“You’ve already got enough to disbar me and make me useless to El Toronado.”
The man reached out and took the shell. Costa noticed his latex glove.
“This will end up at a crime scene,” the man told him. “You just need to know that when forensics takes your fingerprints off this shell, El Toronado will not be happy with your continued existence.”
The man set down a stack of photographs. As he saw through smears of crimson puddles, Costa’s eyes widened at the horrors that could be inflicted on a human body.
“That man was still alive when those photographs were taken. I am told he lived two days afterward,” the stranger stated. “As you can tell, his quality of life was…negligible.”
Costa looked at the photographs. Toronado’s agent turned and left after depositing a small, nondescript black-leather notebook on the table in front of Costa. It contained the numbers he had to call. The ones he’d spent the past few minutes dialing.
His gut burned with brandy, and he wished that he was somewhere else.
A THOUSAND MILES TO the north, Aaron Kurtzman was leading the effort to pick up any phone calls from the Titusville area. There were hundreds of calls going out, but only one call came from a pay phone all the way to a lawyer’s office in Orlando. While the pay phone was geographically easy to track down, its user wasn’t. The call was only fifteen seconds, hardly a business call. The brevity of the communication, plus the call to a lawyer who was on the DEA’s radar, raised a flag. It was one of twenty calls that could have been suspicious in the hour since Schwarz landed at Canaveral.
It was a warrantless search, and it would have been frowned upon in the press, a mass net thrown out looking for something suspicious. Kurtzman kept rolling on the searches, poring through dozens of phone numbers, correlating the checks between the digits and their owners. In the second hour after Schwarz’s arrival, five more suspicious phone calls were made out of the phone junctures at Titusville, and the Stony Man staff was hard at work tracking everything from point of origin to length of call. Even with Wethers, Tokaido and Delahunt working on it, the twenty-five phone calls that rang their alarms took another hour to go through, checking phone patterns of the callers of landlocked lines.
The only oddball in the stack was the pay phone call to André Costa, but even by then, Lyons, Blancanales and Grimaldi had their helicopter waiting at Space Coast National Airport in south Titusville, ready to move on anything that the cybernetics team had worked up. It was after sunset by the time Kurtzman had narrowed down the phone calls.
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