And what if it wasn’t Cruz who broke Miguel out of transport? Is it possible Miguel has built enough clout to have it done himself?
Hell, what a great diversion! Get arrested as a suspect for murder, get the feds all hard and horny because they think you’re their ticket to Cruz and orchestrate your own escape while making it look like it was actually your enemy who did it . . . that way authorities are looking for Cruz and connections to Cruz instead of directly tracing you!
I consider the odds of this scenario.
Where are you, Miguel, and are you still breathing?
I spend the better part of the night tracing leads and making phone calls, until I have the hotel room wall covered in evidence—department of motor vehicle records, gas receipts, credit card purchases, bills, addresses of property owned or connected to Miguel, the names and addresses of known associates, buddies who’ve put up his bail each time he’s been arrested, and the women he’s slept with (during the three months before his arrest) in the US, Mexico and Columbia, along with his wife’s, mother’s and sister’s whereabouts in Florida. I’ve printed off the most pertinent details that D’Angelo emailed with the criminal arrest file the state department sent him on Miguel and have included the legitimate and illegitimate businesses he’s been tied to.
What I find the most interesting, I note before throwing back a Red Bull and glancing down at my watch at four in the morning, is how much business our perp had in Texas. Especially southeast Texas, where it borders Louisiana. In less time than it takes to make a pot of coffee I learn a lot about Bridge City: it has a population of just over seven thousand, is less than a hundred mile drive to Houston, is surrounded by the Neches River and Cow Bayou and sits like an obscured jewel in one of the biggest shipyard hubs in America, with fast-track access to ports all over the world.
And if my theory is correct, Miguel may have created his own world there under the alias Alex Mason. He began by simply renting a storage space under that alias three years ago, but since that time Alex Mason’s business has become very affluent. It may have started with a storage unit, but it’s now become an established, well-to-do import and export trade business out of Port Arthur’s main shipyard.
Now to prove the theory.
As a betting man, I call Memphis International Airport.
“I need to book a seat on your earliest flight to Jack Brooks Regional Airport in Port Arthur, TX.”
My Jaguar F-Type rental is waiting for me when I touch down. I had the sleek black cat delivered down from Houston. Renting luxury cars is a perk in my line of business, at least for those of us who make a name for ourselves.
I set my carry-on bags in the back seat and stretch in the morning air. Since my flight left Memphis at seven a.m., it gave me the perfect amount of time to catch a few Z’s at the airport after getting through the gate and another few during the flight.
After grabbing a Mountain Dew—wishing it were coffee—and an Egg McMuffin, I take the scenic route around the city. Port Arthur is a busy hub. The waters of Sabine Lake are crowded with deep water shipping vessels either entering or being readied for their exodus to the Gulf. Traffic is congested, so I’m moving at a crawl and have plenty of time to take in the city sights. Banners all over town announce “Midsummer Mardi Gras,” a city wide festival that’s coming up. It also seems that, as a matter of geographical pride, people in Port Arthur are obsessed with everything gator.
Back in ’08 Chief and I did a job in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. There were statues of cows all around the downtown shops and businesses. The heifers were constructed by area artisans—one was covered with thousands of gleaming copper pennies, another was painted with a rural Pennsylvania farm scene, etc.
Here in Port Arthur, the locals have done the same with alligators. They’re everywhere. There’s a gator in Billabong swimwear on a surfboard, another chomping down on a box of Devereaux’s Famous Donuts, a local eatery—then, what could be my favorite, a group of gators playing poker. They remind me of my adopted brothers.
Nice fixation, but honestly the things scare the living shit out of me. Snakes are nasty enough. Gators or Komodo dragons—razor-sharp toothed reptiles that can poison or shred a man and resemble a T-Rex or raptor? No frigging thanks. The locals can keep ’em.