone, “I want to fly to Los Cabos next week and spend a couple of days looking over the site before things get too hectic. We’re running out of — ”