The Covert Element (16 page)

The heavy wooden door to the library opened. Santos snuffed
out the cigar and stood to greet his uncle.

"Please sit, Raphael," the elder said, as he moved through the
cigar smoke toward Santos.

"Greetings,
Jefe
. I am honored to be in your presence once
more."

The old man hugged Santos, patting his back with both hands.
Then both sat.

 "Heh. You flatter an old man to curry his favor. And you are
wise to do so. Do you enjoy the
Cubanos
? I have a new farmer. It is
said that his soil is the most fertile in all of Cuba."

"
Si, Jefe
," Santos said. "Your farmer’s reputation is well-earned."

"That is good to hear,
hijo
. You know how wasted money
disturbs the old man."

"
Si, Jefe
. But I tell you truly," he held the stub of his cigar
toward Calderon, "this was one fine
Cubano
. The best I have
tasted."

 "We must have another then. Take a box when you leave,
hijo
.
I would consider it a favor."

"
Gracias, Jefe
. You are too kind to your servant."

"Heh. Heh. If you don’t pull your head out of my ass I might
have to shoot you, eh?"

"
Si, Jefe
." Santos smiled. "I can think of no other by whom I
would rather be shot."

Santos selected two cigars from the humidor on the coffee
table, clipped their ends, and handed one to Calderon. He waited as
the old man produced a stick match and lighted the smoke. Santos
flamed his cigar with a butane torch lighter.

"A drink,
Jefe
."

"
Si
. But none of that Yankee swill."

Santos knew what Calderon wanted. He fixed the drinks at the
bar and returned with Calderon’s tequila and a fresh scotch for
himself.

"
Muchas gracias, hijo
. I do not partake of the agave as often as
I should. I have the stomach of an old man."

"Ah. But you have the heart of a lion and a will of steel,
Jefe
. I
will trade my stomach for one-tenth of your wisdom."

"Heh." Calderon took a puff on the large black cigar, exhaling a
plume through pursed lips. He placed his tequila on the table for
later.

"So, tell me, Raphael . . . what progress have we made on our
new endeavor to the north."

"All goes as planned,
Jefe
. We have acquired the facilities and
materials. Production of the methamphetamine should begin within
weeks."

"And distribution? Is all in place?"

"
Si, Jefe
. Gringo gangs in Chicago, Minneapolis, and
Milwaukee hunger for our product. And transport will pose no
issue. As you know, with our production facility in the States, we
have no borders to cross or inspections to evade. Product will move
freely . . . once all is ready."

"
Muy bien
, Raphael. I am fortunate to have your knowledge of
the Yankees to assist me in this . . . expansion."

"You know that I live to serve,
Jefe
."

"And I am the Holy Virgin. Heh. Heh." Reclining in his chair,
he took another pull on his cigar. After he had exhaled, he reached
for the shot of tequila and downed it in a single swallow.

"I must get a new batch of tequila,
hijo
. This one has gone
bitter."

"This is why the young horses drink the Gringo swill,
Jefe
. It
tastes of money, not of old meat gone bad."

Calderon looked at Raphael. What he recognized in Santos’
face was betrayal.

Calderon’s eyes rolled back into his head and his body
convulsed violently. In a matter of seconds it was over. Calderon lay
slumped in his chair. Santos finished his cigar and scotch before
summoning help.

CHAPTER TWENTY

While Beth continued her illicit hacking activities, I killed time
by mowing the lawn, waxing the cars, cleaning the bathrooms,
washing down the porches, and adding a few hooks and shelves to
the garage walls. I’d covered almost every legitimate husbandly
duty I could think of. Just as I was about to begin setting footings
for a garage addition, Beth’s voice called from the back porch.

I stuck my head out of the garage door.

"What’s up?"

Beth’s face pressed against the screen of the porch door.

"I believe I may have something useful," she said, with all the
clarity that a pair of screen-smooshed lips could achieve.

I launched my sweaty, dusty, smelly body out of the garage and
flung open the porch door.

Beth retreated a step.

"What have you been doing while I was at work anyway?" Beth
asked, assuming a defensive posture.

"Pretty much rolling around in the neighbor’s sand box. Why?
Is there something unsavory about me?"

"I’d say you’re pretty much out of savor. Now go get cleaned up
so I can show you what I found."

With a bow and a doff of my imaginary cap, I was off to the
shower. I knew Beth thought the cap thing was stupid. But hey . . .
as far as vices go, a quirky doff isn’t so bad.

* * *

When I descended from my scouring on the second floor, Beth
was waiting for me on the red couch. She held her laptop computer
on her . . . well . . . laptop. She patted the leather beside her. I
sauntered over and made an "is this seat available" gesture. When
Beth gave me a fake smile, I knew the spot was open. So I sat down,
leaning over to kiss her neck.

This time her smile was real.

"What has my computer goddess acquired from cyber-space
today?"

"As it turns out, Special Agent Lewis was a very helpful
selection concerning the ‘Mexican Massacre,’ as the BCA has
dubbed this case. He has been on his computer most of the
afternoon, accessing all sorts of stuff. Medical Examiner’s Reports.
Crime Scene analysis. Missing Persons databases. I didn’t stop to
read much. But I’m pretty sure you’ll find something informative in
all this data."

Beth handed me a jump drive.

"Doesn’t look like much."

"Shut up and go find your own computer. I know you can at
least open these files. Use the clicky thing."

She smiled.

"Thanks. You’re the best! I’ll pole your barge any time." I stood
up.

"Is that a Cleopatra reference? Because otherwise I don’t think
I appreciate the ‘barge’ thing."

"Of course, my queen. Watch out for the asps and you’ll be just
fine."

I grabbed my laptop from behind the sofa and carried it and
the jump drive out to the front porch. The sun was just falling
behind the elms along Jefferson Avenue as I settled myself on the
wicker settee.

In a matter of minutes, I had fired up the computer – which
Beth keeps in top operating condition. Her motives aren’t entirely
altruistic. I whine and get impatient when technology fails me . . .
which is often enough, even with Beth’s helpful maintenance.

I inserted the jump drive into a slot that fit its shape and
started clicking.

There was lots of good stuff here.

Based on footprints, positioning of the bodies, and other clues,
the Crime Scene team had concluded that the fire was set after the
men had been murdered. I wasn’t sure that really mattered.

The Fire Marshall had identified traces of accelerant in
multiple locations throughout the burned-out house. From this he
had leapt to the incredibly obvious conclusion that the fire had been
intentionally set. The arsonist had employed a "hydro-carbon
based" accelerant. I assumed that was forensic terminology for
gasoline, or maybe diesel fuel. There was no estimate of the
quantity of accelerant that would have been required to obtain the
"observed result."

Crime Scene investigators had provided the Fire Marshall with
a charred five-gallon gasoline container that "may have been" the
source of the accelerant.

Enough about the fire. What did the ME have to say about the
bodies?

The "apparent cause of death" in all twenty-three cases was a
"GSW to forehead. Final determination pending." I thought about
that one, then read further. The ME had concluded from "stippling"
and "gun-shot residue" that the fatal wounds were fired at point-blank, or near point-blank range.

Pausing again to consider what I had read thus far, I gazed into
the space beyond the porch screen. The waning sunlight squeezed
through the elm leaves, an occasional shaft of brightness stabbing
me in the eye. I repositioned myself on the settee. When I looked
up, I noticed that, if I let the screening slip in and out of focus, the
sunlight would float rainbows across the black aluminum.

Hmm.

Twenty-three full grown men . . . all shot in the head at point-blank range. Now how would someone manage that?

If the perpetrator was a single person, how could he get the last
twenty-two victims to stand, or lie, still to await their turns? That
just wasn’t possible.

Were there multiple killers? Maybe. But there’d have to be at
least twenty-three of them to commit the simultaneous execution.
Wouldn’t there? And even if there were fewer, how would a whole
gang of killers avoid detection by the Crime Scene folks?

I went back to the Crime Scene findings. They had to have done
ballistic analysis on the bullets.

There it was. The ballistic markings on all intact bullets
indicated a single murder weapon. So there was no gang after all. A
single assailant. That would be fairly typical for most murders.
Murderers don’t tend to travel in packs – except for gang bangers.
But the "single gun" evidence tended to rule out a gang attack.

How, then, had the killer managed to shoot twenty-three,
apparently able-bodied men, at point-blank range, in the centers of
their foreheads?

The answer was suddenly clear. The men were already dead –
or at least drugged – at the time they were shot. Where were the
bullets found?

"In each case," the forensic report read, "the perpetrator shot
the victim in the forehead with a nine millimeter round, which
penetrated the cranium, damaged the victim’s brain tissue, and
exited the cranium at the rear. A single slug, or fragments of a single
slug, were found in the ground beneath the head of each victim."

So the killer had somehow disabled or killed the victims before
he’d laid them out on the lawn. This was something I needed to
discuss with Gunner, if he was willing. I made plans to stop in on
him in the morning.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The death of Enrique Calderon caused no small amount of
confusion and disturbance among the cartel faithful. To whom
should they now look for direction – and pay?

Santos was not surprised by the unrest. In fact, he had taken
the precaution of having the senior Calderon sign a document
turning leadership of
Los Cinco
over to Santos, in the event of
Calderon’s death or incapacity. The document stressed the
importance of family and the legacy of the Calderons in the history
of
Los Cinco
.