“There it is!”
Perching my reading glasses on the bridge of my nose, I ran my index finger down the list of twenty-nine plate numbers. I pounded my fist on the desk. That plate number was on the sheet and had been reported stolen off a Volkswagen Beetle last Sunday. Now it was attached to a silver Camry that was parked in the garage of a Manuel Cortez in Matamoros, Mexico.
“Son of a bitch! I found it.”
Frank snapped his head in my direction, as did everyone else in the bull pen.
“The vehicle John has been using is in the garage of a home in Matamoros, Mexico, where law enforcement just found two dead border patrol agents. The plates attached to the car are on this list.” I waved the sheet of paper over my head. “That means it was John and Curt who killed Nubby and Lon. They transferred those original stolen plates to the Odyssey, possibly the Pacifica, and then to the Camry.”
Frank bounced his pen up and down on his desk. “Okay, so that definitely tells us John and Curt killed their drivers and two border patrol agents, but if they’re on their way here, what are they driving now?”
Henry began tapping away at his computer. “You said the house is in Matamoros?”
I nodded.
“Who owns it?”
“Allegedly, a man named Manuel Cortez is the leaseholder. That has to be John’s alias.” I pointed at Henry. “Pull up US passports that are issued to every Manuel Cortez and see what pops.”
Henry got to work and then groaned. “There’s hundreds of them.”
“Okay, can you narrow it down by the most recent ones?”
“Maybe.” He got busy again then shook his head. “We’re missing something, Jesse. The most recent US passport issued to a Manuel Cortez was over six months ago, and the face on his ID page isn’t John Vance.”
“Damn it!” I rubbed my temples as I thought. “Okay, then we’ll follow some more bread crumbs. John and Curt killed the border agents yesterday evening. According to the wife, Ernesto Rodriguez was going to that home for a dinner party. Lieutenant Morrow said there was food and beverages left behind as if the killers scooted out of there in a hurry.”
Frank added. “And without a car, which means they needed a ride across the border back into the good ol’ US of A.”
“Right. Finding a driver that picked them up at that house will be impossible, and I sure as hell don’t speak Spanish.” I looked at each detective, and everyone shrugged. “I guess that means none of us do.” I glanced at Henry, whose hands were still on his keyboard. “Pull up every rental car agency in Brownsville, especially the ones closest to the border.”
“Sure thing.” Henry turned his laptop toward me. “Take your pick. Looks like most of them are at the airport, but there’s a few others scattered around the city.”
“Okay, divide them up between everyone. We’re calling all of them.”
Potter frowned. “Whose name are we going to ask about? Manuel Cortez?”
I had to slow down—my mind was going in every direction. “We’ll try that first, and if we don’t get a hit, we’ll narrow it down to a time. Let’s go with seven p.m. until midnight, male customers only, and one or possibly two men. After we compile that list, we’ll compare notes and tweak it some more. Let’s get busy.”
Every detective in the bull pen gathered at the back table, divided up the car rental agencies, and began working. I excused myself to let Lutz in on our findings. I caught him just as he was pulling his office door closed.
“Boss, I have news. Are you going somewhere?”
Lutz tipped his head toward our cafeteria. “Nope, just grabbing a coffee. Come on. I’ll buy you one, and you can tell me what’s happening.”
Before the coffee even filled my cup, I began explaining what I’d learned in the last half hour. “All we need to do is find out what he’s driving.”
Lutz scratched his balding head. “So, we’re still in the same boat we were an hour ago.”
I felt deflated. “Well, if you put it that way, I guess you’re right. What we do know is he doesn’t have a US passport under the name Manuel Cortez. He’d have to show a driver’s license to rent a car, so he must have a fake driver’s license under an assumed name since his own would be flagged.”
“Right, so chances are he has two identifications and passports—Mexico ones for Manuel Cortez and US ones with an American name on it. He could be acting as though he’s a Mexican National living in Matamoros when he’s in Mexico, and a US citizen when he’s in the states. It covers him in both countries.”
I sighed. “That makes sense, but the US name is the missing part we need. I have the guys checking every car rental agency in Brownsville. We’ll begin with the name Manuel Cortez and see if we get a hit. If not, we’ll go the long route.”
Lutz raised his left brow. “Which is?”
“They scan driver’s licenses at rental agencies, so we’ll narrow down the places that rented cars to any single male or two men between seven p.m. and midnight and then ask to see copies of the driver’s licenses. Who knows? We might get lucky.”
“And you have everyone working on it?”
“I do.”
“Okay, I’ll be down in a bit to see how it’s going. Nice follow-up, Jesse.”
Returning to the bull pen, I saw everyone hard at work. Phones were wedged between ears and shoulders while the detectives jotted down information. I imagined different scenarios of how Vance would be taken down and wondered if we would be a part of it at all. If Lutz was willing to hand the case over to the FBI, then we’d have no say in anything, unless—
I dialed Lutz’s office phone. “Boss, I have an idea, but I need to speak to you privately about it.”
“Okay, meet me in the conference room next to the bull pen. I was about to head in that direction, anyway.”