by Tom Wood
“Someone not sending a message.”
“That’s a first.”
The call had come through saying a cartel lieutenant had been assassinated in a bar, so Alamaeda had the whole incident played out in her head before she had even arrived. She drove to the location, picturing how sicarios would have burst through the door, emptying their AKs or SMGs, hitting their target and plenty of bystanders in the process. Fast. Loud. Messy.
That wasn’t what she found. For a start, she hadn’t anticipated a fire. Sicarios didn’t hang around after a hit in a public place. They vanished.
Alamaeda walked the scene. Despite the fire damage, despite the bodies, it was contained. Almost neat. There were only five spent shells. She would have expected dozens, sprayed from automatic weapons, as many hitting the walls and floor as hit intended targets. Instead, not a single miss.
“Pools of melted plastic. They were playing cards.” Alamaeda pointed. “One, two, three, four, five corpses, and six chairs. Where’s the sixth player?”
“Can’t say for sure the shooter was playing too.”
“True, but Diaz is unarmed. How many cartel guys don’t carry?”
Wickliffe said, “Are you saying that the sixth player took Diaz’s gun and killed everyone in the room?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“But why?”
“Maybe he doesn’t like to lose.”
Wickliffe rolled her eyes. She did that a lot, but not enough to irritate Alamaeda more than she could handle. Wickliffe could be a little condescending, a little superior, but she was an all-right partner overall. Alamaeda liked her. She had worked with a lot of assholes, so she appreciated it when she got to work with someone she liked. It was also nice to have a partner who never tried to hit on her, which was a first.
Wickliffe said, “Same as that crew.”
“Which crew?”
“That disappeared,” Wickliffe explained. “‘Private investigators.’” She accompanied the words with air quotation marks. “Sicarios in suits—you know.”
Alamaeda knew. She said, “What about them?”
“Strange, isn’t it? Why did we never find them dangling from a lamppost?”
“The sisters are keeping their heads down. Heloise wants to get into the casino business. The word’s out not to cause trouble. Don’t give the gaming committee a reason to deny the license, et cetera.”
Wickliffe shrugged. The kind of shrug that said she agreed, but only to an extent. “The timing is weird, that’s all. First, four guys from the respectable wing of the cartel evaporate into the air, leaving only the faintest scent of violent death, and now Diaz is left extra crispy. We’re dealing with a whole new set of rules here. I don’t like the idea of the Devil Sisters developing clandestine tactics. I preferred it when they just chainsawed each other and left the pieces on the sidewalk.”
“Give it time,” Alamaeda said. “This is a mere pretense of civility. It’s not in their nature to be subtle. We’ll be up to our necks in mayhem before long.”
“Is that a promise?”
“It’s not just a promise, but a pinky promise.”
She offered up her left fist, little finger extended but curled. Wickliffe did the same and they hooked their respective fingers and smiled.
They released fingers and Alamaeda said, “I don’t think this is connected. This bar isn’t a cartel hangout for either side. The four other corpses look like nobodies to me. I think this was a game gone wrong. Maybe Diaz lost his temper. Maybe he had too much to drink. He pulls his gun and sticks it in someone’s face, someone who isn’t drunk, and that someone doesn’t like it very much.”
“Then why kill the others?”
“No witnesses.”
“I don’t buy it,” Wickliffe said. “Doesn’t stack with the game-gone-wrong theory. If it isn’t cartel related, then why kill the bystanders? Let’s say you’re right and Diaz pulled his piece and waved it around. Let’s say the sixth player takes it off him and teaches him a lesson in poker etiquette. He then decides to slaughter everyone else in the room? No. Too brutal.”
“Diaz was cartel. He didn’t want payback.”
“Then he’s a ruthless son of a bitch, because he makes that decision in a fraction of a second, and still lands another four headshots before anyone can make a break for it. What kind of poker player is he?”
“The kind you don’t point a gun at.”
“Someone really should have told that to Diaz.”
“You’re so insightful.”
Wickliffe smirked, then stood to approach Diaz’s corpse. “No tears will be shed for you, amigo.”
Alamaeda said, “Everyone has a mother.”
“Not everyone. Not this guy. This guy bubbled up from some black pit of hell, I assure you. I’ll toast his eternal damnation tonight.”
“Let it out,” Alamaeda said. “Let out all of that hatred.”
“I have no hate for these guys, because they aren’t human. You can’t hate an animal, because it doesn’t know any better. You kick it so it learns, and if it still doesn’t learn, you put it down. But you don’t hate it. I’m not going to let what animals do anger me, because anger is caused by stress and stress is contagious. And it’s deadly. Negative energy spreads faster than any virus. You wake up late and you knock into someone as you overtake them on the pavement. You didn’t mean to, but they have a temper and you piss them off and they take it out on the girl at the coffee shop, who got up late too and is dead tired and she gets pissed and deliberately burns the coffee of the woman with the baby who was too distracted to say thank you. And that woman with the kid needs that coffee because her newborn is ill and kept her up half the night. But the coffee sucks, and she’s so tired and stressed and not coping with postpartum depression that her crap cup of coffee is the final straw as she waits for the red light at the crossing. Next, they’re scraping up her and that newborn from the asphalt, and the guy who drove the bus is never going to be the same again.”
“You wanna hug?” Alamaeda joked. “You need someone to hold you and tell you everything’s going to be all right?”
Wickliffe flipped her the double bird to punctuate the exchange, and they both smiled.
“So,” Alamaeda said, “the killer knew who Diaz was. He knew he was a serious guy. The kind of guy you should be afraid of. He knew there would be repercussions, but he killed him anyway. He killed the others to escape those repercussions. Now, what’s bothering me is that this guy knew all about Diaz, but Diaz didn’t know about him.”
“He was a new player.”
Alamaeda nodded. “Exactly. Diaz hadn’t known him long enough to know he was dangerous. Now, where it gets especially interesting is that a bartender remembers a foreigner getting friendly with the owner.”
“No kidding.”
“Where it gets even more interesting is when I tell you that the reason this bartender remembers the foreigner is because another foreigner came looking for him only yesterday.”
“And what does it mean?”
“I have no idea, but it’s odd, isn’t it? Two foreigners, one looking for the other, on the same day Diaz gets shot. Too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence. Something’s going on that doesn’t fit the narrative.”
“Screw narrative. Up to anything tonight? Fancy joining me to toast Diaz’s eternal damnation, or are you seeing your new man?”
She shook her head. “He’s out of town for a few days, so sure.”
“This is the Canadian, right? He’s a Caucasian, yeah?”
Alamaeda shot her a look. “Don’t even go there.”
Wickliffe grinned and showed her palms. “I’m just saying it might be worth checking he doesn’t have a gun under his pillow.”
Alamaeda shot her another look. “Don’t make me hurt you.”
“Fine,
bury your head in the sand,” Wickliffe said. “But if this really was a game gone wrong it’s nothing to do with us. If cartel guys kill themselves over plastic chips, not only is that a good thing, but it’s none of our business. We’re done here.”
“But don’t you wanna know what happened here? Don’t you care why?”
Wickliffe took a moment to think about it, then shook her head. “I don’t care. As far as I’m concerned, whoever killed Diaz has done this country a favor and saved us a ton of work trying to bust him. I’m not paid enough to care why a piece of shit got what he deserved.”
“You’re cold,” Alamaeda said.
She continued shaking her head. “No,” she said, pointing at the five charcoaled corpses. “This is cold.”
• Chapter 53 •
You either loved Panama City or you didn’t know love at all. Vinny Arturo knew this to be true because he felt both, he knew both. The city was a chaotic, sprawling mess, but it didn’t seem to realize it and wouldn’t care if it did. It was a parade, a festival, a carnival of human spirit and determination. A celebration of all that was best in life. To live there was to belong there. To belong there was to be part of that celebration.
Arturo celebrated every day. Whether to smile at a pretty girl in a café or to dance a little as he walked, it was impossible not to feel the energy around him and be energized by it in turn.
Panama was the crossroads of the Americas, of South America and North America, of continents and oceans, and Arturo sat in the center of it all. He belonged at the center of that crossroads.
A failed state maybe, but only to those who didn’t know how to succeed, only to those who embraced the failure. Where others saw poverty, Arturo saw need. Where others saw corruption, Arturo saw opportunity.
He worked as a partner for a large law firm at the heart of the city with a client list that could be a Rolodex of demons and devils by any other name. Latin America was rich in land, in people, and in greed. He was no criminal lawyer, but every one of his clients was a criminal, even if they had never been caught. In fact, some had never been caught because they were the ones who were supposed to hunt the criminals, to sentence the criminals, or to stand before cameras and take credit for it all.
Arturo’s job was to keep the criminals happy, to service their needs, to keep them coming back to the firm, to encourage them to bring in more business in the form of recommendations to their criminal friends. Arturo saw himself as a professional friend. He was the handsome man in the sharp suit who a corrupt politician wanted nearby, who a warlord could respect, who a drug trafficker could invite to an orgy. He found it amusing that those who needed lawyers the most were the ones who hated lawyers the most, but that was the key to Arturo’s success. He was the one lawyer who could be tolerated.
He liked nice cars and women he didn’t have to call the next day. He liked the best restaurants and inserts in his shoes to give him that extra boost. He liked being good at his job and the good life it gave him.
He had a date with Grace—or was it Faith? Either way an inappropriate name for a woman that was wicked, and it didn’t matter because he called all his encounters mi dulce—my sweet—so he didn’t need to remember, and to save him from using the wrong name. Great to see you again, my sweet. . . . The lobster here is the best, my sweet. . . . Let’s go back to my apartment, my sweet.
Grace or Faith was impressed by his Maserati. She was impressed the manager shook Arturo’s hand and gave him the best table in the restaurant. She was impressed by the view from his penthouse. She wasn’t so impressed with something else, but Arturo still left the bedroom with a smile on his face, which was all that mattered.
A red silk kimono kept the slight chill from his skin as he stepped outside to his terrace, where an infinity pool glowed beneath the black sky. The water was heated and lights at the bottom of the pool illuminated the wisps of steam rising in gentle swirls. A glorious sight. A perfect night. A perfect life.
Arturo didn’t like Scotch—he found it too harsh—but he drank it because that’s what men like him were meant to drink. An unwritten rule. He sipped from the tumbler and winced despite the ice cooling and diluting the whisky’s burn. He padded alongside the edge of the pool.
To dip or not to dip? It was not a question he had time to answer, because he became aware he was not alone on the terrace. The sliding patio door opened behind him, and Grace or Faith stepped out into the night.
Arturo didn’t take his gaze from the view. He sipped his Scotch and gazed at the city beneath him. He gazed at the possibilities spread out below, waiting for him, enticing him.
“That was amazing,” he said to Grace or Faith as she approached, to her footsteps.
Which sounded hard on the paving slabs. Heavier than they should.
A man’s voice said, “It didn’t sound amazing, I’m sorry to tell you.”
The tumbler hit the ground. Scotch and ice and glass scattered.
Arturo spun around. A man in a dark suit was at the far side of the pool, sliding the patio door shut behind him, but his gaze never left Arturo. He stepped closer, one slow step at a time, and Arturo could do nothing but watch the approach. Arturo had met many dangerous people. He had been scared many times. But never in his own home. Never like this.
“Who . . . are . . . you?”
“My name is not for you to know.”
The man was tan and dark but was no Panamanian, no Latino at all. His Spanish was perfect, but had the unmistakable accent of a Catalonian. He walked along the edge of the pool, illuminated by the lights. He looked respectable and reasonable and utterly terrifying.
“What do you want?”
“I’m here for you, Mr. Arturo. I’m here because of what you’ve done.”
Step by step, the man in the suit grew closer.
“Whatever it is, whatever I’ve done, I can stop.”
Arturo couldn’t move. He wasn’t sure he had even blinked.
“Past tense,” the man in the suit said. “It’s too late to stop. You shouldn’t have started.”
“You don’t know who you’re messing with.”
“Do you feel any conviction in those words, Mr. Arturo? Because you don’t project any.”
Arturo felt no conviction. It was an empty threat. He knew powerful people—dangerous people—but none who could rush to his aid now, and none that cared enough about him to avenge his death. He was a professional friend, after all. He had no true friends.
“Look,” Arturo said, dry-mouthed. “Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it. Look at my place. Look around, look at my robe. You can see I have money. I’m rich. I’m even richer than you would think I am. I hide most of my wealth in foreign accounts. But I can get you cash. Tonight. It’ll take a few hours but we can wait. You’re in no hurry. How’s fifty thousand dollars sound? You can walk out of here a wealthy man.”
The man was silent.
Arturo thought he was tempted, but not tempted enough, so he doubled the figure. “One hundred thousand.”
The man in the suit stopped when he was a few meters away. Close enough for Arturo to see his eyes. He had never seen anyone with eyes as black, so empty of humanity.
“An interesting figure,” the man said, “but nowhere near enough to buy me off. To quote a cliché: I wouldn’t get out of bed for one hundred thousand dollars. That doesn’t even cover my expenses, which is the reason why I’m here.”
“I don’t understand. If I’ve done something to you, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what. Tell me. Let me make it right.”
The man explained. The rifle. Jairo. The revolutionaries. Death. So much death.
“Shit,” Arturo said when he had finished. “Shit.”
“Don’t swear.”
“I feel like swearing.”
“Trust me when I say I can change your mind.”
; Arturo showed his palms. They were damp with sweat and red where his fingers had been pressed into his palms for the past couple of minutes.
“We can make this right,” Arturo said.
Arturo swallowed the moisture—and the terror—from his mouth, but the latter didn’t go down. It stuck in his throat, choking, constricting. He pushed his hair back with his fingers.
He hadn’t yet worked out how, but he had to stall. He had to buy time to think of something. Anything.
“How did you find me?”
The man in the suit said, “You’re in the phone book.”
Arturo stared.
The man in the suit said, “Jairo gave you up.”
Arturo exhaled through his nose. “The man has no loyalty. He has no backbone.”
“Had,” the man in the suit corrected, and the casual tone cut through Arturo’s core.
The man in the suit had no weapons held in hand, but he would be armed. A silenced pistol under his jacket, no doubt. A knife up his sleeve, maybe. Garrote in a trouser pocket, perhaps. Or maybe there were none. Which wasn’t any help to Arturo. He was no fighter. He wasn’t strong. He wasn’t fit. The man could beat him to death and he knew there would be nothing he could do to stop it, except maybe scream. He owned a gun, but that wasn’t conveniently tucked under his kimono. It was in a drawer of his bedside table. The same drawer where he kept the condoms, water-based lubricant, and little blue pills.
The same drawer that was right next to Grace or Faith. Arturo had no true feelings for her, as he had no feelings for any of the women he brought home, but he found he wasn’t heartless. He realized he did care what happened to her.
“You didn’t hurt her, did you?”
The man shook his head. “She’s passed out, snoring peacefully.”
“If I scream, she’ll wake up.”
“If you start screaming. it’ll be the last noise either of you ever hears. Is that what you want?”
Arturo shook his head. “No. I won’t scream. If you leave her out of it, I’ll make it easy for you.”
“You can’t make it difficult for me,” the man said. “But she never has to know I was here. She can go on sleeping peacefully. She can wake up in the morning, hungover and regretful but alive.”