Exposed (32 page)

“They do more typical stuff, too,” Ben said. “My friend sold a big package to Interpol, for example. They’re going to use it to help beef up security at border checkpoints. Are you familiar with how it works?”

“Not really.”

“It’s based on algorithms.”

“You’ve lost me already. I hated math.”

“Well, I’ll boil it down. Essentially, this company has come up with some new algorithms that extract landmarks from images of faces captured in photographs and surveillance videos.”

“Landmarks. Like facial features?” she asked.

“Exactly. The program basically measures the distances between features, such as ears, pupils, nostrils, et cetera. Then it converts the information to a digital ‘map’ and stores it in a database. For example, Interpol has a database of mug shots. Investigators can then submit queries on images where they
don’t
have an ID and see if there’s a hit.”

“Sounds like a useful tool.”

“But it’s only as good as the algorithm,” he said. “They’ve been trying to implement this technology for years to help ID criminals at border crossings—or maybe people on the terrorist watch list, stuff like that—but they’ve had problems with both false IDs and no IDs popping up. My friend’s program is supposed to overcome those issues. I sent him the photograph, by the way.”

“You did?”

“He’s in Germany right now on the implementation team that’s supposed to get this thing up and running. Since you mentioned the Serbian mafia connection, I figured it was worth a shot.”

Maddie waited for him to tell her the outcome, although she figured she already knew.

“No match, unfortunately.”

Maddie sighed. “So even though we know that this man—whoever he is—is a known associate of Mladovic, and although we know Mladovic frequently associates with criminals from eastern Europe, Interpol has no record of this guy’s mug shot in their system.”

“Not just his mug shot,” Ben said. “The database includes mug shots, driver’s-license photos, immigration pictures. It’s got millions of records.”

“But none of our guy.”

“Not that we can find. Which indicates one of two problems. Either the authorities in Europe have no record of the guy—”

“In which case, we can probably assume he isn’t Serbian,” Maddie said.

“Or the problem is the photo itself. Because the photograph is of a reflection and because part of the face is obscured by a baseball cap—”

“Not to mention the crappy lighting.”

“That, too,” he agreed. “Anyway, for whatever reason, the image may not be providing enough detail for the program to work.”

“Not enough landmarks.”

“Exactly.”

She looked at the computer screen and turned the issue over in her head. She thought about all the photographs she took at weddings and bar mitzvahs and the digital albums she uploaded for her clients. She thought about Hannah posting her engagement pictures to her personal blog.

“What if we try a different approach?” She looked at Brian. “What about social media? You said Interpol has millions of photos in its database, but think about
Facebook. What do they have, like, a billion users?”

Ben leaned back in his chair and stroked his goatee. “Not a bad idea. We could upload the picture.”

“And see if any tags pop up,” she said, feeling a spark of excitement.

But it quickly faded.

“It’s not going to work,” she said. “It’s only going to suggest tags based on people who are already associated with someone’s profile. How do we know Mladovic even has an account? And how do we know he takes pictures of his friends? We’re talking about the mastermind of a criminal enterprise. I doubt he has time to screw around on the Internet.”

“You’d be surprised,” Ben said. “Maybe he spends hours a day looking at porn. Is this guy married?”

“Yeah.”

“Then even if he doesn’t have an account, I bet his wife does.”

“Maybe,” Maddie said, thinking about it. Would Mladovic want his wife using social media? Possibly, if her socializing was good PR for his business. “But even if she does have an account, how on earth would we gain access to it? I don’t even know her name.”

Ben smiled as he clicked onto a search engine and started typing away. “Maddie, Maddie, Maddie . . .” He shook his head. “How long have we been friends?”

“You think you can crack her password? A woman whose name you don’t even know?”

“Give me fifteen minutes,” he said. “I bet I can tell you what she ate for breakfast.”

Brian glanced at the skeptical faces around the conference table. He looked like shit. He knew that. And he wasn’t winning any popularity contests by calling an urgent meeting on Saturday afternoon, but he had a break in the case.

The challenge was going to be convincing everyone else of his theory.

“Okay, let’s get started,” Cabrera said, sinking into a chair at the head of the table. He gave Brian a hard look. “What have you got?”

Brian scooted up to the table and made eye contact with everyone: Sam, Elizabeth, Hicks. Another agent had Maddie duty, and two more from the team were busy covering Mladovic.

“I spent the last forty-five minutes on the phone with Immigration and Customs Enforcement,” Brian said. “Turns out, all four girls in this picture”—he held up the photograph of Katya, Jolene, Heidi, and Nicole—“made multiple trips across the border into Mexico the summer before their freshman year of college.”

Everyone’s attention zeroed in on the picture.

“So what?” Cabrera said. “These girls were friends, and kids go down there all the time.”

“Yeah, but I’m focused on
why
they go down there,” Brian said.

“Bar hopping, shopping, hitting the beach,” Elizabeth said.

“Let’s look at the shopping. Lot of kids—and adults, for that matter—go down there looking for drugs. Besides marijuana, I mean. I’m talking about steroids, painkillers, rave drugs, you name it. The pharmacies
sell pretty much everything, and you don’t need a legitimate prescription.”

At the word
prescription
, everyone perked up. The entire investigation had started with the DEA looking into Mladovic’s script-writing practices.

“You’re saying these girls were smuggling prescription drugs?” Sam asked.

“It fits,” Brian said. “Customs is looking for the big guys—people coming over with their tires and fuel tanks packed with coke. Couple of teenagers in bikinis coming back from a day trip? They don’t get as much notice.”

“But how does this connect to Mladovic?” Elizabeth asked.

“Timing.” Brian slid the photo across the table toward her. “Their first trip on record was five years ago, not long after the state board first notified Mladovic that he was under investigation. He was looking for a way to feed his patients’ habits without drawing more attention to himself.”

“But how would he make any money at that?” she asked. “They’re not just giving stuff away down there.”

“Maybe he wasn’t at first,” Brian said. “Maybe initially, it was just a matter of filling a gap in his supply chain.”

Sam leaned back in his chair. “And then he realized the potential and decided to start making his own product.”

Cabrera tapped his pencil on his legal pad, still looking unconvinced. “You don’t just decide to start manufacturing this stuff.”

“Right, but we know he did, at some point. We have the trace evidence from the converted tannery. Who owns that land, by the way?” Brian looked at Sam.

“Some rancher, about a hundred and fifty years old. He’s got around five thousand acres and a couple of gas wells. I bet he had no clue someone was out there using his warehouse until it burned to the ground.”

“Back up,” Elizabeth said. “You’re saying he gets the idea to start importing phony pharmaceuticals—”

“The drugs are real,” Brian corrected. “It’s the labels that are phony. Often, they’re made to look like name brands.”

“Okay, knockoffs, then. Whatever. So you’re saying he starts bringing these in and then decides to start manufacturing them himself to supply his list of patients?”

“Sounds like a lucrative enterprise,” Sam said. “But where does he get the ingredients? Opium derivatives are controlled substances.”

“We need to find out,” Brian said. “My guess is he’s got an in with some of the pharmaceutical companies he used to purchase from. Maybe someone’s funneling him some of the hard-to-obtain materials so he can make his product.”

“Problem is, he’s poaching on the turf of all the major cartels,” Cabrera said. “Which might explain Katya.”

Brian looked at his boss and felt a weight lift off his shoulders. Cabrera got it. Brian could see it on his face.

“That’s my theory,” Brian said. “Saledo got wind of what he was doing and had Mladovic’s daughter executed. Only he set it up like a drug overdose to send a message.”

Silence settled over the table.

“Back to the girls,” Elizabeth said. “How many of these trips did they make?”

Brian flipped open his notepad and checked the notes he’d made while on the phone. “Six trips over a ten-month period, which would have been their freshman year of college. After that, they stopped going—at least, according to what we know. But I think they still played a role in this. I think that’s why Mladovic’s been systematically tracking them down and having them killed.”

“What role? Why?” Elizabeth looked frustrated.

“Think about it,” Brian said. “These girls were spread out across four major college campuses. They were tapped into a whole new market.”

“You mean—”

“They were his dealers. And now that Katya’s dead, he’s decided to cut them out.”

The champagne was flowing, the dance floor was hopping, and Todd Jennings’s wedding guests were doing their best to help him celebrate his third trip to the altar.

Maddie, meanwhile, was doing her best to ignore the FBI agent who had been watching her all night as she made her way around the ballroom of Sierra Vista Country Club.

She turned to see the wedding planner charging toward her, clipboard in hand. He halted in mid-stride to mutter something into a headset. Then his gaze snapped to Maddie.

“T minus ten. You ready?”

“All set,” she said.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

The man was the best in the business, but he was über-intense and treated each reception like a shuttle launch.

“Okay, don’t forget the flower girl. She is simply
adorable
, and we want a shot of her throwing rose petals
at the limousine. And the maid of honor. She’s a new client, so be sure to get her, too.”

“They’re on my list.” Maddie lifted her clipboard to reassure him. Pain zinged up her arm, and she did her best not to wince. “Really, I’ve got it under control.”

His mouth dropped open. “No!”

It took her a moment to realize he was talking to someone on the phone. He turned on his heel and dashed away to take care of some mini catastrophe.

Maddie’s gaze landed on a waiter passing out flutes of champagne. Drinking on the job was taboo—right up there with going through the buffet line to load up on crab cakes—but she felt tempted tonight. In addition to the typical wedding-reception stress, she was juggling the added anxiety of an injured arm and an FBI babysitter.

Not to mention her ex-husband, who had been eyeing her all night from the side of his very pregnant wife.

“How’s the gunshot wound?”

Maddie took a deep breath and turned around. “Hello, Mitch.”

“I hear you’re having a rough week.”

Mitch looked dapper as always in his designer suit. His expression held a mix of concern and curiosity as he tipped back his scotch and soda.

Maddie looped her camera around her neck. “How’d you hear about my injury?”

“Bumped into your ER doc over at the Ale House.”

The Ale House was a hangout near the hospital where doctors, paramedics, and other medical personnel liked to blow off steam. Evidently, the grapevine was humming once again.

“They get you stitched up okay?”

“Sure did.” She pasted a smile on her face as Mitch glanced at her arm. She was wearing an outfit that concealed the bandage—a black silk shirt and matching pencil skirt, her go-to ensemble for weddings.