Shit.
Delgado thumbed and sent:
After he hit SEND, he stared at the phone for a long moment.
What else can go wrong?
Then he thumbed a text and sent it to Jorge-El Cheque’s name was Jorge Ernesto Aguilar-in Dallas:
STILL COMING 2NITE… ANY WORD ON THE KID?
El Cheque replied:
Zetas! Shit! I hope not.
Maybe he just took off?
I thought he could be trusted.
He replied:
Delgado’s phone vibrated with El Cheque’s reply:
Delgado then put the phone in his pocket, reached down and grabbed the tan backpack with the Nike logotype from the passenger-side floorboard, then got out of the Tahoe.
Inside the front door of the Mall of Mexico, Juan Paulo Delgado found that he had to step around two long lines of Latino men and women in order to get deeper in the building. He’d never seen it this busy.
The lines almost wound out the front doors. He started walking, following the lines to the right and down around the corner. He saw that they led to a yellow-and-black Western Union counter.
There were two teller windows there, and next to them a couple dozen yellow fiberglass bucket chairs bolted to an iron rail painted a glossy black. At least half of these were filled with more Latinos, people either waiting for a cell phone call to say that their money had been sent and they could join the queue to collect it, or those who had just sent or collected their funds.
As Delgado continued toward the back of the mall, he noticed that few of these people were making much effort to conceal from anyone the fact that they were handling wads of cash, in some cases hundreds of dollars each.
Might have to get someone to check this out.
Figure out what day and time the line’s the longest.
Why send all that remittance money south when it can go in El Gato’s pockets?
Delgado passed a vendor selling pay-as-you-go, no-long-term-contract cellular telephones featuring inexpensive calling rates to Central America. Then he reached the back of the mall. He stopped at a storefront with a wooden sign etched with TITO’S TORTILLA F?BRICA.
He went inside the “factory,” then to the stand with the register in the right corner.
A teenage Latino perked up when he saw Delgado coming his way. He had a white fiberboard box imprinted with TITO’S TORTILLAS already on the stand when Delgado got there.
“Hola, El Gato,” the teenager said.
“Hola,” he replied as he pulled a bulging FedEx envelope from the outside pocket of the tan backpack.
“Gracias,” the teenager said as he took it.
Delgado nodded once and grabbed the box of corn tortillas.
As he walked purposefully back to the Tahoe, he scanned the mall for anyone who might have an interest in his unleavened pancakes, ones covering U.S. Federal Reserve notes.
He also made one last inspection of the lines for the Western Union.
Got to be an easy way to get a piece of that…
Then he got in the Tahoe, picked up I-95 south, and drove along the Delaware River the five or so miles to the Philadelphia International Airport.
[TWO] Terminal D Philadelphia International Airport Wednesday, September 9, 3:01 P.M.
“Yeah, Jason, I do understand that I’m really to keep a low profile and that this time Coughlin really means it,” Sergeant Matt Payne said into his cell phone. He was walking down the airport’s D/E Connector. “I will bring this Texas Ranger by the Roundhouse, and we will work out of Homicide. I got it.”
Due to construction work at Terminal D, which served United and Continental Airlines and others, Payne had had to park his rental Ford near Terminal E, which served Northwest and Southwest Airlines.
He left the car in one of the three parking spaces at Terminal E that were marked OFFICIAL POLICE USE ONLY, and put one of his business cards on the dash. He realized that the rental Ford easily could be ID’d as such-a simple running of the plates would show the name of its corporate owner, never mind the thumbnail-size tracking sticker with the corporate logo in the corner of the rear window. He further realized that an airport traffic cop could jump to the conclusion that it was a rental by some idiot who thought he could get away with parking in a cop’s spot-Philly wasn’t about to run out of idiots anytime soon-who would then call for a Tow Squad wrecker and have it hauled off.
So Payne had taken a black permanent marker and redacted everything on the business card except SERGEANT M.M. PAYNE, PHILADELPHIA POLICE DEPARTMENT, HOMICIDE UNIT, and his cell phone number. If any airport cop questioned the validity of the vehicle being there, a simple call to the Roundhouse or to Payne-or both-would answer that.
The Philadelphia International Airport’s D/E Connector was a wide mall-like passage that, as its name suggested, linked Terminal D and Terminal E. It was lined with towering white columns flying flags. And it had a marketplace that offered air travelers quite a few of the conveniences of the retail world, everything from newsstands and bookstores to well-known national chains selling clothing, jewelry, computer accessories, and more.
In the center of the highly polished tile floor were kiosks for smaller vendors. One of the kiosks that Payne approached sold what it called “specialty” pretzels. He thought that they were outrageously priced even if one were traveling on an expense account. Another kiosk was home to an Internet access provider called the Road Warrior Connection. Its signage advertised that it offered PHILLY’S FASTEST, CHEAPEST INTERNET.
Something familiar caught his eye as he passed, and he glanced inside. Then he found it, and shook his head as he kept walking.
Maybe Skipper was onto something.
In the kiosk he had seen a guy working on one of the rental laptop computers. He’d had his back to Payne,
