by Robert Crais
Pike decided to follow.
He spidered back through the girders, and ran hard along Sunset to his Jeep, thinking the limo might already be gone, but when he nosed up to Azzara’s street, the tail of the limo was still in Azzara’s drive. Pike backed away, parking in a red zone in front of the cigar shop. Five minutes later, the limo backed out and rolled uphill toward him. Pike lowered the visor and slumped down behind the wheel. The limo stopped directly in front of him. Pike could make out the dim shape of the driver, but the dark rear windows hid whoever was in back. When a hole appeared in the traffic, the limo turned. Pike let two cars pass, then pulled out behind them.
The limo dropped through the city on La Cienega Boulevard, cruising slow and steady the way limos do. Pike followed them down to the I-10 Freeway, then west toward Santa Monica. When they crossed the 405, Pike thought they were heading to Venice, but they dropped off at Bundy and turned onto Ocean Park. Three minutes later, they pulled into the north side of Santa Monica Airport, and Pike was forced to drop farther behind. The limo drove to a gate that rolled aside to let them enter the hangar area, then stopped alongside a white Citation business jet. The jet’s door was open, its stair down and waiting.
Pike pulled over to watch.
The limo driver popped out to open the doors, but the people inside didn’t wait. Wilson, Miguel Azzara, the burly man, and the squat cowboy climbed out of the stretch. Dru had stayed at the house.
The four men gathered near the jet, and once more shook hands. The cowboy clapped Wilson on the shoulder like they were the best friends in the world, then climbed aboard. He pulled the steps up himself and closed the door as if he had done it a hundred times while the rest of them returned to the limo.
Pike noted the tail number. XB-CCL. The XB prefix meant the plane was registered in Mexico.
Azzara, the burly man, and Wilson stood by the limo as the jet spooled up its engines. Pike could see the pilot and copilot reaching for switches as they went through the start-up procedure. It took several minutes, but Azzara, the burly man, and Wilson waited. When the jet finally taxied away, they waved like flunkies, telling Pike the squat cowboy was a very important man.
Once the jet was gone, the burly man threw his arm around Azzara’s shoulders and hugged him as if he had done a good thing. Azzara beamed his movie-star smile, then held the door as the burly man got into the limo.
Pike had seen enough. He made a slow U-turn as he drove away, and phoned Elvis Cole.
34
Daniel
Daniel glanced at the turd in the Monte Carlo as he walked past the house, dumb fuck so stupid he was falling asleep. Daniel loved fuckin’ amateurs, them being so easy to kill, but the bangers had so many people around the house, they were cramping his style.
He continued downhill to the next street, then climbed into his van. Sign on the van was for something called Hero-Rooter—CALL A HERO TO SAVE THE DAY! DRAINS CLEANED AROUND THE CLOCK! Daniel had picked the van because there were no windows in the side panels and the vehicle would blend in anywhere. He had left the driver in a Dumpster behind a Nigerian restaurant in Long Beach.
Tobey was irritated.
“Why’re we wastin’ time?”
Cleo was annoyed.
“Fuckin’ around, around?”
Daniel said, “Shut up. I’m tryin’ to think.”
Daniel had followed the Mexican and his dumb-ass banger entourage from the airport, so he knew the Mexican was inside with the cook and the waitress. The Bolivians had come through big-time with their tip about the Mexican, but reaching his targets had turned out to be a problem.
Daniel circled the block up to Sunset, planning to cruise through the alley beside Azzara’s house, but that’s when he saw the tall dude sliding out of a red Jeep Cherokee.
Tobey, suspicious.
“Lookit those arrows.”
Cleo, alarmed.
“Dude on the bridge, bridge.”
This made twice, and twice was bad. Daniel had seen him at the canal, and now here he was again, a block from the cook and the waitress.
Daniel let the van slow to catch the light. The man reached Azzara’s street, rounded the corner, then did a fast one-eighty to blend in with a crowd of pedestrians.
“He must be a cop. Gang unit, maybe. How else would he know?”
Tobey whispered, “Looks like a cop.”
Cleo hissed, “Smells like a cop, cop.”
When the light changed, the arrow dude crossed with the crowd, walking along Sunset like he was normal. Daniel clocked the dude as he passed. Big guy, hard, but he moved as if he was floating. Nasty hands, though, with big, coarse knuckles and veins wrapped under his skin like vines.
Daniel turned at the first cross street, then powered around the block back to Sunset, looking for the Jeep. He found it quickly, copied the tag number, then maneuvered into a parking lot to call the Bolivian.
First thing the Bolivian asked was whether he had bagged the targets.
“No, sir, not yet, but I have them located. The Mexican led me right to them.”
Cursing, screaming, the usual Bolivian bullshit. Daniel rolled his eyes.
“Sir, the situation is under control, but I do need your help with a matter. We have a man on the scene who may be a police officer or a federal agent.”
More blah blah yadda yadda.
“No, sir, it won’t affect the outcome, but I would like to know who he is. I have his license plate here.”
Daniel read off the tag, then hung up before the sonofabitch could go on with more bullshit. Daniel was now officially concerned about the arrow dude, and didn’t like not knowing where he was and what he was doing. The arrow dude was a wild card and wild cards could bite you on the ass. Daniel decided he would kill the fucker if he saw him again, even if he was a cop, so long as it wouldn’t fuck up his shot at grabbing the cook and the waitress. Daniel didn’t want to kill them. He needed to take them alive, and save the killing for later.
Tobey said, “Kill’m.”
Cleo said, “Cut off their heads, heads.”
That was the plan. Cut off their heads, and ship’m to the Bolivians. The Bolivians liked creepy shit.
Daniel circled back to Azzara’s street and parked below the house, looking north toward Sunset so he could keep an eye on things. Daniel studied the surrounding houses and the traffic up on Sunset. The guards ignored his van. Stupid. Daniel checked the pedestrians crossing on Sunset, thinking he might spot the arrow dude again. He wondered where the big fucker was, and whether he was watching Azzara’s, or if the whole thing was just a coincidence and the dude was up there on Sunset getting another tattoo. Daniel stared at the billboard for a long time. Much of it was hidden by trees, but Daniel had considered using it earlier, and now he thought about using it again.
Daniel was watching the idiot in the Monte Carlo when a black limo passed and eased into Azzara’s drive. Daniel remembered the tag. The same car had brought the Mexican from the airport, which meant it was now going to take him back.
Daniel thought, “Adios, muchacho.”
Daniel was watching the limo when he caught a movement on the billboard through the trees. Someone was climbing down, and Daniel knew it was the dude with the arrows.
“MotherFUCK! He was watching the house!”
“Fuck, -uck, -uck.”
Thirty seconds later, the tall dude ran across the street at the light, heading toward his Jeep. He must have seen the limo, too, and now he was going to follow.
Tobey boomed, “Kill’m, kill’m.”
Cleo shrieked, “Get’m, get’m.”
“We can’t! We gotta stay on the house!”
Daniel smelled blood in the water, and knew he was close.
The Mexican, Azzara, a fat banger, and the cook came out and got into the limo. Daniel sat higher in the seat, and clenched the wheel until he thought his bones would pop through his skin. The cook and the waitress were separating, the cook going with the Mexican, the wa
itress staying at the house. Daniel was FUCKED!
Tobey murmured, “Mellow out, Daniel.”
Cleo cooed, “Easy, dude, easy.”
The limo backed out of the drive, then rolled up to Sunset.
“Easy, my ass! What about the cop? What if he bags the limo?”
Tobey said, “Let’m. He’s after the Mexican.”
Cleo said, “Take the waitress, Daniel. We’ll figure it out, out.”
Daniel felt as if his arms and legs were being yanked off at the joints, the cook ripping him in one direction, the waitress ripping him in another, but the voices were soothing. The voices helped him think.
Tobey whispered, “The waitress is here, get the waitress.”
Cleo hissed, “The waitress will give you the cook.”
Daniel knew they were right. He watched the limo disappear as it turned onto Sunset.
First he would take the waitress, then he would get the cook, and then he would have everything.
35
Elvis Cole
Cole wedged his phone under his ear, trying to reconcile what Pike was telling him. It felt as if Pike was describing one reality while Cole had been working to understand another.
“What you’re telling me is these people are not being treated like prisoners.”
“Four guards were outside the house, and at least two more were inside. You put guards on the outside, you’re not keeping someone in, you’re keeping someone out.”
“I don’t get it. How did a Trece crew go from shaking down Smith to being his host in three days?”
Pike didn’t respond.
Cole said, “Feel free not to answer.”
“The way they were shaking hands tells me it’s business. The private jet tells me it’s big business.”
“You get the tail number?”
Cole copied the number as Pike recited it.
“Okay. I’ll try to find out who owns it. Where are you going?”
“Back to Azzara’s.”
“Come here first. I want to go with you.”
Cole thought for a moment, trying to sort out the new facts.
“Someone is hunting these people. We know that for sure. We thought it was Mendoza and Gomer, but it wasn’t, and now Miguel Azzara is their best friend.”
“Yes.”
“Protecting them?”
“You go into business with people, you take care of them.”
“I can’t help wondering why a Trece street gang and Mexican cowboys with their own jet need to be in business with a man who fries oysters.”
“I’ll be there soon. We’ll find out.”
Cole spent the next ten minutes trying to identify the owners of Citation Jet XB-CCL, but had no luck. He was still on hold with the FAA when his call waiting told him Lucy Chenier was calling. He dropped the FAA and took Lucy’s call.
Her voice was in full-on professional mode.
“Can you talk?”
“Absolutely. What did you find out?”
“I’m going to put you on speaker. Terry’s here.”
The sound qual ity went from crisp to hollow when she put him on speaker.
“Hey, Terry. Thanks for helping on this.”
“Hey, man, no problem. You hear me okay?”
“Hear you fine.”
Terry had a mellow voice with a woodsy Louisiana accent. He’d grown up in a family of police officers, and had been an officer himself before retiring to work as an investigator for Lucy’s firm.
Lucy said, “So you know, we’re in my office and we’re alone. No one can hear what we say except you, me, and Terry.”
“Okay.”
“Are you by yourself?”
“Yeah. It’s just us.”
“Joe isn’t there?”
“Not yet. He’s on his way.”
Cole wondered why she was being so legal.
“Okay. I’m emailing two pictures. Are you at your computer?”
“Will be. I’m going there now.”
“Tell me if they’re the people you know as Dru Rayne and Wilson Smith.”
Her email was waiting when Cole reached his computer.
“Hang on. I’m opening it.”
Cole wasn’t surprised when the picture of Wilson Smith turned out to be a booking photo, but still felt a vague disappointment. The picture of Dru Rayne was a snapshot, showing her behind a bar, with her hair up, a crooked smile, and rainbows of cheap bracelets on her wrists. She was wearing a tight black T-shirt that read: Tip the Waitress or She’ll Spit in Your Drink.
“Yeah. This is them.”
Terry came back sounding pleased.
“Damn, boy.”
Lucy said, “What we’re about to tell you comes from a senior investigator with the Louisiana DOJ. Remember what I said about not being able to put the genie back in the bottle?”
“Are they going to call me?”
Terry spoke up again.
“He pressed me, buddy. I didn’t give him your name or location, but five will get you six he’s on the phone with the FBI. They’re tracking a string of murders tied to this case, and the number is growing.”
Cole felt a leaden I-knew-this-would-get-worse feeling as he stared at Smith’s mug shot.
“Smith’s a murderer?”
“Yeah, he probably is, but I’m not talking about him. At least eight and possibly nine murders have been committed by a person or persons trying to find the man you know as Wilson Smith.”
Cole felt a cold tingle in the center of his chest. Pike was right—something way more dangerous than street-corner bangers had been in the Venice Canals.
“He found them. He’s here.”
Lucy and Terry spoke over each other, garbling each other’s words before Lucy won out.
“How do you know he’s found them?”
Cole told them about Mendoza and Gomer.
“We’re not sure why they were watching the house, but they were found murdered the next morning. Joe believes they were murdered by someone who’s looking for Wilson and Dru.”
Terry’s low voice was directed to Lucy.
“This isn’t good. If this is the guy, we need to put our folks down here on his trail while it’s hot.”
“Elvis and I understand that, Terry. Tell him about Rainey.”
Cole thought he heard Terry take a breath, almost as if he was trying to regain composure before he could get back to the business at hand.
“Smith’s real name is William Allan Rainey. He smuggled cash out of the country for some boys down here hooked up with a Bolivian cartel. My guy says, all told, he probably transported six or seven hundred million dollars before he was done.”
“Drug money?”
“Where else you gonna see that kind of cash?”
Drugs were a cash business, and the problem for foreign drug suppliers was getting their cash out of the country. Experienced cops had told him it was far easier for suppliers to get their drugs in than to get their cash out. They couldn’t deposit it in banks or transfer it in meaningful amounts because banks were watched by the government, and transferring a few thousand here and there was useless to an organization that generated hundreds of millions in cash.
Cole said, “Smuggling cash doesn’t rate a sealed file.”
“That was the DEA. They broke him, then cut a deal with him for info about the cartel’s business.”
“He was an informant.”
“Yeah, for a couple of years, and maybe that’s why he did what he did. Rainey and the woman disappeared two weeks before Katrina with twelve million dollars of Bolivian money. They’ve been on the run ever since.”
Cole leaned back.
“Twelve million. Get out.”
Lucy said, “Cash.”
“The cartel boys put a million dollar reward on Rainey’s head and sent up a specialist to find him.”
“Specialist as in a killer?”
“Specialist as in finding people the Bolivians want found, and doing whatever it
is they want done. Over at the DOJ, they called him the executioner. That’s who you have runnin’ around out there.”
Cole felt a second chill, and listened as Terry continued.
According to Terry’s contact, William Allan Rainey had spent his life jumping between small-time criminal activity and questionable business ventures. Rainey opened several restaurants and bars that failed, but eventually created a stable business for himself as a wholesale seafood supplier, buying shrimp and fish from local fishermen to sell to other people’s restaurants. The fishermen Rainey dealt with were one-boat operators who fished the Gulf from pinprick towns in the bayous along the Louisiana coast. Investigators believed it was during this period that Rainey became involved with people who were in business with the Bolivian cartel, and Rainey, who had always been attracted to easy money, saw a way to cut himself in on the partnership. The Bolivians needed a way to sneak their cash out of the country, and Rainey provided the method. His daily contact with fishermen allowed him to recruit people who were open to carrying questionable cargo. Especially if they were behind on their rent and needed the money.
Cole stopped him.
“Did these people know what they were carrying?”
“The deal was, no questions asked, but Rainey told at least two fishermen they were carrying pot on its way to Miami. That’s the way it was packaged, in black, waterproof bales. How it worked was, Rainey and a couple of guards would hand off the bales to a fisherman on his way out, along with waypoint coordinates to meet up with a vessel out past the rigs. All they had to do was hand over the bales, then get on with their fishing.”
“Rainey was telling the DEA about this?”
Terry laughed.
“Uh-uh. He fed them an occasional inbound shipment or dropped the dime on small-time players. Just enough to keep the DEA off his back. They didn’t know he was smuggling cash until everything blew up.”
“What happened?”
Lucy said, “The woman. Dru Rayne’s true name is Rose Marie Platt. Rainey met her when she worked at a restaurant down in the Quarter for a man named Tolliver James. She and James were living together.”