“You’re right. It’s him.”
I slid my phone into a pocket and watched Mondari talk with Warner. I saw him smile and stroke the tuft of upright hair on his head. Probably just promised to cook for her at his place next time. She had long legs he wouldn’t have missed. He crossed the road and started toward a casino lot. I cut him off.
“Time to talk, Denny.”
He started to step around me.
“Here or in the field office. Your call.”
“You’ll have to arrest me.”
“Okay.”
Mondari looked back toward the Bellagio. Must be thinking Warner burned him.
“Here or in an interview room, what do you want to do?” I asked. “Why did you lie to Jane?”
Not sure why, but I was centered on that question still. He’d still balk at answering but I could read his face, and I’d be back with the question again. Then he surprised me; that was the thing about Mondari, he had that trait.
“I was scared,” he said.
“Of what?”
“If I tell you and it goes anywhere, I’m fucked.”
“You’ll be an unnamed confidential informant.”
“I need a guarantee.”
“Start talking first.”
“No really, Grale, I’m serious. If it goes anywhere, I’m dead.”
“It won’t leak out of our office.” I saw he didn’t believe me, so I added, “I don’t have to name my source.”
What followed was a silence. There were all kinds of people on the sidewalks and neon lights glaring and traffic up and down the strip, but between us a silence I could almost touch, me waiting, Mondari weighing risk.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay, what?”
“There’s a mid-level Sinaloa cartel manager who stays in the same room every time he comes through Vegas. He’s a gambler, so the casino treats him well. They loan him a laptop when he’s here, and he logs into a dark site. Some guys I know figured out a way to see his e-mails while he’s reading or responding. They take screenshots. They’ve made some money with what they learned.”
“Some guys you know steal the e-mails of a mid-level Sinaloa cartel manager?”
“Yes.”
“And this cartel manager always stays in the same room?”
“Once a month.”
“What’s his name?”
“The name he uses is Miguel Catalangelo.”
I couldn’t match anybody with that name and asked, “What happened?”
“The guys fucked up. They left a trail and the cartel followed it.”
“Your computer-thief geeks?”
“They’re not mine. I know them, but I don’t have anything to do with whatever they’re up to.”
“Right. Where are they now?”
“They’re missing.”
“When did they go missing?”
“Mid-June. That’s why I’ve been hiding.”
“How do you know they didn’t just take off?”
“They fucked up, they got found out, and now they’re missing. What’s that sound like to you?”
“What was in the e-mails they read?”
“A confirmation of a delivery and a wire transfer of money.”
“A drug sale?”
“No, it’s what I was starting to tell Jane.”
“You told Jane or were starting to tell her?”
“I told her part of it. I told her the guys read an e-mail that mentioned a bomb maker.”
“Do you still have the screenshot with that e-mail?”
“I never had it.”
I didn’t believe that, but we could come back to that later.
“The e-mail said the cartel delivered a fabricante de bombas.”
“Delivered?”
“Catalangelo’s e-mail was a confirmation of delivery. That’s what it was about.”
“The cartel delivered a bomb maker? And you’re certain this Catalangelo works for the Sinaloa cartel?”
“Yes.”
“How long had your guys been reading his e-mails?”
“Three months.”
“Give me their names.”
“Uri Pylori. John Edelman. Catalangelo’s e-mail said they were paid in full for the delivery of the fabricante de bombas, so now they would move the product.”
“The product?”
“Yes.”
Maybe it was true that a bomb maker was delivered like a shipment. Smuggled over the border in the drug pipeline. I turned the phrase fabricante de bombas in my head. There were no other meanings. Bomb maker. It translated as bomb maker. This Catalangelo oversaw delivery of a bomb maker, and the cartel got a big fee. Then delivered what product? C-4?
“We’re going to the field office.”
“I knew you’d fuck me.”
“Not doing that, but we’ve got to take it there.”
At the office Mondari repeated the same things he’d said under the lamp in the lot. He didn’t know where his guys or Miguel Catalangelo were. He didn’t know where the fabricante de bombas was delivered. He couldn’t help us find anybody, but he showed us his phone texts and e-mails from the guys when it was going great.