by J. P. Lane
Palmer’s smile was weary as he eased back in his chair. “It’s ironic how in this country, where no secret can find a hiding place, the last people to hear anything are the people in law enforcement – that’s if we ever have the good fortune of hearing anything. But before you go on, I should warn you there’s a possibility I may have to use what you say as testimony.”
“I understand that’s a given. Though for obvious reasons I’d rather be involved as little as possible.”
“I understand,” Palmer assured Mike. “I’ll try and keep you out of it. So, what is it you know?”
“Do you happen to know of a man named Dave Evans?” Mike asked.
“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of him. Does he have something to do with it?”
“No, but he knows who committed the murders, or so he says.”
Palmer began doodling idly on a notepad. “How does Evans know who committed the murders? Was he an eye witness?”
“No, he wasn’t an eyewitness. Someone confided to Evans he committed the murders.”
“There’s someone going around town confessing to murder?” Palmer shook his head doubtfully. “The person would have to be completely crazy or whacked out on drugs.”
“Well, it is Evans’ opinion the man is a cokehead. I wouldn’t know. I don’t know the person, or even who it is. But from all Evans said, it appears there was more to the whole thing than some cokehead going crazy.”
Palmer stopped doodling and looked at Mike intently. “What do you mean when you say there was more to it?”
“There appears to have been a drug drop going down at Fisherman’s Key. The party who claims he committed the murders told Evans he was waiting for the drop when the McGuire boat appeared unexpectedly.”
“Were you told how the drugs were dropped?” Palmer asked with growing interest.
“By a seaplane is what I was told.”
“Did Evans say more?”
“No, that’s about it.”
Palmer whistled through his teeth. For a minute he was silent. In his estimation, the seaplane wasn’t coming from shore. It was coming from Florida, or another island, though the latter was unlikely. “Let me make sure I have the name right,” he said flipping to a clean page on his notepad. “What did you say your man’s first name was?”
“Dave.”
“Got a telephone number for him?”
“Sorry, I don’t.”
“That’s not a problem. We’ll track him down.”
Mike began having second thoughts. He knew he had done the right thing by reporting the conversation between Evans and himself, but at the same time, he was concerned for Evans. “I hope what I’ve told you doesn’t implicate Evans in any way,” he said worriedly. “I don’t see Dave Evans as the kind of man who would be involved in murder.”
Palmer gave Mike a long look. His smile was jaded as he said, “Let me tell you something, Mike. I can draw a line connecting almost every crime committed in this country and the sale of narcotics. Whether your man was involved, who’s to say? The jury is out on that one. But I’m interested in finding out what he knows. Let’s leave it at that for now. No point in either of us jumping the gun.”
It was not without trepidation that Dave Evans pulled into the parking lot of the Criminal Investigation Department. He got out of his car and walked slowly towards the building he had driven by almost every day of his adult life, but had never given much thought until now. As he climbed the steps leading up to the entrance of the four-story grey fortress, Evans went through every imaginable scenario he might encounter while there. His nerves were already raw as he entered the lobby and faced the intimidating welcome of a reception desk caged in bulletproof glass.
Engrossed in something on her computer, the uniformed woman at the desk didn’t appear to notice Evans as he stood nervously at the panel of glass separating them. Tentatively, Evans rapped on the window to get her attention. She slid open the panel.
“I’m Dave Evans. I’m here to see Detective Doran,” Evans announced uncertainly.
“You have an appointment?”
“Yes.”
The woman slid the panel shut and continued clicking away on her keyboard. Evans stood waiting for what seemed like an interminable time. At last the woman opened the panel again. “What did you say your name was?” she asked.
“Dave Evans… I’m here to see Detective Doran.”
“Wait a minute.” She picked up a phone. “He’ll be right with you,” she said putting the phone back down. “Have a seat over there,” she instructed, pointing Evans to the metal chairs lining the room on either side.
Evans sat anxiously jiggling a leg. It had been a hell of a week, the last straw being a call from the C.I.D. Why hadn’t they just visited him at his home instead of asking him to come to headquarters, and then wait in some godforsaken room surrounded by the reek of common street criminals who were staring at him as if he was some alien just arrived from outer space?
Seeking refuge from the stares, he fixed his eyes on his Cole Haan loafers. It was then that he realized his Ralph Lauren shirt and Italian linen slacks must stick out like a sore thumb. He dragged his eyes away from his shoes and fixed his stare on a room beyond the glass cage. In it were a dozen or so men in street clothes, plainclothes detectives from what Evans could tell. One got up and came toward the waiting area. Without hesitation, he singled out Evans.
“Mr. Evans?”
“Yes,” Evans said standing nervously.
“I’m Detective Doran. Please come with me.”
Palmer was buried in a file when they walked into his office. The chief closed the file and raised his eyes, fixing them on Evans.
“So, Mr. Evans, thanks for taking the time to come in.”
Evans regarded Palmer apprehensively. He realized whatever he had been called in for was no small thing if the C.I.D. chief was involved.
Palmer gestured for Evans to sit. Picking up on Evans’ apprehension, he said, “You’re probably wondering what this is about.”
“As a matter of fact I am,” Evans replied, steadying his voice with effort.
Palmer got straight to the point. “We have reason to believe you might have information about the McGuire case which may be of value to us.”
Evan’s jaw tightened. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Chief Inspector.”
Palmer eyed Evans skeptically. There was a sharp edge to his otherwise cordial tone as he said, “Accessory to murder is a serious crime, Mr. Evans. Non-compliance with the law could be viewed as that. It would be helpful if you could tell us what you know about those murders.”
Evans glanced from the detective to Palmer. Palmer returned his look with one of studied patience. “Come now, Mr. Evans,” he said in a placatory tone, “We wouldn’t have asked you to come here unless we had good reason to believe you know something.”
Evans did not respond.
Palmer drummed his fingers on his desk.
Finally, Palmer said, “We have a report from someone that you know who committed those murders.”
Evans tensed visibly. Frantically, he began taking stock of whom he had spoken with about the murders. There were only three people. He struggled to remember how much he had revealed during those conversations. He was sure he never mentioned Jackson’s name. And Jackson hadn’t told him who the other perpetrators were, thank God for that.
The detective quickly stepped in. “Mr. Evans,” Doran said in a sympathetic tone, “We know how it goes. We have enough crimes to solve without having to chase after everyone who wants to make a quick buck on the side.”
Dave Evans said nothing for the longest minute of his life. His voice shook when he finally spoke again. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I have nothing more to say without an attorney.”
Palmer leaned forward. “Are you sure you want to do that, Mr. Evans? Do you really want this dragged out in some legal soap opera to be witnessed by all and sundry?”
; Evans paled.
“Consider this, Mr. Evans,” Palmer continued solicitously. “We’re willing to make a bargain before it goes as far as you being forced to seek a plea bargain. Give us the information we want and we’ll look the other way as far as your little business on the side goes.”
Evans realized his back was up against a wall. “What is it you want to know?” he asked, fear and desperation showing in his eyes.
“As much as you know,” Palmer said, drumming on his desk again.
“What guarantee do I have what I tell you won’t be used against me?” Evans asked shakily.
“If you tell us what you know, you have my guarantee. That’s as good a deal as you’ll ever get. So, what do you know about those murders, Dave?”
“I only know what somebody told me.”
“Was that person involved?”
“I can’t say. I wasn’t there. I can only tell you what he said.”
Evans confided as much as he deemed necessary in order to extricate himself from a difficult situation. He knew he had omitted something vitally important, but these were shark-infested waters the C.I.D. chief was leading him into. Five people had already been killed. He did not wish to be the sixth casualty.
You wouldn’t happen to know where the drop came from, would you?” Palmer asked when Evans had finished giving his partial account.
Evans didn’t reply.
“I would think if the boats were waiting for a drop, then the merchandise had to have been coming from somewhere,” Palmer said casually.
Evans hesitated. “Look Inspector,” he pleaded, “I’m doing my best to cooperate, but you being involved in this investigation points to something bigger than what happened out at Fisherman’s Key. I don’t want to wind up dead.”
“You won’t be put in such a position, Mr. Evans,” Palmer smiled thinly. “You have my word on that. If you know more, I’d like to hear. It could very well help us solve this case.”
Evans thought for a minute. He finally decided telling Palmer about the seaplane was harmless enough.
“Where would a seaplane have been coming from?” Palmer asked with feigned surprise.
Evans hedged again.
Palmer thick brows rose in a question mark.
“It was coming from a ship not too far out at sea,” Evans said in a barely audible voice.
There was an almost imperceptible glimmer of victory in Robert Palmer’s eyes. The pieces of the puzzle were finally coming together. The ship was very likely the freighter from Nicaragua Detective Wallace had been observing at the port, though where the seaplane and the Cigarette boats fit in was a mystery. Palmer knew it was a long shot, but it was possible Evans knew more about the ship than he was letting on. “Do you know anything about this ship?” he asked Evans.
Evans became visibly frightened.
“We have a deal,” Palmer reminded him.
Evans took a deep breath. “Look, if I tell you anything more I’m going to need police protection. My suspicion is that ship was big business, big enough for somebody to do anything it takes to protect their interests.”
At last Evans conceded, “Okay, you want to know everything? From what I understand, Jackson and company were looting a big coke shipment coming out of Nicaragua. The ship’s captain was in on the deal.”
SEVENTEEN
Jorgé Caicedo Rojas, second only to Maria in the Echevarría Cartel hierarchy and a member of the cocaine industry elite, stared at the phone on his desk. Maria’s desire to eliminate their associate on the island weighed heavily on his mind. Jorgé had assumed now the industry had been taken to a sophisticated level, such methods of doing business had become as archaic as the makeshift cocaine laboratories of the old days. But, he concluded unhappily, he was obviously wrong. Violence was beginning to rear its ugly head again, and for no good reason as far as he could tell. He remembered well there had been violent times. That was the way it had been when he started at the bottom of the cartel ladder as an accountant of little consequence. Those were the days when the pioneer capos – Pablo Escobar, the Ochoa brothers, Carlos Lehder, the Rodriguez Orejuela brothers and Maria’s father Pablo Echevarría had trafficked the white powder to the United States themselves.
Jorgé fiddled with a gold plated pen on his desk reminiscing. Virtually all the original kingpins of the Colombian cocaine trade were dead, or in jail. Maria’s father had been among the old guard who had not survived. The massive heart attack had taken him instantly. Jorgé remembered how shaken he had been by Echevarría’s sudden death. Pablo Echevarría had been like a father to him. Had it not been for the older man, he doubted his ascent to the top would have been quite as mercurial. He now supervised every aspect of the cartel’s business, from the movement of cocaine out of Colombia to recycling the drug money. At that particular moment, he was immersed in the business of converting cocaine cash to diamonds from Russia. Jorgé threw the pen aside and cursed under his breath. He already had enough on his plate without Maria asking him to contract hit men.
He understood Maria’s concern over one of the shipments through the island being pilfered. He’d also checked the numbers and they didn’t add up. But what Maria was demanding was a dodgy undertaking. The island was another world, as Jorgé well knew. And not to be discounted was the fact he had spent more than a year building that alliance. It was a shame to throw it away. And there was no need to shed blood. Freeman could easily be replaced by Sterling. Sterling was a potentially strong partner, though Jorgé had some reservations about the minister. He wasn’t sure Sterling could deliver what Freeman could as head of state. He began toying with his pen again as he tried to devise an alternative strategy that would still serve to appease Maria.
Jorgé sometimes wondered what drove Maria to such extremes. The man’s cut was steep, true, and merchandise was missing, but it was a drop in the ocean all things considered. Jorgé was sure of one thing: it was not greed that motivated Maria, but power. They had long ago amassed a fortune. Unlike the drug kingpins of a decade before, their revenue had never been invested in huge stockpiles of weaponry. Instead, they had leaned toward extensive real estate holdings in and outside Colombia. This growing empire of theirs included a chain of hotels stretching from the Canary Islands to the Caribbean, in addition to a string of other legal businesses. Jorgé shrugged. It really didn’t matter what Maria’s motivation was when all was said and done. She pulled the strings. The fact was Maria wasn’t a woman to lock horns with. She could be a formidable enemy as the man down in the islands would soon discover. Taking that into account, he picked up the phone and dialed.
A gravelly voice answered on the second ring. “Si, jefe?”
“Necesito un hombre, someone from outside the country. No accent,” Jorgé made clear. “This person has to be able to think on his feet.”
“I know a man we haven’t used in a long time, but he’s good. Our arrangement with him is ongoing. Right now, we’re paying for his son to go to one of those Ivy League schools in the States.”
“I don’t need to know any of those details. Just understand it is imperative there be no trail back to us, or even Colombia for that matter.
“What’s the time frame, jefe?”
“Two weeks, three at the outside.”
“Dónde?”
“Una de las islas en el Caribe. Come to my office for details. Listen, make sure this man is someone who knows what he’s doing. We can’t afford any mess-ups. It’s an order from el numero uno.”
Jorgé put down the phone. He lit a cigarette and exhaled a smoke ring, watching it make its way slowly across his office until it broke up. His thoughts returned to Maria. She had been only in her mid-twenties at the time of her father’s death. When Pablo’s intentions that she head the cartel became known to the cartel’s top associates, the reception to the news had been anything but joyous. Jorgé had been forced to hold the organization together by means of brute force until the dust of discord had settled. It had been a struggl
e, but it had also been the turning point for the cartel. Maria had learned quickly. She was tough, tougher than her father had ever been. She was also brilliant, a facet that would soon become obvious enough to gain confidence, even among the skeptics. It was she who had recognized the importance of efficient production and initialized the construction of their huge complex of cocaine labs. Now they were capable of producing up to twenty tons a month. But the laughing young woman he once knew had become hardened over the years. She had developed a restlessness that consumed her day and night, often calling him to discuss business at two or three in the morning. And she had made far too many enemies who were potentially dangerous. Jorgé was becoming concerned about her. He fervently hoped her trip to Europe would bring her back into balance. If it didn’t, there was no telling what might happen.
EIGHTEEN
A tall man, traces of silver in his dark hair, climbed out of a midnight blue Mercedes and walked over to a discreetly positioned private entrance at the back of the island’s Ministry of Finance. He punched in a code and the door opened immediately. With the purposeful stride of someone who knows exactly where they’re going, he turned right and headed towards the sign marking the emergency exit. Instead of using the elevator on his left, he took three flights of stairs leading directly up to the floor of the minister’s office. It was 4:00 p.m. on the button when he walked into the modest conference room. Compared to the business attire of others in the meeting, he was almost inappropriately dressed, wearing only a casual sports shirt and jeans. But he exuded refinement and the authority of a man who had earned his stripes, and earned them without much assistance.
He was apprehensive and understandably so. Until now, he had maintained complete anonymity, his identity known only to one person involved in the plan. That was the Deputy Prime Minister. Now, there were three people aware of his involvement. Unfortunately, that could not be avoided, because any form of communication, which could be traced was completely out of the question.