The locking blocks of the Glocks, too, had been painted and attached unobtrusively to the frame of the hand truck with Loctite. All that was left of the Glocks were the trigger groups, the trigger bars, the sears, and the trigger connectors—all of which were small pieces containing little more metal than a ballpoint pen. They were installed inside a tablet computer labeled ORDER TRACKING MODULE, effectively immune from detection.
The most distinctive parts—the gun barrels—had been set aside. They would have the most distinctive X-ray profiles, and so they would have to go in through an entirely different route.
Chuparosa heard footsteps and grasped the handle of the knife he carried in his belt, just as a precaution. He turned and waited.
Tomás Calibri came around the corner carrying two formal-looking outfits on hangers, wrapped in dry cleaner’s clear plastic. Tuxedo shirts and black pants.
Servers’ uniforms.
From his pocket Calibri pulled out two black bow ties.
“I hope you know how to tie a real bow tie, patrón?”
CHAPTER 55
Fisk and Garza spent some time out of his vehicle at the security station before the gate built into the twelve-foot-high stone wall. It was a beautiful, blue-sky day on Long Island. Their respective credentials were examined by a security guard while a second guard, a backup, remained inside the booth, watching them carefully.
The first guard carried their identification into the guard booth and spent a considerable amount of time on the telephone. He finally returned, again checked their faces against their identification cards, and only then signaled the second guard to roll back the gate.
When they were back inside his car and rolling up the wide driveway, Fisk said, “Getting on an airplane is easier than that.”
The lawn was beautifully landscaped, the main house not coming into view until the wide driveway took a leftward turn.
The mansion was slate roofed, with multiple dormer windows set symmetrically between red-trimmed gables. It was three stories and wide, fronted by a large circular driveway ringed by perfect green shrubs, offset by a pond with a fountain in its center. Picture perfect against a clear blue sky on a warm September day.
“My goodness,” said Fisk.
“How much would you say?” asked Garza.
Fisk said, “Seven million. The upkeep alone would be beyond any cop’s reach.”
“All from one tiny restaurant?” said Garza.
They parked outside the front door. The door was opened by a butler, who welcomed them inside. He was Mexican by appearance, stern looking, in his fifties. “Comandante and Detective, Don Andrés insists upon a strict no-gun policy inside his home,” said the butler.
Fisk said, “That is simply not possible.”
“I am afraid I will have to insist. Or else Don Andrés will not be available to sit with you today.”
Fisk checked with Garza to be sure he was speaking for both of them. “You tell your boss that we wear our weapons wherever we go.”
A woman stepped into the entrance from one of the three rooms that fed into it. “Then I will have to insist,” she said.
Fisk smiled. “Marshal Graben.” The U.S. marshal he had seen at the restaurant during the briefing.
“Good to see you again, Fisk. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s no concern of yours. But since Andrés León does not object, I am making it happen. But not with your service pieces. Again—his house, his rules.”
“Fine,” said Garza, unsnapping her holster and removing her Beretta.
Fisk, after a moment’s consideration, pulled out his Glock.
The butler was waiting with an open box. They laid them inside.
“And any electronic devices,” added the butler.
Fisk glanced sideways at Graben before relinquishing his phone. Garza laid hers inside the box next to Fisk’s.
The butler closed the box and set it on a table near the door. “Thank you,” said the butler. “Now, if you don’t mind . . .”
He did not give them a chance to mind. The butler frisked Fisk, thoroughly and professionally. As a courtesy, Graben walked over to pat down Garza.
Garza stared at the marshal during the frisking.
“Satisfied?” said Fisk.
Graben said, “He is on the patio in back.”
Fisk said, “Care to draw us a map?”
CHAPTER 56
Through an open glass door in the back, they stepped down onto a brick patio arranged in a wide circle with inlaid tiles set to resemble a glowing sun. Beyond the patio, trees rose before the wall that circled the property. Above the patio was strung a thin netting that did little to block out the sun.
From one of three deck chairs set before a table containing the remains of a fine breakfast, Andrés León set down his iPad and stood. He was an older man, his hair long, held back in a gray-black braid that came halfway down his back. He wore loafers with no socks, linen pants, a loose, long-sleeved shirt, and a wide straw hat. He smiled in a grandfatherly way, greeting them.
“Welcome!” he said. He took Cecilia Garza’s hand politely, almost as though he were about to kiss it, then shook Fisk’s hand.
“Mexico City and New York, working jointly,” he said, having been appraised of their identities in advance of their appearance. “It is rarely a pleasure when police appear, but to what do I owe it?”
He offered them the other two chairs, but neither Fisk nor Garza sat.
Garza said, “We are preparing security for a special dinner tonight between two heads of state—”
León said, “Of course, of course. At my restaurant. But I believed all security matters were being seen to already.”
Fisk said, “We were curious. We hadn’t met you personally and wanted to come by ourselves.”
“Curious, I see. You won’t sit?”
They did, reluctantly.
“Anything? Orange juice? So fresh?”
“No, nothing,” said Fisk.
“I might have some,” said Garza.
“Wonderful.” He waved to a servant standing off to the side, and she departed.
“As you can see,” he said, “I live in a beautiful prison here.”
Fisk nodded. “We were going to ask you about that.”
“That was my assumption. Inspector Fisk, I followed your exploits in the news last year.”
“It’s Detective,” said Fisk.
“And you, too, Comandante Garza. I follow Mexican news most closely. You have made quite a name for yourself. I am not surprised you would seek me out here, due to my involvement in the dinner tonight. I am happy to answer all questions.”
Garza said, “Who are you?”
“Who I am now is a protected individual living under the careful watch of the United States government. A retired Mexican financier. An expatriate. A man in self-exile.”
Garza’s orange juice arrived in a crystal glass, sunlight glinting off the facets and sparkling. As the servant leaned forward to hand Garza the juice, Fisk saw the strap of a shoulder holster beneath his white jacket.
When the servant retreated, León said, “Who I was was a money manager for certain interests in Mexico, many years ago. I was heavily involved—you might say, desperately involved—in many illegal enterprises, as an accountant and a banker, laundering many millions for fifteen cents on the dollar.”
Garza said, “for the cartels.”
León tucked his chin and set his lips, looking resigned. “Corruption always begins with small things, Comandante. It comes at you sideways. I was a legitimate banker once. A long, long time ago. The movies make what I did look daring and exotic. It was hell. Daily hell. Ulcers. Paranoia. No sleep.”