Luis Cardoza swirled the dark brown liquid around the bottom of his tumbler before sipping the aged Irish whiskey he’d been given while waiting for Billy Turner. Smacking his lips, he set the glass down on the table in front of him and leaned back against the soft leather sofa he was seated on, twisting his head at the neck to survey the room around him.
While it was not sparse, it had a definite utilitarian feel to it. The furniture was well made and very comfortable, but not concerned with aesthetics. The rug on the floor employed a single solid color and the paintings on the wall were from unnamed artists featuring various Irish landscapes.
The room, from its muted tones to its purpose-driven pieces, confirmed everything he knew about his colleague.
On cue, a side door opened and Turner entered. Despite the late hour he still wore a sport coat and slacks, extending his hand to Cardoza as he approached. Cardoza stood and returned the gesture before both men settled into seats across from one another.
“Welcome to my home, Luis. I apologize for keeping you waiting,” Turner opened.
“Not at all,” Cardoza replied, waving a hand in front of him. “I apologize for coming unannounced, even more so for coming so late.”
“Quite alright,” Turned replied. “I told you all when we began working together that my door was always open no matter the hour.”
Luis nodded and said, “Please know I meant no disrespect to your family in coming by. Something hasn’t been sitting well with me and I wished to speak with you about it.”
“As in, not in front of the others?” Turner asked, his mouth drawing tighter.
“When put that way, it makes it sound like I am here to accuse you of something, which I am not. I am here to try and make sense of things and you seemed the most logical to speak with.”
The apprehension remained on Turner’s face a long moment before receding with a nod. His jaw unclenched itself a bit, his fingers relaxing back from flexed talons. “I appreciate you coming to speak with me. Given the circumstances, it would be easy to start second guessing each other.”
Cardoza took another nip of the whiskey, the warm liquid sliding down his gullet. “What happened last night?”
There was much more he could have added, many more aspects of the previous evening he would like clarified, but left things intentionally vague. Each man in their operation was already well acquainted with what occurred, there was no need to belabor it.
“My men and I have spent the day doing everything we can to answer that question,” Turner said. “Thus far, we know that yesterday your container arrived on time and was unloaded. It sat on the end of the pier through the evening and at around 11:30 at least three men made their way onto the dock. They accessed our loading crane and used it to lift the container from where it rested and drop it into the water.
“The two men on shift were at the far end of the dock on their normal patrol, making us believe that whoever these people were knew our rotation schedule. Our men moved in on them as soon as the crane kicked on, responding in less than two minutes. One went for the operator of the crane and the other went into the water after the container. We know he was able to wrench the door open and several people got back to shore, but how many or where they are now we can’t be certain.”
Cardoza nodded and swirled the whiskey for several moments, processing the information. “Were your men able to get a good look at anyone?”
Turner opened the left flap of his jacket, extracting a photograph from it and sliding it across the table to Cardoza. “We were able to pull this image from our surveillance cameras just before they were shot out.”
Cardoza picked up the photograph and studied it. The picture was a color print, though almost entirely in muted shades. The lone man in it was dressed in black, a fedora pulled down over most of his features, blocking a good portion and blanketing even more in shadow.
At best, a quarter of his face remained visible.
“Have you been able to identify him yet?”
Turner shook his head. “No, not yet. We’re circulating copies and asking everybody that’s anybody if they recognize him, but as you can see, we don’t have a lot to go on.”
Cardoza studied the picture and said, “May I keep this?”
“I have a stack of copies for you should you wish to distribute them through your own channels.”
“Thank you, I will do that.” Cardoza studied the picture a moment longer and said, “This man of yours that was able to open the container, who is he?”
“His name is Robert Myers, a recent hire of ours.”
“He has done me a great service. I would like to meet him.”
“I can arrange that for you,” Turner said.
Cardoza nodded. “I have a matter of business I would like to discuss with the both of you. How does two days from now sound?”
“Right here, say nine o’clock?” Turner asked.
Again Cardoza waved a hand in front of himself. “Thank you for the invitation, but I wouldn’t dream of intruding on your home again. Allow me to treat you both to dinner. How does eight o’clock at my restaurant, La Rosa Negra, sound?”
“We’ll be there.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Liberation Day - A Thorn Byrd Novel Page 24