Inside Man

by Jeff Abbott

  “That’s why you don’t work?”

  “Yes. I thought they would hire me back when the suspension ran out…but my job’s not waiting for me. And I haven’t looked for another job. It’s hard to be a librarian these days and not touch computers.”

  “I don’t want to get you in more trouble.”

  She studied her beer glass. Paige was a kindred spirit, I thought; she’d answered a flame in her own brain, to stop a bad person, same as I had.

  Paige looked up at me. “I want to know why Steve died and I want whoever did it to pay. In full. So. You want to know about Miami, fine, I’ll be your research assistant. My family has been here since the town was founded. I’m old-school Miam-a.” She pronounced the last i like it was an a.

  “But you don’t touch a computer,” I said. “I don’t want you in trouble.”

  “Mmm, let’s see what we need to do.”

  “Thank you.”

  “To Steve,” I said, and we clinked glasses. She finished her beer and went home. I relocked the door behind her.

  I went to my laptop and did a property search on the address to which I’d followed Cordelia. I didn’t want to give Paige a name to research, not yet.

  According to the public records, the mansion was owned by the Varela Family Trust.

  I went to a popular social media site and did a search on Cordelia Varela.

  She went by Cori—the man on the phone had called her that as well—with her friends, of which she didn’t have many, at least on the site. I paged through the pictures. The About page told me she had a bachelor’s degree in finance from the University of Miami and had started a charity called Help with Love. I did an online search for it. Help with Love—which to my twisted sense of humor sounded more like a dating service—had as its focus reaching out to kids at risk and giving them guidance to make solid choices and complete their educations. She helped finance smaller charities here in Florida, as well as in Africa, the Middle East, and South America—all with the idea that charities in those areas could do immediate good.

  Cordelia Varela was listed as the CEO and founder. She was young, close to my age of twenty-six. Young, I thought, to be heading a large charity. I knew that from my own parents’ long careers in relief work. Either she had managed to convince people early on to give her money, or she already had money. The size of the mansion suggested the answer.

  No mention of family in her bio on the charity’s website.

  I did a search on “Varela Miami” and then got the hits. Reynaldo Varela. Multimillionaire owner of a large aviation cargo company with worldwide reach. He gave very few interviews, but he’d given one when Cordelia—apparently the youngest of his three children—launched her charity. Reynaldo Varela was a man of few words, though. He announced support for his daughter’s charity; his air cargo company, FastFlex, pledged its backing as her first corporate sponsor.

  The hits piled up. A Varela wing at a local modern art museum, specializing in painters from the developing world. The Varela Children’s Clinic, in the economically depressed Little Haiti. The Varela Aviation Museum. The Varela Everglades Initiative. Donations to private schools of all stripes, to the Miami library system, to the symphony, to the university. Reynaldo Varela had made a lot of money and thrown a lot of money.

  “That’s the Miami way,” Paige said when I called her and asked about the family. “If you make it, and you want instant respectability, you donate. A lot.”

  “Was he not respectable?”

  “Yes, but cargo is not a glamorous way to make your millions.” She hesitated. “And there were rumors…”

  “I love a good rumor.”

  “Well, he and some Russian pilot built FastFlex from nothing. They flew those big old Soviet-style cargo planes around Africa and the Middle East after the Eastern Bloc collapsed. The very nasty rumor was maybe they flew guns into war zones, for both sides. Not that Varela was an arms dealer, no, but he was profiting off bloodshed. You know, the type of activity people picket your corporate office for. He sued some newspaper that suggested he was a dealer the UN nicknamed ‘Lord Caliber.’” She laughed. “Nothing ever proven, and it was bad public relations for him for a while. But I know his company flew tons of supplies in for the US Army during the war in Iraq, and that was dangerous work, and that was all over the news here, and that was also when he donated lots of money. You’ll sometimes see their planes at the airport. FastFlex, they have that red and green logo.”

  I hadn’t heard of the company, or the family. But a word jumped out at me: “Africa.” Where Steve had spent so much of his for-hire career. “The Varelas, are they in the news a lot, given all this philanthropy?”

  “No, they’re very low-profile. You rarely see them on the society pages. Usually because it’s the wife that pushes for that, and he’s gone through three of them. They all died. And one of his kids died.”

  “That’s…awful.”

  “It is, but, you know, he didn’t murder them. There was never a suspicion of that.”

  I thought of Cordelia in a house where tragedy was such a frequent guest.

  Paige went on: “I remember, I met him once. Miami is smaller than you think. He made a big donation to the library system. I met him at a reception for all of three minutes. He seemed very nice. Rather imperial, but also quiet. He didn’t look like a guy that anyone would nickname Lord Caliber. That’s a family that keeps to themselves. Maybe with good reason. Tragedy builds a fence.” She lowered her tone. “You think they had something to do with Steve’s death?”

  “Don’t jump to a conclusion. The answer is no.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “No, thanks for this. Much appreciated.”

  “I could dig into them more, if you want.” If this was dangerous work, she wasn’t afraid.

  “You’re not supposed to be on a computer, Paige.”

  “Ask me questions, I’ll tell you no lies. I need to help…this would make me feel like I was helping.” Paige had been a bit snappish. We’d lost a friend. I thought maybe she was just taking it hard. This was as close to an apology as I would get. She didn’t want to show she’d suffered a loss.

  “Okay. Find out anything about them you can, but don’t let anyone know that you’re looking.”

  “Helping Steve. I want to…” And then she stopped. Her voice didn’t break. But I had this feeling there were tears on the other side of the phone. I didn’t really know what had happened between her and Steve before I met them.

  “Sure. See what you can find out about the family.” We hung up after agreeing to touch base the next day.

  Find the map, I’d once been advised by the burnt man. The map started with the Varela family.

  I leaned back. The Varelas were serious money and lived in a security-obsessed area. I found an interview online when Cordelia started the charity and read it carefully. She mentioned a twin brother, Edwin, who’d died a few years ago, the inspiration for her work with the less fortunate.

  He’d been kidnapped, presumed dead, never found. I could assume the tragedy had marked the family—explained the abundant security.

  I’d lost a brother. I knew how that pain felt.

  I could call Cordelia Varela at Help with Love, tell her I knew who she was. She didn’t want to be known. It might be best to not let her know yet. She could shut me out.

  I went to the newspaper’s website for the latest on the investigation in Steve’s death. The police still said—at least to the press—that the motive was theft of his collectible motorcycle. The guy who’d fallen from the fire escape was a Colombian, Alberto Chavez. The guy in the hospital—Coma Thug, as I called him—was Carlos Tellez. Also from Colombia. Neither had a criminal record and both were in the country legally, having arrived via New York. There was no suggestion that they were in the stolen-motorcycle business; or that they traveled to Miami for any other reason. The only oddity was mention of a matchbook found in Coma Thug’s pocket, from a nightclub in W
ashington, DC.

  In the business we call stuff like the matchbook “pocket litter”—the everyday items on a person that could tell you a bigger story. He’d entered the United States in New York, stopped off in Washington…and then come to Miami. The resources of the Round Table might be able to unearth more information about them. I wouldn’t ask Paige. These guys—and presumably their associates—were killers, and I’d have to keep her at a safe distance.

  No mention of surveillance or security cameras on the North Miami property having been used to catch a glimpse of how the men died. If there was security film footage, the authorities would know for sure there was a third party—me—involved. Someone who rode the damaged bike, then escaped on foot. They might start calling cab companies. There would be an electronic record of my phone, a mile away, hailing a cab. But it had been four days. The police would have acted by now, I thought.

  So I might only have as long as Carlos Tellez—Coma Thug—stayed unconscious and silent to avenge Steve. Because if he woke up and said: The bar was closed. A man came out of the bar and followed us and that’s who ran over me and killed my buddy, well, then the suspect list would be…just me. Tick, tock, says the clock.

  The next step was trying to find out more about what Steve did in working for Cordelia Varela. Since Cordelia’s name hadn’t come up in the investigation, I doubted he’d leave an easily found trail to her as a client. Or the news would have been full of his connection to the wealthy Cordelia Varela.

  A knock at the bar’s door.

  I waited. The knock came again.

  “We’re closed,” I said. “Death in the family.”

  “Then it is good I am here.” Mila’s voice came from the other side of the door.

  8

  I TOOK A deep breath and opened the door.

  “Sam! How are you?” Mila came inside—no luggage—dressed in black jeans and a dark shirt and a black leather jacket too heavy for Miami. She looked and sounded healthy. The last time I’d seen her, she’d been recovering from multiple surgeries, drugged, her husband and I barely restraining ourselves from killing each other. Me accusing him of betraying the job that nearly got me and Mila killed, him daring me to prove it. Which I couldn’t. And I couldn’t really badmouth her husband. Mila was, if anything, loyal.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Nearly back to work,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “Just trying to keep the bar here afloat.”

  “You have no manager here.”

  “I barely have a bar.”

  “Jimmy tells me what a good job you have been doing.” Jimmy hated me, but I think even he’d figured it was best to sing my praises until he found a way to usher me out of their lives. He knew Mila cared about me, as a good friend, as a colleague. This enraged him. I don’t know quite how I felt about it. Her absence in my life felt like a hole, a persistent shadow, but I had Daniel to focus on, and that was best.

  “This bar is a challenge. I might be here for a while.”

  “Any problems beyond the bar?” She met my gaze. “You’ve had a death in the family, after all.”

  “Oh, I just said…”

  “Sam. After the problems in San Francisco during the Downfall incident, we set up a search program. Anytime there is a crime recorded near one of the bars I get an alert. A man died on the street here a few nights ago. I’ve been waiting for your call to explain what has happened.”

  I wanted to tell her about Steve. I hesitated. The Round Table wanted me on a leash.

  Her gaze was unwavering. So I told her. Everything.

  She sat down on a barstool. Normally Mila moved with an athletic grace. Now she was a bit slower. I might have been the only person who noticed. She was still recovering from her nearly fatal shooting.

  “You have put yourself in a difficult situation,” she said.

  “They killed my friend.”

  She offered me a slight nod. “Yes. I understand the impulse. But you are supposed to be stronger than that. For Daniel.”

  “Are you here to tell me to not pursue this?”

  “That milk has spilled. This man in the coma, he could know you followed them from the bar?”

  “When he finds out the motorcycle came from the bar, he’ll figure it out. And so will his employers.”

  “His employers may have figured it out already.”

  I shrugged. “What I did is pretty atypical. The employers may not know how it went down on the sidewalk. They might think there was a reason for Coma Thug to take the bike, to give a simple motive to the crime. He could have crashed it and been hurt. They can’t be certain.”

  “Unless he wakes up.”

  “Unless he wakes up,” I said. I didn’t much like where the conversation was going. Maybe I’m a hypocrite. It was one thing to strike out at Coma Thug when he or his buddy had just murdered Steve. It was something else to go into a hospital room and kill a defenseless man. I would rather know who he worked for, why he killed Steve, than kill him for the sake of revenge. Let him rot in jail, it was a better punishment.

  “So what do you do?”

  “I stop them before they can find out about me.”

  She measured my resolve with her gaze. “Let us see first,” she said, “who they are. Who sent them.”

  “Thank you. I have prints off the murder weapon I can send you.”

  “You have the weapon. Of course you do. Give it to me.”

  I went upstairs and got it from the safe and handed it over.

  “And I will make calls,” she said. “I will have our people dig and see who these men are.” She then surprised me. “And how is Daniel?”

  “Fine.”

  “I thought…” She hesitated, and that was very unlike her. “That…if you didn’t mind, assuming that we resolve this problem, I might come soon to see Daniel. In New Orleans.”

  “Um, sure. Obviously I’ll be in Miami a while longer…”

  “It is really to see Daniel,” she said quickly. “Of course, I mean, I would like to see you. I am seeing you. Right now. Of course. But I am missing that little boy so much. So much.” Then she suddenly went silent, as though she’d spilled a few words too many.

  Mila had risked everything to help me find and save Daniel. I loved that she loved my son. “Of course. I’ll call Leonie, tell her to expect you.”

  “I flew down from New York today, Sam. I need to head to Los Angeles to see Jimmy. I could take a flight to New Orleans, it’s on the way, tomorrow,” she said. “I know Daniel’s…caretaker…does not like me, but…I will stay at the apartment above the bar in New Orleans. Not at your home. I will not stay for long.”

  “I’m sure that will be fine.” Leonie didn’t care for Mila—the feeling was mutual, Mila always worried that Leonie, who knew how to create new identities for people on the run, would vanish one day with Daniel—but for Daniel’s sake I expected they could treat each other with civility.

  “Will Jimmy be meeting you there?” I asked. I’d prefer him nowhere near my son.

  “No, no, just me. Jimmy is very busy.”

  Very busy using the Round Table for his own purposes, I thought. Just like last time. No matter who gets killed, or who gets hurt. But I said nothing. She wouldn’t have believed a bad word against Jimmy, the man who’d saved her life years ago and brought her into this hidden world. Jimmy the golden boy. Only I knew the truth about how ruthless and ambitious he could be.

  “Okay. Do you need a place to stay? I can go to a hotel and you can have the apartment upstairs.”

  “I have a hotel, thank you, I’m fine. And I need to go make those phone calls.”

  “Thank you, Mila.”

  “It will be okay, Sam.”

  She left without a handshake or hug. I watched her get into a rental car and pull away. I was glad to have her on my side, but I suspected her help would come at a price.

  I called Leonie and left a message for her that Mila would be visiting a
nd I’d like her to have all the time she wanted with Daniel.

  So. The funeral was done. The police investigation was stalled or slowing. Steve’s house was six or seven blocks away. I knew he worked at home. Maybe now I could pay a visit.

  I stuck my set of Israeli-made lock picks in my pocket and headed out.

  9

  I SAW THE CAR I’d noticed at the funeral driven by the narrow cousins parked in a shallow, C-shaped driveway in Steve’s lush front yard. I parked in a church lot a block away and waited; I could see his driveway from there. Forty minutes later, close to dinnertime, the two cousins left in the car. They’d been packing up Steve’s belongings, preparing his house to go on the market, I presumed. If they were heading out for dinner I’d have some time alone in the house.

  I left my car in the church lot and was inside the house in one minute. Steve had a security system, but it hadn’t been activated by the cousins. I closed the door behind me. I could see half-filled boxes. I feared that some important link to Cordelia Varela had, unrealized, unseen, already been packed up.

  The house was bigger than a single person needed and I thought this explained why he spent so much time at Stormy’s. There wasn’t a lot of furniture, even before the narrow cousins arrived to clean house. Pictures of Steve with his parents still hung on the walls. The cousins had already boxed up the plates and the silverware in the kitchen, which gave me hope they weren’t bringing dinner back to the house. They hadn’t yet tackled Steve’s surprisingly large number of books on his shelves. You pack up belongings more slowly in grief, I think. It took my parents a long time to put away my brother’s stuff: his books, his clothes, the photos of him and the friends he always made at our many stops around the world, the paperbacks on his shelf, the video games stacked next to the television. His pocket litter, the bits and pieces that defined his life. It felt like giving up hope, although we’d seen the video, we’d seen him die.