by Jack Hardin
“Hi, Ellie.” He came around the couch and embraced her. She smelled a foul odor of unwashed sweat. When Nick released her, he took a step backward. “Sorry, haven’t showered in a while.”
“Me and Tiffany,” Ellie said, “we identified your body. How...how are you...here? How are you alive?” She had a sudden vision of Harold Wilson, the old Miami-Dade medical examiner, being a secret master at Photoshop. The person they identified was clearly Nick. There had been no doubt about it.
Nick’s face suddenly grew darker, the easy mirth from reuniting with friends dissolving before a heavy wave of sadness. “The body you and Tiff identified...” He trailed off before trying again. “That was my brother.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Nate.” His jaw tensed as he forced willing tears to remain behind his eyes.
Tyler extended a hand toward the couch. “You guys have a seat. Nick’s already told me some of this.”
Ellie turned to him. “You knew?” she asked. “All this time?”
“Of course I didn’t know. I came home to grab a gun, and he was running out my back door.”
Nick nodded toward a small desk on the far wall. “I was replying to your email. Tyler’s never here during the day.”
“You?” Ellie said. “It was you emailing me?”
“Yeah.”
“Wait,” Tyler said. “What email?”
Ellie quickly explained, and after he fussed at her for not telling him earlier, he paused. “Hold on a second,” he said to Nick. “How’d you get on my computer? It’s got a password.”
“Tyler,” Nick chided. “Your password is ‘password.’”
Ellie raised her brows to Tyler. “You’re joking, right?”
“It’s got a capital ‘P,’” he said defensively.
Ellie turned back to Nick. “Your brother—what...happened?”
Nick’s expression took on a dazed appearance, and he stared vacantly at the coffee table. “The night before we all had breakfast at The Perfect Cup, I was wrapping up some work on a job site—a new country club out in Lehigh Acres. The framing was nearly complete, and I was running some wiring. I ended up working late, so it was dark by the time I loaded my tools into my truck. Halfway home I remembered that I’d left a drill and went back to get it. I had to use my a flashlight to find it and was about to start back to the truck when I saw a file folder sitting on a stack of lumber. So I thumb through it, and at first glance, it just looks like a stack of invoices billed to some company called Breakwater.”
At the mention of Breakwater, Ellie listened intently, trying to piece together what Nick was saying with what she and Jet had discussed the night before, and all the while feeling like she was in some kind of spiteful dream, that she would wake up at any second to Citrus wanting her to let him outside.
“The first invoice seemed pretty high for the work they were billing for. So I flip to the next one. It was from a different subcontractor but the same thing. Unusually high amount. And they were all like that. I didn’t think too much about it. I’m new to Florida, so I just assumed that I wasn’t completely up on costs. None of it was billing for electrical, which is really I all know. But right as I was closing it, a slip of paper fell out. I picked it up and saw where someone had scribbled a note that all the attached invoices needed to add an additional seven percent.”
Tyler said, “So they were already over-billing, and someone wanted them to charge even more?”
“Yeah. Exactly. Then I heard a vehicle pull up through the rear entrance and a couple doors slamming shut. At this point, I was the only other one out there. I started making my way to the front, and just as I was about to step off the foundation, a flashlight beam caught me, and they called out. One of them hung back in the dark, but my light caught enough that I could see he was a cop. The other guy, he comes up to me, looks at the folder tucked under my arm and casually says, ‘Oh, my invoices. You found them.’
“I hand them over, and he asks what I’m doing here so late. I told him about my drill. Then he goes, ‘Did you, uh, look through my paperwork here?’
“I told him ‘no, not yet.’” Nick paused and scratched earnestly at the back of his head, the way a man does who hasn’t showered in a couple weeks. “I think if it had been a couple hours earlier, I could have pulled off a good poker face, but he just stared at me in this blank way that made my insides shiver. And then he thanks me, and I could hear the two of them whispering as I walked away.”
“Did you get a good look at the cop?” Ellie asked.
Nick shook his head.
“Are sure it wasn’t just a security guard?”
“I’m sure. He had a holstered weapon, a badge, and the nameplate on his chest shimmered in my light.” Nick released a deep sigh before continuing. “When I got back in my truck, the guy walked out to me, waving for me to wait. I rolled down my window, and I saw him looking hard at my license plate like he was memorizing it. Then he gets right up at my door, nearly puts his face inside, and says real calmly, ‘You sure you didn’t see anything?’”
Tyler started shaking his head. “I would’ve busted his nose right there.”
“I almost did,” Nick countered, “but I kept thinking about that cop. So this guy goes, ‘It wouldn’t be a problem if you did look through them. But I would need to know about it.’ So I told him to get the hell away from my truck and tore out of there.”
“Why didn’t you just go to the police after that?” Tyler asked.
“And tell them what? I had enough sense to know these guys were up to no good, but that was it. What really bothered me was knowing he got a look at my plate. Like he wanted to find out who I was.”
“But how did your brother factor in?” Ellie asked.
Nick gave a slight shake of his head, and his shoulders settled into a defeated slump. “Stupid bad luck,” he said. “I hadn’t seen Nate in...eleven years, I guess. I’d just finished teaching a breakout session at the convention center for this electrical association I’m a part of. I was heading toward the exhibit hall when I see my brother about to walk right past me. We recognized each other at the same time and just stopped and stared.” Nick scratched at his head again like a feral dog and then continued. “The condensed version is that he was thinking of starting a consulting business for construction companies, and he was at the convention to make industry contacts.”
“He lived in Miami?” Tyler asked.
“No. Somewhere up in Ohio. He was flying back that night, so we made plans for him to meet me up at my hotel room after the convention closed for the day, and we’d decide where to have dinner from there.”
“Did you tell Tiffany you saw him?” Ellie asked.
“No. The last time we saw Nate, he said some pretty terrible stuff about Tiff right to her face. I wanted to see how things went first and just tell her in person when I got home.” Nick paused long enough to ask for something to drink. Tyler went to the fridge and brought out a beer. He popped the top and handed it over. “Thanks.” Nick closed his eyes, took a long pull, and after draining half the bottle and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he continued.
“When Nate got to my room, we ended up just talking there for about an hour. I finally went downstairs to grab us something to eat. He’s always struggled with migraines and wanted to rest until he had to leave. But I got down to the hotel restaurant and realized I’d forgotten my wallet on the dresser. When the elevator opened on my floor, I stepped out and saw the guy from the night before—the one who asked me about the folder. He was past my room walking toward the stairwell.”
“Did he see you?” Ellie asked.
“No. And at first I thought it was just a coincidence until I got back in the room. My brother wasn’t in there. The balcony door was open, and I heard a commotion from outside.” Nick’s head lowered on his next words. “That’s when I saw him on the sidewalk, when I realized the man had come for me.”
Ellie reached o
ut and placed her hand on top of his. “I’m so sorry, Nick.” She stood up and went to the window, looked out over the marsh. “Your brother looked a lot like you,” she finally said. “It even fooled Tiff.”
“I hate that she had to do that,” he said. “But yeah, we should look alike. We’re twins.”
“Twins?” Ellie repeated, and turned to Tyler. “You didn’t tell me Nick’s brother was his twin.”
“Didn’t think about it. Would it have mattered?”
“I guess not.” He was quiet for a while, the stress of the last couple weeks and the trauma of losing his brother clearly evident in his face. “I still don’t even know what I’m looking for. That’s why I emailed you. I didn’t want to put you in harm’s way, so I just tried to set you on an indirect trail that might turn something up.” He looked up at her. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “It worked.”
Nick looked up. “What do you mean?”
Ellie explained how Avi had directed her to Barry Lourdes, what Barry had told her, and where it led her from there. She explained how Jet was looking into the disappearance of a girl who had been kidnapped in Miami and how his investigation had crossed with hers just last night. She left out the details surrounding Felipe’s apparent demise.
Tyler listened to her with growing anxiety appearance on his face. “I think you both just need to go to the police,” he said. “Nick can identify the guy who killed his brother.”
“But I can’t,” Nick said. “I didn’t actually see him do it. Plus, the other guy who was with him when I picked up my drill was a cop. I’m not going to risk them finding out I’m still alive and possibly put my family in danger.”
A piece to all this didn’t seem to fit. “But when Nate fell he was wearing your tie,” Ellie said.
“Wasn’t mine. It was orange though.”
“He didn’t have a wallet or phone on him?” Tyler asked.
“It was in his carry-on, which I think is all he had. As soon as I connected what happened, I just reacted. I grabbed his bag and left all my stuff in the room. I knew they had come for me, so I thought I would let them think that for as long as I could. I was pretty sure someone would find out it wasn’t me. But they haven’t yet, I guess.”
“No one has come looking for him?” Ellie asked. “Was he married?”
“No,” Nick said. “And he was out of a job. Like I said, he was over there considering a new career, and I don’t know that he had a lot of friends.” Nick paused long enough to take a long sip of his beer before continuing. “He’d checked out of his hotel and was heading to the airport after we were done eating. I’m guessing that other than not catching his flight, no one’s even missed him yet.”
Ellie cringed at Nick’s last sentence. To live in a world where no one missed you. It was a gloomy narrative to ponder. “You’ve been watching your house at night,” she said. “Tiffany said she saw someone.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I miss them.”
“We need to tell Tiff,” Tyler said. “She’s going to flip.”
“No,” Nick said firmly.
“What? Why?”
“I need answers first. Until I know who tried to kill me and why, everything stays the same. I don’t want to give Tiff a reason to act differently or decide to go to the cops anyway.”
“All right,” Tyler sighed. “Then you stay here with me. What’s the plan then if you’re not going to the police?
“I’ll handle that,” Ellie said. “Nick, what did the guy who took the invoices look like?”
“He was a normal height, but he had strong arms and a decent belly. One of his eyes wasn’t right either. It looked dead...white, just no color at all. And his nose, it’s huge. Like a damaged avocado or something.”
Ellie kept a poker face while sirens sounded off in her head. Nick had just described the same man she saw last night, the man who had apparently killed Felipe. The guy who came in on the boat had called him Cruz.
Nick let out another sigh and shook his empty bottle. “Could I get another beer?”
Tyler stood up again and looked back at Nick. “Hey, you didn’t come in here and take my hat did you?”
“No, I know better than that.” Then Nick, seemingly for the first time today, really looked at Tyler. “Dude,” he said, “what’s wrong with your hair?”
Tyler’s jaw tightened. He shook his head. “Get your own damn beer.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was not one of nature’s requirements that stern and ruthless men should possess towering physical statures. The history books record Stalin as coming in at less than five-and-a-half feet tall. Napoleon too. Leaders who valued false conceptions of victory and treasured their own visions of power over the lives of individuals beneath their care. For these men, people merely existed to serve their own narcissistic ends.
Miguel Zedillo, standing at five feet, three inches, was just such a man. And had poor Felipe still been alive, had he been afforded a chance to meet him in person, he may have caught himself thinking for a brief moment about Oompa Loompas. Zedillo was short and slender. A pinky, not a thumb. His hair was nearly white, his ruddy skin starting to crease along his forehead and around his mouth like old leather.
On paper, factoring in his legitimate businesses and investments, the man was worth nearly sixty millions dollars, most of it earned in the Mexican telecommunications industry over the last decade. But through business conducted in the shadows—some might even say in the sewers—his net worth was four times that amount.
Blake Duprey had met the man only twice before, and both times he walked away feeling as if, during some point during their conversation, Zedillo had come to a silent decision to get rid of him. That by the end of the day he would be in a dozen pieces at the bottom of a gator-infested swamp. But so far he had been wrong.
He stood silently next to Cruz as they rode the private elevator to the top floor of Miami’s Mandarin Hotel. The car finally slowed, and as the doors slid open, they were silently greeted by one of Zedillo’s private security guards. The sound of a well-played piano drifted from around the corner. Lifting an arm, the guard directed them where to go.
A baby grand took up the center of the marble floor, and their boss sat on the piano’s bench, running expert fingers across the keys. Cruz didn’t know Bach from Barney, but Blake had accompanied his accounting major in college with a minor in music. He recognized the song: Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21. They waited off to the side, Cruz beginning to shift on his feet, Blake entranced by the older man’s ability.
When Zedillo finished the piece, he gracefully removed his hands from the keys and placed them in his lap. Not bothering to look at his guests, he said, “My father was a concert pianist in Mexico. He was, unfortunately, also given over to gambling.” A red Solo cup was sitting on the piano. Zedillo picked it up and spat in his tobacco juice. “Perhaps not the worst thing in the world,” Zedillo continued. “But he struggled to pay his debts. His bookie had a reputation for being a patient man, but he finally grew weary enough to break both of my father’s index fingers. He snapped them like two dry twigs.” He frowned and shook his head. “A shame.” When he finally looked at his guests, the frown had been replaced by an artificial smile.
“Blake,” he said. “How are you?”
Zedillo’s bushy gray eyebrows were perched above cold, gray eyes that Blake was fairly certain had x-ray capabilities. When Miguel Zedillo looked you in the eye and smiled that mellow, disarming smile, you thought he was reading your thoughts, as though the purposes and intents of your heart had just been spread out before the all-seeing eye of Sauron.
Which was precisely how Blake thought of Miguel Zedillo: a Mexican Sauron. Only much smaller.
“I’m good, sir,” Blake replied. But he didn’t feel good. Sweat had popped up along the back of his neck, and he was starting to feel a little lightheaded.
Zedillo stood and took the Solo cup with him into the next room
while he worked the tobacco from the inside of his lip and discarded it into the cup. He stopped at a mini bar and used a set of tongs to toss a couple of ice cubes into a glass before pouring himself a generous serving of rum from a decanter. Without offering anything to his guests, he put his back to them and walked to the window, which looked over downtown Miami and Key Biscayne. “I’m sure you are both wondering why I asked you here,” he said without turning around.
Not knowing what else to say or how to say it, Cruz simply replied, “Yes, sir.”
“Yes. Of course, you are. Well, I’m shutting down Breakwater,” he said blandly.
Cruz glanced quickly at Blake, who had just turned a sickly shade of white, as though he had just been handed his execution date. And to his own embarrassment and horror, Blake discovered that his next words did not come out smoothly like he thought they would. Somewhere between his brain and his mouth something shorted out. “Shu-shutting it down, sir?”
They were expendable. They both knew that. Zedillo had made far more on them than he had ever spent on the lawyer who ensured their drastically reduced sentences. And Zedillo had a reputation for those in his employment to go missing suddenly, never to turn up again. Men like Felipe.
“You’ll wonder why, of course.” And without waiting for a reply, he said, “If I don’t change things often, the wrong people will catch wind. And I can’t have that.”
Blake was surprised to discover that he had located a spoonful of courage. He swallowed hard. “Mr. Zedillo, sir. I just got things to where they’re running smoothly. I finally have subcontractors who are doing everything that I ask. And no one suspects in the least what we’re doing.”