Moving Target (39 page)

“What’s Katerina’s connection to Jillian?” Ali asked.

“They’re not blood relations,” Stu said, “at least not so far as I can tell. Because of our ongoing relationship with the San Leandro school district, it wasn’t hard to get into their records. Ms. Sosa was enrolled as a sophomore in San Leandro High in September two years ago, which would be three years after she got her master’s in computer science from UCLA. Ms. Barnes, claiming to be Jillian’s aunt and legal guardian, enrolled her in school, but I got a look at the documents she used. They’re definitely forgeries. That goes for Jillian’s birth certificate and her shot record as well.”

“All of which means Lance’s GHOST was the target of the operation from the beginning,” B. concluded. “That’s why she went to San Leandro High in the first place and why she posed as a student there when she was already a college graduate.”

“How would Serafina even know about GHOST?” Ali asked.

“Ghost technology has been a topic of continuing discussion in the geek world for years,” B. explained. “If there were rumors floating around in the blogosphere that someone was getting close to making it work, it would have been hot news.”

“What about Serafina’s parents?” Ali asked. “LeAnne mentioned that Jillian’s parents died in a car wreck.”

“Close but no cigar,” Stu said. “They’re both dead, but not in an MVA. Francisco and Luisa Miguel were living in San Diego six years ago when they were murdered in a still-open-and-unsolved home invasion case. At the time, Serafina was at UCLA. She came home for a weekend break and found her parents’ bodies several days after the murders. A few rumors surfaced that Cisco Miguel, a CPA, may have worked for the Cabrillo cartel. Those rumors were never confirmed, and no solid evidence linking the cartel to the crime has ever been found.”

“In other words, the only thing Serafina and Katerina seem to have in common is a shared grudge against a single enemy: Ernesto Cabrillo, the head of the cartel. Somehow they joined forces and decided to target Ernesto’s operation.”

“You’re on the money there,” Stu said. “I can tell from the files that Jillian stored on the school computer that she was totally focused on amassing as much information as possible about the cartel’s internal workings. She had put together impressive lists of contacts—dealers, bankers, drivers, traffickers, whatever it takes to keep a complex distribution network moving. She has files that contain lists of bank account numbers, complete with passwords and balances.”

“Are there any names on those lists that you recognized?”

“The one that jumped right out at me is the firebug, Marvin Cotton. He’s done odd jobs for the cartel for years.”

“So who was he working for at the time he attacked Lance and went after Lowell Dunn—for the cartel or for Jillian and Katerina?”

“Can’t say for sure,” Stu answered, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if Jillian and Katerina made use of some of the Cabrillo worker bees uncovered by Jillian’s research and had them do some odd jobs on the side.”

“She was tapping into their files and using some of their resources?” Ali asked.

“If she did all that without having GHOST capability and without
getting caught,” B. mused, “then she was an amazing hacker in her own right.”

“A dead hacker now,” Ali reminded him. “But how was she planning on using the information she was gathering on the cartel? Did she intend to hand it over to law enforcement or do something else with it?”

“It looks to me,” Stu said, “like Jillian was all about disrupting Cabrillo’s operation. That’s not true about Katerina. Her e-mail correspondence indicates that she has a surprisingly cozy relationship with a guy named Alonzo Diaz. Ever heard of him?”

“Never,” B. said. “Who’s he?”

“Alonzo Diaz is Ernesto Cabrillo’s closest competitor in terms of geographical proximity and relative power. Alonzo is to Juárez what Ernesto is to Monterrey.”

“It looks like we have two women, joined at the hip as far as targeting Ernesto is concerned, but maybe not on the same page on how to go about it.”

“Which may also explain why one of them is dead and the other one isn’t.”

“What’s Mr. Barnes’s role in all this?” B. asked. “Is he an active participant or an innocent bystander?”

“I haven’t gotten to any of the data off his computer yet,” Stu said. “Stay tuned.”

“What’s going on with those vehicles?” Ali asked.

“Still northbound,” Stu said. “Maintaining a steady pace. If it looks like they’re starting to slow down, I’ll let you know.”

“Have you gone looking for Felix yet?” B. asked.

“That’s on my list,” Stu said. “There’s only one of me, you know. Maybe it’s time we talk about getting me an intern after all. I’ll check on Felix next.”

“Fair enough,” B. said. “Call from Hernandez coming in. Gotta go.” He switched over to the other call. “What’s up?”

“Detectives Hopper and Harris just went by the Barneses’ place on
Par Five Drive to do a next-of-kin notification. They found more than they bargained for.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“Yup. No one answered the front door, but they found the back door ajar. Detective Hopper decided to dot I’s and cross T’s. He got himself a warrant before he and Detective Harris went inside. When they did, they found Howard Barnes dead in his bathroom, shot in the back while taking a shower. The house has one of those newfangled constant-supply hot water heaters, and the water was still running. By the time Hopper turned the water off, the victim was mostly parboiled. I’ll keep after the CSI folks. If the weapon here turns out to be the same gun that killed Jillian, I’ll let you know. Any news on the ambulance?”

“According to Stu, it’s still headed north on I-35.”

“Fair enough,” Hernandez said. “I’ve made a few calls. If this goes down in San Leandro County, our rapid-response team will be at the ready. They’re calling it an exercise, but they’ll be on duty and ready to deploy as needed. The problem is, do we want them? If it turns into a siege situation, the hostages will die. Believe me, people around here still remember Waco.”

“Right,” B. said. “We need to extricate the hostages without provoking a firefight.”

A message alert came in from Stu, and Ali read it aloud. “Felix’s Auto Recycling,” it said. “Saucedo. It’s on Jillian’s list. Checking satellite photos now.”

“Where’s Saucedo?” B. asked.

Ali checked her phone. “Just inside the San Leandro County line, but we don’t know for sure that’s where they’re headed,” she said. “If we have Detective Hernandez call in a strike on what turns out to be a legitimate business . . .”

Just then, Stu called back. “Okay. I’ve got a current satellite feed.”

“From where?” B. asked.

“Better you don’t know. It turns out that the only businesses at the Saucedo exit are two truck stops and the junkyard. Felix’s Auto Recycling
is a Texas-sized place with what’s supposedly the largest selection of Corvair parts in the country. There’s a long building at the front of the property. I’m assuming that’s where the sales counter would be. There are several other structures on the property. The hostages could be in any of them. From what I’m seeing, there’s a lot inside that salvage yard that doesn’t look like junk. In the middle of the storage place, away from the outside fence and surrounded by a fort of stacked wrecked cars, is an interesting collection of vehicles that appear to be in perfect working order.

“I saw a couple of vans, a brown one with UPS markings and a white one with FedEx markings. How often do you see competing vehicles garaged on the same lot? Beyond that, we’ve got a duke’s mixture of rolling stock: several moving vans with company logos, a hearse, two more ambulances, a tanker truck, and a fire truck. None of those look like junkers, and they can’t be seen from outside the yard.”

“It sounds like we’re dealing with a major transportation hub.”

“Yes, with one additional detail: There’s a helicopter pad in the very center of the yard. That is, the spot is marked for a helicopter, but there isn’t one parked there now.”

“If Katerina’s making a run for it and planning to take Lance with her, the chopper’s probably already on its way.”

“What do you want me to do?” Stu asked. “Call Hernandez?”

“And start a gunfight? No,” B. said. “What if they have as many drivers hanging around as they have vehicles, and what if all of them are armed because they’re used to provide extra security?”

“That could be bad,” Stu said.

“Right, so let’s level the playing field and get rid of the extra hands. Did Jillian happen to have Ernesto Cabrillo’s e-mail address in her collection of intel?”

“Yes, she did,” Stu replied. I’ve got it right here.”

“I want you to use our copy of GHOST. Hack in to Ernesto’s e-mail account and send a spoof message to whatever e-mail address you have for the junkyard. Say, ‘DEA on way. Get out! Now!’ After you do that,
since what you’re watching probably is DEA satellite feed, you’d best shut it down. A lot will be happening in the next little while, and I’d like to have as few eyes watching as possible.”

Somewhere out of reach, Ali’s phone rang. She remembered dropping it in her purse much earlier, but the purse was currently stowed on the floorboard behind the passenger seat. She had to unfasten her seat belt and clamber half onto the seat with her knees in order to reach it. By the time she retrieved her phone, it had stopped ringing; a call from an unknown number showed in the screen. Thirty seconds later, the phone vibrated in her hand, this time with a voice mail.

“Kate Benchley here,” said a cheery Brit voice when Ali punched the Play button. “Thought you’d want to know. The samples weren’t all that degraded after all. Donna was able to work her magic. The bloodstains from the collar, presumably from the victim, belong to a male who is almost certainly the father of both whoever left the stains on the shirtsleeves as well as the sample taken from the coffee cup, which I’ll return to the Highcliff the next time I go to spend some time with Marjorie.

“You know the odds on DNA,” Kate continued. “These three individuals are definitely related, with a 99.99777 percent certainty, but without some other corroborating evidence, Donna’s findings won’t be enough to carry the day in a court of law. Give me a call to let me know what, if anything, you want me to do with these results. Cheerio.”

“Who was that?” B. asked.

“Kate Benchley from Oxford,” Ali said. “She just told me who murdered Leland’s father.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Tell him, I suppose,” Ali said. “What happens after that will be up to him.”

T
he Saucedo exit sign appeared overhead, along with another sign on the shoulder announcing gas and food. No lodging. B. slowed and switched on his turn signal. “I’ll fill up with gas,” he said. “You keep an eye out and tell me if you see anything.”

While Ali watched, an odd assortment of vehicles—vans, trucks, and pickups—came streaming out of a business across the freeway from the gas station. Some entered the freeway northbound and sped away. A few crossed over and continued westbound on the surface road, while the remainder entered the freeway headed south. The last vehicle to leave, a pickup, stopped just outside the junkyard’s razor wire–topped fence. The driver got out, closed the gate, and then locked it with a length of chain and a padlock.

Done filling the tank, B. climbed into the car. “I counted fifteen vehicles in all,” Ali told him. “The last guy to leave locked the gate.”

“Okay, Stu,” B. said. “Whatever you told them worked. They all bailed. Great job. Now where’s that northbound ambulance?”

“They’re only ten miles out, but they’ve pulled off into a rest area. I directed Father McLaughlin to drive past them and take the next exit, five miles ahead, then wait to see what they do. I’m guessing that someone
from the junkyard called to warn them of the impending raid. They may be considering going elsewhere.”

“If they’re all gone,” Ali wondered, “what are the chances that the only people left inside are Phyllis Rogers and her grandson, two hostages who are completely expendable now that Katerina has Lance?”

“If they’re not dead already,” B. replied.

“So what do we do? Call Hernandez and tell him to bring on the strike force?”

“It’ll take those guys at least fifteen minutes to get here,” B. said. “We may not have fifteen minutes. Let’s see if we can get them out ourselves.”

“Alone? Without backup?” Ali responded. “Cops call that Lone Rangering, and it’s a bad idea. Especially since we have no weapons and no Kevlar vests.”

“You’d be surprised,” B. told Ali as he punched buttons on his phone. “You might be very surprised.”

A moment later, Father McLaughlin’s voice boomed over the speaker.

“Hey, it’s B. and Ali.”

“Good to hear from you. What’s up?”

“I know Stuart directed you to hold up, but we’re parked across the highway from the junkyard, and we have an issue. We believe—or rather, we hope—that we’ve sent most of the bad guys packing. Right now, before that ambulance shows up, we have a tiny window of opportunity.”

“To extract the other two hostages?”

“How did you guess? I know you offered to help out by lending us weapons and vests earlier. Stupidly, I turned you down. At this point, I’ve changed my mind, and I’m ready to accept same.”