"What?" Tim asked.
"Well, the Sinners no longer care about keeping things clean in Cabo by staging an accidental death. That means this isn't another dry run. It's the run."
"Unless things went bad. I mean, unplanned bad. But point taken."
"So I doubt they're gonna bother having Good Morning Vacations inform the parents. They have the body they need. They can forge documents-we know they're good at it-ship the girl in under a false name, and dump it when they're done. Why do the extra work of coordinating with a family and risking the extra exposure?"
"But killing her instead of posing it as an accident sends up a flare," Tim said. "Why would they risk that?"
"First, another accidental death of a Hispanic SoCal girl in Cabo would almost be more conspicuous. This breaks the pattern. And second, the Sinners have no idea we're onto the body-packing scheme. An American girl goes missing in Mexico, everyone assumes she's been kidnapped or killed locally. The last place anyone's gonna look for her body is at the American Airlines baggage claim getting smuggled back into the U.S. in a coffin." Haines held up his hands. "Look, of course we'll monitor the parents, see if they're contacted, I'm just saying let's not pop any bottles of Cristal."
"Has this opened up any more inroads into Good Morning Vacations?"
"No, nothing's tracking." Thomas threw down his pen on the conference table, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his face. It emerged from his hands red, the hairs of his mustache tweaked up. "The hotel's a spring-break college shithole. We could barely get the basics."
"How about the paperwork from Jan Turaski?" Tim asked.
With the help of Malane and additional FBI support, Jan had managed to produce the CBP records with alacrity. Malane had, surprisingly, rushed copies of all documents over to the command post. Rich's hushed call from the phone banks might have had something to do with that.
"Everything looks airtight," Freed said. "Fraudulent top to bottom, but they got real seals and forms from the health department down there. The funeral home on the letterhead-surprise, surprise-doesn't exist, nor does the embalmer who signed off on the body."
"How about shipment payments?" Tim asked.
"Just like the passenger tickets, casket fees were paid by check from a dead-end account. We're still on it, but the forecast is cloudy, chance of rain."
"Don't be so dreary," Maybeck said. "All we have to do is wait till the package lands, then nab 'em coming in to pick it up."
"Right," Rich said. "Because Den Laurey and Lance Kaner are gonna ride their Harleys into LAX for a pickup. Hell, maybe the Prophet'll show, too, with a T-shirt says 'Kiss Me, I'm an Islamic Fundamentalist.'"
Jim chuckled, and then a few of the others joined in, Maybeck offering each a good view of his middle finger.
"Jim, you talk to Aaronson about the embalming biz?" Bear asked.
Jim put a knee on the tabletop and tapped the pad against it. "You got your embalming fluid, preservatives, cavity fluid, preinjection solution. There's this trocar, really cool, sucks out the-"
"Stay on message."
"Sorry. Bottom line: nothing in the way of traceables. Aaronson said the bodies were prepped with customary materials. We might as well look up every mortuary in Mexico."
"Good idea," Tim said. "Let's put together a list, starting in Cabo and radiating out. Coordinate with the local police down there."
"Because they've been so helpful."
"I can help you there, you need it," Rich said.
Hurwitz, Gregg – Rackley 03
Troubleshooter (2005)
"We do," Tim said. The Service's field office in Mexico City, consisting of two deputies, wasn't staffed to handle a major work request.
"We been working closely with the attorney general's office down there, and AFI," Rich said. The Mexican Agency of Federal Investigation had broad-ranging authority and was centrally organized, making its agents less susceptible to local corruption. "I'll ask my hook to start checking out mortuaries and funeral homes in the area. But I'd guess this is a mortician-or a doctor-working freelance." He tapped a cigarette from a pack of American Spirits, tossed it toward his lips, and caught it perfectly in the corner of his mouth. He lit a match off his thumbnail, held his first inhale, then shot a stream of smoke at the ceiling. "What happened with the hearse? The one you said was by the curb at Chief's house?"
"Gone," Miller said.
"Anything with an outdoor security cam on the block? Gas station? ATM? We review those tapes, maybe we spot it driving by. We pick up a plate, we could put it out on the street."
Tim's right thumb and forefinger went to his wedding band. His voice came fast, excited. "We don't need to."
Bear offered him a what-the-fuck eyebrow raise.
"Guerrera, you took the Impala that night, right?" Tim asked. "You parked right behind the hearse."
Guerrera smiled, realization dawning. "Our old friend, the vehicle cam."
Glad I'm good for something.
"I'll pull the tapes," Haines said, "get you a plate number."
A flicker of concern crossed Guerrera's face. "But the Impala's on an evidence hold in the impound lot off Aliso. It was shot to shit. The footage probably got Swiss-cheesed in the trunk."
Haines stood, grabbing his notepad. "Worth a check anyways."
He was almost at the door when a married couple who looked to be in their fifties entered the command post tentatively. They appeared lost, and the woman seemed deeply concerned. They were both overweight.
"I'm sorry, this is a restricted area," Haines said.
"We were told to come in," the man said with a pronounced accent. "Something about the vacation company."
"I'm sorry. Reception should've directed you to the conference room. Please come with me."
"Our daughters are okay, si?" The woman's voice took on a note of pleading. "Please tell us they okay."
"Daughters?"
"Si, Lettie y Monica Guillermo. They won a trip to Cabo San Lucas. They're down there now." The man took note of the sudden silence in the command post. His face registered dread, as if he knew before being told. "Why? Por favor, tell us what's wrong."
The wife took in the crime-scene photos pushpinned to the wall and let out a little gasp. Haines moved a step over to try to block her view. He extended his arm, steering them out into the hallway.
The command post filled with a sheepish silence. Rich put out his cigarette on the bottom of his boot. An anguished cry from the hall broke the quiet. A conference room door opened and closed, and there was silence again.
Thomas rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "Morning on the East Coast. I'll see if I can track down any of Chief's credit-card charges originating there."
"Sunday, day after Christmas," Rich said. "Good luck."
Tim grabbed the credit-card statements and passed them around, everyone taking one. He perused Chief's September charges. "He ship a lot from back east?"
"Chaps, clutch plates, chain drives. All under the fake name to the safe house."
"What's this one? In Florida?"
Thomas leaned over, squinting at the statement. His eyes were getting old, but he refused to buy reading glasses. "Orange mark. That means it's on my follow-up list."
"Lite Companion Inc."
"I figured it for a bike-part joint. Taillights, headlights, something."
"Spelled wrong."
"They call that," Jim said grandly, "rationalized orthography."
"They like their gear light," Thomas said. "Lite lights, ya know?"
Tim swung a monitor around and slid over a keyboard. He did a search on the company, found a Web site. He clicked the link and waited for the page to come up.
The blank screen loaded, rendering the HTML block by block.
Lite Companion(r) Intragastric Balloon System. Help your patients lose weight easily, painlessly, and without hunger pangs!