The icing on the cake came a month ago, when Perrine and Candelerio started talking about a visit Perrine was going to make to New York.
A meet that was going down at noon today.
As McDonough stood up to take a cell call, I went over the arrest papers for a final time. I double-checked the mission statements and interior layouts and maps. Lastly, I went over the grisly crime-scene photos of the Border Patrol agents and their families whom Perrine had murdered.
The most gruesome shot, the one I couldn’t forget, showed a Dodge Caravan sitting in the one-car garage of a suburban house. Where its windshield had been, there was just a bloody, jagged hole. The front end was riddled to Swiss cheese with hundreds upon hundreds of bullet holes.
I studied the picture and took in the violence it displayed and wondered if being put in charge of this arrest was a blessing or a curse.
I glanced up at the yellow face of the wall clock above the window, which framed a slowly lightening sky.
I guess I’d soon see.
BY 8:00 A.M., the upstairs muster room was crowded with our FBI, DEA, and NYPD joint task force.
Joint task forces usually comprise about a dozen agents and cops, but for this international event, a total of thirty handpicked veteran investigators were present and accounted for. They stood around, joking and backslapping, buzzing with caffeine, anticipation, and adrenaline.
As the final prearrest meeting got started, I spotted about a dozen or so big bosses from each of the represented agencies. Bringing them in at the last second was a courtesy, an opportunity for them to say they were part of things when the TV cameras started rolling.
Of course, that’s what they’d say if it all turned out okay, I thought as Hughie and I went up to the front of the room. If it all went to hell and heads needed to roll, the honchos were never there.