by A. C. Fuller
She glanced back. “No, I—”
Warren busted through the door.
The waiter said, “Sir, this is the kitchen. You can’t—”
But Warren was already pushing past. Cole followed him through the narrow space between the wall and the workstation that divided the kitchen. They were at the back before the waiter could object again. “There,” Cole said, pointing at a screen door.
The screen door opened suddenly. A teenage boy appeared, dragging a dolly stacked with boxes. The dolly caught on the lip of the door, throwing boxes of cilantro and lettuce to the floor. Cole tried to step over, but slipped, tumbling sideways into a giant bag of shredded cheese.
Warren stepped through the doorway and reached back, yanking her up.
Following Warren, she stepped through the screen door into a dark alley. The younger of the two men from the restaurant was there, standing next to the delivery truck, which had backed into the alley. Most of his face was shadowed, but he held a gun pointed at Warren’s chest.
In the kitchen, the delivery guy was cursing in Spanish while picking up cilantro. The waiter was cursing in English, both at Cole and Warren and at the delivery guy.
Cole sidled up next to Warren. The man held the gun low and cast furtive glances left and right. As he did, the gun moved with his body. Cole got the sense that he was waiting for his partner. They had seconds, likely, before he arrived. For now, they outnumbered him.
The kitchen got quiet. The argument ended. Then someone shrieked, “Pistola!”
The young man shot a look over Cole’s shoulder. Warren took the opening and bounded forward, a sudden leap that closed the gap instantly and ended with a kick to the man’s knee. The man collapsed, grunting in pain.
The white-haired man appeared at the screen door as Warren grabbed Cole’s hand and pulled her forward. The alley before them was long, painted with colorful murals of Miami sports and music stars. Cole spotted a ladder leading to the roof of a low building. She darted in front of Warren and hoisted herself up. Without a word, he followed.
When they reached the roof, she glanced down the alley. The white-haired man was in a full sprint toward the ladder. The younger man limped behind.
They ran across the roof, crossed onto another, then another. Below, the two men followed them. There was a gap of about a yard between two buildings, leading to a L-shaped roof that ran away from the alley and toward the main road in Little Havana. Cole leapt the opening, careful not to look down at the empty space below. Warren followed.
Reaching the front of the building, Cole looked down. Five feet below, a white and yellow striped awning jutted out from the building. About seven feet below that, a crowd gathered in front of a bar. Hip-hop music that reminded her of Pipo blared from the bar. She squatted and, holding the edge of the roof, lowered herself onto the awning, careful to use the cross bar to support her weight as she slid down it and dropped to the sidewalk. The crowd around her noticed, but didn’t seem to care.
Warren followed, but his weight bent the bar, collapsing the awning. He cascaded awkwardly to the ground, landing on his prosthetic and tumbling backwards into the crowd. He fell on his butt. A man kicked him, then backed away when he saw Warren’s angry look.
Warren jiggled his prosthetic into place. Cole helped him up, then walked away briskly, Warren on her heels.
After a few blocks, the crowd thickened until they were no longer easy targets to find. “What’s the deal?” Cole shot a look behind her.
A giant stadium rose in the distance ahead. It looked like a spaceship, silver and curved in odd places, surrounded by palm trees. “Not the season for baseball,” Warren said. “Concert, maybe. Could be good. We can disappear in the crowd.”
Salsa music wafted toward them and a band played on a small stage outside the venue. Cole looked back again, but the crowd grew thicker with each step as people converged on the stadium. “Do we even know they’re following us?”
Warren turned, his height allowing him to peer overtop the crowd. “They’re a hundred yards back.”
Staying near the edge of the throng, they made their way around the stadium, the salsa music fading behind them. The crowd thinned. “I recognize this area,” Warren said. “This is near where I was this morning. I passed through here in the car on the way to the bait shop.”
The men were keeping their distance behind them. “They’re waiting,” Cole said, “until we get to a less populated area. That guy in the alley—the one who looks like an underwear model—he wanted to shoot us. Was going to shoot us. He was waiting for the other guy.”
Warren nodded.
“You think they’re Mazzalano’s guys?”
Warren didn’t respond. He studied the buildings and street signs. They’d left Little Havana and entered a less colorful area. There were no murals and the streets were dirtier, the buildings duller. Not a tourist section. “This is Overtown,” he said, as though reading her mind. “And I know where we can hide.”
They turned a corner, and Warren took off in an all-out sprint.
12
After two more turns, Warren saw the lights of the bait shop a block away. “That’s where I met my CI. He’ll help us.” They crossed the street and slammed through the door, Warren casting one last look back to make sure the two men were still a turn behind them.
SG was behind the counter, cashing out the register. He didn’t look up. “We’re closed!”
“Need help,” Warren said. “This is Cole.”
SG looked up. “What the hell?”
“You got a piece?” Warren asked, jumping behind the counter. He scanned the shelves under the register.
SG grabbed his shoulder. “What in the hell?”
“Two guys. Following us.”
“I don’t keep a gun here.”
Warren leapt back over the counter and jogged across the store. Poking his head out, he saw the two men about a block away. They were turned, each looking into the window of a different storefront. He pulled his head back inside, pretty sure they hadn’t seen him.
They had two options. Assuming they’d lost the men, he and Cole could hide in the back and let them pass. But something in him wouldn’t accept this. He turned to Cole. She had that hard-thinking look he’d come to recognize. “Let them go or lure them in and find out who the hell these guys are?”
A slight smile moved across Cole’s face. “I’m tired of running away.”
“L-l-lure them in?” SG stammered. “What in the hell?”
Warren took Cole by the shoulders, then nodded toward the door. “Make sure they see you, then get back in and stay behind the counter. SG, I recommend you head to the back.”
* * *
SG shook his head and muttered, but he headed to the back of the shop.
Cole moved to the door.
“Wait.” Warren grabbed a large spool of thick fishing line, the kind used for deep-sea poles. Reaching a length across the doorway about a foot off the ground, he secured one end to a display rack and the other end to a bait fridge.
Cole stepped over carefully and leaned out. The night was quiet and dark.
The two men moved methodically down the block, checking the doors of each business, most of which were closed. Her heart raced.
The white-haired man noticed her and froze. Once he’d gotten the other’s attention, they took off for her. She shut the door behind her and slid across the counter, crouching down.
She held her breath, then let it out slowly, not wanting to make a sound. She peeked over the counter. Warren took position behind the bait fridge. His large frame was concealed from view from the outside, blocked by a display rack.
“Get down,” he called, and she did.
* * *
Warren heard the door creak as it opened only a crack. Then it swung open all at once with the clang of the bell. A bald head emerged, then disappeared as the man tripped on the fishing line and toppled into the store.
Warren leapt out, kic
king the gun out of his hand while simultaneously throwing a vicious punch into the gut of the white-haired man right behind baldy.
The white-haired man staggered back, but Warren caught him by the hair and threw him into the bait fridge. The glass shattered, spilling styrofoam containers onto the floor.
The younger man had recovered and rolled toward the gun. Warren jumped, landing a heel on his outstretched hand. The bones and knuckles cracked and Warren fell on him, elbow first, striking his cheek.
Screaming, the man threw a series of short punches from his back, connecting with Warren’s temple and neck. But Warren gained position atop him and pummeled his face with a series of forearms and elbows.
As soon as he went limp, Warren looked back. The white-haired man had been knocked out cold by his collision with the bait fridge. A long brown worm wriggled on his pale cheek.
There was shuffling, then Cole stood over them, holding the gun.
She waved it at the white-haired man. “Is he dead?”
Warren reached for the man’s neck. His pulse was live. “Just knocked out. Back of his head broke the fridge.”
“These two aren’t Mazzalano’s,” Cole said.
“How do you know?”
“I assumed these two were connected to the two dudes in D.C. I don’t know how I know, but…”
Cole handed him the gun, then leaned over the younger man, whose face had already swelled. Blood trickled from his lips and one of his eyes had closed like a boxer in the twelfth round. She reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his cell phone. She swiped, then held it to his face.
Brilliant, Warren thought.
She frowned and tried again. “You busted his face so badly, his Face ID isn’t working.”
Warren slid himself over and took the phone from her. He centered it on the guy’s broken face and tried. The phone shook and displayed, “Face ID Unsuccessful.”
Cole was already trying it with the white-haired man. She swiped and held the phone up to his face. It vibrated and unlocked.
Warren stood and leaned over her shoulder.
“What should I look for?” she asked.
“Last calls, maybe.”
She checked his call log. A dozen calls to the same number over the last twenty-four hours.
“D.C. area code,” Warren said.
“And I think I recognize the number.”
SG appeared from the back. “What the hell did you do to my store?”
“Sorry,” Warren offered.
Cole walked to the corner, staring at the phone.
Warren went through the pockets of the white-haired man and found a business card. It read Beltway Investigators, a private investigation firm out of D.C.
He watched Cole tap the phone. She was calling the number. He wanted to stop her, to discuss how to approach it, but it was too late. He watched the side of her face as she listened.
After a few seconds, Cole’s eyes opened wide. “Put him on the phone!” she demanded.
She listened for a few seconds, then the phone dropped away from her ear. “Oh, God.”
* * *
Cole stared at the phone in her hand, her mind leaping between memories of the last few days. Everything was happening too fast. She turned to Warren, who’d been watching her.
“What?” Warren asked.
She let her eyes drop to the two men on the floor, then shifted her gaze to SG, who stood, arms out like he was asking, Who’s gonna clean this mess up?
“Cole, what is it?” Warren asked. “Who was that?”
“Marty Goldberg’s assistant.”
“Marty Goldberg sent these two? Why?”
Cole’s memory flashed again. Her first meeting with Goldberg when they were bright-eyed, optimistic interns together. A night at the bar, the evening of the 2002 midterm elections. And just a few days ago, when she’d sat in his office.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But now he’s dead. They found Marty floating in the Potomac River about two hours ago. Didn’t show up for a cocktail hour event. Assistant couldn’t reach him. Went to his apartment and found his phone, but no Marty.”
Warren stepped toward her, hand out, but she backed away. “I…who?” was all she could say.
“Suicide?” Warren offered weakly.
“No.”
“I know.”
The scene snapped into place suddenly. The broken glass from the shattered fridge. The worms. The two men on the floor. SG. They needed to get out of there.
“Can you make this right with SG? Tell him we’ll send him a few grand or something. Ask him to come up with a story. We need to get out of here. Now.”
“We can’t leave these guys in here. In his shop.”
“No, you sure as hell can’t,” SG interjected.
“We’re gonna send you money just as soon as we can get it,” Warren said. “Couple grand. And I’ll deal with these guys.”
Warren moved swiftly, dragging the younger of the two men outside and leaving him in the doorway of a shoe store. He covered him with some old cardboard to make him look homeless. Next he carried the white-haired guy through the back of the shop and leaned him against a dumpster.
“How’s that gonna help SG?” Cole asked.
“It will,” SG said.
Warren locked the back door and surveyed the store. “Right. The card said they’re private security from D.C. They illegally pulled a weapon on us. They’re not the kind of guys who are gonna call the cops.”
SG nodded. “And they’re not gonna come back here. Guys like that just disappear when they take a hit like that.”
13
Saturday
It was two in the morning and Cole was hungry again. She shoved a bag of popcorn from the mini-bar into the microwave and pressed the “baked potato” setting.
Feeling Warren’s eyes on her, she turned. “What?”
“Not only are you microwaving a bag of empty carbs, salt, and fat, but you’re using the wrong setting. Why in the name of all that is holy would you use the baked potato setting for a bag of popcorn?”
“It was the top button.”
“There’s a popcorn button less than an inch below it.”
“Does it matter?”
He shook his head in feigned disgust.
“Look,” she said, “I listen for the popping to slow down to one kernel every two to three seconds. That’s the only guaranteed way to get the perfectly popped bag.”
“But why would they have the popcorn setting, then?”
“Because they’re evil.” She smiled. “Different popcorn bags are different sizes and therefore require different amounts of time. Sometimes, the ‘Popcorn’ setting leaves too many unpopped kernels. Sometimes it burns it. My technique is the only way. Plus, can we agree that I know more about the proper preparation of empty carbs than you?”
“I’ll give you that.”
Cole listened to the hum of the microwave and the popping. She was exhausted. For two hours they’d gone over what they knew, and they were nowhere. They knew the two men following them in D.C. had been sent by Mazzalano, and they’d lost them. And they assumed Marty Goldberg had hired the private security firm to tail them to D.C. They didn’t think they’d been followed into the train station, but they weren’t certain. Maybe the old dancing couple or the young backpackers had been watching them. Maybe the homeless guy was paid by Goldberg to keep an eye on everyone coming in and out of the station. Unlikely, but possible. More likely was that he’d tracked them through their phones. They’d tried not to leave a paper trail, but each of them carried one of the most trackable devices on earth in their pocket. Cole’s bet was that Goldberg had bribed the right person at the cell phone company to get a location, and they’d been picked up at their hotel in Little Havana.
The bigger question was why Goldberg had wanted to track them in the first place.
Cole took her popcorn out of the microwave and opened it slowly, then plopped on the bed.
Warren said, “Can you think of anyone who wanted him dead? Goldberg, I mean.”
“No...I can think of a hundred people. When you’re as powerful in D.C. as he is, you make a lot of enemies. Locally, but also international. Foreign governments lobby in D.C. constantly.” Cole munched a handful of popcorn, considering. “But it’s not a coincidence he died when he did.”
“I don’t think so either.”
Cole held the bag out to Warren, who turned away. “But why?” she asked. “If he had us tailed, why? And how in the hell could that lead to him getting killed? Someone protecting us?”
Cole’s phone pinged with a new email. She swiped it open, then froze. It was a Google alert containing a news story. About her.
Years ago she’d set up alerts to automatically email her when news stories about certain people and subjects were published. These days she usually heard about stories on Twitter before the alert arrived. But she’d been off her phone all night.
Two more emails arrived. Two more Google alerts containing articles with her name in them. She scanned the pieces one by one, then waved the phone at Warren. “We’re famous.”
“Huh?”
“The hit pieces have started.”
Warren was in the process of taking off his leg. “What?”
“You know how I said that speculation would start online and in the press that the murders are connected?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, it’s started. And apparently we’re suspects.”
Warren sat up straight, setting his leg on his lap.
“Here’s one from Crime-Scene.Net,” Cole said. “I’ll skip to the punchline. ‘Though it’s too early to claim a link between the deaths of Raj Ambani and Alvin Meyers, certain coincidences jump out. One is that Mr. Ambani donated to the campaign of Senator Meyers on three separate occasions. The other is that Meyers and Ambani both served on the board of directors of Sen-Jen Private Equity, the only two Americans to serve on the board of the prestigious Japanese firm.’” Cole stopped reading. That was a connection between the two she hadn’t found before. She knew little about American’s serving on Japanese Boards of Directors, but she filed it away for further research. “‘A third connection,’” she continued from the story, “‘is more tangential, but no less real. In New York City, suspended cop Robert Warren and crime reporter Jane Cole were both seen at the apartment of Michael Wragg, the man now believed to be the shooter in the Raj Ambani murder. Only days later, Cole quit her job at The New York Sun and, sources say, traveled to D.C. with Mr. Warren. Are the two connected to the murders? It’s too soon to say, but Crime-Scene.Net will be keeping an eye out.