The Execution (13 page)

CHAPTER 30

T
he head of security for the Four Seasons was an African man named Nnamdi Nwokcha. He wore a much nicer suit than Fisk’s, and had evidently spent a great deal of time shining his shoes. But inside the security room off the rear of the lobby, he ran the complex hotel camera system like he’d been born for the job.

“I was trained in IT,” Nwokcha said as he began fiddling with the buttons on the console that ran the hotel security camera system. “During the downturn, I wasn’t able to find work in my field. Drove a cab for a while, then ended up in security.” He punched in some numbers. “Good system. RAID array, saves data to the cloud every ten minutes. We’re in the process of replacing all the cameras, but over seventy-five percent are now high-def.”

Garza said, “We were at the bar, he came in alone.”

“Do you have a photograph of the man?” Nwokcha asked.

“No,” said Garza.

“Was he a guest?”

“Yes, but unregistered.”

Nwokcha switched from the lobby door camera to a camera just inside the bar, focused on the entrance. Garza gave him an estimate of the time. “The real heart of this system is the software. It’s absurdly sophisticated. Full facial recognition, AI search functionality, and a threat assessment, object-oriented database. We have the capability to run every returning guest’s face as they walk in the door and greet them by name by the time they reach the front desk if we wanted to. Management decided that is a little too presumptuous and creepy, though.”

Nwokcha stopped the playback so that the image of each guest’s face flickered on the screen. “That’s him,” said Garza.

Nwokcha reset the playback, showing Virgilio entering, glancing around, spotting someone, and starting toward them.

A new angle showed him greeting Garza. Nwokcha improved the zoom function. There was no sound, but Fisk would not have been surprised if it existed somewhere on this system.

“What am I looking for?”

Garza said, “I don’t know. Maybe someone at the bar.”

Fisk could tell she was searching for a particular individual.

Nwochka said, “Male? Female? Be specific.”

“I don’t know him by sight. I am told he is neither short nor tall, neither thin nor fat. His age should be late forties.”

Fisk said, more to Garza than the security head, “That’s not much to go on.”

Garza said, without moving her eyes from the screen, “I know the methods more than the man.”

“Then we are looking for somebody looking at Virgilio,” said Fisk. “And maybe you.”

Nwokcha found another camera angle which seemed to be situated above the bar itself. As Virgilio left, and Garza turned to request her food bill, a young woman turned her head, tracking the man back across the lounge to the exit.

“There,” said Garza.

The young Latin woman excused herself, disengaging from the heavy gentleman she had been in the process of flattering. On high heels and in a snug black cocktail dress, she started out of the lounge after Virgilio.

“Aha,” said Nwokcha. He switched back to the lobby camera.

They watched as Virgilio walked directly to the revolving doors, pushing through to the street.

The young woman followed, not quickly but casually.

Nwokcha picked them up outside, just in front of the entrance, under the overhang.

Virgilio waited, then jogged across the street to his waiting car.

The young woman just stood there on the sidewalk, holding the strap of her handbag, looking intently in Virgilio’s direction. A bellman approached her, apparently inquiring if she needed a taxi. She did not answer or even acknowledge him, and he turned to a late-arriving guest.

After almost a minute or so, she turned and walked east, as though nothing had happened.

“Any more?” asked Garza.

“That is our only outdoor camera.”

“It cannot pan up?” She wanted to see Virgilio get into his car, apparently.

“No, it is fixed.”

Fisk said, “She was marking him.”

Garza straightened. “Yes.”

“Marking him?” said Nwokcha.

“Signaling someone,” said Fisk. “Someone who is not on camera.”

“Pointing him out,” said Garza, doubly anxious now.

Nwokcha had isolated her face from the bar and was running it through their system. “The system has her flagged as a hooker.”

“It does?” said Fisk.

“There’s an algorithm for that. Young women in short dresses who come and go frequently and aren’t tagged to a specific room . . . the system flags them as prostitutes.”

“So you can blackball them?”

“Hardly. A hotel without working girls? We’d be out of business in no time. No, we just want to know who is coming and going.” He tapped a few more keys. “Her first visit to the hotel, apparently. No additional information.”

“She’s Mexican,” said Garza.

Fisk said, “You’re sure?”

“Of course I am.”

Fisk asked Nwokcha, “Is that the best image?”

“The computer automatically displays the clearest facial image, the one most suitable for further analysis.”

Fisk said, “Could we get a printout?”

“Not from here. But I can e-mail you the image.”

Fisk gave him his Intel address and waited for the e-mail to arrive at his phone. Garza had stepped away to call in an update.

Fisk asked Nwokcha, “Does the system do anything for people who don’t show their faces?”

“It isolates them. Here’s the trick if you don’t want to be photographed. Use this.” He pointed to Fisk’s phone. “You pretend to talk on a cell phone, you see, with your eyes down. Wear a baseball cap or something similarly common that will obscure your face from a high angle. Then you add in sunglasses, of course, hunch up your shoulders a little. Put your finger in your other ear as though you are having trouble getting reception or hearing well in a crowded area. People do it all the time who
aren’t
hiding from cameras. Looks perfectly natural.”

Fisk’s phone hummed with the arriving e-mail. He opened the attachment and looked at the photo image of the woman. On his phone, she looked even younger, maybe nineteen or twenty. He forwarded the image to Intel.

CHAPTER 31

B
ack in his car, before pulling out, Fisk turned to face Garza. “We need to issue an alert about Virgilio.”

“He’s already dead,” said Garza.

Fisk studied her. Her jaw trembled a bit, but her eyes remained fierce, focused. “You’re saying he wouldn’t have allowed himself to have been taken alive?”

“Only if incapacitated. I realize there is always a chance . . . but if the aim is to extract information, about President Vargas’s movements and security, he won’t cooperate. He will be killed when he refuses.”

“Then there is no reason not to issue an alert. It might give us a lead.”

Garza looked through the windshield at busy Fifty-seventh Street. She had already resigned herself to Virgilio’s fate.

Fisk continued, “If you are reluctant because of showing your organization’s vulnerability, or disclosing his true identity . . .”

Garza turned to Fisk. “He was a good man. I cannot accept that he is gone . . . and yet I have to.”

Fisk was checking his mirrors.

“What is it?” she asked.

Fisk said, “I’m making sure nobody picked us up at the hotel to follow us.”

Garza’s eyes narrowed, and she looked at the hotel doors as Fisk pulled out into traffic.

“All right, Comandante,” he said. “I think it is time for you to tell me who this guy is you’re looking for.”

She looked off into the distance as though she was trying to decide whether or not she could trust him.

“You need help here,” said Fisk, more pointedly this time. “And if I’m going to marshal resources, I need a damn good reason. Who is he?”

“Two months ago, Detective Fisk, a row of headless corpses was left on the plaza of the town of Nuevo Laredo, just across the border from Laredo, Texas. The man I am chasing was responsible for those killings and numerous others. We finally tracked him back to a compound in the mountains that was his home. His refuge. He was gone. But before leaving, he killed every one of his servants and even his own men. He was making a statement. He left this behind, just a few feet away from a dead boy we believe to be his nephew.”

She thumbed her phone screen, waiting for Fisk to be able to take his eyes off the road and look over. He saw the image of a newspaper photograph of President Vargas, over which was a peculiar reddish brown design.

“That’s blood,” she said. “And if you were able to look at it closely, you would see that it is not just a random stain. It is a drawing. It is the mark of an assassin known as Chuparosa. It means Hummingbird.”

Fisk glanced at the image again. He could see it now, the wings, the needle-shaped nose.

“Why a hummingbird?”

Garza looked at the image herself before darkening the screen of her phone. “It is a symbol of vigor and potency. But specifically? I don’t know. He was notoriously aligned with the Zeta Cartel as something of an inspirational figure, cherishing violence over all else.”

“And you’ve never seen him?”

“No confirmed photographs exist. I have been tracking this man for two years now, Detective. He existed like a legend for years. In a country of dangerous men, this man is the most dangerous, by far. So brutal that his exploits were denied by many, out of sheer disbelief. Last July was the closest I have ever come to catching him.”

“Why did the Zetas need to rely on one man?”

“He aligned with them early. To give you an example . . . in searching his compound after we secured it, we discovered six metal barrels below a trapdoor in a storage shed about a half kilometer from the main house. Outside the shed was a fire pit covered by a grill. You see, disposing of bodies is problematic, especially in the heat of the desert. Scavengers will dig up anything that is buried. And cadaver dogs can track the scent of the long dead. For every beheaded victim of the drug war, there are another dozen victims who simply disappear. In one particularly horrifying case, a man who reported the abduction of his family was himself kidnapped the next day.”

She paused a moment, and Fisk knew she was thinking of Virgilio.

“What we believe is that Chuparosa would fill a barrel with water and two large bags of lye. He would set the barrel on the grill and light the fire, bringing the liquid inside to a boil before submerging the dead body. Over the next twenty-four hours, the body would liquefy. We found remnants of a pinkish gunk that resembled posole. Do you know what that is?”

“No.”

“It is a stew. Later he would dump the liquefied remains into a nearby stream. We learned this by digging up soil samples and testing them for traces of human remains. But our forensic teams could not identify even one victim. He is as diabolical as he is thorough. Hundreds of families have no answers, and will never know the true fate of their loved ones. He has no regard for human life, Detective.”

She turned to him.

“Let me see the bodies dumped in Rockaway yesterday. There may be something of value there.”

Fisk had some more questions to ask before answering her. “Why does he now want to kill the president?”

“I don’t know. It must have something to do with the trafficking treaty.”

“That seems somewhat extreme, doesn’t it? Why take this on by himself? It seems like he would be motivated more by a personal grudge.”

“It is terror. I believe that is his motive. He is striking at his homeland, our country. He seeks to destabilize and disgrace. Like a . . . a bad seed, an evil son. He wants to destroy.”

“So killing him, or attempting to, in the United States is easier . . . ?”

“No, but it is more profound. It is more unsettling. It shows his reach, his power.”

Fisk remembered the file on Comandante Garza. “So he is certainly aware of you then.”

Garza nodded. “He is.”

“What if you had left the hotel last night?”

She dismissed this outright. “Virgilio left in a state of distraction. The shame of the beheadings had soured him. I believe it was a momentary lapse of attention.”

Fisk frowned. “You’ve never had a momentary lapse of attention?”

“Not when it comes to Chuparosa.”

Fisk said, “It is not a good sign when the Mexican president’s protection needs protections herself.”

“I need no such thing,” she said, indignant. “I need cooperation. I need to see the dead bodies. It is connected, I promise you.”

Fisk said, “What you need is to go to the Secret Service with this information. You need to tell them there is an active plot to assassinate President Vargas in New York City.”

“Yes,” said Garza. “Led by a man who no one can prove actually exists.”

Fisk conceded that.

Garza went on, “Based upon a drawing in blood made over a photograph in a newspaper. See, Detective, there is a difference between what I know and what I can prove.”

Fisk said, “You’re right. If we go to the Secret Service with this, they’ll assign you another agent, maybe two. There’s too many people to watch in New York this week. And when I spoke to the head agent, asking him about the brief on Vargas, he mentioned nothing about a ‘Hummingbird’ or any active threat.”

Garza was quiet a moment, and Fisk realized she was looking at him.

“So you did follow up, after all. After dismissing me yesterday.”

Fisk shrugged. “Maybe I did.”

She said, “You feel it, too. You sense it.”

“Whether I do or not, the problem is getting you the support you need. A threat to your president is one thing. It’s serious, and it’s actionable. But a threat that might involve our president? That brings out all the big hunting dogs. That’s what you want.”

She crossed her arms. “So take me to Rockaway. As I asked you to do in the first place.”

“You demanded it, actually,” said Fisk. “And besides, the bodies are long gone from Rockaway.”

Fisk slid his phone out of its dashboard mount and found Detective Kiser’s number.

CHAPTER 32

D
etective Kiser shed his suit coat and his tie, his white shirt soaked with sweat. He looked exhausted.

Fisk said, “Appreciate you taking the time.”

“Are you kidding?” said Kiser. “I welcome the professional help.”

Fisk nodded. “If we’re right—and I’m not saying we are—but if we’re right, this has got an international dimension. And she supposedly knows more about the doer than anybody on the planet.”

Cecilia Garza returned from her phone call. “Nothing still.”

Fisk nodded. He understood her drive to keep moving ahead, to not dwell on the unknowns regarding her disappeared comrade, but to look for answers wherever she could find them.

Even if it was in the Queens Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.

Morgue floors were always shiny. They cleaned them every other night. A morgue attendant wearing a mask and gloves—dressed almost like a hazmat worker—pulled the wheeled tables out of the walk-in cooler. Each one held a zipped body bag.

Kiser offered Garza his three-ring binder. “We have everything photographed if you’d prefer.”

She shook her head, stretching latex gloves over her hands.

“I’d very much prefer . . .” said Kiser, his voice fading to nothing.

The attendant went about opening all the black rubber bags. Kiser pinched his nose.

“Everything’s been bagged and tagged,” Kiser said, nasally. “One guy’s got no feet. Where do you put a toe tag on a guy with no toes?”

If the attendant was aware the question was directed at him, he did not answer.

Fisk pulled on his own gloves. He waited while Garza made a careful inspection of all the bodies, helping the attendant flip them over so she could see their backs, too.

When she had looked at every single corpse she said, “Help me move these stretchers in order.”

Fisk said, “Order?”

“For narrative clarity,” she said. “These eight, here . . . this one here . . . this one down here . . .” When she was satisfied, she stood back. “There are three major drug cartels in Mexico at the moment. The Zetas are at war with the Gulf Cartel and Sinaloas. The Sinaloas are primarily a West Coast operation, while the Gulf is on the East Coast. The Gulf Cartel has been almost eliminated now, absorbed by the Zetas. So what’s left, mainly, is the Sinaloas, the largest and strongest.”

“Okay,” said Kiser.

Garza pointed at the first eight bodies. “Let us call these corpses one through eight. Fairly pedestrian tattoos, in my opinion. These are men with perhaps Mexican heritage, but so far as we can see, no evident gang affiliation.”

She moved to the next three bodies. “Here, I’m guessing these are all Mexican gang members or affiliates. Their tattoos include Santa Muerte—the Lord of Death—which is often believed to be derived from the Aztec god Mictlantecuhtli.” She pointed to a large tattoo of a robed figure with a skull for a face. “There, this one actually says ‘Sinaloa’ here, but there are various other symbolic references to the cartel which are a good deal more cryptic. Bottom line, though, these three are all almost certainly Sinaloa Cartel members, ex-members, or affiliates. As you can see, all of these men have all been tortured or mutilated or abused in one way or another.”

She went to the second-to-last body.

“Here we have a man covered with tattoos . . . but tattoos of a very different character. First, you will note from his skin tone and body hair color that he appears to be a Caucasian. Also, all of the words tattooed on his body are in English rather than Spanish. But more importantly, you will note that these are well-executed tattoos, composed in rich color, with complex and varied detail. I would go so far as to classify these as highly artistic, wouldn’t you?”

“If you say so,” said Kiser, still plugging his nose.

Fisk was impressed with her review of the bodies: crisp, well reasoned, and unflinching.

She continued, “And other than the head and fingertips being removed, there is no evidence of torture or desecration on this last body.”

“
Other
than the decapitation,” said Kiser.

“Yes—setting that aside for the moment.” She pointed at the last man. “Finally, we have this last body. Again, head and fingertips removed. His skin was apparently quite pale, even before death. And there is only one tattoo on his body.”

Fisk saw it. A black hummingbird.

“It’s him,” said Fisk.

“Taken together, these bodies constitute a sentence, a phrase, a grammar, a message. This message announces that an assassin is here, someone of substance, someone whose work must be taken seriously. Someone capable of sophisticated, ruthless, extreme violence. Moreover, the manner in which they were killed draws a connection to other killings in Mexico.

“Now, we turn to these two. Let us focus on this man with all the tattoos. These are of a higher artistic quality than the others. None of them are gang related in the least. No flaming skeletons, no broken chains, no skulls or AK-47s, no Blessed Virgins. Now, if you examine the orientation, several of them appear to be turned at peculiar angles.”

“What do you mean?” said Kiser.

“Just look. Normally a tattoo is intended to be viewed while a person is standing. But this one . . . and this one . . . and this one . . . are oriented sideways. So that if he were standing at rest, you would have to crane your head all the way to the side in order to look at them properly. Odd, right? But . . . consider this. If he crossed his legs, you see, this tattoo of the duck . . . it would be oriented toward his face. Now, here, this one is a Buddhist image known as Fudo Myo-o. The flaming bodhisattva with the rope and the sword. If he crooked his arm—as for instance laying it on a desk in front of him—this Fudo Myo-o tattoo on his forearm would also be oriented toward his face. And these oddly oriented tattoos are among the most intricate and beautiful on his body.”

Fisk nodded. “This guy did himself. He’s a tattoo artist.”

“Putting his best work on his own body. And not because he had to, by the way. A competent tattoo artist transfers a picture onto the skin and then just fills in the lines. Paint by numbers. No, he oriented them this way for his own enjoyment. He wanted to see the fruit of his own labor.”

Kiser said, “That’s something I can work with. And what about this last guy? The pale one. He’s got nothing except that bird.”

Cecilia Garza looked at the last corpse, the one with the small tattoo of the hummingbird between the shoulder blades. Her face momentarily showed . . . not sadness exactly, Fisk thought. But something close. More like a soul-deep weariness.

“I have seen this design before. Many times. This one was traced from an original design. Always drawn by the same hand. And this tattoo is a very accurate, careful representation of that design. It’s a faithful copy, if you see my point. It captures the gesture, the expressiveness of the original.”

Kiser looked skeptical. “I’m just following along, hearing what you’re saying. But I’m not sure I’m getting it yet.”

“He’s unusually pale,” she said. “No other blemishes. He is, if you will, a human canvas. See the sand from the beach still lodged in the design?”

Kiser cocked his head for a better look. So did Fisk.

Garza went on, “See where the hair was shaved, from just below the neck? A corona of redness beneath the skin around the design? That is not lividity. The blood has settled on the front.”

“It was a brand-new tattoo,” said Fisk, straightening. “He got this hummingbird right before he was killed.”

“It is a cartel signature, usually a ‘Z’ for Zetas, a ‘13’ for MS-13, something like that. The whole point of this . . . display . . . this work . . . whatever you want to call it, is to show us this tattoo. To frame it, to underline it.”

Kiser said, “And this bird means something to you.”

“Something,” said Fisk, going back to the presumed tattoo artist. He rolled him back onto his stomach, hairy buttocks in the air. “Look at this.”

Fisk pointed at his right shoulder. It was a tattoo of an attractive woman, the image rendered in impressive detail.

Fisk said, “He couldn’t have done this one himself.”

“No,” Garza said. “Most likely he did the drawing and had a colleague paint by numbers.”

Fisk snapped off his gloves and took out his phone. He snapped a picture of the tat.

“You don’t need to do that,” Kiser said. “I told you, forensics got photos of all the tats already.”

Fisk just nodded, returning his phone to his pocket.

Garza said, “I need to run those images through our database back in Mexico City.”

Kiser looked at Fisk. “What say you?”

Fisk said, “I don’t see any need for you to get any special authorization. This is about solving crime, right?”

“Well,” said Kiser, “actually it’s more about keeping my job. Kidding. Anything that puts me one step closer to understanding what I’m looking at is good. Can we go now?”

They stepped out of the morgue proper, into the outer offices. Fisk stopped Kiser. “As soon as we start pulling this together, you’ll know as much as we do. Meantime, not a word of this to anybody who doesn’t need to know, okay?”

“Sure. You got it.”

“The president of Mexico is in town to sign a major antinarcoterrorism accord. Today we find we have the top Zeta hitter—former top Zeta hitter—in town. I’m not going to draw any straight lines for you because I don’t know yet if they’re there to be drawn. But you can see where this is going, right?”

“Holy shit,” said Kiser.