CHAPTER 45

Fisk was unsure of his next move as he turned around, and found himself facing Cecilia Garza.

She was looking, not at his eyes, but at his chin.

“Thanks for the update on the No Fly boys,” said Fisk. “The dead Zeta hitters.”

“Dead traffickers,” she said. “I assumed someone else would forward you that information.”

“Detective Kiser did, wholly by accident.”

“I am not a person who apologizes,” she said. “But I want to.” Her eyes came up to his. “For what I said about your former partner, your girlfriend. That was uncalled for. I think you are right, I was distraught, I did not handle it well. You were right about my emotions, and I lashed out. Will you accept my apology?”

Fisk watched her. He had the feeling that if he said yes right away, she would walk on and never look back.

He said, “I’m trying to figure out how much of your personality is a mask and how much is real.”

She nodded as though she had expected some pushback. “I am so tired of never being able to trust,” she said. “Anyone. It derives from work. I have so few people I can truly trust in Mexico, in the PF and elsewhere in law enforcement. Virgilio was one of those people. Corruption is so rampant, it is a part of doing what we do, it is deep within the system. The men in my unit are the cleanest in the force . . . but beyond that I have to assume that every cop I deal with is on the payroll of the cartels.”

“I’m not.”

She waved that away. “Of course, I am just trying to explain. The pay is so low that bribes have become part of the system, like gratuities. Part of the pay scale. Never for me. But for many. If not most. You do not have to murder someone, or smuggle drugs, or break into evidence lockers. Thousands of pesos just to look the other way.”

“I get it. It’s hard not to be cynical.”

“And the truth is that I see something in you, something that I like. And that is a complication. I do not like complications.”

Fisk felt a little heat at the back of his neck. “. . . I see.”

“I have no time for complications right now.”

“No, of course,” he said. “Me neither.”

Garza nodded as though something had been agreed to. “Do you accept my apology?”

Fisk said, “If I say yes, am I ever going to see you again?”

CHAPTER 46

Nicole?” said Fisk, entering Intel headquarters. “Why are you still here?”

“Work to do,” she said.

“Can you push those traffic camera captures to my secure laptop?” he said, passing quickly, heading for his office. “This is Colonel Garza.”

Nicole nodded at her a little strangely. “I remember her from yesterday.”

“Good evening,” said Garza.

Fisk grabbed his laptop off his desk and carried it into one of the briefing rooms, closing the door. He opened it up before them.

The high-angle videos showed split-screen versions of the same scene, one in regular exposure and one shot with night vision. The automobile, a Ford Explorer, had tinted windows, but the night vision picked up some images through the glass.

One video showed a bulky man driving, only from the chin down. In the backseat, on the left side, a man wearing a Yankees cap glanced out the window as the Explorer passed the camera.

Two videos offered different perspectives on the same car, but the first one offered the only true glimpse at the man in the backseat.

Two other traffic videos, each of much lower quality and taken from a higher angle, showed the sedan they had found being driven toward the first cemetery. In the front passenger seat, the bulky man was again visible, only from the shoulders down, due to the extreme angle. But the knife in his hand was plain to see.

That one was taken at 11:43 P.M. The other video was captured four hours later, at 3:51 A.M.

As ever, there was an eeriness inherent in viewing the confusing final moments of a doomed human being. The driver, Virgilio’s cousin or friend—it mattered little to Fisk now—looked as though he were in conversation with someone in the backseat. Someone unseen.

Perhaps the man in the Yankees cap.

Fisk said, “We have the license plate of the Explorer. Stolen four days ago from a parking lot in Ozone Park.”

Garza was transfixed by the image. “He has changed vehicles by now.”

Fisk watched her watch the screen. “You think that’s him? The Yankees fan?”

She nodded curtly. “I think it might be.”

“Okay,” said Fisk. “Now take a look at this.”

He pulled up stills from an e-mail from Canadian Intelligence. The first showed a series of color images of a man with tattooed arms walking through an airport.

“First U.S. No Fly Zeta goon,” said Fisk. “Back when he still had a head.”

He clicked to open up the second attachment.

Another man, this one wearing a tight gray sweatshirt and sunglasses, walking through the same airport corridor.

“U.S. No Fly Zeta goon number two,” said Fisk. “We think they crossed into the country through the border into New York State, either through the woods, which is better attempted in winter, or by vehicle, traveling with false papers. But we have no border-crossing photos, at least not yet.”

Fisk opened up the third attachment.

“Voilà,” he said.

A man of medium height, wearing a thin navy suit jacket and trousers, moved through a different corridor in the same airport, a travel bag slung over one shoulder. He held a cell phone to one ear, covering the other with his finger as though trying to hear someone over a bad connection. He wore sunglasses and a ball cap that further obscured his face.

The cap was black with a white Yankees logo on it.

“Chuparosa.”

Garza stared. The series of images cycled through on slideshow, the man walking down the corridor among other disembarking passengers. His face was mostly covered, but he certainly resembled the darker figure in the backseat of the Explorer near St. Michael’s Cemetery.

She glanced once Fisk’s way, in disbelief, then back to the screen. Memorizing his gait. The shape of his body. Burning it into her memory.

“It’s all circumstantial,” said Fisk. “But I’d lay odds it’s him. The question is, why did he off his own guys?”

“He’s killing anything that links to him,” said Garza. “He wants to succeed at any cost.” She turned to Fisk. “Based on what I saw back at his compound, I believe he understands this to be a suicide mission. It is the only way he can succeed. And, for whatever reason, he has accepted that fate.”

Fisk nodded. “All we need to know now is where he is.”

CHAPTER 47

Octavia Clement?”

The door to apartment 231 was barely open more than a crack. Garza was a block from Brookville Park in Rosedale, standing with Fisk in front of the door to a walk-up apartment situated over a store called Tats ’n More.

Garza could not see much through the crack: a single eye peering back, the door still on its chain.

“Who are you?” It was a woman’s voice.

“Octavia Clement? My name is Colonel Cecilia Garza.” Garza knew that the American equivalent of her rank sounded more impressive to the English-speaking ear, and less confusing than comandante. “I am here with Detective Fisk of the New York Police. I am with the Mexican Federal Police. May we come in and speak with you?”

The eye looked at her with unconcealed suspicion. “Mexican?”

Garza nodded. “We very much need to speak with you. It is very important.”

The eye blinked. After a moment the door closed, the chain came off, and then the door opened wide.

Standing in the doorway was a slightly plump woman wearing a thin T-shirt with a black bra showing through underneath. Her bare arms were covered with tattoos.