Castigo Cay

by Matthew Bracken

  He gave a thin smile and shook his head. “That wouldn’t happen to Brooke.”

  “I know, she’s a big girl—and she’s tough.”

  “I thought you just met her.”

  “I did, but we spoke for a while. We were at a convention today at the Fontainebleau. Renewable energy. We shared the stories of our lives, instant soul mates or something. I heard about Wisconsin, the University of Miami, volleyball, everything.”

  He studied me, hard. “Look, I can’t leave and I can’t send anybody else to check. We’re too damn busy and it’s just starting. You got a ride outside? That your car? Check the private lot at Ninth and Collins. It’s small, about twenty or thirty spots. She drives a little Japanese thing, Camry or Maxima, something like that. Red. Older model. But you’ll know it because it has a ski rack on top. It’ll only take you a minute to run up and see if it’s there. If that lot is full, she uses the one at Tenth.”

  “No problem, I’ll do it.”

  He looked at me and said, “Yeah, I know you will.”

  “You do?” His unexpected remark put me off. Was this a threat from some smirking make-believe Mafia wise guy?

  His face changed. The all-business hard-guy mask fell away to expose a real person, a regular Joe. He said, “You were in the Army too, right? I was in the 101st.”

  “I was a Marine. I did a few tours.”

  “I figured as much.” He nodded toward my cheek and then pointed at my paracord bracelet. The story of my life, in two acts. So much for my makeup job, without glasses. Just barely audibly, so the waitresses standing behind him couldn’t hear, he said, “I got a couple of my own scars and a plastic foot out of the deal. Listen: Brooke is good people. I’d consider it a personal favor if you checked the parking lot and called this number.”

  He passed me his card and I pocketed it. “I’ll let you know, either way.” We shook hands firmly, holding eye contact for a long time while ignoring his growing backlog of anxious waitresses and customers.

  As he said, it took only a minute to make it to the corner of Ninth and Collins. The back side of the lot was a high wall, and the right side was a thick hedge over a chain-link fence. The lot was unattended. Near the entrance was a sturdy metal box on a steel pole. You jammed two hundred dollars into a numbered slot in the box, and your car could remain in the corresponding space until seven a.m. Two hundred bucks was a bit pricey, but as the greeter at a popular South Beach restaurant and bar, Brooke would probably clear a few thousand in tips for the night.

  Kelly pulled the GTI into the lot. A compact red sedan with a roof rack was in slot eleven, in the back right corner. The lot wasn’t full, and our presence wouldn’t attract attention if we appeared to be parking. I got out and Kelly pulled into in an empty space.

  The red Camry was parked nose-in toward the hedge, the drivers’ side door a yard from the high cement wall. A UM student parking sticker on the front bumper confirmed its ownership. I did my best amateur two-minute CSI drill. All four doors were locked. There was no blood, no other obvious signs of a struggle on her car or on the asphalt around it. A scrap of white cloth was on the ground between her left rear bumper and the wall. I picked it up for a closer look. It was cotton, about five inches square, torn on three sides with one hemmed edge. A shirt pocket.

  I glanced around for obvious video cameras but didn’t see any. No doubt the parking lot owners cared only about their cash box; otherwise, they didn’t want to know. Security cameras meant liability. They might be held responsible for what happened under their supposedly watchful eyes.

  (Of course, in an age when video cameras were as small as cigarette lighters, not seeing them didn’t mean they weren’t there. Hidden micro cameras would give the parking lot owners the advantages without the assumed liability risk. The only sure way to find out if the parking lot was under video surveillance would be to apply a crowbar to their steel money box, then wait to see if anyone arrived to break your arms.)

  Back in the car, I handed Kelly the piece of cloth and mentioned that Trevor Ridley had been wearing a white dress shirt when I’d seen him at the convention. I noticed as she held the cloth that her hand was shaking. I hadn’t seen that before, not even in the tensest situations, and there had been a lot of those that day. We were drawing close to our enemies, and we were going to get much closer.

  I was not willing to use our phones for non-mission-related calls, so Kelly drove us back to Vendettas. Alonzo Marchetti was still at the reception area. Though deep in discussion with a pair of waitresses, he came right over to meet me by the front doors. I made a quick report. “Her car is there, in the back corner in space number eleven. It’s a red Camry with a ski rack and a UM student decal. I didn’t see her between the lot and here. Could be something is wrong. Maybe she got sick, or maybe…”

  “Or maybe she got mugged. Was there like a bag in the car that you could see? She brings her work clothes in a garment bag. You know—her dress and so on.”

  “Didn’t see a bag, but I might have missed it.”

  He looked both perplexed and worried. “Okay, thanks, Marine. I’ll make some calls. We’ll get some people checking up on her.”

  No doubt he would. Tales of multi-generational mob influence in Miami Beach were probably more than rumors. Like me, he would go to the police only as a last resort.

  I had a strong indication that Brooke’s misfortune was more than a random street crime. I considered giving Alonzo Marchetti a lead, in case our rescue mission went totally fubar. Maybe tell him a name or two to remember. Richard Prechter. Trevor Ridley. Topaz. The names would be like the cryptic message scratched onto the stick Bev Clifton left behind on the dune atop Castigo Cay. But I didn’t want to break mission opsec, and so I left without telling him. I probably should have. Insurance would have been smart, considering.

  Kelly was still double-parked outside, the valet standing on the street side attempting to chat with her. As soon as I was in the seat, we sped north and she asked, “What do you think happened to her?”

  “I think Trevor Ridley grabbed her when she got out of her car. She’s a big girl, but Ridley is a real monster, and he has experience at kidnapping girls off the street. And he probably had help. They could have followed her to the parking lot and jumped her when she got out. Chloroform on a rag, who knows? But she got a piece of him, or at least she got this.” I held up the white cloth and Kelly eyed it again. I hoped Brooke had gotten in a few licks of her own.

  “What about security cameras?”

  “I didn’t see any, but who the hell knows?”

  Kelly downshifted, passing an SUV. “You think she’s on Topaz? With Cori?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I think.”

  “And this Richard Prechter person thinks he can get away with doing this crap forever? One girl after another?”

  “I think Richard Prechter is both a sadist and a narcissist. That combination is the worst. They get off on seeing people suffer—in causing people to suffer. That’s the sadist part. Then the narcissists believe they’re so intelligent that nobody can ever catch them. And the more times they get away with it, the more outrageous they become. They keep raising the ante, going for an even bigger thrill. Shrinks say they’re trying to get caught, but I think they’re just mocking society. They think they’ll never get caught. They believe they’re born winners and can never lose. And if you’re a multimillionaire evil-genius type with political connections…well, maybe you won’t.”

  We passed a pair of parked police cars with blue and red lights flashing. Kelly said, “That’s why we have to kill them, no matter what. Prechter and Ridley.”

  “Kill them?” I was a bit surprised by the cold resolution in her voice.

  “Yes. Kill them both. Kill them all. They’re vampires. We have to drive stakes through their hearts. Silver bullets and holy water. I’m speaking metaphorically, of course. But it’s the only way to stop them. They own the legal system. The entire legal system works to protect people
like them, once they’re rich and powerful enough.”

  I couldn’t have agreed more. We continued driving north through Miami Beach. It was coming to life as twilight fell.

  ****

  Kelly said, “You know, you do have an invitation. Why don’t we just drive onto Sunset? Why do you want another ride?”

  “Because I don’t want your car trapped on the island if things get crazy.”

  “You think it might get crazy?”

  “I’m almost counting on it. If I can snatch Prechter, then we’ll trade him for Cori and Brooke and call it a night.”

  “You’ll let him go?” Kelly sounded horrified at the idea.

  “No, of course not. But he’ll have to believe it while he makes his phone calls.”

  I gave myself a fresh smear of makeup in the visor mirror. I was wearing no glasses tonight, not for a “twilight-to-starlight” event. This would give me a different look from the one I’d had standing next to Prechter at the conference.

  We didn’t have to drive far to find my next ride. The Miami Beach Theater for the Performing Arts occupied the block at Washington and 17th Street, next to the Miami Beach Convention Center. A show must have recently gotten under way, judging by the number of limos loitering in the area. One line of limousines waited around the corner from the theater and halfway down the block. Most of them were sealed shut, with engines idling. A driver in a gray suit stood by a gleaming black Cadillac, rubbing the mirrors with a chamois cloth.

  I told Kelly, “Pull up by that guy.” I leaned out the open passenger window and said, “Hey, buddy, I’m going to a party on North Sunset Isle.”

  “Congratulations.” He gave me a dismissive glance and went back to polishing.

  “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to drop me off. It’ll take you fifteen minutes, max. I’d like to make a favorable impression when I show up. This Volks ain’t gonna do it.”

  He looked at the GTI and cocked a wary eye at me. “The Sunset Isles are private.”

  I stepped out of the car while showing my empty hands, and then offered my invitation for his inspection.

  He said, “Let me see the money.” I slipped him a pair of five-hundreds. He produced a small flashlight, put on narrow reading glasses, and examined the bills and the invitation closely. He said, “Okay, but if that card doesn’t open the gate on Sunset Isle, I’m keeping the thousand and dropping you off right back here. Do we have a deal?” His accent was vaguely Middle Eastern, maybe Israeli. Arab? Jew? Or Christian, for that matter? Damned if I could tell, and I sure wasn’t going to ask. No way to win that one. He handed back the invitation, but the two bills had disappeared like magic.

  “We have a deal,” I nodded.

  “No funny business.” He opened the rear door for me, and I climbed in and sank into the luxurious leather seat. There was a flat-screen TV attached to a glass privacy partition between the front and back. No wonder the driver wasn’t concerned about his security in giving an off-the-books ride to a walk-up customer—the partition was probably bulletproof Lexan. The drive took only five minutes, up Alton Road along the Bay Shore Golf Club. We were going into an exclusive residential neighborhood. With every block closer to the water the properties grew larger and the homes more fabulous.

  The security post was on the Miami Beach side of the private bridge over to North Sunset Isle. The limo stopped, I pushed the button to lower my window and showed my invitation to the uniformed guard. A moment later the gate rolled open. The arched two-lane bridge between Miami Beach and North Sunset Isle was about a hundred feet long. I glanced up and down the canal. Each waterfront property had a private dock, most of which were occupied by sportfishermen or sailing yachts. Then we descended onto North Sunset Isle. The road was a good fifty feet across, wide enough for even the limo to make an easy U-turn.

  Some of the homes were visible behind decorative custom fences, but most were hidden behind walls and hedges. There were about two hundred feet of road frontage for each property on both sides of North Sunset Isle Drive. I presumed that they ran a similar distance back to the water, making them one-acre lots. That was a lot of land when the land was on Biscayne Bay, and every square foot was man-made.

  Twilight was falling and the foot lamps and other indirect lighting gave a soft glow to the properties that were visible. Water sprinklers chugged and spun to keep the grounds verdant. Even the hedges were wet with mist from invisible spray nozzles. The home styles varied from angular ultra-contemporary to classical Italian villas. Somewhere out in the country they might have been worth ten or fifty million dollars each. Here on Biscayne Bay I could not even guess at their value. And what was a dollar really worth anymore, anyway? Hell if I knew.

  Escalades, Jaguars and BMWs were parallel-parked all along the road—overflow parking for the evening guests. During the day they would be replaced by gardeners’ and contractors’ trucks and package-delivery vehicles. At the end of the isle the asphalt widened into a traffic circle. Number 36 was to the left of the circle, 35 to the right, both hidden from view by hedges trimmed into living walls.

  Number 37 was straight ahead, the western tip of North Sunset Isle. Across the front of Tony Marcello’s property was a shoulder-high stone wall with iron spears extending another six feet. Every twenty feet a stone tower anchored the crossbars of the iron palisades. On top of each stone tower a gas lamp flamed. If the intended effect was to awe visitors, it worked. A pair of tall iron vehicle gates were closed. To their right was an arched pedestrian portal through the wall.

  Some guests were being let out of cars near the gate. Others guests were walking up, having already parked somewhere along North Sunset Isle Drive. My driver swung around the circle and parked flush with the pedestrian gate. He adroitly hopped out and opened my door with a flourish. He had buttoned up his gray jacket and was even wearing his chauffeur’s cap. He already had his thousand dollars, and I walked away from him after just a nod of thanks. A tip was not required or indicated—a deal was a deal and both of us were satisfied.

  18

  I squared my shoulders and headed for the opening. Other newly arriving guests were presenting their invitations to a pair of security guards flanking the portal. No, not merely guards—they were actual off-duty police. Evidently, moonlighting in uniform was allowed here. And why the hell not? Times were hard and cops’ families needed to eat too.

  Anyway, it was considered a great gig for cops to protect the high and the mighty. You rubbed elbows and chatted with Very Important Persons. You made Connections. In spite of humble origins, if you possessed some smarts and the right personality you could ingratiate yourself with somebody nearer the pointy top of the triangle and worm your way into his or her private circle. A bodyguard could turn into a personal driver, and then into Mr. Big’s trusted young confidant. It happened. I’d seen it. I’d even turned down lucrative job offers that entailed becoming Somebody Important’s personal Doberman pinscher, leash and all.

  I knew plenty of guys like these two guarding the castle’s sally port. From the ranks of the military to law enforcement to private security was a well-trod career path. The worse the economy gets, the better it is for security pros—at least as far as pulling a paycheck goes. Plenty of my old buddies worked as contractors for one Blackwater-type security outfit or another. Their paychecks were occasionally quite impressive. The downside was that beneath your business suit or casual attire you still wore body armor and a gun for a living, with all the risk that entailed. Even worse, at least from my point of view, you had to follow other people’s orders while you took their money.

  There already were a handful of guests seeking entrance in front of me, and more coming from behind. Mostly power couples, some of the ladies junior to their male escorts by decades. The women were dressed as if they were attending a Hollywood award ceremony, in sequined dresses and shiny high-heeled sandals. Some of the men were in suits, but others wore pressed slacks and short-sleeve shirts that would have fit in nicely a
t a yacht or country club social event.

  So I had guessed about right when selecting my outfit. The sapphire-blue guayabera was one of my favorite upscale party shirts. Girls often said it complemented my eyes. I think its color just gave them a ready excuse to flirt. I had heard, “Your eyes are so blue,” from girls going all the way back to grade school. Yes, they are. And thank you very much.

  Actually, thank my parents, and their parents. I had nothing to do with the selection of my eye color. But I understood the deeper lesson: blue eyes, ojos azules, are nice to have. The scar beneath my right eye was not very nice, and so it was concealed (I hoped) with a fresh dab of makeup. Both my eye color and my scar were a matter of pure dumb luck. But you play the cards you’re dealt. I could surely attest to the fact that many doe-eyed señoritas had a tall blue-eyed gringo experience ranking quite high on their to-do list. Oh, yes, they did. Scar or no scar.

  The guayabera was cut loosely and the bottom edge was long enough to have easily concealed my Glock, but I had elected to leave the pistol in Kelly’s GTI. I felt there was too much risk of encountering a pat-down inspection or metal detectors upon arriving at the party. The two cops by the pedestrian gate might have been moonlighting, but their uniforms, badges, guns and radios were all very real. They were clearing the guests one at a time, looking at their invitations with flashlights but not requesting additional ID. All these fine folk, arriving in their silk threads and luxury cars, invitations in hand, simply must be trustworthy. Such people did not suffer intrusive questions or bodily groping at the hands of paid guards. The two policemen obviously had been given their own rules of engagement for the night, including no unnecessary harassment of the distinguished visitors.

  They bantered pleasantly with a few of the men and women going through ahead of me, but when it was my turn they gave me and my invitation more than a cursory look. They didn’t make it obvious and weren’t rude to me, an unaccompanied young male, but they moved in close from each side. One used a discreet wand no bigger than a cell phone; the other gave me a casual, impersonal back-of-hand pat-down around my belt line. They did it with respect, almost unnoticeably. If they had groped my groin TSA-style, I’m not sure what would have happened, but thankfully they didn’t.