The Forgotten

by Heather Graham

  Diego shrugged. “I saw an article about him once. He’s a leader in the Haitian community, works with youth groups, that kind of thing. I’ll go with your faith in the man—with some careful reservations.”

  “Careful reservations are always good,” Matt said.

  They had two cars, Brett and Diego’s Bureau vehicle, which Brett took, and Matt’s rental. Diego and Matt would hang behind in the rental.

  Brett called Lara back, and she and Meg were waiting by the gate when he arrived. He watched her as she walked to the car. She had dressed in jeans and a knit pullover. Casual wear, not designed to be provocative. And yet she moved with such natural elegance that not even a hazmat suit could be less than seductive on her. When she and Meg reached the car, he thought drily that there was no way he could be seen with these two women and not be noticed.

  Meg stopped before getting into the car. “I was just thinking, I should ride in the backup car, too. There are people who might be watching you—just because of everything that’s going on—who know that I’m an agent. Thanks to Sonia Larson, some of those same people think Brett and Lara are a couple. It’s more natural for the two of them to be out together.”

  “She’s got a point,” Diego said.

  “All right,” Brett said. “We’ll make your apologies to Papa Joe.”

  As Meg headed back to join Diego and Matt, Lara slid into the passenger seat.

  She was wearing a light perfume, subtle rather than the overwhelming scents so many women chose. It immediately insinuated itself through his system and intoxicated his senses.

  Yep, beyond a doubt, he was now totally infatuated with her. He felt a raw longing unlike anything he’d felt in a very long time.

  If ever.

  It wasn’t just her looks. Not just her eyes, her voice, her scent.

  Maybe it was chemistry.

  He couldn’t help but wonder if she could tell how he felt it or if she still thought he had a stick up his ass.

  He forced himself to focus on the matter at hand. “Lara, you don’t have to do this. I could just take Meg with me to meet Papa Joe.”

  Lara shook her head. “No, I have to go,” she said. “Miguel came to me for help.”

  Whatever she felt about him, he could tell that Lara had been touched by this case just as he had. He’d been obsessed from the get-go, of course, because he’d known both Miguel and Maria. But now it seemed that she knew Miguel, too. And she probably felt that she would never sleep well again if she didn’t do everything she could to help bring a killer to justice.

  He knew he could stop her, should stop her.

  But knowing how she felt, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  He studied her wide eyes and determined features, and he nodded.

  It wasn’t much of a drive to the small family-owned restaurant where they were due to meet up with Papa Joe. La Petite Bar was just between Biscayne Drive and 2nd Avenue, on the border between the Design District and an area of Little Haiti that had yet to be fully reclaimed from drugs and poverty. The place was busy, with clientele of all colors, and judging by the conversations he overheard, they were of all nationalities, as well. The sign out front had proclaimed the best Creole food this side of New Orleans, and as he looked around, Brett figured it had to be true.

  A small woman had met them at the door, and seeing that Papa Joe had yet to arrive, Brett told her that they were being joined by a third person. As she led them to a vinyl-covered table in the back he glanced over his shoulder and saw that the others had scored a parking place right out front. Once he sat down he checked out the menu. The prices were reasonable, and the place smelled great. While they waited for Papa Joe they ordered sweet tea to drink.

  He leaned in toward Lara once their server was gone and said softly, “I shouldn’t have let you come. In fact, my supervisors would probably ream me out for this. This is the most bizarre case I’ve ever been on, and I don’t know just how dangerous it may get. If Papa Joe were to come in here with a gun and start shooting, I’m not sure I could throw myself on you quickly enough to save you—or guarantee that the bullets wouldn’t go right through me.”

  To his surprise, she smiled and set her fingers lightly on his hand. “Actually, I let you come to my meeting.”

  He felt her touch, just as he felt her eyes. The restaurant grew warm. He smiled in return. “Well, then, thanks for inviting me.”

  “You knew you had to let me come,” she said seriously. “I’m your connection.”

  “Yes.”

  “An acknowledgment,” she said quietly, and smiled. “I am helpful to you.”

  He nodded, meeting her eyes.

  She drew her hand back. “I really don’t think anyone is going to come in here with a gun, although...” Her smile deepened. “Now I can’t help thinking about what would happen if you did throw yourself across the table to protect me. I’ll bet you’re fast.”

  “I can move pretty quickly, yes. Not as fast as a bullet, though.”

  “I keep thinking about what you said about an unwitting conspiracy. This crime family—the Barillo crime family. Miguel worked for them because he’d been threatened? Is that how it happened?”

  Brett nodded. “More or less. A couple of Barillo’s men approached his son at school. He knew what that meant. Barillo never would have touched his kid, but Miguel didn’t know that, so he gave in and did what Barillo asked him to.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, then paused. “He’s here,” she said, and waved.

  Brett turned as Papa Joe, dressed in a lightweight suit, approached the table. Brett recognized him, having seen him on the news a few times, representing the community.

  Papa Joe evidently knew the hostess. He spoke with her for a minute and then approached the table, shaking hands with them as he sat and producing a small felt satchel from his pocket. He sat down, smiled and started to talk—the niceties before any business deal, except this time he wasn’t extolling the value of his merchandise.

  “There is a man I know. He will be on the corner of 2nd Avenue when you leave here, carrying a looking-for-work sign. Pick him up and drive with him, and he will tell you a story that you need to hear,” Papa Joe said, his head bowed as he unwrapped several necklaces that he took from the satchel. He met Brett’s eyes for a moment. “You’re Cody, right?”

  Brett nodded.

  “Word on the street is that you care,” Papa Joe said. “This man has a story like those you’re investigating. Except that it happened to an immigrant. An illegal, probably. One of this city’s forgotten people. I’ll let my friend Pierre tell you the story. His English is good enough. I think you’ll find what he has to say illuminating—and, I pray, helpful.”

  Brett thanked him, then, as their waitress appeared at the table, reached for one of the necklaces, a handcrafted rendering of St. Francis. “I think Lara would like this one, Papa Joe. She’s such an animal enthusiast.”

  Papa Joe smiled, then ordered the Cajun-spiced fish and chips. Brett and Lara followed suit. The waitress left them.

  “We can’t just walk away right now. Can you tell us anything else?” Lara asked. “And what do we owe you for the necklace?”

  “Consider it my gift. You may feel free to pick up the dinner check,” he said. “Meanwhile, since we will be here a little while, I will tell you my friend’s story after all. It will save time when you meet him. Pierre came here on a raft with a group of other Haitians, including his wife and several of his brothers. They were among the lucky ones who survived the journey. He was given work by a man who found him Dumpster diving at one of the hotels on Biscayne Boulevard. He went to work for the man he knew only as Mr. Z, dropping bags. Literally dropping paper bags where he was told to leave them. He never looked inside them. He felt lucky simply to have a job, because he was illegal, living off fri
ends who had made it here before him. He got his older brother, Antoine, a job working for the same man. This goes on for a few months when suddenly Antoine has a heart attack and dies. The man promises to take care of his burial. There’s a funeral.”

  “Where?” Brett asked.

  “Pierre doesn’t remember. The man took care of everything for him. He drove Pierre and his family to the gravesite, he saw a coffin go into the ground.”

  “And then?” Lara asked.

  Then their food arrived and they started talking about jewelry again.

  The waitress left. Brett continued to look through the necklaces while eating, and Papa Joe went on.

  “Pierre was walking down the street one day when his brother came walking toward him. His dead brother. Pierre said he knew right away that something was wrong. He’d seen things like it as a child. He realized that Antoine had become a zombie, and worse, that his own brother was coming at him with a baseball bat in his hands. His brother had been a very good player, but he wasn’t looking to play now. Pierre could tell that his brother didn’t recognize him, that he meant to hurt him. But when he swung the bat, his swing went wild. And then he fell.

  “When Pierre touched him, he was certain that Antoine was dead then. Really dead. He ran, ran to his wife. A man who was living with them went back with Pierre, but the police were there and the body was gone. He tried to follow the news, because he couldn’t go and identify his brother, since he is afraid of being deported. But as you can imagine, the death of an illegal immigrant was not important to the TV stations. There was a brief mention the day the body was found, then...nothing.” Papa Joe stopped speaking and stared at Brett. “You will get justice for Antoine, and you won’t let Pierre be deported. I swore for you that you will not let that happen.”

  He didn’t have the right to swear such a thing, but if this man could help them, Brett would do whatever it took to see that he somehow gained legitimate residency. Even if he didn’t know the right people, he knew people who did.

  Brett nodded. He leaned back, slipping his hand over Lara’s as their waitress approached to see if they wanted anything else. He asked for the check while praising the food.

  “You all come back,” she said.

  “I always bring my best friends and clients here, Miss Marie,” Papa Joe assured her.

  Brett paid the bill, leaving a generous tip. He made a point of fitting the necklace around Lara’s neck once they were out on the sidewalk as Papa Joe cheerfully said that doing business with them had been a pleasure, and to please call or come by the store any time.

  On the way back to his car Brett slipped his arm around her shoulder, just as if they were a real couple, and she leaned against him. He breathed in the scent of her and reminded himself to stay alert, because danger could be anywhere.

  When they got to the car, he was surprised that she smiled at him when he opened the door for her.

  “What?”

  “Not so bad for a guy with a stick up his ass,” she said.

  He couldn’t believe it, but he was pretty sure he blushed.

  “Go figure, huh?” he said lightly, walking around to his own side. In the car, he quickly pulled out his phone and dialed Diego, who assured him, after Brett told him what was happening next, that the others would keep following at a distance.

  “Watch for our guy,” Brett told Lara as soon as he hung up.

  She nodded.

  As they headed toward 2nd Avenue and their rendezvous with Pierre, they entered an area where skimpily clad prostitutes plied their trade. He was glad that Lara was watching for Pierre, because it was hard for him to search the diverse crowd while driving.

  “I think that’s Pierre,” Lara said suddenly, pointing.

  He followed the direction of her finger and was certain she was right as he spotted the man carrying a sign that said Looking for Work and standing right where Papa Joe had said they would find him. Brett pulled over to the curb and waved the man over. Quietly he said that Papa Joe had sent them, and Pierre jumped in.

  “Drive, please,” he said, his English clear, but slightly accented.

  Brett quickly pulled back onto the street.

  “I am Pierre Deveau,” the man told them. “Thank you for listening to me. There was nowhere—nowhere for me to go.”

  “No. Thank you for speaking with us. Merci. Merci beaucoup,” Brett said. He looked at the man in the rearview mirror.

  Pierre was perhaps in his forties, lean and wiry from hard physical work, with strong features, large brown eyes and graying dreadlocks. He nodded solemnly. “We came for freedom, for better... At least my children do not drink mud for water. But my brother...”

  There was a sadness in his voice. Clearly he had cared deeply for his brother.

  “Please, talk. Papa Joe told us a little of your story, and we believe you,” Lara said.

  Pierre began to tell his story. He talked about coming over—about fearing death in the rough, shark-filled waters between the island of Hispaniola and the Florida Keys. When they had finally arrived, they had been lucky. They had reached Islamorada, a small city spread out over several islands, where they had found people to help them. Then they made their way to Miami and found a room in a small apartment that a countryman—who was in the United States legally—rented and allowed his illegal friends to live in. It was a run-down place, but it was better than what they had left behind.

  He and his brother had found odd jobs and manual labor easily enough; people didn’t ask for your papers when they needed yard work done or something heavy hauled away. They paid cash. Then he had begun working for Mr. Z, and eventually he’d gotten Antoine a job, too. He admitted that he suspected they were doing something illegal, but all they had to do was deliver bags to certain places.

  But then his brother...

  He’d seen his brother die. And he’d been grateful to their boss, who had offered to arrange a quiet, private funeral and promised that no one would find out that Antoine and Pierre were there illegally. There had been a priest, they had been at a real cemetery, and Pierre had seen his brother’s coffin go into the ground.

  “Do you have any idea where this graveyard was?” Brett asked.

  Pierre shook his head. “They brought us—my wife and me and our children—in the back of a van. No windows. We drove for about half an hour from our apartment. I don’t know what direction we went. Antoine received the words of a priest. I threw the first handful of dirt on the coffin. The man led us away.”

  “What was the man’s name?” Brett asked.

  “Just Mr. Z or Boss Man. I don’t know what the Z stood for, but mostly he liked to be called Boss Man. And he liked it.”

  “Can you describe Boss Man?” Brett asked.

  “Medium tall, medium size. He wore good clothes, and he liked jewelry. Maybe forty years or a little less in age,” Pierre said.

  “But not old?” Brett said.

  “No. Not old. And he was white, I think. Maybe Hispanic,” Pierre said.

  “Could you describe him for a police artist?” Brett asked.

  Pierre shook his head emphatically. “No. No police. Besides, I do not wish to die like my brother.”

  “Pierre, I can make sure you’re safe. I can take you somewhere right now,” Brett offered.

  “No. I have a wife, and a son and a daughter. I can’t go without them, and...we aren’t real. I mean, we aren’t legal.”

  “We’ll get your family right now, too,” Brett promised. “I’ll make sure that you’re protected by the police. No one, not even Boss Man, will be able to get to you. We need your help. And when everything is over, I’ll make sure that you can all stay here legally.”

  Tears sprang into the man’s eyes. “Papa Joe said so, but I did not dare believe. It cannot be.”

  “
It can,” Brett swore to him.

  “I’ve heard such things before. Friends...the police make promises, but they are not immigration,” Pierre said.

  “Just say the word, Pierre. And give me your address,” Brett said softly.

  It took a full thirty seconds for Pierre to respond, but he finally gave them his address. Brett called Diego and passed it on, asking for backup.

  By the time they reached the run-down projects where Pierre lived, the building was surrounded by police cars.

  As they entered and went down a long hallway toward Pierre’s apartment, Brett sensed people watching silently through peepholes. Half the residents were undoubtedly terrified of arrest, he thought.

  Pierre’s wife and children certainly were, but Pierre quickly spoke to her in his native patois, his words so fast and clipped that Brett couldn’t hope to follow them. Within minutes they had packed up their few belongings. But then Pierre turned stubborn; he’d apparently realized his bargaining chip. He insisted that Brett also help the couple living with them.

  Brett winced, doubting his own power, but Matt, standing next to him, said, “Do it. I’ve already called Adam about Pierre and his family. If there’s any trouble, Adam will step in. That’s a guarantee.”

  Brett nodded to Pierre, and the young couple who also lived in the tiny apartment came along, too. No doubt everyone watching assumed they were being arrested and turned over to La Migra, Immigration, and that was fine with Brett. Boss Man was unlikely to go after them if he thought they were in police custody.

  It was almost midnight by the time Pierre, his family and their friends, Mali and Jacques Brigand, were settled in a safe house. Brett and the others all drove back to Lara’s house at that point, though he knew he and Diego should have simply gone home.

  But Matt, Diego and Meg were talking about pizza, since they’d missed out on dinner and were starving.

  “I need pizza,” Diego insisted. “I can feel my belly button touching my spine.”