by Matt Hilton
We had to speak to a house manager, something like a low-rent concierge, who had an apartment on the lower floor of the apartment block where we were going to stay. He gave Rink a key card and directed us to our apartment, gesturing with the ham sandwich he held in his hand.
When we found our apartment, it turned out to be bigger than I’d expected. We both chose a bedroom, then convened in the lounge area. It was clean and roomy, and the air-conditioning was a blessing after the sweltering drive. Still, neither of us wanted to remain cooped up there for long.
“Want to hit the shower, then go out and get a bite to eat?” Rink offered.
“Sounds like a plan,” I admitted. “But I think the shower can wait. My stomach thinks my throat’s cut.”
“What do you want?” Rink asked. “Silver service or burger an’ fries?”
“Burger and fries all the way, big guy,” I said.
“I know just the place,” Rink said.
He took me to a diner with the unlikely sobriquet of Spicy Johnny’s—I couldn’t stop myself laughing, the name conjured up the kind of ad you see emblazoned across those coin-operated machines in men’s restrooms. I have to admit, though, Spicy Johnny flipped a mean burger, and his Caesar salad topped off with breaded onion rings was to die for. A side plate of Cajun-spiced potato wedges and a huge banana shake finished me off.
Back in our rooms, we fell asleep almost instantly. Even my worry about John was shoved to one side by the more urgent need for quality rest. I slept for the best part of two hours, waking when the sun was at its zenith and its most intense.
My body was dripping with perspiration and I could put off my shower no longer. Coming out of the stall feeling almost human again, I could hear Rink moving around in his own room. Vacating the bathroom, I went into the living room. I popped a bottle of mineral water I found in the fridge and sat back on a comfy chair in front of the TV. The news was on, so I watched.
When Rink was finished getting ready, he joined me. We’d already discussed local contacts, and Rink was going to set us up with an LAPD officer named Cheryl Barker to see what they knew. Before that could be done, there were still a few things left over from Little Rock that I wanted to lay to rest.
“I feel a bit of a heel leaving Harvey to pick up the pieces we left behind.”
“Harve’ll be fine,” Rink assured me. “If we hadn’t allowed him to do something for us, it’d have hurt his feelings. He’s a sensitive guy, you know.”
I laughed. To look at him, Harvey was unstoppable, as if you would blunt an ax trying to mark his shiny dome. But Rink was right; I’d seen Harvey’s vulnerability when he had to take a step back from the assault on Sigmund Petoskey. It wasn’t easy for him to sit on his haunches while the rest of us went into the thick of it.
Then there was the other side.
The cool way he’d shot the hit man in the mouth.
“He’ll get Louise Blake to a safe place,” Rink went on. “Don’t worry about that.”
“As long as nothing happens to them before he gets the opportunity,” I said.
“What’s goin’ to happen? You ask me, the homeboys who were puttin’ the heat on Louise are in L.A. now. I don’t think Harve’s got anythin’ to worry about.”
“You think the FBI is going to let Louise go? She’s a direct link to John; they’ll be watching in case he tries to make contact.”
“Harvey’s good. He’ll get her out safely. Whether the FBI likes it or not.”
I took Rink’s word for it. He knew Harvey and had told me prior to meeting him that he was a good soldier. Now I’d witnessed his skills firsthand, and I had no doubt that Rink knew what he was talking about.
“So what do you make of what Petoskey told us?” I asked.
Rink shrugged, made a clucking noise with his tongue. “All bullshit.”
“In particular what he said about CIA agents?”
“Bullshit. He knew full well who those other guys were. He was just spinning us a line because he thought we were federal agents.”
“You remember the name someone shouted when we were in the building?”
“Yeah. Hendrickson’s men are here,” he said. “They were shouting like we were from a rival gang.”
“Yes. A rival gang. I think Hendrickson sent them to mess with Petoskey. I get the feeling Petoskey and Hendrickson aren’t on good terms anymore. Shit, we went in there and blasted the hell out of some of his guys, shot up his building, probably ruined his evening. But he hasn’t made one word of complaint to the police. If he believed that we were government agents, don’t you think there’d have been a massive lawsuit lodged by now?”
“Unless he knew we weren’t with the CIA and was only playing out a scenario for the benefit of his guests.”
“Nah, too slim.” I mulled it around my head a little longer. “Could be he thought we were sent by Hendrickson, and he mentioned the CIA to put a scare into us. You know, like a subtle threat?”
“Unless these Latinos are government agents?”
“They’re not CIA. Walter confirmed that.”
“He could’ve been lying.”
“No, Rink. He wouldn’t’ve given me approval to shoot to kill if they were any of his men.”
“So why all the bull from Petoskey about the CIA?”
Back to square one.
“We can only wait and see,” I said.
30
THE SUN WAS WARM ON CAIN’S FACE. ABOVE HIM, A YELLOW-AND-WHITE-STRIPED awning dotted with dried insects flapped on a lazy breeze. He was quite at home sitting outside a café overlooking the boardwalk in an exclusive part of Marina del Rey. He could see himself living in a place just like this. Then again, seven hundred grand wouldn’t buy him a toolshed here.
Beyond a six-foot wall was a yacht valued at more than five million bucks. In keeping with the area, even the concrete wasn’t tacky. For its entire length, there was a bright mural lovingly painted in azure, emerald, and stark, brilliant white. Beyond it, he could hear the lapping of the water, the groan of boats as they moved against the pilings of the dock. Gulls wheeled above the masts that heaved like a forest in a gentle breeze.
Against his better judgment, Cain had allowed Telfer to enter the private harbor alone. Before agreeing, he’d first made sure that the only exit—apart from the open sea—was through the wrought-iron gate thirty yards to his right. It was of course the only way the deal could be struck. Telfer had argued that his buyer would panic if he saw a stranger tailing him onto the boat. In that case his likely assumption would be that Telfer had set him up, and he would do one of two things: refuse to negotiate or, worse, have Telfer and Cain sunk to the bottom of the sea at the next high tide.
Cain had to agree. Though he wasn’t happy about relinquishing either the bag of goodies or Telfer, had he walked aboard the yacht with a gun trained on Telfer, he could say good-bye to the promised riches and to the reckoning he still planned for him.
A waitress brought Cain an espresso in a cup hardly bigger than a thimble. He drank it in one gulp and ordered a second. The woman gave him an odd look that he greeted with a sour expression of his own. She went off to fetch another.
“Make it a double,” Cain called after her, as though ordering whiskey at a Wild West saloon.
When she returned, she placed the cup—more like a teacup this time—on his table, then hurried off before he could tie up any more of her precious time. Service, it appeared, was not customary for those who came to ogle the rich dudes’ yachts.
Fifteen minutes passed without any activity. Cain was sure that Telfer hadn’t slipped away undetected, unless he’d snorkeled his way to freedom beneath the waves.
Still, he was beginning to grow uncomfortable.
Fifteen minutes wasn’t a long time for someone to make a deal for seven hundred thousand, but it was fifteen minutes too long for Cain. Scenarios were beginning to play out in his mind, and he knew he couldn’t wait another five minutes. His inner pessimist was working o
vertime.
What if Telfer had done the deal, but then appealed to his business partners to help him escape? What if they’d already called the cops, telling them that a self-confessed killer was sitting outside, sipping bitter coffee at the harbor side? What if, even now, plainclothes detectives were creeping up on him, disguised as rich men in Armani suits?
He surreptitiously scanned the boardwalk. Could there be police posing as tourists who, like him, feigned interest in the elegant yachts? Are they moving on me now? he wondered.
It was enough to make him squirm. Cain didn’t like squirming. He liked to make others squirm.
“Enough is enough,” he told himself.
Telfer had too much to lose if the police became involved. Okay, his life would be back in his own hands, and likely he would get the money, but chances were that the police would be onto him and his business associates as thick as stink on a mangy goat.
Knowing the way a thief’s mind worked, Cain believed that Telfer would do the deal, then return to him with the hope of escaping and relieving him of the money when a healthier opportunity presented itself. If the tables were turned, that’s exactly what he’d do. So he could do nothing but bide his time and take charge again when Telfer returned with the money.
He might as well enjoy the sunshine and his coffee.
Then he saw the two men.
They were both dark, with wavy hair and thin mustaches. Both wore silk suits and tooled leather loafers without socks. They were alike in so many ways that they could be brothers. The only thing that differentiated them was that the slightly taller of the two wore a gauze dressing on one ear. The bandage stuck out like a blind cobbler’s thumb.
Something else; they carried guns. Not out in the open, but pushed down the backs of their trousers. He could see the telltale bulge in their lower backs as they sauntered past. He couldn’t make out what they were saying; not only were they conversing in hushed tones, but they were speaking in Spanish or Portuguese. Cain could speak five languages, but—unfortunately—none of them of Mediterranean descent.
Ordinarily the men’s presence wouldn’t have alarmed him. It wouldn’t be unknown for armed security to prowl the harbor side. But there was something about these men that rang his inner alarm. Their furtive approach to the gate was untoward, as was the way they glanced up at the rigging of the yacht Telfer had boarded and nodded to each other in affirmation. Then there was the way they sauntered along while unconsciously glancing over their shoulders every couple of steps. They were so obviously trying to remain inconspicuous that their presence screamed at high volume.
Cain couldn’t sit on his thumbs any longer. He rattled a handful of coins onto the table and stood up, gulping down the remains of his espresso. After he’d stretched and rolled his neck, he fell into step behind the two men. Unlike them, he stayed close to the entrances of the cafés and boutiques lining the harbor, using his cover as a browsing tourist to mask his interest. Without alerting them, he got to within five yards of them.
They still conversed in whispers, but one word stood out. He heard it mentioned twice. A name. Telfer. And he knew that the men Telfer was running from had finally caught up with him.
Oh, such a dilemma. But oh, what a challenge. Cain smiled to himself, slipped his hands into his pockets, and caressed his keepsakes. Pretty soon, he decided, more bones would be joining his collection. Happy with the thought, he watched as the two men approached the pier gate that Telfer had passed through to get to the boat. One guy hailed the security guard sitting in a booth on the other side. The guard walked over, looking ridiculous in pale blue shirt, knee-length Bermuda shorts, and deck shoes, with a peaked cap perched jauntily above his sun-weathered face.
One of the men flashed something at the guard. Just a brief glimpse, but Cain got the impression of a badge in a leather wallet. The guard looked impressed, and not a little excited. He nodded vigorously as he bent to unlatch the gate. All that was missing was a tug of the forelock.
Cain’s smile grew sour. Anyone worth their salt could get hold of fake credentials; the guard needed a good kick in the ass for not paying more attention to the man’s ID. Likely he was a frustrated wannabe cop who couldn’t help but worship those who carried the badge for real. His fawning was almost sickening.
The two Latinos were admitted to the inner compound. One of them rewarded the guard with a pat on the shoulder and the guard looked like he was ready to salute. He was still standing with a hand on the open gate, watching the two men walk along the pier toward the boats, when Cain stepped up behind him.
“Excuse me,” Cain said, and the guard turned to him.
“Yes, sir, how may I help you?”
“I’m Special Agent Kennedy. FBI. First off, you can keep your voice down,” Cain said. He used a tone like he was about to reward the man with a message of great importance. Hooked, the guard looked at him expectantly. Cain leaned in close and whispered, “This is a matter of extreme sensitivity.”
Cain steered the guard back toward his booth. “Can we speak inside?”
Caught up in the mystery of the moment, the guard allowed himself to be propelled toward the booth. He even opened the door and allowed Cain to press inside the booth with him. The enclosed space had the locker-room smell of sweat.
The guard was pressed up against the single chair, almost buckling at the knees. He didn’t object. He accepted this invasion of his personal space as simply one aspect of the clandestine encounter.
Cain asked, “The two men who just entered, what did they say to you?”
“They said they were with the government,” the guard answered quickly. “Agents Ramos and Esquerra. They wanted to know the location of Mr. Carson’s boat. Why do you ask, sir?”
“Because I’m a real government agent and those two aren’t,” Cain said. He tipped a nod toward Carson’s boat.
“You mean their badges were fake? Damn.”
“As fake as Pamela Anderson’s breasts,” Cain told him.
The guard appeared stunned at Cain’s choice of words. “I didn’t know,” he finally said, as though in apology. Cain couldn’t decide if he meant the men’s badges or Pammy’s main assets, but he let the notion pass without smiling. He said, “They’re a pair of international drug traffickers, and I’m about to bust them wide open.”
“You are? All alone? Don’t you have backup or something?”
Cain shook his head in mock disappointment. “Me and my partner got separated. I don’t even have my goddamn walkie-talkie with me to get in touch with him. These guys are real good. We’ve been after them for months. When I spotted them, I had no option but to follow them.”
The guard was nodding along with each new nugget Cain fed him. “You want me to telephone for help?”
“I’d appreciate it if you would,” Cain said.
“No problem,” said the guard, turning to sit down. As he picked up the receiver and brought it to his ear, Cain was happy that the guard was sufficiently distracted. Plus, sitting in the chair, he was out of sight of any passersby. Pretending to spy out the window at the receding men, Cain leaned over him. He pulled out his scaling knife.
“Who should I call?” the guard asked. “The FBI?”
“No, 911 will do,” Cain told him. “Maybe you’d best call for an ambulance.”
The guard didn’t detect the change in tone. In fact, he didn’t detect anything more than the pressure of Cain’s hand on his shoulder. He glanced up and back, and as he did so, Cain drew the knife across his exposed throat. Reflexively the guard dropped the telephone receiver, reached toward his throat, but already he’d lost control of his extremities and his palms flopped uselessly against his upper chest. Blood spurted from his severed arteries. Cain held him, placing steady pressure on the guard’s shoulders to keep him from rising out of the chair. The guard’s feet kicked and skidded in the blood pooling beneath them.
It didn’t take long.
He was dead before the two Latinos made it t
o Carson’s yacht.
“Totally inept,” Cain told the unhearing guard. “No wonder your application to the LAPD was denied.”
With no time for keepsakes, he paused only to pull down a screen that closed off any view into the interior of the booth. He felt around in the guard’s pocket and found a bunch of keys, which he used to lock the door behind him.
The two bogus agents were poised at the base of a gangway that led to Carson’s yacht. There was a third man on the boat itself, and he had a radio pressed to his ear. As Cain began walking toward them, he saw the third man nod, and the two Latinos began the ascent of the ramp.
“What’s going on here, then?” Cain wondered aloud. Telfer had said that the man he’d stolen the litho plates from employed the men following him. The guy on the boat, Mr. Carson, was a rival of their employer. So how come the two Latinos were given unchallenged access to the boat?
Only one conclusion: double-cross. Couldn’t be anything else. Telfer had been set up. And by association, so had Cain. And that made him angry. He began to walk faster, his shoes squeaking on the boardwalk. He slipped his hand into the small of his back, came out holding the gun. With his other hand, he drew the Bowie.
Only twenty yards away he heard raised voices, and he began to hurry.
Ten yards from the yacht he heard harsh laughter, then, “You think I’m about to go to war with Hendrickson over you, you goddamn asshole?”
Then Telfer’s voice: “You bastard, Carson. I trusted you.”
“Shame,” said Carson. “Let that be a lesson for you. Money talks and shit walks, my friend.”
“You—”
“Quiet!” someone barked. One of the Latino men. “You’re coming with us, Telfer. Dead or alive, I don’t really give a shit.”
Then Cain was at the bottom of the gangway. Without pause, he went up it in two bounds. Stepping onto the deck, he saw the man with the radio. Minder, Cain decided. Probably one of a number of guards on the boat. Cain’s arrival caused the man to turn. Before the surprise could even register in his face, Cain was chest to chest with him. The man grunted, looked down, and saw the handle of the Bowie knife jutting from beneath his breastbone.