Troubleshooter (27 page)

Checking on Gustavo, Toe-Tag pressed his face to the screen door. Always within gunshot range. He and Whelp had arrived last night and taken over possession of Allah's Tears from the well-dressed Middle Eastern gentleman who'd shown up around midnight.

Gustavo refocused on the body; his arms would not get fed until he completed his work. He removed the guide wire from the fill tube protruding from the cadaver's gaping mouth. A bag of Allah's Tears lay on the surgical tray to his side, labeled as saline but holding instead a liter of fluid euphoria. He primed the fill tube, then spiked the bag. Using a 50-cc syringe, he withdrew the liquid heroin, then shot it down the filling tube. On the monitor the intragastric balloon swelled, the pulse of a synthetic fetus.

Taking great care to ensure that the fill tube stayed slack, he repeated the process, each plunger push street-valued at over a million dollars.

It was painstaking work.

The embalming table had not been well maintained; flakes of rust stuck up, lodging in the doughy white flesh of the eighteen-year-old body. Because the corpse had to look presentable at the end of its travails--with Catholics you could count on an open casket--he'd taken all the appropriate steps. He'd removed the clothes, then massaged the mounds of blue-veined flesh, manipulating the extremities to break up the incipient rigor mortis. He'd cleansed the body with antibacterial soap, working up a good lather, then sprayed it down with disinfectant. He'd swabbed the orifices with cavity fluid and packed them, except for the mouth, which he left accessible. Because of the facial cyanosis, he'd applied massage cream with a light touch to avoid further bloodstaining. He'd rinsed the eyeballs with a mild solution before inserting eye cups to hold the lids in place. The big toes he'd tied together to keep the legs in line, and he'd sutured the pillowy breasts together near the nipples so they'd be held in position. He'd inserted the trocar above and to the left of the belly button and used the long, pointed instrument to suck out the contents of the organs. He'd lifted arteries at the embalmer's six points--the right and left carotids, axillaries, and femorals. The right carotid protruded just above the breastbone, the tongue depressor underneath still holding it above skin level though he'd long disconnected the pump. He'd already drained the blood, replacing it with embalming fluid and a solution to keep the skin bile pigment from turning the flesh green.

It was a well-cared-for corpse.

The shadows at the screen were steady now as the bikers watched from the safety of twenty feet and an outdoor breeze. The first intragastric balloon reached its liter limit. After the syringe's final stroke, Gustavo pushed the residual through the line, then pulled back on the plunger, creating a vacuum in the valve and sealing the balloon. Gently, he withdrew the tubing, leaving the freestanding balloon inside the stomach. Though obese corpses were difficult to work with, larger stomach capacity was required for the procedure, and abdominal fat would help disguise the distention.

He laid the corpse flat on its back. He embedded a hooked barb in the upper and lower gum line, then used a wire to cinch the mouth neatly closed. The chubby hands he positioned left over right, leaving the fingers slightly cupped.

Relieved and exhausted, he leaned over and kissed the girl's pale forehead.

Shirt up over his nose, Whelp entered and retrieved the final fill bag from the crate of tribal trinkets. For all their rough-and-tumble posturing, the bikers were feeble around cadavers. They were skilled at making corpses; they just couldn't stomach the extended aftermath. After all Gustavo's meticulous preparations, they'd mucked up the first three corpses on the other end, unable to cleanly incise the stomachs. He sincerely hoped that the new guy, with his much-ballyhooed blade skills, would prove a more effective craftsman.

Drops of sweat hung from the ends of Gustavo's hair. He rubbed his nose, and his fingers came away greasy. He scratched his arms--the imaginary bugs were back, just beneath the skin. "A taste?" he said in strong-accented English. "Just a taste?"

"Not yet." Toe-Tag stood behind Whelp, arms crossed.

Gustavo followed his gaze to the far side of the mortuary, taking in the enormous corpse lying humped and naked on the second embalming table.

The twin sister.

Gustavo's shoulders settled a few inches lower. He wiped his face on the inside collar of his scrub top and nodded a few times, sadly.

Taking the bag of Allah's Tears, he shuffled over to the second station and resumed his work.

Chapter
41

The school-bus yellow backhoe lurched, the boom lowering the bucket into the plot. A clank as the teeth struck casket. Tim turned away from the spotlights illuminating the dark cemetery, pressing the cell phone tightly to his ear.

What he heard was the unamused 2:00 A.M. voice of Jan Turaski, the LAX Customs resident-agent-in-charge who oversaw a joint task force that included Customs and Border Patrol inspectors. Tim had met her during his four months at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center; she'd been a field agent back then, on a cross-training stint.

"You'd better give me a damn good reason, Rack. Or tell me you're joking. I can smell the undue-hardship lawsuits already." She laughed, a single dead note. "I can't start popping coffin lids without some serious PC."

"I'm getting probable cause as we speak."

"If I'm gonna put my name out, I need it on my desk already."

"Then just hold all incoming caskets from Mexico. Cabo San Lucas in particular. Give me an hour."

"Without any hard evidence? Or a warrant? Not an easy PR move to slide past grieving families. Let alone my SAC."

A three-month maternity leave earlier in the year hadn't landed Jan in the graces of the special agent in charge running the field office downtown.

Behind Tim, Bear waved off the backhoe like an airplane marshaller gone mad. Four deputies with shovels descended into the plot. Clods of dirt flew.

"How about with a personal call from the marshal?" Tim offered.

"From the marshal? What are you into here?"

"More than a drug operation."

Jan made an exasperated noise, something like a growl. In the background Tim could hear the annoying Christmas Muzak piped through the airport terminal.

"One hour, Jan. Please."

A heavy sigh, then the sounds of Jan typing.

Zimmer walked by, and Tim covered the phone and said, "Has Haines reached the Cabo police yet?"

Zimmer said, "Last I checked in, he couldn't get anyone, but he'd left a few messages. Cabo, ya know? They're probably out arresting girls gone wild."

Jan came back on. "In the next hour, we've only got one inbound from Mexicali. So fine, I'll give you till three."

"And if a coffin comes in on that flight?" Tim asked.

"I'll call in the duty agents, persuade them to run behind schedule. The way they work, shouldn't be tough. But Mexico flights start rolling in early, and I'm not gonna have coffins piling up on the tarmac."

"Thank you. I'll see you in an hour."

"Bring me something concrete or don't bother," Jan said, and hung up.

Tim snapped his phone shut and inhaled deeply as the deputies hauled out the casket. Four grasped the swing bars, reverse pallbearers, and two tugged on a nylon strap looped under the fine wood. Maybeck's boot slipped, and he stumbled, a streak of mud across his thigh. The casket hit turf with a thud.

"Good thing we're doing the Feebs' job for them," Guerrera said.

"This is for our case," Tim said. "We follow the drugs to Den Laurey."

Aaronson, dressed ridiculously in pajama bottoms, a sweatshirt, and a corduroy blazer, tapped the casket's seam excitedly with a fingernail. "Lead lining is required for international transport aboard a common carrier. Lucky."

"Why?" Maybeck asked.

"Keeps the maggots out." Aaronson's face gleamed in the harsh spotlight. "Know what else is required for importing a body?"

"Uh, no."

"Embalming. That's more good news for the home team." Aaronson held up his palm, and Maybeck reluctantly gave him five before handing him a chisel and hammer.

Jennifer Villarosa's father had been exceedingly helpful. Despite being woken up Christmas night by Tim's knock on the door, he'd signed the documents for his daughter's body to be exhumed. Tim was relieved to proceed with the family's consent, glad to let the backup court order expire in Bear's glove box. Jennifer was their sole shot to corroborate Tim's theory; Lupe Sanchez had been cremated shortly after her return to the United States. No family members had showed up to claim her body--not a big surprise, given their illegal-alien status. Her occasional work as a cleaning lady hadn't left enough money to provide her with a burial. She'd been interred in a common plot with the ashes of the destitute and itinerant, a wretched homecoming from a free vacation that must have seemed to her heaven sent.

The task force had moved like a tornado since the revelation at the command post. Screeching tires, faxed pages, wake-up calls. Freed had pulled a rabbit out of the hat, backtracking the online promotion code Good Morning Vacations had used to book Villarosa's plane ticket, and hitting upon another girl killed on a Cabo trip. Maribel Andovar had suffered a fatal heart attack while sleeping in her beachside hotel. The cause of death was plausible because she was nearly 150 pounds overweight. She, too, had been shipped home through LAX and cremated. She hadn't shown up among the names Thomas had pulled for review because she'd lived in Kern County, north of their designated search area.

Tim glanced at his notepad, the pattern evident.

Jennifer Villarosa. Died October 29, Cabo San Lucas.Body cleared LAX Customs November 1 on Mexicana Flight 237.Diamond Dog, Toe-Tag, Whelp in Mexico October 28-November 2. Maribel Andovar. Died November 8, Cabo San Lucas.Body cleared LAX Customs November 9 on AeroMexico Flight 13.Diamond Dog, Toe-Tag, Whelp in Mexico November 6-November 10. Lupe Sanchez. Died November 30, Cabo San Lucas.Body cleared LAX Customs December 1 on American Airlines Flight 2453.Diamond Dog, Toe-Tag, Whelp in Mexico November 28-December 1.

The women had been lured to Cabo and then murdered, Tim believed, so that their corpses could serve as dry runs to assess the shipping route and test the airlines' security systems. The Sinners had to ensure that the bodies were processed smoothly before the actual drugs were risked. The bikers were zealous in their disregard for life; these women had been killed merely to determine how incoming caskets were screened at baggage claim.

In Cabo each victim had been put up in a different hotel on a different beach to delay local authorities from discerning the pattern. Not surprisingly, no corporate, tax, or International Air Transport Association records had turned up for Good Morning Vacations, all imaginable variants on goodmorningvacations.com turned up no Web site, and Google drew a blank. The contact e-mail on the letter to Jennifer Villarosa--the sole means of communication employed--had been discontinued. Guerrera had been the one to spot the clause hidden in the Terms & Conditions' small print: In the event of the death of the award recipient during the period of the vacation, Good Morning Vacations shall assume sole responsibility for the body's preparation for international transport, conveyance to the country of origin, and delivery to the family of the deceased. Neither Villarosa's nor Andovar's stateside funeral director could offer any helpful information on the delivering vehicle.

The gas charge of 24.92 gallons had tripped Tim's memory of the beat-to-shit hearse outside Chief's safe house, the one on which Guerrera had rested his watch just before the ART entry. Larger vehicle, larger tank capacity. Miller had redlined over to see whether it was still languishing at the curb. Given the sophistication of the Sinners' plans, Tim doubted it would be there.

To avoid arousing suspicion, the Sinners had wisely targeted women from jurisdictions covered by different law-enforcement agencies. After the army had gotten involved after Villarosa's death--however minimally--the Sinners had dropped further down the socioeconomic ladder, selecting victims they thought no one was going to miss. Choosing women with family members illegally in the United States ensured that no one would raise a fuss.

Since the new victim--and first actual drug carrier--would be dead, she certainly couldn't pass the drugs through her system like a body packer; the AT packages would have to be cut out of her. The task force was desperate to get a lock on her but had no way of identifying her. If the Sinners had sent her to Cabo on the free-vacation ruse, as Tim suspected, they'd wised up, dispensing with the traceable promotion code when booking her ticket. Tim knew only that the woman the Sinners would single out for this ultimate task would be overweight, to accommodate and disguise the drugs stored in her dead belly.

Aaronson had offered the best explanation for why the dry-run victims were also obese, despite having no drugs to conceal in their bodies. Their corpses would provide practice for the Sinners on the receiving end to learn how to navigate through excessive abdomen fat. Because the heroin was liquid, there'd be little room for error on the extraction--a misjudged incision would pop the package, spilling Allah's Tears throughout the corpse's innards. After being used as dissection fodder, the women would be stitched back up and turned over to their grateful families for burial or cremation, thereby preserving the Cabo scheme for another round.