“So what’s our strategy? All traffic functions en route will be conducted on a need-to-know basis. NYPD will prepare for a rolling street blockage with minimal notice. We will have intersection control for both presidents’ motorcades, and will have two lanes of setback—that is, space between the motorcade and other traffic—whenever possible. We will bring our principals in through the alley in the back, and we’ll close and barricade the street between Greenwich and West Tenth. The upper floors of the restaurant’s building include residential space, and will be evacuated and occupied by counterattack agents starting three hours before the event is to start.”
He surveyed the room, hands on his hips.
“There’s your site prep. If I failed to cover anything . . . well, it was not an oversight. You know as much as you need to know, and more than enough to assist without getting in our way.”
His last remarks seemed aimed at the Mexican security contingent.
“Good day.”
CHAPTER 44
Fisk stopped Dukes before he left.
“I notice the owner is not here.”
“Guess not,” said Dukes.
“C’mon,” said Fisk.
Dukes just shook his head.
“You vetted this guy? I don’t like the caginess.”
Dukes sighed. “I know you’re not presuming to tell me how to do my job, Fisk,” he said, giving Fisk a borderline hard stare. “Here’s the thing, Fisk. Your job is all about the Why. Lot of gray areas—why a guy kills somebody, does this, does that. Lot of questions to be answered. But for us, for me . . . it’s all black and white. The principal lives or the principal dies. Why is just a distraction. Why kills.”
Fisk grumbled, “So President Vargas just loves a good fish taco then.”
“That must be it,” said Dukes. “Look, when you start telling me everything you know about your job, I’ll start telling you everything I know about mine.”
“Point taken.”
“Point made.”
Dukes went off out of the restaurant. That was when Fisk saw a deputy U.S. marshal standing near the door. A short woman with squat hips and straight brown hair, wearing a dark-jacketed suit. He went over to her. “Graben, is it?”
“Detective Fisk.”
She did not offer to shake his hand.
“It’s been a while,” he said.
“Heard you were out of action. Put up on the shelf.”
“They pulled me back down. Can I ask you a question?”
“No,” she said.
“What is a deputy U.S. marshal doing here?”
Graben shrugged. “I’m not here.”
“Really,” said Fisk. “That old thing.”
“That old thing.”
The U.S. Marshals Service is charged with protecting and supporting U.S. federal courts, as well as conducting fugitive investigations. Another thing they are known for is the Witness Security Program, protecting, relocating, and assigning new identities to witnesses and other high-threat individuals.
“Good to see you back in the game, Fisk,” she said, turning and following Dukes out the door.
Fisk stood there a moment, processing the interaction, then followed her out.
He watched her get into the vehicle behind Dukes’s sedan and follow him away, heading uptown.
CHAPTER 45
Fisk was unsure of his next move as he turned around, and found himself facing Cecilia Garza.
She was looking, not at his eyes, but at his chin.
“Thanks for the update on the No Fly boys,” said Fisk. “The dead Zeta hitters.”
“Dead traffickers,” she said. “I assumed someone else would forward you that information.”
“Detective Kiser did, wholly by accident.”
“I am not a person who apologizes,” she said. “But I want to.” Her eyes came up to his. “For what I said about your former partner, your girlfriend. That was uncalled for. I think you are right, I was distraught, I did not handle it well. You were right about my emotions, and I lashed out. Will you accept my apology?”
Fisk watched her. He had the feeling that if he said yes right away, she would walk on and never look back.
He said, “I’m trying to figure out how much of your personality is a mask and how much is real.”
She nodded as though she had expected some pushback. “I am so tired of never being able to trust,” she said. “Anyone. It derives from work. I have so few people I can truly trust in Mexico, in the PF and elsewhere in law enforcement. Virgilio was one of those people. Corruption is so rampant, it is a part of doing what we do, it is deep within the system. The men in my unit are the cleanest in the force . . . but beyond that I have to assume that every cop I deal with is on the payroll of the cartels.”
“I’m not.”
She waved that away. “Of course, I am just trying to explain. The pay is so low that bribes have become part of the system, like gratuities. Part of the pay scale. Never for me. But for many. If not most. You do not have to murder someone, or smuggle drugs, or break into evidence lockers. Thousands of pesos just to look the other way.”
“I get it. It’s hard not to be cynical.”
“And the truth is that I see something in you, something that I like. And that is a complication. I do not like complications.”
Fisk felt a little heat at the back of his neck. “. . . I see.”
“I have no time for complications right now.”
“No, of course,” he said. “Me neither.”
Garza nodded as though something had been agreed to. “Do you accept my apology?”
Fisk said, “If I say yes, am I ever going to see you again?”
CHAPTER 46
Nicole?” said Fisk, entering Intel headquarters. “Why are you still here?”
“Work to do,” she said.
“Can you push those traffic camera captures to my secure laptop?” he said, passing quickly, heading for his office. “This is Colonel Garza.”
Nicole nodded at her a little strangely. “I remember her from yesterday.”
“Good evening,” said Garza.
Fisk grabbed his laptop off his desk and carried it into one of the briefing rooms, closing the door. He opened it up before them.
The high-angle videos showed split-screen versions of the same scene, one in regular exposure and one shot with night vision. The automobile, a Ford Explorer, had tinted windows, but the night vision picked up some images through the glass.
One video showed a bulky man driving, only from the chin down. In the backseat, on the left side, a man wearing a Yankees cap glanced out the window as the Explorer passed the camera.
Two videos offered different perspectives on the same car, but the first one offered the only true glimpse at the man in the backseat.
Two other traffic videos, each of much lower quality and taken from a higher angle, showed the sedan they had found being driven toward the first cemetery. In the front passenger seat, the bulky man was again visible, only from the shoulders down, due to the extreme angle. But the knife in his hand was plain to see.
That one was taken at 11:43 P.M. The other video was captured four hours later, at 3:51 A.M.
As ever, there was an eeriness inherent in viewing the confusing final moments of a doomed human being. The driver, Virgilio’s cousin or friend—it mattered little to Fisk now—looked as though he were in conversation with someone in the backseat. Someone unseen.