Blue Gold (NUMA Files 2)

THE BLAZE HAD BEEN extinguished and the firefighters were mopping up when Zavala returned to Hanley’s office building. Zavala bluffed his way past the yellow police tape with officious flashes of his NUMA identification card. He waved the laminated card with his picture close to the arson investigator’s nose, then quickly tucked it back into his billfold. He didn’t want to explain why someone from a federal ocean science agency was at a San Diego disaster scene.

The investigator, whose name was Connors, said witnesses had told him about the hovering helicopter and described a strange flash of light before the explosion, but he hadn’t eliminated the possibility that the detonation was internal. Zavala couldn’t blame him. It’s not every day an armed helicopter attacks an office building in San Diego.

“How is the injured woman?” Zavala asked.

“Okay last I heard,” Connors said. “A couple of guys dragged her out of her office before the fire got going.”

Zavala then thanked Connors and walked to the next block to catch a taxi. As he raised his hand to hail a cab, a plain black Ford sedan pulled up to the curb. Agent Miguel Gomez was behind the wheel. The FBI man leaned across the seat and opened the door. Zavala got in.

Gomez gave Zavala his world-weary look. “Things sure have gotten busy since you and your partner arrived in town,” the agent said. “A few hours after you walk into my office the Farmer and his sleazeball lawyer go up in smoke. Why don’t you stick around a few more days? The whole Mexican mafia and their pals will self-destruct, and I’ll be out of a job, which will suit me fine.”

Zavala chuckled. “Thanks again for watching our backs in Tijuana.”

“In return for risking an international incident by bringing a sniper team across the border, maybe you’ll tell me what in God’s name is going on.”

“I wish I knew,” Zavala said with a shrug. “What’s the story on Pedralez?”

“He was in his armored car going through Colonia Obrera, a cutthroat neighborhood west of Tijuana. He’s got bodyguards in SUVs in front and behind. The lead vehicle gets hit first. A second later Pedralez’s car explodes. It must have been slammed real hard because that thing was built like a tank. The driver of the third vehicle does a quick U-turn and gets the hell out.”

“An antitank missile would have done the job.”

Gomez affixed Zavala with dark, probing eyes. “The Mexican police found the loader for a Swedish Gustav antitank missile in an alley.”

“The Swedes are attacking Mexican drug lords?”

“I wish. The hardware is available on the world arms market. They’re probably giving them away on the ba

cks of cereal boxes. You can fire the thing from the shoulder. They tell me two guys can get off six rounds a minute. What do you know about this thing with Hanley?”

“Kurt and I had just left the building when we saw a green helicopter hovering outside Hanley’s office. We went back inside and heard the blast while we were in the elevator. Some witnesses saw a flash of light. It could have been from a missile launcher.”

“How many missiles does it take to wipe out a shyster? Sounds like a lawyer joke.”

“I don’t see Hanley laughing.”

“Guy never did have a sense of humor. Talk about overkill. Someone really wanted him dead real bad to go through all that trouble.” He paused. “Why did you go back into the building?”

“Kurt thought the helicopter looked like one he had seen after the explosion in the Baja.”

“So you already talked with Hanley?”

Gomez might look sleepy, but he didn’t miss a trick, Zavala thought.

“We asked him about the tortilla plant. He said a Sacramento business broker contacted him for a client who wanted to get a cover operation going in Mexico. Hanley hooked his client up with Pedralez.”

“What was the broker’s name?”

“Jones. Save your dime. He’s dead.”

Gomez smirked. “Don’t tell me. His car blew up.”

“He drove off a cliff. It was supposedly an accident.”

A man in a dark blue suit came over and tapped on the car window. The agent nodded and turned back to Zavala. “They want me inside. Let’s keep in touch.” He switched to Spanish. “We Mexican-American chili peppers have to stick together.”

“Definitely,” Zavala said, opening the door to get out. “I’ll be heading back to Washington. Call me at NUMA headquarters if I can be of help.”

Zavala had been truthful with Gomez up to a point. He purposely hadn’t mentioned Hanley’s disclosure about the Mulholland Group. He doubted the FBI would blast its way through the front door warrant in hand, but he hadn’t wanted to complicate his investigation. On his return to the hotel he called Los Angeles directory assistance and tried the number he was given for the Mulholland Group. The pleasant-sounding receptionist who answered the phone gave him directions to the office. He asked the hotel concierge to arrange a rental car, and before long he was driving north to Los Angeles.