Sailors and Sirens

by Charles Dougherty

  To give that some context, Mary wasn't easily embarrassed. In our short time together, I saw her do things that made even my battle-hardened stomach churn. I took her at her word when she said she could handle what she was into now. But I was still bothered by her showing up at the Pink Parrot while I was watching for Kyle Brandon, my current target. Like most people in my line of work, I'm suspicious of coincidence.

  Miami's a big place. There are plenty of trendy clubs that appeal to people like Brandon. The Pink Parrot was one of them, from what Aaron told me.

  The Parrot didn't look like the kind of place that would cater to pimps and hookers. Rayburn's bodyguards looked like they should have been wearing expensive suits and protecting a senior government official. And the doorman recognized them. Rayburn was no ordinary pimp, that's for damn sure.

  I resigned myself to wait until I heard from Aaron about Rayburn. No amount of speculation on my part would produce answers I could depend upon. Plus, it would be nice to know if Rayburn met Brandon at the Parrot. I couldn't articulate a reason why I suspected that. Put it down to intuition and move on, Finn. You'll know soon.

  Whatever happened inside the Parrot, Rayburn took Mary home with him. Mrs. Wells, the woman on the TV news, didn't mention any other women last night. And she made it sound like Rayburn and his security didn't give Mary a choice about joining them.

  I thought about sending Mary an answer, but I was tired, and in four hours, I would have to leave to set up my surveillance at Brandon's campaign headquarters. I would have plenty of time to think about what to tell her while I watched for him to leave.

  I pulled the drapes closed and took off my shoes and trousers. Stretching out on the bed, I willed myself to sleep.

  6

  Slouched behind the wheel of my rental car, I kept an eye on the storefront office that was Kyle Brandon's campaign headquarters. It was a little after four p.m. My guess was they would close up shop around five. I was parked on the opposite side of the street, and in a place that allowed a view of most of the office through the plate-glass window. It looked like a typical campaign operation.

  There were six people working, most of their time spent on telephone calls. Occasionally, one of them would get up and walk back into a corner that was out of my field of vision. After a few minutes, the person would return to the desk area and pick up the phone. I was betting Brandon's private office was back in that corner.

  Sure enough, at about five p.m., Brandon emerged from the corner and stopped in the middle of the open area. He propped one hip on the conference table that occupied the center of the space and chatted with the troops for a few minutes. When he went back to his office, the workers began packing up to go home. Soon, there was only one person, a young woman, left. She went back to the corner and came back with Brandon. He walked her to the door, saw her out, and locked the door behind her.

  As he walked back to his office, he paused by one of the now-empty desks and picked up a telephone. Since he held it to his ear and began talking without touching the base of the phone, I knew he answered an incoming call. He nodded a few times, his lips moving, and then returned the receiver to its cradle. He half-leaned, half-sat on the desk, looking out the window. One foot on the floor, the other swinging back and forth, he grinned and shook his head.

  I was beginning to wonder about him when I glimpsed movement in the rearview mirror. Shifting my eyes, I saw a woman approaching from behind. She was on my side of the street, but when she reached the corner, she crossed and walked along the sidewalk toward the entrance to Brandon's campaign headquarters.

  Attractive in a no-nonsense way, she had dark hair, arranged in a bun on the back of her head. In the fading light, I couldn't get a good look at her face. Carrying a briefcase, she wore a dark blue business suit with a white blouse and sensible, low-heeled black shoes. A lawyer or accountant? Some kind of consultant?

  When she passed into Brandon's view, he stood and walked to the door, opening it as she approached. She went inside, and they shook hands. An after-hours business meeting.

  Brandon locked the door behind her and turned to the big, storefront window. He fiddled with something for a second and lowered the Venetian blinds. The blinds were open, and I saw the woman put her briefcase on the nearest desk and open it. She took something out and turned to face him. As he began closing the blinds, I saw that she was holding up a filmy, short négligée. Then the blinds blocked my view.

  In a few seconds, the lights in the front office went off. There was dim light still showing around the edges of the blinds. The lights in Brandon's personal office must still be on. So much for the after-hours business meeting.

  I wondered who the woman was. Not Brandon's wife, for sure. His wife was a stunning, six-foot-tall blonde in her early twenties. The woman with the briefcase wasn't even in the same league. Stolen watermelons always taste better, though, as an old buddy of mine used to say.

  Settling in to wait, I revised the tentative plan I came up with after I saw the staff leave. Until his visitor showed up, I thought maybe Brandon worked late. Slipping into the office while he was there alone would have been a perfect setup — no collateral damage, plenty of privacy to do what I needed to do.

  Given the lack of traffic in the area, I could steal a few computers to make his death look like a burglary gone wrong. When Aaron and I first discussed the hit, I was thinking I would make it look like a drug-related killing. An interrupted burglary would raise fewer questions, though.

  The people in the front office all worked on laptop computers, and I saw several of them put the machines in their desk drawers before they left. I could just stack the laptops in a cardboard box ready to carry and leave them there after I dispatched Brandon. The cops would figure the burglar panicked after killing Brandon and left without his loot.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the flash of headlights in my car's side mirror. It wasn't yet dark, but the light was fading. I watched the car pull out and come my way. Just as it drew even with me, another car turned onto the street from a side street. It was headed in the opposite direction, and its headlights illuminated the driver of the first car as it passed me.

  It was the brunette in the business suit, but her hair was mussed now. Her attention on the oncoming car, she didn't notice me watching her as she drove past. How did she slip by me? She didn't come out the front door. A back door? Did she take the alley up to the cross street? But why?

  Once the two cars were gone, I got out of my rental and locked it. Walking up to the corner, I planned to check on that back door. I might even go inside, depending on what I found. My target was still there, unless he slipped out the back as well. If he stayed in the office, he would be alone. I could cross one more off the list, with any luck.

  The alley behind Brandon's campaign headquarters was much darker than the street. There were only a couple of security lights, and the narrow alley was in the shadow of the buildings. There were a few waste bins pushed up against the walls, leaving just enough room for one vehicle to pass. Turning into the alley, I walked in the shadow of the wall that would be the back wall of the office. Brandon's place was the third one from my corner. Counting the doors as I passed, I found his with no trouble.

  There was a button beside the door with a card that indicated I should ring for admittance. There were no visible security cameras; I checked before I entered the alley. Just in case, I wore a baseball cap pulled down over my face. There were dreadlocks attached to the cap. As long as I didn't look straight up into a camera, I was well disguised.

  Studying the door for a moment, I saw that there was a keyed deadbolt above a normal, locking doorknob. The position of the hinges told me the door swung into the building. I slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves and put a hand on the doorknob, turning it slowly. When I felt the latch disengage, I pushed gently, testing to see if the deadbolt was in use. The door moved, swinging in slightly. I put more pressure on it, hoping the hinges wouldn't squeak. I was in luc
k.

  I stepped into a dark space and closed the door behind me. Feeling my way as my eyes adjusted to the pitch black, I saw dim light outlining another door which must open into the office space. I crept toward the light, my arms extended, shuffling my feet to avoid tripping over anything. When I reached the door, I took a deep breath and turned the knob, pulling the door toward me.

  Stepping out of the storage area, I found myself in the main office. The only light now came from outside, leaking around the edges of the blinds over the big plate-glass window. The place was deserted. I turned toward the corner where I thought Brandon's private office was. The outline of a closed door was just visible in the dim light. Did Brandon leave with the woman? She was only here a minute or two — were they that quick? Or did they decide to get a room somewhere?

  I opened the door into Brandon's office and took my smartphone from my pocket. Closing the door behind me, I switched on the phone's light and flashed it around the office. When I saw Brandon sitting in a swivel chair behind his desk, I flinched. His arms were secured to the arms of the chair with cable ties, and the front of his shirt was soaked with blood from the gash that opened his throat. His tongue protruded from the cut — a Colombian necktie, a strong sign that the killing was drug-related.

  I turned off the light on my phone and retraced my steps to the alley. Staying in shadow, I removed my gloves and shoved them into my pocket as I made my way up to the cross street. There was no traffic, so I took off my baseball cap with its attached dreadlocks and stuffed it in my shirt front. I walked at a normal pace to my rental car, unlocked it, got in, and drove away.

  7

  Driving back to my hotel, I was caught in the tail end of rush hour traffic. That gave me plenty of time to mull over what happened to Brandon. The woman killed him; there wasn't any doubt about that.

  There wasn't enough time between her departure and my arrival for anyone else to have done it. Based on the short time she was in the campaign headquarters, she worked fast, too. My estimate was that she spent five minutes with him, no more. She was efficient.

  In that short time, she managed to persuade him to let her cable-tie him to the chair. Given the négligée she took from her briefcase, I could guess how she talked him into that. Female assassins aren't unheard of in the drug world, but they're still rare. It's a macho business. Rare though they might be, one just killed Kyle Brandon. Her technique pointed to the involvement of a cartel.

  It crossed my mind that she took my target, not that it bothered me. She wouldn't be happy to know I saw her, though. I wasn't about to tell the cops, but I was obligated to let Phorcys know that someone else beat me to Brandon. Did one of his competitors in the drug trade put out a contract on him? That's what it looked like, but then I considered setting up his death so that drug traffickers would be blamed, myself. Maybe the woman did the same.

  Speaking of the woman, the coincidence factor wasn't lost on me. Last night, I saw Mary disguised as a hooker, and four people died — one who might or might not have been a pimp. Was the woman I saw tonight Mary? I honestly couldn't say.

  I wouldn't have recognized her last night except for the flash of thigh that gave me a glimpse of her cobra tattoo. The nondescript businesswoman who called on Brandon could have been Mary in disguise.

  I didn't know much about how she handled her work. I only saw her kill twice, and neither time required a disguise. She killed two other times while we were working together, but I wasn't present for either of those.

  Last night's hooker disguise was flawless except for that slit skirt. Tonight, there was nothing about the woman who killed Brandon that made me think of Mary. On reflection, the woman I mistook for a lawyer was about Mary's height, but she looked heavier, and the hair was wrong. A wig and some padding? Could be, I guess. Women were good at altering their appearance; there were whole industries devoted to helping them. Odds are it was Mary.

  That was two kills for her — that I knew of — since she missed her check-in with Phorcys a few days ago. Based on the message she left for me earlier today, these hits were personal.

  She didn't say how long it might be before she came back to me, but from the tone of her message, she didn't think it would be long. Or maybe that was wishful thinking on my part.

  I still didn't know if her two victims were connected, but given that she killed them both in quick succession, I suspected they were. Her choice of the Colombian necktie for Brandon intrigued me, too. Why did she pick that?

  She didn't have the benefit of the briefing on him that I got from Phorcys. She must have pegged him for a drug dealer somehow, or she wouldn't have killed him that way.

  I was turning into the parking lot at my hotel. It was time to think about what to do next. Aaron owed me the information on Rayburn; he would probably have something by now. He wouldn't bother me until I called him; he knew I planned to spend this evening watching Brandon.

  Still, I should call him tonight. Brandon's body would be found in the morning when his campaign staffers showed up for work. His death would be all over the morning news.

  Speaking of coincidence, I didn't want Aaron or the other people at Phorcys to start wondering about me. Last night, I asked for a license plate check that turned up Rayburn. This morning, he was dead. Tonight, I was watching Brandon, and in the morning, his body would be discovered.

  I needed to get ahead of the game, for a change. I still didn't want to tell them about Mary, no matter how strong my suspicions were. But I would definitely leave her a message in our blind email drop. If I were going to cover for her, I needed a little more background.

  Back in my room, I got a cold beer from the minibar and sat down in the easy chair in the corner, my feet on an ottoman. I took a sip of my beer and called Aaron.

  "What's up, Finn?"

  "I have news on Brandon, but first, tell me what you've learned about Rayburn. Was there a connection between him and Brandon?"

  "Sometimes I wonder if you're psychic," Aaron said. "Yeah, there was a connection. I'll start at the beginning, though, okay?"

  "Sure. Whatever you think. I'm listening."

  "Okay. Rayburn wasn't a pimp. He was a political consultant."

  "There's a difference?" I asked.

  "It may be a fine line, in this case," Aaron said, with a chuckle. "But we'll get to that in a minute. Let's talk about the murders at his condo first. You said you saw the news reports?"

  "Some of them, yes," I said.

  "Did you catch any of the interviews with his neighbor lady?"

  "Mrs. Wells?" I asked.

  "That's the one. My source got access to the Miami Police Department's murder book, okay? So what I'm giving you is what really happened, as best the cops can piece it together."

  "All right. Give it to me. Why are you hedging?"

  Aaron normally cut to the chase, without going into detail on his sources.

  "Because the cops think the Wells woman is full of shit. They've got no sign anyone was in Rayburn's condo that night except the four victims. The place was cleaned by Rayburn's maid service the day of the killings. It was pristine as far as any trace evidence, except from Rayburn and his bodyguards. You with me?"

  "Yes. Go ahead," I said, thinking Way to go, Mary!

  "You were right about the bodyguards. They were pros, all right. Retired from the U.S. Marshals Service, all three. Now, here's how the cops think it went down. One of the three bodyguards lost it. He shot the other two and kneecapped Rayburn. That accounts for the screaming the neighbors heard."

  "Mrs. Wells mentioned that, but no gunshots," I said.

  "Yeah. Several other neighbors heard the screams — and no shots. The killer used the victims' bodies to suppress the sound of the shots. Contact shots in the belly and up through the chest, except for the last one. I'll get to that."

  "That's wild," I said. "I'm surprised the neighbors didn't hear something."

  "Yeah, well, don't forget all the screaming. Probably missed the
muffled shots in the confusion. The killer really jammed the muzzle into the victims to make a good seal. Nasty entry wounds."

  "What about the kneecapping?" I asked.

  "Two shots were muffled with a throw pillow. And at some point, he held the pillow over Rayburn's mouth."

  "You mean like to suffocate him?" I asked.

  "The cops don't think so. They figure it was to stop his screaming. The killer tied Rayburn to a kitchen chair with his hands cuffed behind him, probably after he killed the other two bodyguards. Then he used a heavy pair of those compound action, locking pliers to crush ten of Rayburn's knuckles."

  "An interrogation?"

  "Could be, but the cops think it was sadistic, maybe some kind of screwy revenge. After the killer got tired of messing with Rayburn, he shot him in the back of the head and then killed himself. Single shot under the chin. Muzzle buried in soft flesh again; same pattern. Took the top of his own head off. That argues against interrogation as the motive for the torture. No chance for him to use any info he might have gotten."

  "No, I guess not," I said, thinking. But it might make sense if Mary were the killer. Maybe she needed info on Brandon. "You said there was a connection between Rayburn and Brandon?"

  "Yeah. Rayburn was advising Brandon on his campaign."

  "Aha," I said.

  "'Aha' is right, but there's more," Aaron said. "Now I'm going to change sources — this didn't come from the cops. I'm guessing they're satisfied to close the Rayburn case without more investigation. I mean, why not?"

  "They've got a nice, self-contained murder/suicide," I said. "Why make extra work?"

  "Right. I told you we have a source at the Pink Parrot, remember?"