Back then they didn’t have the digital tools they have now with all the bells and whistles.”
“That’s good, then?”
“That’s real good. The photographs are still logged into evidence. I’ve got a contact out at DOJ who can enhance the images, print up some photos that might just tell us who was climbing in that back window. If it turns out it’s someone other than Wheeler, we’ve got our case.”
An immense wave of relief swept through her, but a shortlived one, when she realized that with only four days left, there wasn’t a lot of time. “How soon can we get those pictures?”
“My contact is putting a rush on it, Sydney. Thinks he can get it back to us in one, maybe two days, working on his off hours. Schermer’s driving out to pick up the photos as we speak.”
“Tell him I owe him.”
“He knows. And really, there’s nothing else we can do for the guy if this doesn’t pan out…”
In other words, Wheeler’s last hope was probably in those photos. “Call me if you find out anything more on either of the cases. I’ve got about an hour before my plane boards.”
“Will do.”
She disconnected, then started down the terminal toward her gate, walking past a gift shop decorated like some tiki hut. At least there was some progress on Wheeler’s case, even if it did seem to come at a snail’s pace in comparison to how much time he had left. That was more than she could say on this other matter. Who the hell was this Robert Orozco? The name meant nothing to her, but she felt as though it should. Just as the whole BICTT scandal meant nothing to her. No doubt it was covered in some course at the National Academy, but not to any great extent that would make an impression over any other scandal funding terrorists, she thought, reaching her gate. She chose a seat that backed up to a support column, giving her something to lean her head against, because she was wiped out from the redeye. Sinking into her seat, she propped her backpack behind her head and closed her eyes, feeling herself drift off, and wondering if she’d hear the boarding announcement if she did.
Bob.
The name popped into her head and she jerked awake, sat up.
Robert Orozco… Bob the Boat Guy. She dug the letter from her backpack, read through it again: I tried to call Boston. I always thought he’d be sick of fish and beer after twenty years. He was the only smart one. We should have all gone down there.
She called Carillo back. “I know who he is.”
“Who?”
“Robert Orozco. He has to be Bob, the guy my dad fished with every year in Mexico. They were going to open up a fishing business in Baja when they retired. That was my father’s big dream.”
“Baja’s sort of a big place.”
“That boat I told you about, Cisco’s Kid? There’s a picture on my nightstand of me and my dad on that boat, and I need a copy of it.”
“How am I going to do that?”
“My landlord, Rainie. She’s always home. She can get it for you. I also need a contact number from my desk for Pedro Venegas of the AFI.” AFI was Mexico’s version of the FBI. Sydney had done some work for Venegas, and now it was time to call in a favor.
“Okay, so what’s the purpose of going to Baja?”
“Because Bob, the boat guy, told me that was the first boat in their fleet. If he’s the same guy, he’s eating fish and drinking beer just south of Tijuana, and that boat is docked down there with him. He’s got to be ‘Boston’ in the letter. It seems McKnight was using nicknames.”
“Hold up, there, Pollyanna. Swinging over to Texas is one thing. How’re you going to justify a trip to Tijuana?”
“What any good agent would do when they want to look in on something on their own time. Claim I have serious jet-lag and call in sick.”
24
The temperate offshore wind gusted, then died, and Sydney brushed her hair from her face and her eyes as she stepped out of the Rosarito hotel where she’d spent the night, and taken a blessed shower. A light marine layer covered the sky, made her glad for her leather coat, though no doubt she’d be stuffing it into her backpack as the haze burned off later in the day. Her AFI contact, Pedro Venegas, was waiting for her out front.
“Senorita Fitzpatrick. It is good to see you again,” he said, his English perfect, with only the slightest of accents. He wore a dark suit, a crisp white dress shirt, but no tie.
“Senor Venegas,” she said, shaking his hand. They did not greet each other officially, primarily because she wanted no attention drawn to her. “Thank you so much for agreeing to meet me.”
“I regret I can’t offer you more, but perhaps what little I found will be of help. I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of bringing you some good Mexican coffee.” He waved his hand toward a black sedan parked nearby. On the hood was a cardboard carrier with two insulated coffee cups sitting within. They walked over, and he gave her one, took the other for himself. “This is from the best coffeehouse in all of Rosarito. Off the beaten path.”
The scent of cinnamon and chocolate mixed with coffee swirled up from the cup as she lifted it to her mouth.
Venegas wasted no time, however, as he’d made it clear the night before when she’d called him that he could stay but a few minutes. “I worry about your presence here, looking for this Robert Orozco,” he said.
“Why is that?”
“His name is, how do you say it… flagged? in our system. More importantly, there was an automatic audit, in that I couldn’t run him without including which agency was requesting the info. I fear it may present a problem, but your name and mine are now linked to the internal audit. I did, however, say it was via phone call. How am I to say you were actually in our country when you called?” He eyed her as she sipped the fragrant brew, savored the cinnamon and chocolate warming her tongue. “Unfortunately there is much that worries me about this, and if you want some advice from me, I would go back to your country, the sooner the better.”
“What do you mean?”
“Aside from the initial want of money laundering and being armed and dangerous? He remains as elusive now as he did twenty years ago when your government first started looking for him.” Agent Venegas glanced at his watch before turning his somber dark gaze on her once more. “Your statute of limitations has long since run its course on Orozco. It makes no sense that my government still has his name flagged. What, then, is your government’s real interest in him?”
“Precisely one of the reasons I want to talk to him. That and what he might know about my father’s murder.” She showed him the faxed photo of Cisco’s Kid, but he had no suggestions on where she might find it.
She thanked him for his help and the coffee, and after they shook hands, he held her gaze a moment longer. “Be careful, Senorita Fitzpatrick. I am uncomfortable with this flag on Orozco’s name. Computers are fast, and Baja so easily accessible.”
“I’ll be careful.”
He turned, got into his car, and drove away, leaving her standing there, contemplating his words. That there was still a computer link to Orozco down here meant someone had a fair idea he’d been in Mexico all this time, and was just waiting until someone stumbled across him. No doubt the flag was of the sort that would send notification to whomever was looking for Orozco, but that was a detail she had little control over. What she needed to do was find him first, get the information she needed, then get the hell out of there. She’d spent a few hours the night before in Tijuana, asking around about the boat and Robert Orozco before she’d hired a car to drive her down to Rosarito when it soon became obvious that she wasn’t far enough south.
On the one hand, she was disappointed she couldn’t find him so easily, on the other, it confirmed in her mind that her memory had served her correctly, that her father had taken her to someplace south of Tijuana. And Rosarito Beach, one of the fastest growing cities for tourists and locals, fit that description. What didn’t fit, however, were her memories. Hers had been of a much smaller, sleepier town. Now there were high-rise condos built between the pink and turquoise motels everywhere she turned, and multitudes of houses built into the once desolate chaparral-covered hills that looked out over the Pacific Ocean. Urban vacation sprawl, Americans snapping up dirt-cheap villas and condos that if purchased and built north of the border would cost millions for a slice of ocean views and rugged coastlines.