Blond Cargo (16 page)

“You find tile work like that in mosques. It looks Middle Eastern.”

“Iraq?” Jack asked.

“Didn’t you see any of the pictures of Saddam Hussein’s castles? Yes, Iraq works. But don’t jump the gun. It could’ve been shot in a building from the forties with Moroccan architecture in Hollywood.”

“I’m just saying. I’m pretty sure Raul Vargas sent the pictures of Angelica to a second party. Is that someone’s head?” Jack asked again, pointing at the screen.

“I wouldn’t swear to it in a court of law, but it’s a definite maybe.”

“God, I love lawyers.”

“Prove it.”

Instead Jack phoned Cruz, who was a night owl and picked up on the second ring, totally oblivious to Leslie’s glare as she walked out of the office. This was the break in the case he’d been waiting for. The video might be proof that Angelica Cardona was still alive and Jack was riding an adrenaline-fueled high. After bringing Cruz up to speed he forwarded the URL and they watched the video together in real time, in slo-mo, and then again.

Cruz was confident it was someone’s head on the edge of the screen and promised to track the origin of the video in the morning.

Before Jack could sign off, he heard the front door open and close, the lock being thrown, and the sound of Leslie’s carry-on luggage wheels vibrating down the exterior hallway toward the elevator.

Jack made no move to stop her.

25

Malic dried off from his shower, taking note of his impeccable body, and slipped into an embroidered silk smoking jacket and ornate slippers.

His wife was already in bed, watching
Late Night with Seth Meyers
. Kayla looked up as he exited the bathroom and knew from her husband’s demeanor that he wasn’t headed to bed. He had many late nights, she thought. Too many. Their sex life had been nonexistent since the birth of their daughter. Not that Kayla particularly cared. Her husband was a selfish lover, interested only in getting off. The attacks were more about power than pleasure.

Malic had approached her about a second wife when they were still in Iraq. She had responded with such ferocity that the discussion was never brought up again. And now, living in the States, it was no longer legal. Not like that had ever stopped her husband before.

Malic bent down, brushed her blond hair off her forehead, and kissed her there. “Don’t wait up, my love,” he said briskly. “I have to come up with the final figures before tomorrow’s meeting. If we don’t have sufficient funds in place to pay for this quarter’s interest on the construction loan, the bank could step in and shut us down.”

“You work too hard,” Kayla said with genuine concern.

“The deal will be consummated by week’s end,” Malic said. “I have it under control.”

She trusted that he did,
as with every other aspect of their life together. Kayla was comforted by the knowledge that Malic was a good provider, and shifted focus. Seth Meyers was interviewing Amy Poehler, and Kayla wasn’t even aware that her husband had left the room.

Malic had felt strong, gazing at his image in the bathroom mirror and understanding where he had come from and what he had become. As he walked out his French doors, past his infinity pool, he felt the power growing, an electric charge in his loins. When he witnessed Allah’s miracle of a moon reflected on the serene Pacific, he was humbled at all he had achieved. As he entered his office, he felt like a lion, the master of his domain.

The computerized lights snapped on with the turn of his key. Malic stopped for a moment to appreciate Matisse’s artistic genius.
La Pastorale.
His joy. Then he walked to the back of the room, hit a hidden switch, pulled open the hinged mahogany bookshelf—home to his first editions—and stepped through, gaining entry to his most private life.

A white-tiled tunnel was exposed and then disappeared as he closed the secret door behind him.

Artisans Malic had flown in from Iraq had constructed the underground masterpiece. They were ignorant as to the location of their employment and happy to be earning a huge salary plying their trade. Saddam Hussein had been fond of tunnels, and there was an abundance of engineering work while he was alive. It dried up faster than the Tigris River in drought season after Saddam was caught hiding in a rat hole by the Americans and brought to an ignoble justice. The men were flown back home upon completion of their task, richer for their effort, without ever visiting Disneyland or even knowing they had been living for six months of their lives in Orange County, California.

Malic’s wife slipped out of bed—after Seth Meyers finished the segment—and into a silk robe that accentuated her statuesque body. She walked past her daughter’s room on the way to the kitchen. Saarah’s door was open a crack to let the ambient hallway light in, just the way her daughter liked it. Saarah slept like an angel. Pure of heart, Kayla thought as she poured hot water out of the massive Sub-Zero refrigerator’s door for a cup of her favorite tea, Sleepytime. She decided in that very moment that she could kill in order to protect her sweet girl. She didn’t know where thoughts like that came from and attributed them to her time spent in Iraq during the invasion.

Kayla happened to look out the window, past the wide lawn and the glow of the aquamarine pool, and realized that Malic wasn’t seated behind his desk. She stepped through the French doors into the backyard, pulling her thin silk robe tight against the damp air, in order to make sure that the office was empty. Maybe he was talking to one of the security men who patrolled the perimeter of the property at night, she thought as she retreated into the house, shivering as she locked the door behind her. She grabbed a tea bag and submerged it in the steaming water. She glanced through the window again, struck by his odd disappearance, and walked back to her bedroom.

Malic strolled with his hands clasped behind his back as he walked deeper into the rocky cliffside. He was in no hurry. With every step he felt he was delving deeper into his own psyche. He stopped from time to time to appreciate the antiquities he had pillaged before his flight from Baghdad and carefully transported with the help of the State Department. Malic had many secrets to share about the inner workings of the new Iraqi government, and the Americans succumbed to his charm and knowledge. As a consequence they turned a blind eye when it came to transporting his wealth. His treasures were displayed on pedestals cut into the ornate tiled wall and lit with micro spots that made the gold figurines gleam and the precise Mesopotamian sculptures come to life. The fact that his eyes alone could enjoy these priceless national treasures gave him a sexual charge.

At the far end of the tunnel were two steel-plated doors. Malic thrust the second key on his ring into the door on the right and stepped through, throwing the bolt securely behind him. He continued on for a short distance and keyed yet another door open.

He stepped inside an Arabian fantasy. Pure eye candy. A dazzling room, out of
Lawrence of Arabia
. Multicolored, gold-threaded brocade cloth covered the walls and draped gracefully down, creating the illusion of a Bedouin sheik’s tent. A damask-covered bed dominated the room, which was the size of a small apartment.

The raven-haired beauty sat naked in the center of the woven opulence. Her blond companion exited the shower room wearing only her youth. She climbed up onto the bed and waited expectantly next to her friend.

Malic stood still for an extended moment, taking in the scene, and then let his robe fall open, exposing his erection. The young blond woman leaned over her counterpart and kissed her full on the mouth, never breaking eye contact with Malic, who dropped his robe to the Persian-rugged floor and joined his newest acquisitions in his grand bed.

Angelica startled awake as she heard a door open and then clang shut. Was she dreaming? She sat up in bed and concentrated on the sound emanating from outside her prison walls.

And then . . . there. She was sure that she could hear something. It was the sound of young feminine laughter and Angelica thought she might go insane. She shot out of the bed. The blood rushed to her head. She was afraid the heat would overwhelm her and hoped in that instant that it would.

Angelica saw her reflection in the Plexiglas wall. She was afraid that she was having a nervous breakdown and started keening, and then she started to scream, the veins in her neck and temples swollen and throbbing.

“They’re no-neck monsters, all no-neck people are monsters
. . .
!”
Angelica dropped to the floor wracked with emotional pain, tears flowing, nose running, chest heaving.

26

“Was she good?” Jack asked over his shoulder as Mateo entered the loft. Cruz was set up at the center kitchen island with his laptop, iPhone, and a large iced Americano. He’d been stymied trying to find the origin of the video and picked idly at the remnants of a toasted bagel that littered a small plate next to his computer. Jack was in the office sipping a cup of coffee, staring at his computer screen as Mateo set his things down on the dining room table just to the left of the front door.

Jack had put calls in to Gallina, Tompkins, and Nick Aprea, and brought them up to speed on the YouTube video. Then he pulled Mateo into the hunt. Not a bad way to start the day, Jack thought. Wasn’t sure how he was going to deal with Vincent Cardona. He didn’t want any interference but knew the man had to be reckoned with. Might give him some relief, he thought. Jack knew how he would feel if it were his son.

“No,
jefe
, she was spectacular,” Mateo answered. “It’s been common knowledge, ever since I was in the Franciscan Preparatory School, that these repressed Catholic girls have pent-up sexuality. It’s the nuns’ influence. Now, add a civil service job to the mix and let’s just say the good woman gave up all of her secrets.”

Jack was waiting on a Skype call from Miami. He had sent the YouTube video to Kenny Ortega, a DEA agent and an old friend. Kenny was responsible for bringing the government into play on the 18th Street Angels case Jack had broken a month ago and was always ready to lend a hand. That was a two-way street, as far as Jack was concerned. They had taken down more than their share of cartel scumbags through the years and put some major drugs on the table. He’d always have Kenny’s back.

Jack’s landline rang, and Jack announced, “It’s Gallina,” putting the call on speakerphone.

“Are you fucking with me, Bertolino?” was his opening salvo.

“That wouldn’t even be sport, Lieutenant. Why do you ask?”

“The video you sent me. The proof our missing person is still alive . . . that YouTube account was set up in the name of an eight-year-old boy.”

Gallina gave that a moment to sink in before he continued.

“The word I get from our IT team is that even if the kid posted it three days ago, it was a video of a video. It could have been sent to him via e-mail, or Facebook, and he only posted on the date provided. The original could have been generated six months ago. It blows our time line. But did you hear me, Bertolino? The kid is eight years old. Jahmir 8. That’s why the camera angle’s so low. Either that or the guy’s a fuckin’ midget. And here’s the kicker—”

“I need a location,” Jack interjected.

“I’m getting to that. The kicker is, you know where Anbar Province is?”

“Iraq.”

“Good for you. You get a gold star. But you don’t get the girl. Not yet. And as for your theory that it should be easy to track, not so much. We only got the Anbar location off of signage on one of the kid’s earlier postings. At a horse race, of all things. Who takes their kid to the track for his birthday?” Gallina wasn’t looking for an answer. “My guys are striking out with Google. They own YouTube and are being less than forthcoming. Hell, they’re in a war with China over privacy rights. It’s like poison coming out of my mouth, but if we don’t get the feds involved with a court order, we are shit out of luck. And I’ll need more linkage between the three women to have a chance in hell.”

“Stay on the address,” Jack said, “and I’ll work it from my end. I’ve still got some juice with the feds. But the kid could have shot the video in real time, and the time line could hold.”

“It’s possible, Bertolino. But eight years old? I can’t wrap my head around that. If I stumble on anything of interest, I’ll call. I expect the same. Later.” Gallina hung up.

“Eight years old, what the fuck?” Jack mused as the Skype screen trilled, and Kenny Ortega’s face lit up the computer screen.

“Mi hermano!”
Kenny said joyfully. “And who’s that I see in the background?”

“It’s me, you old hound dog, Mateo.”

“How’s Miami?” Jack asked. Kenny Ortega could put a smile on a storm cloud.

“I bought a new boat. Twenty-seven feet of heaven. I never see the water, though, because you got me a bump in grade and a pay raise, and I actually have to work for a living.”

Jack introduced him to Cruz and then methodically filled him in on the case: the two dead women and their physical similarities, the disappearance or abduction of Angelica Cardona, his connection with Vincent Cardona, his suspicion of Raul Vargas, the delivery of the video, and the phone call with Lieutenant Gallina.

“I’ll put the squeeze on Google for an address. I don’t think they’ll want to get on the wrong side of a sex slavery ring, if that’s how this plays out, or worse yet, culpability in the death of a third woman. And if there’s any traction, the DEA has feet on the ground in Iraq.”

“Hey, Kenny, could we find out who set up the YouTube account? My guess is an eight-year-old couldn’t register himself.”

“Till later,
mi hermano
.” And Kenny Ortega clicked off.

“Iraq, huh?” Jack said, turning to the room. “Not so strange. You’ve heard of harems.”

Cruz looked up from his computer and added, “Iraqi men can have four wives. I just Googled it. Sharia law was written into the new Iraqi constitution. This is post-Saddam we’re talking about. It’s not so common anymore, but it’s totally legit.”

“Sounds like a living hell,” Mateo said.