by Sam Hawken
Outside, Camaro swung onto the Harley and waited for Lauren to climb on behind her. The girl paused. “Are we going back to the motel?”
“For now.”
Lauren seemed about to say something else when Camaro’s phone rang. She answered it, and Ignacio Montellano’s voice came down the line. “Ms. Espinoza,” he said, “can we talk?”
Chapter Forty-Nine
LAUREN OPENED HER mouth again, but Camaro waved for silence. The girl obeyed. “Now’s not a really good time,” Camaro said. “I’m kind of in the middle of something. How did you get my number?”
“It’s on your website,” Ignacio said. “Coral Sea Sport Charters. I notice you don’t have any pictures of yourself on there.”
“I didn’t see the point,” Camaro said.
“Sure. And I can think of other reasons, too. Like maybe you didn’t want anybody to come snooping around after your name and find your face plastered all over some web page somewhere.”
“I don’t have anything to hide.”
“Don’t make me laugh, okay?”
“What do you want?” Camaro asked.
“I want to meet. Where you want to do it. Your place, the station…wherever.”
Camaro was aware of Lauren watching her. She turned her face away. “I don’t want to meet anywhere. We had our talk.”
“We had a talk, but that was before some things came up that are really interesting. Do you want me to tell you all about it?”
“Could I stop you?”
Ignacio chuckled slightly. “One of my fellow detectives put your name through the system, and it turns out that you have some trouble in your past. Multiple homicides in Brooklyn, New York, where you’re a person of interest, which is just the latest. And it turns out you have a bench warrant out for failure to appear, which means you’re a fugitive up there.”
“I don’t know anything about any murders,” Camaro said.
“Yeah. Just like you don’t know anything about what happened in Liberty City. But you know, I called up there and talked to a detective named Hernandez, and he told me all sorts of things about how you breezed into town one day and got yourself tangled up in something bad. Next thing they know, they’re picking up bodies in a pool hall that got shot to pieces, and you’re in the wind. Detective Hernandez got really interested when I told him about our shoot-out, because it was pretty much the exact same thing: lots of dead guys and your name in the middle of it. Only this time you didn’t disappear afterward.”
“I’m not hiding from you,” Camaro said. “I didn’t leave the city.”
“That’s good. I appreciate it. Especially because Hernandez is really hot for me to pull your chain and maybe get you shipped up to his neck of the woods to answer questions about what happened up there.”
“So why don’t you?”
“Because I’m more interested in solving Miami cases than New York cases,” Ignacio said. “Which is why I called. I wanted to know if you feel like telling me a little more truth than you laid on me yesterday.”
“I told you everything I know.”
“I’m starting to disbelieve you.”
“Believe whatever you want,” Camaro said. “I’m not involved in this. I told you my part in everything and that’s it.”
Ignacio paused, and then he said, “I really want to close this thing. You know what I’m saying? I’ve got a whole bunch of homicides and not a lot of time on my hands. This is a busy city. I’ve got a captain who’s breathing down my neck and new homicides rolling in every day. So I’ll take whatever you got. I’ll even do it off the record. No one has to know it was you who talked, and you’ll never hear from me again once it’s all over. How about that? Is that a deal, or what?”
Camaro looked at Lauren. She looked away again. “I can’t help you. Not now.”
“When?”
“Soon. Maybe.”
“Are you playing games with me?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Good, because so far I’ve been real nice to you. I could have you in a cell right now and have someone hauling you out to sweat you every hour on the hour, around the clock. Who’s going to look after little Lauren then?”
“I’ll get back to you,” Camaro said.
“Don’t make me wait a long time, Ms. Espinoza.”
“Call me Camaro,” Camaro said, and she killed the call.
“What’s happening?” Lauren asked. “Who was that?”
“Police. Get on.”
“Are they coming to get you?” Lauren asked her.
“No, not yet. Come on, get on the bike. We need to move.”
Lauren shook her head. “From here on out I want to know everything. If the cops come to get you, I need to know what’s going on.”
Camaro looked at her with hard eyes and then she sighed. “People saw me at your dad’s house. They saw us leaving together. This detective, he knows I’m hiding you, but he isn’t coming for me yet. He thinks I can help him.”
“Can you?”
“I don’t know. Until I find out more, I can’t make a move.”
“You’re going to get killed,” Lauren said. “Just like my dad. You’re going to go away, and you’re not going to come back.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“How do you know for sure?”
“I don’t. But I’m not going to break my promise to your dad, and that’s to keep you safe until we can get you to your uncle. I’ll promise you, too.”
Lauren shook her head. “Why do you even care?”
Camaro put her hands down on the warm gas tank of the Harley and willed a stillness into herself. Only when she felt it in her center did she speak again. “You know how you told me your dad was one of the good guys, even though he did bad things sometimes?”
“Yes.”
“The same goes for me.”
They stood looking at each other without speaking for a minute. “Okay,” Lauren said, and put on the helmet.
Camaro waited until Lauren was settled in behind her before she started the bike. The engine spoke. She touched the throttle to make it exclaim. Then she let the clutch go.
They rolled.
Chapter Fifty
IGNACIO PUT HIS phone in his pocket and looked down at the technician. The man’s name was Liles. He was a gearhead like all the other gearheads, buried in a forest of electronics in the bowels of the station. On a broad flat-screen monitor was a grid map of the city, and on that map a red dot pulsed. “That’s it,” Ignacio said. “Did you find her?”
“Yeah,” Liles said. “She’s in Coral Terrace. I can get you everything right down to the street number. You want me to call out and mobilize a unit?”
“No,” Ignacio said. “I just wanted to see where she was hanging out.”
“What did she do?”
“According to her? Nothing.”
“What do you think she did?”
Ignacio frowned at Liles. “Why are you geeks always so curious? Don’t you have enough to do around here?”
“Sorry. I like knowing something about what I’m doing, that’s all. Especially when I’m not technically allowed to do what I just did without a warrant.”
“Okay, fine. If I wanted to, I could probably pin her with kidnapping and maybe false imprisonment. Obstruction of justice. All the good stuff.”
“So why don’t you?” Liles asked.
“That’s a really good question.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah. And I’m not gonna answer it. See you around, Liles.”
Ignacio left the room and headed for the elevators. He got to the third floor and made his way back to his desk. He sat down. When he nudged his mouse, the screen saver on his computer clicked off, and he saw the article he’d been reading earlier. Nestled in the text were black-and-white pictures of Cuban exiles doing military-style exercises in the swamp. Men in crisp uniforms lining up for inspection. Men shooting on a makeshift firing range. Alpha 66 in the midsixt
ies.
A new report was in his email in-box and he opened it up. The VIN of the abandoned Mercedes had been tracked back to a dealership owned by Álvaro Sotelo. Ignacio instigated a search for Sotelo’s name in the system and came up with nothing. Another man without a criminal past, mixed up somehow with the shooting deaths of seven men.
He looked up the website for Sotelo’s dealership and wrote down the number. His desk phone rang. He answered. “Detective Montellano.”
“Nacho, it’s Brady.”
“Hey, Brady. What’s happening?”
“I’m on my way in. Did you get much use out of what I sent you?”
“Yeah, lots. I spent the morning following up on the two we identified but didn’t find anyone at home. I still have a whole list of names to go through. Known associates. That kind of thing.”
“You think they’re all in on this Alpha 66 business?”
Ignacio clicked back to the article. The pictures were grainy, almost antique looking. Another world. He had been three or maybe four when the photos were taken. “I don’t know for sure, but it makes sense. I just can’t figure out what a bunch of Cuban fossils have to do with these young guys. I’m looking at some of this stuff, and the original Alpha 66 members have to be in their seventies or eighties. Everybody we pulled out of that auto yard was under forty.”
“You’ll figure it out. How about the rest? The Espinoza woman.”
“Camaro,” Ignacio said. “She told me to call her Camaro.”
“First names, huh? When’s your date?”
“I don’t think we’re going to go out dancing anytime soon. She’s a strange one. I can’t figure if she’s holding out on me or if she really doesn’t know anything.”
“She’s wanted out of New York. Lay into her.”
Ignacio puffed air at the thought. “It’s misdemeanor bail jumping at best. Besides, if I squeeze her too hard, she might up and disappear on me. She has that boat, and all she has to do is get on it and it’s adiós.”
“Don’t give her too much line,” Pool said.
“I won’t. I got one of the eggheads downstairs to ping her telephone for me, so I have a pretty solid idea where she’s at. She didn’t go too far from home. The guy says he can do it again even if she’s not talking on it, just so long as it’s switched on. Something about bouncing signals off cell towers. I don’t get it.”
“I’ll see you in thirty,” Pool said.
“I’ll be here.”
Ignacio hung up the phone and returned to the article. He scrolled down to the final paragraph and read a line that had been highlighted: Despite all of this, Alpha 66 is still considered by the United States government to be a potential terrorist organization.
“Terrorists,” Ignacio said to himself.
He opened a side drawer in his desk and came up with a printed directory with a spiral binding. Ignacio paged through it until he found the section for federal agencies. The FBI was listed halfway down. He picked up the phone and tucked it into the crook of his neck as he dialed out.
A woman answered. “Federal Bureau of Investigation,” she said. “How may I direct your call?”
“This is Detective Ignacio Montellano of the Miami Police Department. I’m calling to talk to somebody about terrorism.”
“Terrorism in general, sir, or do you have something specific in mind?”
Ignacio wasn’t sure if she was mocking him or not. “Don’t you have some kind of antiterrorism guy I can talk to? I mean, that’s what you guys do, right?”
“Maybe you’d be better off speaking with the Department of Homeland Security, Detective Montellano.”
“Look, whatever. I’ll talk to whatever agent you have. Give me anybody.”
“One moment, please, sir.”
The line beeped and was silent. After thirty seconds it beeped again. Ignacio waited.
Someone picked up. “This is Special Agent Mansfield,” said a man.
“Agent Mansfield,” Ignacio said, “I’m a detective with the Miami PD. I wanted to ask some questions about a group called Alpha 66.”
Chapter Fifty-One
THE FIVE OF them met in the garage of Davíd Ocampo’s home. They sat on folding lawn chairs, and Davíd set up a flimsy card table on which he put a pitcher of fresh lemonade and enough plastic cups for all of them. Chunks of ice floated in the lemonade, and the pitcher sweated heavily.
Galdarres also sweated. The garage was not ventilated, and for secrecy’s sake they had chosen to meet with the door closed to keep Davíd’s neighbors from seeing the group together. Similarly, entrance and egress through the side door kept them out of the main house, where they’d be visible through the sheer drapes in the windows, and able to disappear into an alley if the doorbell was rung. They had all been careful to arrive singly and spaced out over two hours, parking as many as three blocks away.
Davíd had reserved a room at a serviceable hotel not far away from the beach. Galdarres was comfortable there, but it was no place for them to meet. Davíd’s insurance office was also too high profile. Which left them this dirty, dusty-smelling garage that steamed in the unforgiving heat and humidity of the city.
One by one they took their turns getting lemonade, until they sat in a circle in their shorts and shirts looking like typical civilians with a day off from work. Maybe they would work on their lawns. Maybe they would relax watching television. Only Galdarres dressed formally, but even he had been forced to abandon his jacket in favor of shirtsleeves. Rolling up the cuffs helped only a little.
“I am glad we could meet today,” Galdarres told the men. “It’s important that we move quickly in relation to our problem. How many of you already know why you are here?”
None of the men raised their hands. Only Davíd indicated that he knew. Galdarres sighed. “Would you like me to explain, señor?” Davíd asked.
“No. I will do it. The situation is very simple, gentlemen: there is a dangerous element loose in this city, one that could cause troubles for us at home. His name is Sergio Chapado.”
“Who is he?” asked one of the men.
“What is your name?”
“Gerard Peyrera, sir.”
“How long have you been a part of our organization?”
“Ten years, sir.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-three.”
“You’re too young to have exile parents,” Galdarres said.
“That’s not so, sir,” Peyrera said. “My parents came from Mariel in 1980.”
“Why did they leave Cuba?”
Peyrera looked down and his voice dropped. “My father was charged with crimes. But my mother was an outstanding citizen. They exiled her anyway. She did not want to go. All of these years she’s wanted to return.”
“And your father?”
“He is dead, sir.”
“But your mother still wishes to go back?”
“Very much. If the government will allow it.”
“Then we shall have to see how we can arrange it,” Galdarres said. “If you continue to serve the DI well, any barriers to your mother’s reentry can be dispensed with. Even you could come back, if you wish it.”
“Gerard was born here,” Davíd interjected. “He served in the US Army.”
Peyrera straightened up. “I would gladly give it up for Cuba,” he said.
Galdarres smiled. “That is good to hear. And to answer your first question: Sergio Chapado is a militant. He has been a spokesman for the counterrevolutionary forces inside Cuba for several years, and we have searched long and hard for him. Just when we thought we had him trapped, he managed to secure passage to the United States, even as we swept up many in his organization. The group he represents is Alpha 66.”
Glances were cast around the circle. Galdarres did not have to explain further.
“If he is gone from Cuba, what threat does he pose?” asked another of the men.
“What is your name?” Galdarres asked.
“
Joel Icaza.”
“The threat he poses is simply this: as a refugee from our country, he can speak out against our government, raise money for our enemies, funnel support to other militants on our shores. The United States has opened the door to Cuba, and we must keep it open. If they hear wild stories, then the sanctions might return. We can’t have that. Chapado cannot be allowed to exploit any crack in our image.”
“So we kill him,” Peyrera said.
“Yes. But there is a problem. Alpha 66 does not have Chapado. They do not even know where he is.”
“Where has he gone?” Peyrera asked.
“He was taken by the people tasked with bringing him to the United States and is being held for ransom. Our source inside Alpha 66 has informed us that they intend to pay this ransom in a matter of days, at which point Chapado will be under their protection and perhaps even under the protection of the United States government. They would love to have an outspoken exile after all this time. A new face to put in front of the cameras. It will start the troubles all over again.”
“What is your plan, señor?” Davíd asked.
“It is very simple: we continue to receive information from our informant about where and when the exchange is to be made. When we know, we will intercept Chapado and kill him. We will kill the people who took him from Cuba, and we will kill the members of Alpha 66 dispatched to receive him.”
Murmurs of satisfaction passed between the assembled men.
“But we do not have the manpower to ensure this is done completely,” Galdarres said. “Therefore, it is my intention to poison the waters still further. If we do it correctly, these people may do half our work for us, leaving only the scraps to be cleared away.”
“Tell us what to do,” Peyrera said.
Galdarres looked to Davíd. “Find out from our man inside who exactly is involved in the Chapado business. We choose one of them for elimination now.”
“Why now?” Davíd asked.
“Because I want these people at one another’s throats even more than they are now. I want them salivating for the opportunity to kill. As I said, they will work for us, and they will never know who pulls their strings.”