"Yes. Mexicana and AeroMexico. Villarosa and Andovar were X-rayed."
"But Sanchez?"
"Flew the friendly skies with American," Bear said.
"That's United," Jan said.
"What?"
"The slogan. 'Fly the friendly skies.' That was United."
"Oh," Bear said.
Tim cut in: "They found their carrier route on their third try. American Airlines Flight 2453 into LAX-no X-ray."
Jan checked her monitor. "That flight's slated for a nine A.M. arrival. From today on, we'll be crawling all over it. And any other inbounds from the area." She blew her bangs off her forehead. "There's no way we catch this without your intel. When the dogs give their once-over, a decaying body loaded with formaldehyde would cover the scent pretty good. No way they'd hit on heroin inside a corpse."
"AT gives off a strong scent," Rich said. "They had to come up with something strong to overlay it."
Jan said, "Nearest international airport down there is…what? San Jose del Cabo? You alert Mexican Customs?"
"Yes," Rich said. "President Fox made a round of bullshit reforms, but there's still so much goddamn corruption at the ports it's hard to tighten up down there. You know what they say-Con dinero, baila el perro."
"I didn't know they said that. Live and learn." Jan said it without looking at him. "How are they getting the drugs into the stomachs?"
"We haven't figured that out yet," Tim said. "But we're assuming in some way that gives no overt indication that the bodies have been altered."
"Right, so even if a dog gets a soft hit and we take a closer look, run a hand along the coffin lining, peek under a blouse, everything's copasetic. No Y-pluck, no stitching. Lowers the odds that we'll yank the body out of there for an X-ray, especially if it's riding a domestic carrier."
"Maybe they force the victims to swallow a drug packet before they're killed," Guerrera offered.
"Either way," Bear said, "someone's getting paid to prep the bodies on that end."
"What do you have in the way of a paper trail?" Tim asked. "What's required to ship in a body?"
As Jan dug in her file drawer, Tim's eyes pulled to the photo of her newborn on the empty bookshelf behind her. She followed his gaze when she came up for air.
"Congratulations, Jan," he said. "I don't think we've talked since…"
"Thank you." Her face softened. "I'm sorry about Dray. I didn't bring it up because…you know. You holding up?"
Tim sensed Rich's stare and felt his face get hot. "Holding up."
Jan plunged into the paperwork. "Lead-lined coffin, proof of grounds of burial or place for cremation, passport, two certified copies of the death certificate, a letter on funeral-home stationery describing the preparation and treatment of the remains signed by the embalmer and notarized, a letter from the local health department verifying the absence of any contagion."
"And where are the caskets received on this end?"
"A standard holding area. Nothing unusual there. If it's going straight to a service, the mortuary usually sends a hearse or van for the pickup."
"Can we get copies of all the paperwork from our three victims?"
"Absolutely. We're a bit of a mess here, but I should be able to pull it together in a few hours. What?"
"We might not have a few hours."
"Then I'll do it quicker."
"Thank you, Jan. We're gonna get you a joint Service-FBI team in here."
Jan drew her head back, wrinkling her chin. "Jesus. Really? You want to give me the full story now, Rack?"
Because the al-Fath angle was under FBI jurisdiction, Tim deferred to Rich, who scrunched up his face in an expression that was almost endearing and shook his head.
"Sorry, Jan," Tim said. "I'll tell you in a few weeks over a drink."
"The sound of this," Jan said, "we might not be around in a few weeks."
Chapter 44
Tim's Explorer followed Bear's Ram, Rich fiddling with the radio like a teenager. AC/DC's "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" seemed to please him. He rocked for a while, scratching the slope of skin that formed his weak chin.
They twisted up Century Boulevard, leaving the rumble of LAX behind. At the Sepulveda intersection, fifteen glowing pylons built of steel and frosted glass sculpted a gateway to the airport. Each piece of the installation, illuminated internally by color-changing fixtures, rose a hundred feet out of the landscaping. The pylons strode down the lawned median of Century, descending to mimic an aircraft's landing or, from the other direction, ascending in symbolic takeoff. Tim watched the monoliths morph from lavender to emerald. Because of its chameleon effect, the mile-long lightwork had been dubbed "Psychedelic Stonehenge" by locals. Mayor Riordan had flipped the ceremonial switch in 2000, and ever since, the $112 million piece of marketing had greeted arrivals to L.A. The pylons had a quality that was quixotic, lavish, and seductive, much like the city itself.
Dray had once likened them to glowing tampons.
Tim's lips pursed at the memory. Dray had been in the ICU for three days now. And every day she remained under, the doctor had warned, the odds diminished for a viable return. The last three days had been nearly unbearable without her. He couldn't imagine another fifty years.
The lights transformed to a vivid orange-the same shade the sun turned the smog at dusk, making the lung-cancer risk seem worth it. Tim felt the glow on his face. The pylons had watched a lot of life go by. They'd welcomed movie stars and tourists and immigrants. They'd seen off heads of state and diplomats and extraditable war criminals. They'd looked on as girls drove past in cars and returned in hearses. They were unyielding and unmoved, like cops, like doctors, like soldiers, like any bystanders on a thoroughfare. And if Tim failed, if the task force failed, if Rich and Malane and Smiles failed, the pylons would welcome Allah's Tears to the city with the same mute indifference.
Bon Scott finished his muttering, and Rich clicked off the radio. "Who's Dray?"
A car veered into their lane, and Tim swerved and honked. By the time Rich finished yelling out the window and settled back in his seat, he seemed more pensive.
"That was some really fine investigative work," he said.
"Yeah?" Tim said. "Maybe you could've cut us in earlier, and we'd be farther along."
Rich made an irritated noise and looked out the window.
They drove a few minutes, wheels rattling over asphalt.
Then Tim said, "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. You're the one who tracked the shit down."
"I meant for Tom-Tom. You risked your cover to save my ass."
Rich watched the cars fly by on the far side of the road, his tongue poking a mound in his cheek. "Yeah," he said with the faintest grin. "I did."
Chapter 45
By the time they returned, the command post had kicked back into high gear. About ten minutes prior, Haines had finally synced up with the graveyard shift's watch commander at the Cabo San Lucas police department. The force had been busy that morning investigating a murder and the disappearance of an American girl, Lettie Guillermo. She'd been staying at the Costa Royal as part of a complimentary trip issued by Good Morning Vacations. A witness, who charitably described her as gordita, reported seeing her book a snorkeling trip from a street vendor. The boat had been found in a nearby cove, the diver killed gruesomely with a gaff. No sign of Lettie Guillermo.
"You track down her parents?" Tim asked.
"They're coming in," Haines said. "Merry fucking Christmas."
Tim checked his watch: 4:30 A.M., December 26. Three days since the paramedics had carried Dray off the asphalt.
"We can use them." Rich glanced around at the morose faces. "Hey, we were all thinking it, I just said it."
"That's why I'm bringing them in," Haines said. "But I'm not sure they'll be useful. The dead diver, you know?"