Chapter 20: Sharks

“Esme Aguilar, married to Angelo Aguilar—alleged head of the Tiburón Cartel, suspected of running narcotics and human trafficking operations across the border with the US,” Peter read aloud as the articles began tabulating on the screen. Almost as soon as he entered the woman’s name, half a dozen ‘source relevant imperative’ notices appeared. He organized them chronologically and saw an image of a strikingly beautiful woman with deeply tanned skin, gazing through the glass window at a US Customs and Immigration checkpoint. She wore large, framed sunglasses and a floral-patterned, wide-brim hat to protect her face from the sun. Her low-cut blouse revealed enormous breasts and a sinful amount of cleavage.

“Here she walked into the US at the San Ysidro crossing on July 28^th at 8:30 am,” he remarked before clicking on a frame dated 32 hours later. It showed Alan behind the wheel of a Lexus SC 400 convertible with the top down. Esme sat beside him as they waited to enter Tijuana, Mexico. They were holding hands. “They crossed back into Mexico a day later at 3:14 pm.”

Sergeant Ramirez gazed in wonder at the powerful computer as it chronologically time-stamped the couple as they proceeded to travel south toward Ensenada. A credit card receipt showed Alan checking them into a room at the Rosarito Beach Hotel for the night before they continued to their final destination the next morning. Another receipt showed him checking into the Corona Hotel on the harbor.

“You gringos have the most amazing technology for fighting crime,” the detective exclaimed enviously.

“Even the Feds don’t have this techno-magic,” Peter replied smugly. “Yet.”

“So, how do we track down this woman?” Maggy asked, standing over his shoulder.

“I can help with that,” the detective grinned. “It so happens I know exactly where to find her and her pendejo husband at this very moment.” He turned toward the television set on a stand across from the bed.

A line of news vehicles was parked across the street from the municipal courthouse where the infamous crime lord and hitman El Jefe (the Headsman) was being sentenced after the earth-shattering conviction for a string of execution-style deaths that carried his signature decapitation MO.

“Angelo threw his accomplice to the wolves to avoid prosecution for lesser charges involving possession of narcotics and grand larceny,” Franco explained as the cameras panned back and forth over the old grand structure. “El Tiburón himself and his contemptible consort are required to attend the sentencing.”

A mug shot of a particularly loathsome-looking man who was covered in tattoos. Long, greasy black hair framed his badly scarred face, and his black glittering eyes stared at the camera with all the pity of a death adder. “El Jefe himself.”

“No honor among thieves, eh?” Peter mused.

“Should Angelo ever find himself in the same prison as El Jefe, I wouldn’t give him betting odds to survive the first night.”

Peter considered the detective’s words and turned to look intently at his partner.

Maggy raised an eyebrow, “Enemy of my enemy?” she asked in English.

He nodded.

“I’m sorry I didn’t understand what you were just saying,” the detective frowned toward them.

Maggy sidled over to the man and placed her arm around his shoulder. “Franky,” she stated demurely as she reached into his coat for his cigarettes. “Where will El Jefe be going to serve out his sentence?”

“Senora Aguilar is commonly referred to as La Bruja,” Tito commented after reporting the next morning. He knocked tentatively on Peter’s door and found his boss(es) sitting together in front of the computer. “She is thought to practice dark magics that involve blood sacrifices and lewd sexual acts in the form of domination and orgies.”

“Like Santeria?” Maggy asked. She got up and sniffed the air around him. “Are you high, Tito?”

The Hispanic security man blushed. “My apologies, ma’am. “ He produced a large plastic-wrapped package full of weed. I had to buy a key of Acapulco Gold to earn the trust of my informant.” He tossed it onto the desk. “Sampling it is part of the ritual.”

“Damn!” Peter grinned, “Talk about going above and beyond,” he laughed.

“To your question,” the man said, shaking his head. “Santeria does require blood sacrifice but only from small animals like chickens, pigs, turtles, etc.”

Peter’s expression quickly faded from amused to horrified. “Are you saying she carved up my friend as part of some fucked up satanic ritual?”

The private agent placed his hands together as if in prayer. “I pray that this was not the case, sir. But it is rumored that she has done so before and far worse. It is said that she has bound Angelo to her through terrible rites, and he uses her gifts of augury against their enemies.”

“That’s total bullshit!” Peter cursed, standing and pacing around the small room.

“Black magic is a powerful and compelling way to manipulate these people,” Maggy stated as she paced around the room. She clicked her teeth with a lacquered nail.

“Need another cigarette?” Peter suggested dryly.

She bristled and dropped onto the foot of his bed. “Sorry.”

“I’m not judging,” he replied casually. “I was just surprised to see you light up.”

“I quit after college,” she replied. “Jeremiah didn’t approve.”

“You are your own woman now,” he told her, turning in his seat. “If it helps you think better, go get a pack.” He turned to the computer, “And see if you can find me a decent cup of coffee.”

She took the hint and grabbed her bag before stepping toward his door. Tito opened it and followed her out. Left alone, Peter resumed his research on the Tiburón cartel and the dozen-odd players he had uncovered. Ten minutes later, he was disturbed by a knock on his door. He got up and opened it for Sgt. Ramirez.

“Buenos Días,” the detective said, holding out a tall Styrofoam cup. I brought you a coffee.”

“Gracias,” Peter smiled, happily accepting it.

The Sergeant sniffed the air in the room, and his eyes fell on the large plastic bag. His smile faltered, “Is that...?”

Peter casually slid it over to him. “One of my security people bought it to infiltrate a local drug gang. He was able to learn quite a bit about Angelo and his merry band of murderers and cutthroats.”

The detective frowned and pushed the bag of pot back. “I never saw that; there is too much paperwork. Just be careful, amigo. I cannot protect you from everything if you get caught up outside the laws of my country.”

“Noted,” Peter replied. “Why do you do it?”

“Pardon?”

“This job. What drives you to stay on as an Investigator for the PFM? For thirteen years, no less.” He sipped his coffee, appreciating the strong, dark blend. “You have a commendable record of closed cases and arrests. In the States, you would be a Captain or higher, looking at a sizeable pension upon retirement.”

“You checked up on me,” the man replied. “I trust you found little of note in my boring career.”

“It’s what I didn’t find that intrigues me most.”

“You speak in riddles, senor.”

“No, I don’t,” Peter stated abruptly, setting his cup down. “You are a good cop. That earns you a lot of love and trust from the people you serve but little else. You cannot expect to rise in your Policía Federal Ministerial ranks if you cannot be controlled or leveraged.”

The detective studied the coffee in his hands and remained quiet.

“Tell me, Sergeant, how often do you enjoy seeing justice served? Fairly? Equitably? To those you work so hard to protect the citizens from?” He didn’t expect an answer, and none was forthcoming. “Does it frustrate you that crime lords like Aguilar and his bruja woman can skirt the law and live such an opulent lifestyle, flaunting their power?”

“I do what I can within the means I am given,” he replied. “But you are correct that I cannot be bought or threatened. They have nothing to hold over me.”

“No wife, family?”

“You already know this if you did your research,” the man retorted irritably. “What are you trying to say or do?”

“Two things,” Peter said, facing him squarely. He held up a single finger, “One, I want you to know that I didn’t come down here to seek justice for the people who murdered my friend.” He clicked his mouse, and the monitor lit up. The young cartel boss’s handsome face was looking back at them. “These people and everyone else who played a part in Alan’s capture and murder will be killed. And I plan to do it in a manner that sends a very clear message to the people who orchestrated the whole thing.”

The Sergeant studied his face for a moment. He could usually guess a person’s age accurately, but he found the young man seated at the table difficult to read. His face and body appeared young, perhaps not even in his twenties. But his eyes ... he looked away unsettled. “I ... my friend, I cannot condone or be complicit in a vendetta...”

“Of that, I was certain,” Peter replied calmly. “Which brings me to my second objective.”

“And what is this objective?”

“I want to buy you.”

The Mexican detective leaned back in his chair and gawked at the man as if he hadn’t heard him correctly. “Disculpe...!”

“Not in the literal sense, of course,” he went on, reaching for his coffee again. “Franky,” he said, gazing into the man’s unsettled eyes, “I want you to detach yourself for a moment from everything that you hold to be true and adhere to with absolute conviction.” He took a drink, letting his words sink in. “Now ask yourself this: what if you could make a difference? A real difference. What if you could be a part of something much greater than the municipal precinct you work from now? Something global in scale that had the power to stamp out the corruption that you face daily.”

“Senor, I am a ... small fish,” the policeman replied soberly, “swimming in a sea full of sharks...”

“So be a bigger fish,” Peter interrupted. He rose from the table and stepped over to the small closet, where he removed a large duffle bag. “What if you had the means, the tools, and resources to make a difference? What if you could prove without a doubt that your Captain Vasques was on the payroll of several local crime bosses, including Angelo? What would you do if you had all the evidence to take him down?”

Ramirez snorted in his seat. “What you allude to is hardly a state secret senior. It is understood that nearly everyone in my line of work is on the take in one form or another, either through extortion, bribes, or threats. But you need to understand that above each of them is an even more powerful figure who will protect them so long as they are useful.”

Peter unzipped his duffle and removed a single-banded stack of hundred-dollar bills, which he placed on the table. He repeated the action with another stack and another until the detective found himself gazing at ten full stacks of $10,000 each. “This is the blood of organized crime,” he remarked as he dropped the bag on the floor. “It is also how we destroy our enemies.”

Sergeant Ramirez got to his feet and backed away. “Senor, I already told you I...” he swallowed nervously as he glanced back at the pile of bills. “I could not take that even if I wanted to.”

“Of course not,” Peter replied, taking the stacks of bills and returning them to the duffle bag. “Having that much cash would only be a burden to you and make you stand out. And you would have to launder it first, making you a part of the problem we are discussing.” He gestured at the chair, “Please take your seat back. I was only emphasizing a point.”

A key rattled in the lock to his door, and Maggy and Tito let themselves in, carrying several sacks and a small box of Styrofoam cups.

“Good morning, Detective,” Maggy smiled at the man as he sat back down. She looked at Peter and handed him another cup of coffee, placing it beside his other. “There was a street vendor selling empanadas, and they smelled heavenly,” she crooned as she placed warm tinfoil bundles on the table. “And Tito has the munchies...” she chuckled.

Peter’s stomach growled, and he quickly grabbed one of the warm pastries. “I was just trying to convince our stalwart friend here that there is more than one way to fight crime.”

Maggy took two rolls and sat on the bed next to the security man, handing him one. “Sergeant, you need to listen to him,” she said as she deftly unwrapped her pastry and took a bite. She rolled her eyes appreciatively as she chewed and swallowed. “Our presence south of the border and down into Central and South America is weak at best. You would be an incredible asset to our organization.”

“Oh man,” Peter exclaimed with his mouth full, “these are really good!” He pushed several of the tinfoil wraps toward their guest, and he grudgingly picked one up.

“Organization?” he repeated slowly as he carefully unwrapped his food.

Peter nodded. “When I said ‘global,’ I meant it,” he swallowed and sipped his coffee. “We are a multi-faceted conglomeration of agencies who share a vision of ... a better world. One where people, governments, and enterprises can function and serve the whole to benefit all.”