Karen Vail 01 - Velocity (38 page)

“Al units, I want . . . ”

“You’re asking a lot of men to risk their lives by rushing,” Dixon said.

Vail glanced over her shoulder at Lieutenant Kye. “I’m sure they won’t do it if it’s not safe, Roxx. They’ve got their procedures, I get that. But we’re dealing with extenuating circumstances here. Time is a luxury we don’t have.”

“I’m with Karen on this,” DeSantos said. “Moving too fast is a risk, yeah. But so is moving too slow.”

Kye returned. “We’re going to clear one level at a time. When we’ve got the ground floor cleared, you can poke around there. When we’ve got the second floor done, you can check that out. Meet with your approval?”

“Thank you,” Vail said. “Appreciate it.”

Twenty-five minutes later, the task force was stepping through the littered debris, across the front door threshold and into an opulent mansion. In the background, Vail heard SWAT officers yel ing, “Clear.”

Vail moved through the rooms, taking in the marble statuettes, museum-grade artwork—including a Renoir, a Chagal , a Matisse—and several gold-leaf framed family photos neatly arranged on a living room coffee table. Apparently the blast blew outward and left much of the interior intact. She took her time going through the formal living room, the dining area, the sitting and family rooms, kitchen, pantry .

. . it wasn’t often she had the opportunity to see firsthand how the very wealthy lived. But lost in al this beauty was the realization it had al been bought with the proceeds from il egal mind- and life-altering il icit drugs.

Vail was the first of the task force to ascend to the second floor. She had just entered the master bedroom when one of the SWAT officers swung his rifle into the doorway and startled her. “Jesus, lady. I damn near shot you.”

“Supervisory Special Agent Karen Vail.” She slowly moved her sweater aside, revealing her badge, which was clipped to her belt. “I thought you were done on this floor.”

“We are now.”

“Anything?”

The man keyed his shoulder-mounted mike and said, “We’re good on two. Al clear.” He listened a second, then said, “Roger that.” To Vail, he said, “Team’s on three. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for a few days. Mailbox out front stuffed ful .”

Vail turned away and continued her analysis. Nothing here that would indicate the owner was anything but a wealthy businessman.

She stepped into the spacious walk-in closet and stood there a moment, taking it in. Dark suits lined both sides of the room, the apparel evenly spaced on the bars.

Highly polished shoes resting on an angled display stand. Cedar trees pressed inside each pair, keeping the leather age- and crease-free.

As she stood there, she asked herself,
Who is Carlos Cortez?
An organized, intel igent, mildly obsessive compulsive man.
Does that help me? How?

In the center of the closet, a double rack held more meticulously arranged dress clothing—slacks, sport coats, shirts. Vail riffled through everything, looking for—

what? She wasn’t sure.

She knelt down and spied the wal s. No safes or hidden compartments she could see. Her entire time in the house, she hadn’t found one useful tidbit. No lead at al .

Dixon located her and stepped into the closet. “Wel ?”

“His mind is organized. Either he or his wife is into fine art, and they have good taste. He’s intel igent, detail-oriented. He enjoys the wealth he’s accumulated and doesn’t mind spending it.” She thought back to the photos she saw in the living room. “He’s got young children, and they’re important to him. He appears to have a circle of friends—” She stopped and locked on something.
What is it? Something
about the pictures.

Vail pushed past Dixon and headed downstairs, back into the living room, where Mann was sifting through items in a desk drawer and DeSantos was on his cel phone.

DeSantos covered the handset microphone with a couple of fingers. “I’ve got someone putting together a dossier on Cortez for us. NSA and CIA contacts, I’ve got them searching for any known cartel hideouts, family members, business associates . . . ” He watched her lift the framed photos, examining each one careful y. “Karen? What is it?”

Vail pul ed her BlackBerry. She scanned through the cal history.
Shit. Not here.

Dialed information. “I need the phone number for the Microsoft corporate campus.”

Dixon said, “What do you see?”

Vail handed her the framed photo. “Get the picture out of here. And keep your fingers off the surface.”

Dixon took it and flipped it over, then dug a fingernail into the brown paper backing.

“Yes,” Vail said, “please connect me.” She waited a moment while the phone rang, then said, “This is Karen Vail with the FBI. I need to talk with someone in the Office division; we’ve worked with a guy who handled security stuff.” She turned to Dixon. “The guy Eddie knew, the one who helped identify Mayfield—”

“Tómas,” Dixon said.

“His name’s Tómas,” Vail said into the phone.

“You think they can help us with this photo?” Dixon asked.

“Worth a shot.”

“No—no,” Vail said into the phone. “I can’t wait. Is there anyone else on his team I can talk with? I’ve got a picture of some violent criminals and I need to see if someone can tel me where it was taken. And I don’t have a lot of time.” She listened, then said, “Sure, that may work.” While on hold, Vail cal ed Mann over.

“What’s up?”

Vail rotated the handset away from her mouth. “Those Mayfield photos you sent over to Microsoft. How did Tómas figure out where they were taken?”

“He said he analyzed stuff like textures, lines, vegetation, topography. Then he compared it to some database.”

Seconds later, a woman’s voice came on the line. “Athena Hu.”

Vail nodded at Mann, then turned her attention to the cal . “Athena, this is Karen Vail, FBI. A few days ago we worked with a col eague of yours on a case, and I’ve got another photo here I think wil give us some important clues as to where a kidnapped law enforcement officer’s being held. Your guy analyzed some photos based on textures, lines, vegetation, that sort of thing. He then compared that to some kind of database.”

“Sounds like he used the Flickr GPS-tagged database. Can you email me the photo?”

Vail took the picture from Dixon, who was holding it by the edges. “It’s not digital, but I guess I can have it scanned.”

“That’l work. Make sure you scan it at a decent resolution.” She gave Vail the email address, and Vail gave Athena her contact info.

“As soon as you’ve got something—a man’s life depends on it.”

“Do my best.”

Vail disconnected the cal , then spun around. Facing her were DeSantos and Mann.

“Can they help?” Mann asked.

“We need to get this photo to the DEA field division ASAP.” As Vail spoke, Turino walked through the door. “I assume you have a scanner at your office?”

Turino’s brow bunched. “We do. But why—”

“I’l explain on the way over.”

On the ride back, Vail told Turino that cutting-edge digital photo analysis could determine where in the world a particular picture was taken. It was highly accurate

—but a bit of a crapshoot on Vail’s part. The photo showed Cortez with two buddies mugging for the camera, Dos Equis bottles in their hands, shirts off, looking as if they were having a stel ar time. But the background was what Vail was interested in.

She would also send the image to the FBI for analysis of the other men in the photo in hopes that could generate other leads: known accomplices, people they could track down and interview.

They arrived at the San Diego field division, a modern three-story structure with a solitary American flag flying by its front entrance. Outside, there was no DEA sign proudly displayed, no seal or any indication that it was a building where vital government business was transacted.

Vail and the task force entered and passed through the X-ray scanner. They surrendered photo ID and were cleared to take the elevator up to the third floor.

While waiting for the car to arrive, Vail noticed the sign on the wal behind the security guard: they were in the Enrique “Kiki” Camarena building.

Within minutes of entering the field division facility, Vail was in the command center, a cavernous room on the third floor replete with high-tech gadgetry: along the side wal s were computer stations, while the front stage was fitted with an outsize rear projection screen, sliding white boards that rode in vertical side tracks, and a Windows PC designed to project PowerPoint presentations and pictures to those in attendance.

Vail set the photo down on the scanner and watched the bright white light pass beneath its surface, turning analog colored ink and paper to digital ones and zeroes. A moment later, the jpeg image was on its way to Athena Hu at Microsoft.

And then Vail was pacing the hal , like a 1950s expectant father waiting for word of his child’s birth.

But Vail was hoping for the birth of something far different: a lead they could pursue hard, and fast. Something that would bring her closer to finding Robby.

65

R
obby awoke to the sickly sour scent of rotten eggs. Not rotten eggs—sulfur.

Why? He didn’t know, and in his current state, it did not matter. He had greater concerns. But before he could consider those issues, he drifted off again.

Sometime later, Ernesto Escobar knelt in front of him. A large gleaming silver pistol with a diamond-encrusted handle caught a crack of light and sparkled off the black of Escobar’s eyes. His captor made an exaggerated point of displaying the handgun, its power inherent and unspoken, a method of control as effective as a set of handcuffs.

The naps had done Robby good. He glared at Escobar, a newfound defiance etched in the tight set of his jaw.

“You probably don’t know it,” Escobar said, “but you are a fortunate man. If it were up to me, you’d have been kil ed days ago. We usual y behead traitors like you. Then we cut up your body and cook it in acid. I’ve done it in the reverse, too.

Cook you in acid, then while you’re screaming in unbelievable pain, I slice off your head with a machete.”

Robby frowned. “I got what you meant when you said you’ve done it in reverse.”

“It’s cal ed
levanton
,” Escobar said, ignoring Robby’s comment. Apparently Escobar felt that using its official name would make it seem more real. He shifted his weight left and pul ed a long, thick machete from a scabbard along his right thigh. The silver gleamed except for a red smear that coursed the blade.

Robby kept his face impassive, his gaze riveted to Escobar’s, refusing to direct his eyes to the weapon. He was not going to give his captor any ground in this escalating war of nerves.

Escobar leaned back, appraised Robby, and smiled. Then he pressed the knife’s edge against Robby’s cheek, brought it down swiftly and drew a bead of blood. “I’m looking forward to doing
levanton
on you.”

Although the pain was searingly sharp—the nerve endings in his face were already hypersensitive because of the beatings Escobar had inflicted—Robby did not flinch.

Escobar tilted his head, appraising his prisoner’s lack of response. His eyes narrowed, no doubt in frustration and anger. If there was one thing Robby was able to draw upon from al that Vail had taught him about psychopathic kil ers, it was the issue of control. And Robby was not going to accede any to Escobar by giving him the fear he expected and wanted—no,
needed
.

“Because of your attitude,” Escobar said, “I wil do it in reverse. Cook you first, then cut off your head. What do you think?”

Robby grinned. The broadening of his face opened the cut wider, and the blood trickled across his lips, into his mouth. He licked it, brought his eyes level with Escobar’s, and said, “I think, Ernesto, that you are a coward who needs big guns and knives and whips to take me on. Because without al that, I’d wipe the wal s with your
pinche
ass.” He made a quick move with his head toward Escobar, who recoiled. “So enjoy your advantage, asshole. Because to me, you’re just a piece of shit.”

Escobar looked down at his knife, tilted it, and examined it as if for the first time.

“You think you are a brave man, talking like that. But we wil see, won’t we?

Because in the end, you’l just be a pile of bleeding, burning flesh.”

“I may not survive to have my revenge,” Robby said. “But I guarantee my friends wil hunt you down. And you wil pay for whatever happens to me.”

Escobar laughed. “Your police buddies? I’m shivering in my boots,
amigo
. If that’s the best you’ve got, I’m disappointed.” He rose from his crouch, walked to the door, and knocked. “Coming out.”

It swung open and Escobar disappeared into the bright sky. The door slammed shut and Robby was, once again, alone. “Not just police,” he said under his breath.

“Karen Vail. You know not the wrath you have wrought.”

66

T
he hour passed like honey dripping from a spoon. Outside, the sky was beginning the changeover to dusk. As the clock ticked beyond 6:00 PM, the fading light was yet another reminder that the day was coming to a close. Vail had made a point of perusing the wal displays in the command center, including the photo array and brass bust devoted to the revered and fal en DEA undercover agent, Kiki Camarena, the building’s namesake. Farther down was a depiction of the decals and logos of the eighteen state and federal agencies that served on the San Diego County narcotics task force.