The Execution (15 page)

CHAPTER 37

F
isk returned to Intel headquarters. He fed more money into the vending machine and ate another chicken salad sandwich on damp white bread from a triangular plastic carton. He badly needed a long run or some gym time, but couldn’t foresee either one happening until after United Nations Week was over.

He filed the forms to get eyeballs on corner cameras within a four-block grid of each cemetery. He narrowed the window of time from 10:00
P.M
., when Virgilio departed the Four Seasons, and 7:00
A.M
., just after dawn.

He had a long list of e-mails, which he was able to cull by two-thirds without too much effort. The rest pertained more directly to his desk duties. A few of them he was able to pawn off on others. The rest remained, needing to be addressed.

Two of them were from the U.S. Attorney’s office downtown. Those he did not even open.

Fisk went back to the break room for a bag of barbecue potato chips. He sat at the only table, brushing away the last person’s crumbs, and finished the large bag in about ten handfuls. He crumpled up the evidence and tossed it into the trash, stopping to buy a Coke Zero before returning to his desk.

Nicole had gotten back to him. Nothing yet on the tattoo sent for face recognition. He checked his phone and found he had a missed call from Kiser.

“I heard there are more dead Mexicans,” said Kiser, answering on the first ring.

“There are,” confirmed Fisk.

“These ones have heads?”

“They do.” Fisk gave him the details, just generally. “There is a link, but I would pursue your own case independently for now. You don’t want a piece of this interagency morass.”

“That’s good advice I already gave myself,” said Kiser. “You can thank Comandante Garza for me.”

Fisk exhaled. “I could if she were here. Thank her for what?”

“The break. You don’t know?”

“Not unless you tell me.”

“Her agency used the tattoo photographs to identify four of the headless horsemen. Two of them they got from Mexican driver’s licenses, no criminal histories. They were illegals, but apparently not bad guys. Bystanders who got caught in this Hummingbird guy’s nest. The other two are illegals linked to the Zeta Cartel. And the Terrorist Screening Center has both on the No Fly List.”

The little-known Terrorist Screening Center is a division of the National Security Branch of the FBI, though it is a multiagency organization including representatives from the Department of Justice, the Department of State, the Department of Homeland Security, the Department of Defense, and the U.S. Postal Service. While the No Fly List began as strictly a register of terror suspects not permitted to board a commercial aircraft for travel into or out of the United States, it had since grown to include other more generalized criminals, including known traffickers.

“I’m writing,” said Fisk, grabbing a pencil and paper.

“A Mexican national by the name of Carlos Echaverria. Nickname Carlito. Big huge guy, one with the gang tats. I guess Carlito translates as Little Carlos. Kind of like calling a big guy Tiny. Unless there’s a bigger Carlos in his family.”

“I get it,” said Fisk, not in the mood for Kiser’s banter. “Stay on point here.”

“Anyway, this Carlito guy, he’s Zeta Cartel connected. U.S. No Fly, but okay to board in Mexico and land in Canada, apparently. He flew into Montreal on July twenty-third, Aeroméxico Flight 269 from Mexico City. Payment for his ticket was on a credit card, a prepay Visa from a check-cashing store in Laredo, Texas. Presumably somebody bought it for him and carried or mailed it to him.”

July was when Chuparosa would have fled Mexico after the beheadings, Fisk remembered.

“The other corpse’s name is Elias Rincon—also a No Fly—flew in to Montreal the next day, July twenty-fourth. No hotel registrations in Montreal under those names, at least none that we can find. No record of either of them entering the United States, obviously.”

Fisk said, “Flying into Montreal . . . it’s a pretty good bet they snuck in across the border into upstate New York.”

“Right. Of course.”

Fisk remembered the smoky-bomb fiasco. “It happens to be an area I have some expertise in,” he said drily.

Kiser said, “The only other charge on the Visa prepay was a rental car picked up on the twenty-third and never returned. Surprised they haven’t found that yet.”

“It’s not a priority,” said Fisk. “Most rental companies would prefer the insurance money to the return of another beater with twenty thousand miles on the odometer.”

“I’d like to push this a little further,” Kiser said. “You think you could help me out? I know you Intel detectives have deep contacts. Maybe you can even do it yourselves. And a lot faster than I can.”

Fisk said, “What are you thinking?”

“Airport surveillance photos for those dates. Maybe a few dates on either side also. If you think your Hummingbird man might have come into the United States the same way.”

“It’s a good bet.” This guy had shown he was more than willing to kill those around him to preserve his anonymity. Chuparosa guarded his secrets ruthlessly. But at the same time, his circle was drawing ever smaller and smaller. It didn’t make sense.

Fisk told him he would get into it with the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. “No promises, but I’ll keep you in the loop.”

“Do that,” said Kiser. “And again—thank Ms. Garza when you see her.”

“Uh . . . yeah.”

Fisk hung up. He wrote up a memo with the dead men’s names and a request that they be searched for on Montreal-Trudeau’s CCTV system via the CSIS.

Then he checked his e-mail and text messages again, looking for at least a CC on the No Fly List discovery Garza had forwarded to Kiser.

There was none.

CHAPTER 38

H
aving no messages from Garza at all angered Fisk, both professionally and personally. That was when his phone rang. An unfamiliar number, though he recognized the exchange. Somebody from the U.S. Attorney’s office. Probably the same guy who’d e-mailed him twice already. He listened to it ring, thinking about pressing the red circle that would kick it to his voice mail . . . but he knew how U.S. attorneys were. This guy would call again and again.

Instead, Fisk thumbed the green button on his cell.

“Fisk.”

“Hi, Detective Fisk? Kevin Leary, U.S. Attorney’s office. How are you?”

“Super busy. What can I do for you that won’t take more than one minute?”

“Oh. Um . . . look, I don’t know if you got my e-mail . . . ?”

“I have not, no.”

“Okay, sir, well, here’s the thing. I’m looking at Case Number S Dash Seven Six Four One Three? Exhibit Number Three One One Nine? Anyway, Detective, the thing is it weighed out at a one hundred and thirty-nine point two five three grams. And it weighed in at one hundred and thirty-nine point two five one grams.”

“Is this supposed to mean something to me?” asked Fisk.

“It’s the polonium,” said Leary. “From the smoky-bomb case. You didn’t see the subject line of my e-mails?”

The prosecutor was starting to get that
I’m getting irritated because I’m smarter and more important than you
tone in his voice. This was always Fisk’s cue to start stalling, just on principle.

“No,” said Fisk, trying to find a way out of this.

“The evidence sheet has a weigh-in and a weigh-out line.”

“I gather that. I’m sure you must have a question, Kevin. I just haven’t heard it yet.”

Leary said, “The weight change is a problem.”

“The point zero zero two grams?”

“The defense has filed a brief about there being less polonium-210 than when originally booked into evidence. This is your case.”

“It is my case. But I’m not responsible for the evidence handling. When I left it, it was in a sealed steel container inside a sealed evidence envelope.”

“Where do you think it went, then?”

“The point zero zero two grams? Are you sure you calibrated the machine correctly? What is that, half a grain of salt?”

“Detective, the defense is trying to exclude the evidence by claiming evidence tampering. If we don’t have the evidence, we have no case.”

Fisk said, “Was the evidence envelope still sealed?”

Leary said, “No, the envelope was not still sealed. Defense had to open it to weight it.”

“Was the steel container still sealed?”

“Is that a trick question?” asked Leary. “I assume it was, they didn’t say otherwise.”

“Well, then?” said Fisk.

“I don’t know,” said Leary. “Can those envelopes be duplicated?”

“I doubt it,” said Fisk. “But you should pursue that with someone responsible for handling said evidence. For example, the defense.”

Leary sighed. “You see, this is the sort of thing that brings down otherwise ironclad cases. A little bit of doubt in the jury’s mind . . .”

“. . . and O. J. Simpson goes free, I get it. Why don’t you reweigh it yourself? Maybe the mistake is on their end.”

“I did reweigh it. Pain in the ass. It says one thirty-nine point two five one grams. That’s pretty damn exact.”

“Kevin, no offense,” said Fisk. “But this doesn’t seem like my problem.”

“Your signature is next to the larger amount, so it is potentially your problem. I weighed the evidence on a scale called a Lyman Micro-Touch 1500. It’s intended for weighing bullets. Because normally bullets are the only evidence that small that needs to be weighed with any degree of accuracy, it happened to be the only scale in the evidence lockup that weighs in fractions of grams. Now the thing about the Lyman 1500 is that if it’s been out of service for a while, you have to let it warm up for up to twenty-four hours before it stabilizes for final calibration. Up to that point, it varies by a couple of thousandths in either direction. That gives a potential range for error of point zero zero five grams, top to bottom.”

“Okay, so, there we go.”

“This is all lawyer talk I’m doing now. This is how we’ll have to counter this. The machine’s accuracy is affected if you don’t have time to warm it up for twenty-four hours and then calibrate it.”

Fisk said, “I didn’t weight it in myself. I did sign for it.”

“Okay,” said Leary.

“In lawyer speak,” said Fisk, “no matter what kind of scale you use, there will always be some level of error. So the only scientifically supportable approach is to round the observed figure to a reasonable, scientifically supportable number based on the published accuracy of the machine.”

“One hundred and thirty-nine . . . uh . . .”

“One hundred and thirty-nine point two five grams, correct.”

“But still . . . if it says in your logbook—”

“The logbook will not be entered into evidence,” said Fisk. “Here’s what you do. You put a little footnote in the filing that says, quote, ‘All exhibit weights expressed to published limits of machine accuracy.’ That’s a scientific term that you can look up in any manual of bench chemistry. If it ever comes up—and it won’t—but if it does . . . then I’ll have to get on the stand and explain that I’ve taken all these courses in evidence handling and scientific measurement and blah blah blah, and that scales have inherent levels of inaccuracy, that they have to warm up, calibration, blah blah blah, and that’s why we round the number to one thirty-nine point two five, that this number is the scientifically correct number despite the fact that the machine has a higher level of recordable and observable resolution.”

The line was silent.

“Kevin. A hundred and thirty-nine point two five grams.”

Leary said, “Okay.”

“I should not have to be telling you how to do this. Okay? This is stuff you’re supposed to know.”

Leary said, “Okay. I’ll get back to you.”

Fisk said, “No rush,” and hung up.

He darkened the screen and sat there a while, looking at his phone.

CHAPTER 39

S
ecret Service agent Dukes said, “Fisk, I only have a minute.”

“It’s the Mexican president’s itinerary. There’s one blocked-out period of time that isn’t accounted for.”

“Okay.”

“That doesn’t concern you?” asked Fisk.

“It might if I didn’t know what it was.”

“So you do know what it is.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Fisk waited a breath. “So what is it?”

“Some things I’m not allowed to share, Fisk. Even with a friend. That’s my job.”

“Not even if it might affect your job. That is, protecting visiting heads of state.”

“If I knew there was an immediate need to know, maybe. Why not ask your girlfriend?”

Fisk winced. “That’s funny.”

“It’s smart. I’d help her out if I could, too. And if I wasn’t otherwise married.”

Fisk scowled. He was tired of this. “What time is the restaurant walk-through?”

CHAPTER 40

T
he Waldorf was fully occupied,” said President Vargas, watching his bags being unpacked on the seventh floor of the Sheraton. “I guess I’ll make do.”

He seemed to regret the attempt at humor almost as soon as he uttered it.

“I didn’t know the man well,” he said. “But I know he was your personal hire.”

Garza nodded, wanting to move past this. “It is a terrible loss. Do you understand my concerns now?”

“I have understood them from the beginning,” said the president. “But I cannot see any way to curtail my activities here.”

“The festival for Independence Day,” said Garza. “That has to be left off the schedule.”

Vargas stopped, sitting down on his bed. “This visit is where we set the tone for my entire administration. I understand that the treaty has angered the cartels. That is its purpose, in large part.”

Garza said, tamping down her impatience, “This is not a cartel. This is a lone assassin. I am sure of it.”

Vargas clapped his hands once. “Who is dead set on making an example of me? If you know he is here, and know his intent, is it not that much easier to forestall him?”

“Not this man. He is killing everyone who has aided him in coming here. I believe there is no way to deter him from his goal.”

Vargas said, “I have not known you well for many years now. But your reputation is such that I would think you could not back down from such a challenge.”

Garza bristled at this second reference to her “reputation” in a matter of hours. “It is quite a different matter when the life of the Mexican president is at stake.”

“Granted,” he said. “Which do you want more? To save me? Or to catch this Chuparosa?”

“I want both. They go hand in hand.”

“And trust me, I have no desire to be a . . . a piece of bait. But allow me do my job, and I will allow you to do yours. Tomorrow will be a great day, signing the treaty on the anniversary of our country’s independence.” He checked his wristwatch. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am due at the UN for a meeting with the Costa Rican ambassador and I am already running late.”