Oh, there were Harlem councilmen and the occasional cop who had to be paid off (the NYPD was a lot less receptive to bribes than it used to be, though). But at levels higher than city hall and various administrative bureaus, politics didn't much come into play for an OG like Morales.
He had, however, made a study of one political matter: NAFTA, the free trade agreement between Mexico, Canada and the United States, which eased trade restrictions--and the physical movement--of products over the borders.
Everyone knew it was politically correct to decry the flow of drugs moving north and the ebb of guns going in the opposite direction, and politicos and administrators made certain that loosened border controls, thanks to NAFTA, didn't facilitate this terrible commerce.
Who could argue? Morales certainly didn't.
But listening to an NPR segment about the trade agreement a year ago, an idea had occurred to him. After some research he learned that while drugs were still interdicted enthusiastically going north and guns going south, the customs system under NAFTA had grown careless when it came to these commodities going in the opposite directions. Resources, after all, were limited.
Could one, Morales asked, make money smuggling guns north?
On one of several trips to Mexico that he and Connie made, he learned that it was very hard to get good weapons of American or European make over the border. Fifteen thousand pesos for Cuernos de Chivo, "goat horns," as AK-47s were known in Mexico, and six thousand pesos for a Glock. Even realistic toy guns--used in the many of the one hundred armed (or seemingly armed) robberies in Mexico City alone every day--were expensive. Oh, you could negotiate some when you went to buy weapons in the pungent, filthy Tepito district of Mexico City--the drug and weapon bazaar--if you survived the experience (which a lot of people did not).
To fill this gap and bring prices down, an innovative cartel boss in Chihuahua had come up with an idea. He bought high-end guns--H&Ks, Glocks, Rugers--and he had them reverse engineered, created the tools and dies necessary for their manufacture and went into business, manufacturing quality firearms under the guise of creating auto parts. There were so many American manufacturers shifting jobs to Me
xico that nobody noticed that his operation did not, in fact, have a connection with Ford or GM or Toyota.
The cartel head's main market was Mexico and points south. Morales, though, saw an opportunity and decided to go into partnership with Senor Guadalupe. He commissioned an order and paid for it, then arranged for transport north. The NAFTA-sanctioned trucks, the partners reasoned, would proceed largely unimpeded into the United States and, if they were stopped, it was to check for drugs; those Labradors and Malinois were certainly clever but also scent-blind when it came to stocks and receivers of deadly weapons. They smelled after all just like car parts.
The shipment that Echi Rinaldo had picked up in the armory yesterday was Morales's first purchase and its disappearance was a real problem. He had buyers lined up, true, but more troubling: his reputation. He wanted to be, as he'd said in all seriousness to Rinaldo and his compadres, New York's King of the Dead, and anything that diminished that reputation was not acceptable. He certainly had the product: These weapons were among the most sophisticated in the world, some with laser and radar sights, some so silent they were--as Guadalupe had told him--no louder than a hiccup de un bebe.
Bullets too. Special ones, engineered by the cartel man's best gunsmiths.
But having such fine merchandise made this failing, this glitch, all the more embarrassing.
He debated once more the question of whether or not he should have trusted Rinaldo with this assignment. Well, that wasn't quite the right inquiry. Echi Rinaldo had done many jobs for him and trust was not an issue. Where he questioned his judgment was the caution with which he'd approached the delivery. Morales had delegated to Rinaldo the job of collecting the half million dollars' worth of machine guns solely in case the feds or someone else had tipped to the shipment. Rinaldo had been told of the risk and had willingly taken it on--for a substantial fee. They agreed he wouldn't transfer the goods immediately, either. He would drive around all day and make his regular deliveries and, if no one appeared to be following or if he sensed no other threat, then he would meet Morales and tell him where the guns were stashed.
At the time, these precautions made sense.
But now they had, perhaps, been his undoing.
Miguel Angel Morales was presently strolling through Central Park, making his way to a park bench where he regularly met his people. It was near the Sheep Meadow and therefore easy to spot anyone conducting surveillance.
He'd received a text from his lieutenant that the man had made some discoveries and wanted to relay them as soon as possible.
The gang overlord continued down the meandering path to the bench. He sat and scanned the area for any signs that he was being watched.
No, it was clear. Years of living a gang boss's life had given him acute senses, and he trusted these.
A glance at his watch.
Fifteen minutes until his lieutenant appeared, with, Morales prayed, good news.
Amelia Sachs was back in the armory, once again dressed in her crime scene coveralls.
And, as again, glad for the face mask. This was meant to prevent her DNA from tainting the evidence she might collect but it also had the added benefit of filtering out the overwhelming scent of mildew and mold and pee...and, of course, protecting her from the accompanying spores, which would do no one's lungs any good.
She paused and listened occasionally--the sounds of traffic. Other sounds too. Creaks and groans.
If you're ever inclined to make a horror film, that's the set for it...
What she was finding was helpful forensically but also troubling. Yes, it seemed that Echi Rinaldo had tried out an automatic weapon here. She was digging slugs out of the dirt about thirty yards from where his delivery truck had parked here. She might find fingerprints on them, which would lead to the seller of the ammunition--a perp in his own right, even if he had nothing to do with Rinaldo's death.
And the troubling part? With a grimace, she gazed at the bullets she'd bagged. They were "cop killers"--and of a style she'd never seen. They could pierce body armor but, once through the Kevlar, would expand inside the victim's flesh. A single shot, even to nonvital organs, would probably be fatal, thanks to massive hemorrhaging.
She collected more bullets, then, judging trajectory, looked for but did not find any shell casings. Rinaldo or the other truck driver would have taken those with them. She assembled the evidence and crouched to put the Baggies into a milk carton.
It was then that she heard a sound from the archway that led into the corridor circumnavigating the armory. And not a Friday the 13th soundtrack sound. A footfall. Somebody was there, moving closer, through the shadows.