The Shadow Cartel (The Dominic Grey Series Book 4)

by Layton Green

  “And you’re looking for . . . ?”

  Grey put a hand on the counter and gave a hesitant grin. “Religious material.”

  The man swept an arm outward, palm up. “There is something particular I can help with?”

  Grey eyed the rack of books. “I noticed you have lots of material on Santeria.”

  “Sí, señor. This is a botánica.”

  “Yeah, I was actually looking for something different. You don’t carry anything on Palo Mayombe, do you?”

  The man’s demeanor changed in an instant. His eyes narrowed and he folded his arms into a wary defensive stance. Grey also sensed a level of competence, a shrewdness, he hadn’t noticed before. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other two patrons stop moving.

  “Who tell you this?” the man behind the counter said.

  Grey put his hands up. “Hey man, just a friend who’s into it. I can’t seem to find anyplace that carries supplies.”

  The man eyed him for a long moment. “Maybe your friend, he is misinformed,” he said. “We no carry Palo here.”

  “No? That’s too bad. Any idea where else I might look?”

  “No, señor.”

  Grey shrugged. “Thanks anyway. I’ll try another botánica.”

  As Grey turned to leave, another customer stepped through a swinging door behind the counter, carrying a bundle of sticks. Grey got a glimpse of a small back room filled with more stick bundles, unmarked glass bottles, animal skulls, colored candles, and a row of black cauldrons squatting on the floor.

  The man at the counter caught Grey’s glimpse. His eyes followed Grey out the door.

  The sun made Grey squint as he stepped outside, and the sensory overload of Calle Ocho returned in a rush. He took out his cell and called the number Fred had given him.

  “Agent Hernandez.”

  “It’s Grey. I need you to look something up for me. Names and addresses for the owner and employees of Botánica Caldez on Eighth Street.”

  “Sure. What gives?”

  “I saw a bag of goodies from this place at the Lopez house. I checked it out and I think there’s a connection. I’ll explain more when we meet.”

  “Which is when?”

  “Depends on how fast you get me those names.”

  “I’ll get back to you this afternoon.”

  On his way back to his car, Grey saw a giant jaguey tree providing shade for a sliver of green space, its latticework of roots jutting three feet off the ground. As a pair of roosters scrambled through the park, Grey noticed an odd-looking bundle embedded in the roots.

  He stepped closer, and saw it was similar to the bundle he had seen in Manny Lopez’s house: a small packet wrapped in black cloth and sealed with wax. Next to the bundle was a bull horn topped with a dirty mirror, warping Grey’s visage as he peered into it.

  After leaving Little Havana, Grey swung into a coffee shop in Coconut Grove on his way back to the hotel. He checked his email on his cell—no messages—and did a spot of research on Palo Mayombe. Reading through websites of dubious scholarship echoed what Viktor had told him, with more inflamed rhetoric. Palo was indeed a bizarre religion, though to Grey it possessed a strange sort of logic, if one believed in spirits. Dead souls in history outnumbered the living by a vast majority, and if consciousness was not destroyed but stuck around in another form of energy, then yeah, everyone could be swimming in a sea of ghosts. It fit with the laws of science concerning conservation of matter—weird science, that was.

  Like most obscure religions, it was hard to go past the surface on the Internet, which was why Viktor’s firsthand knowledge was often so crucial to law enforcement. The only thing Grey learned was that Palo Mayombe involved a lot of blood and bones and was shrouded in secrecy, and everyone seemed terrified of it.

  He also found a few Miami news articles from recent years describing gruesome crime scenes with suspected connections to Palo, including a pile of decapitated goats discovered near Biscayne Bay, human fetuses found inside jars at the Miami airport, and a ring of grave robbers charged with stealing bones from local cemeteries.

  He logged off and walked through the Grove’s touristy center to find some lunch. As he passed a series of charming cafés with chalkboard menus and ivy-covered patios, he wished he and Nya were sitting at a table together, fingers intertwined, speaking with eyes instead of words.

  Miami could be a good place for them. Nya said the city’s foliage and smells reminded her of Harare, and Miami felt like nowhere else to Grey, a limbo in time and place, an edgy paradise poised somewhere between the slick commerce of North America and the seedy languor of a banana republic. A place to drift and dream and disappear. The perfect haven for two lost souls.

  His cell rang at the same time he decided on Peruvian take-out. The call was from Fred.

  “What’cha got?” Grey asked.

  “There’s only one owner and one employee at Botánica Caldez, and they’re one and the same. Name’s Hector Fortuna.”

  “Criminal record?”

  “Not yet. He’s legal, too. Born in Cuba, came to the States on lottery. Passport records show he spent six months in Mexico a few years back, and hasn’t left Miami since. Shall we set up a little chat with him?”

  “Yeah, but I’d like to see who shows up for dinner first,” Grey said. “Can that be arranged?”

  “You bet.”

  Later that evening, Grey found himself kneeling next to Fred on the roof of an apartment complex on U.S. 1, also known as South Dixie Highway, the main artery through South Miami. With the aid of high-powered binoculars, the rooftop provided a convenient view of Hector Fortuna’s front door.

  The stretch of U.S. 1 below them separated the affluent neighborhood of Pinecrest from Kendall, a sprawling suburb that was the epicenter of the Cuban-American middle class. Hector’s property was on the Kendall side, bordered by a canal and a scruffy park. Fred and Grey had been camped out since four p.m., an hour before Hector’s botánica had closed. So far, no one besides Hector had appeared.

  Fred handed Grey the binoculars. “Keep an eye out for a minute? I need a soda. You want one?”

  “No thanks.”

  Fred wiped his forehead and guzzled half a can of Coca-Cola. “I’ve never looked so forward to sunset. Maybe if I was as thin as you I’d stay cooler. You on the South Beach diet or something?”

  Grey chuckled. “I run.”

  “You look pretty athletic, ever tried your hand at a proper sport?”

  “My father taught me to fight from the age of five. I was never allowed to do anything else.”

  “Military?”

  “Yeah. Marines.”

  “He must’ve been a proud papa when you made Recon.”

  Grey didn’t answer.

  “I’m sorry,” Fred said. “He passed?”

  “No idea. I left home at sixteen, haven’t seen him since.”

  Fred returned to the binoculars. “So how about those Yankees?”

  Grey had always been insanely jealous of the other kids who played sports, especially those he saw tossing a baseball with their dads. Grey’s shining moment with his father had occurred after a fight at school when he was nine, just before moving to Japan. In the principal’s office, the principal had told Grey’s father that although Grey hadn’t started the fight, he had refused to quit when the teachers broke it up.

  On the car ride home, Grey’s father asked him if he had won. Grey said yes.

  The pat on the knee that followed was the only praise he had ever received from his father.

  “Tell me about the Alianza Cartel,” Grey said.

  “They’re one of the older ones, more Mafia-like, not as high profile as the Zetas or the Knights. But they’re no less deadly.”

  “Where’s the power base?”

  “The Yucatan Peninsula. Cancun.”

  Grey flicked his eyes Fred’s way, surprised. “I didn’t realize there was a cartel in Cancun.”

  Fred laughed. “There’s
a cartel everywhere in Mexico. The Alianza works the Caribbean.”

  “So what’s their affiliation with this cult?”

  “None that I know of,” Fred said. “That’s why we’re kneeling on this roof.”

  “I’ll give you some advice from my employer: when you’re dealing with cults, pretend you’re on the inside looking out. My guess is not many cults or religions, including Palo Mayombe, would smile upon drug dealing. But if there is a connection, it exists for a reason.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “Speaking of connections, we have our first visitors.” Grey returned the binoculars to Fred, noticing that dusk had crept up on them. “Two people approaching from the Mercedes across the street.”

  “C’mon,” Fred said as he focused, “turn around for Daddy. That’s it, that’s it . . . damn. I didn’t get their faces.”

  Mosquitoes became a constant annoyance, lizards slipped in and out of cracks in the wall. Over the next thirty minutes, Grey noticed the faint outline of four more people arriving.

  Fred whistled. “I recognized three of those four. Alianza middlemen. And there’s another getting out of a Jag . . . it’s an Alianza happy hour in there.”

  Grey sat watchful beside him, one eye on the door to the roof, the other gazing on the scene below. Fred counted off twelve arrivals in total.

  After an hour passed without another visitor, Fred lowered the telescopic lens. “At least seven were Alianza, and those are just the ones I recognized. My guess is all of them. Good instincts. There’s definitely a connection.”

  Grey could smell grilled meat from somewhere below, and realized how hungry he was. Just before midnight Fred reported that all twelve had left the house. “Thirteen, counting Hector,” he said. “That mean anything? You know, like a coven or something?”

  “That’s probably mixing metaphors,” Grey said, “but who knows, I’ll ask Viktor.”

  “Say, you find out anything on that blue lady?”

  “Not yet.”

  Fred grunted. Grey thought he could read something in Fred’s mannerisms, something he wasn’t disclosing, but Grey didn’t press. At this stage, Grey and Viktor were providing consultation services. If Fred wanted to play coy, that was his business.

  Fred walked to the ledge, crossed his arms, and peered over. “You know what I think? I think we need to get inside that house.”

  Grey inverted his wrists and stretched them, a habit from the dojo. “I wouldn’t disagree. Any ideas?”

  “Yeah, actually. Want to grab some food and hear about it?”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  Fred took Grey to a bar near the river with low rafters and scuffed wooden floors. “Ain’t much to look at,” Fred said, “but the food’s great.” He proceeded to order a draft Budweiser, a plate of wings, and a double order of onion rings.

  Grey opted for a burger and a Presidente, a Nicaraguan lager that was the draft special.

  “At least you eat burgers,” Fred said. “That makes you a little bit American.”

  Grey took a long swallow of beer. After a half-day stakeout in the Miami sun, it tasted like nectar.

  “Not gonna bite, huh?”

  “Not on that,” Grey said.

  “You political?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me neither,” Fred said. “But since you’re a captive audience, I’ll tell you what I think. Republicans are greedy people who vote their pocketbooks and will do anything to preserve the status quo. Democrats are bleeding hearts who, as soon they get enough money, become Republicans. The blacks and Latinos know the deck is stacked against them and aim for the middle class, so they’re Democrats. The poor whites want to preserve their lottery-shot chance at being rich, so they’re all Republicans. And that, my friend, is America in a nutshell.”

  Grey chuckled. “I think even most politicians are like everyone else, wondering how the hell they got there and why the world is so hard to change. Though they’re also thinking damn that caviar tastes good, and maybe I better do what it takes to keep it coming.”

  Fred chortled. “Ain’t that the truth. When did this world go to hell, anyway?”

  Grey rolled his beer between his palms. He didn’t think it was a new development. “So that’s why you do what you do? To make the world a better place?”

  Fred finished a wing and licked a finger. “People will tell you the war on drugs is a farce, because drugs are obviously what people want, and that’s why they buy them.”

  “The Prohibition argument.”

  Fred nodded. “It used to be true. But let me tell you, nobody wants today’s drugs. They don’t want meth and crank and cheap pharmaceutical concoctions that eat your flesh and steal your soul. Today’s drugs are destroying whole swaths of this country. They’re our Black Plague.” He picked up another wing and pointed it at Grey. “But that’s not it, either. Honestly, I could give a damn about the adult users. They’re lost causes anyway. It’s the kids that get me, Grey. The kids.”

  Grey saw something pass across Fred’s visage, a pain that went deep, deeper than anything to do with the job.

  Fred continued, “All we’re doing is lowering street prices, creating horrific synthetic drugs, and spawning drug dealers like salmon. You want to know my solution to the drug wars? Legalize the soft and medium drugs, and regulate the hard stuff for adults. But anyone who sells crank to a kid—put those people on an island together, cut down all the fruit trees, and sink the boat they came in on.”

  “That I’m on board with,” Grey said softly, thinking of Sekai, as well as Charlie and his students at the shelter, most of them approached on a daily basis.

  Fred pounded his beer. “Anyway. I’m still not sold on this Hansel and Gretel cult crap, but let’s see where it leads. I’ve got someone inside the Alianza faction in Miami. Should be able to get us inside. Someone in there knows Manny’s handler.”

  “Tell him to bone up on Palo Mayombe,” Grey said. “My guess is Hector’s house doubles as a drug drop and a house of worship.”

  “It’s not a him, it’s a her. She’s hot as lava rocks, and has one of the major players in the Alianza slobbering all over her.”

  “That always helps.”

  “I’ll get a wire on her, stick her in there and see what happens. And I’d like you around to translate the cult stuff.”

  Grey gave a slow nod, thinking, Viktor is who you really need. “Keep me posted.”

  Grey called Viktor from his balcony the next morning, the ocean breeze ruffling his hair.

  “You’re up early,” Viktor said.

  “You know me, late to bed and early to rise, insomnia in between. Thought I’d give you a ring before my run.” He thought he detected a note of breathlessness in Viktor’s voice. “Are you walking?”

  “Indeed I am. I have to say, one cannot overestimate the benefits of fresh air and a stiff walk.”

  “I’m sure beautiful Alpine scenery doesn’t hurt. You sound good, Viktor.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I took this much time off work. Or any time.”

  “I hate to be the one to drag you back.”

  “Bah, you know me. It’s never a bad time to discuss an intriguing belief system.”

  Grey heard some of the old urgency creeping back into Professor Radek’s voice, the compulsion to pursue every buried secret to its final resting place. He smiled to himself and updated Viktor on recent events.

  “I’m still confused by the CIA’s interest,” Grey said, “unless there’s a terrorist angle within the Alianza Cartel.”

  “Politics is the sport of kings,” Viktor murmured, “and kings are all too human. I prefer to play with gods. But we’ll investigate the angle we were given.”

  Grey knew full well that if Viktor was intrigued by a case, he would investigate whatever angle he wished, government interests be damned.

  “Can we agree that the CIA is likely seeking someone in the hierarchy of the Alianza Cartel?” Viktor asked.

 
; “That’s my guess. They’re looking for someone and they’re not getting very far.”

  “If this palero, Hector Fortuna, is as involved with the cartel as he seems to be, then we might be better off finding who he reports to.”

  “Not sure I follow,” Grey said.

  “Priests in all religions learn their trade somewhere. In modern times it’s usually at seminary. But in the older religions, knowledge was passed down from teacher to student, priest to acolyte. Palo is more traditional than most; a Palo priest almost certainly has learned his craft from another, more experienced palero.”

  “So find the palero who trained Hector, and we might find drug dealers higher up the food chain, connected to the mentor. Interesting angle.”

  “If, indeed, there’s a connection between this cartel and Palo Mayombe. It might be a local attraction.”

  “The cartel’s based in Cancun. Is Mexico a country where Palo can be found?”

  “Oh yes. It’s in the shadows, but it’s there.”

  Grey started to pace, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Why don’t we see what happens with the DEA’s informant first? This is a little out there, and they’re more likely to bite if their other avenues dry up.”

  “Of course.”

  “Hey, you remember that package bound in black cloth I found at Manny’s bungalow?”

  “The one sealed with wax?”

  “Yeah,” Grey said. “I saw another one, in a park on Calle Ocho, embedded within the roots of a huge tree. Any idea what it is?”

  “They’re called bilongos. Packets that contain a variety of substances, usually blood, herbs, and animal matter. They’re charms, magical bundles used for a variety of purposes.”

  “What about ones sealed in black cloth?”

  “This one, too?”

  “Yes.”

  A heaviness, as well as a hint of mystery, slipped into Viktor’s professorial air. “Bilongos wrapped in black usually contain human hair or a personal item related to the individual a palero is seeking to affect,” he said. “These bilongos are used to invite the Nkisi—the spirit summoned to the cauldron—to destroy one’s enemy.”