Blond Cargo

by John Lansing

  Twenty-five feet up, he stepped easily off the first landing onto a small, flat grassy outcropping and set down his parcels. The stairs continued up the rock face to the top of the cliff and the wall that surrounded Malic al-Yasiri’s compound. He eyed the metal door that was set at an angle into the rock and painted a muted camo-brown so that it blended with the cliff face and all but disappeared when viewed from the water. He rifled through his pockets, looking for the key. He caught sight of the sun threatening the horizon and decided to get a move on before he lost all light.

  Angelica stiffened and then moved quickly from the bed to the small kitchen table as she heard her jailer’s turn of the key. The rusted hinges made a grating sound as the heavy door was opened and then slammed shut. She steeled herself seconds before he appeared on the other side of the Plexiglas wall. It was the same routine every day. His was the only face she saw.

  “Did you bring me the cranberry juice I asked for? A bottle of wine?” Angelica asked, her voice dripping with attitude.

  Hassan would have been happy to kill her. It wouldn’t have been the first time. But it wasn’t his call.

  The Americans had taught him how to follow orders when they were rebuilding Baghdad after bombing sections of his neighborhood back to the Stone Age. Malic had given him a way out of Iraq before the Shia majority took power, and paid him handsomely for his loyalty.

  His brother was now driving a cab in Detroit, attending to gang business, and two of his cousins had been smuggled directly to Los Angeles. They were all Sunnis, all members of the same tribe, all fiercely loyal to Malic, to whom they owed their lives and their livelihoods. The Iraqi gang had been conceived in the slums of Baghdad and migrated to the city of Detroit.

  Malic had been raised in an upper-crust Iraqi family, but he was a thug. He negotiated with the gang’s leader when he first emigrated, and a deal was struck to form a splinter group in Southern California. Malic’s group would serve as the conduit for the drugs that fueled the gang’s business, smuggled from south of the border by operatives of the Sinaloa cartel.

  Ultimately, it wasn’t in Malic’s DNA to be anyone’s second. He killed the Detroit boss and successfully merged the two cities together into one Iraqi gang, operating for all intents and purposes under the radar.

  Until now, Hassan thought, worried. Dumping those women’s bodies was risky business. The first had just been bad luck. The woman was one of their Eastern European imports. Smuggled into the states through Mexico City and on up to Tijuana, where she made the last leg of her journey by panga boat into San Diego County along with a shipment of cocaine.

  The woman had gotten greedy, or desperate; broken into one of their parcels; and died with her face buried in a mountain of coke before she could be delivered to Malic’s client.

  She might well have committed suicide. Stupid woman, he thought dispassionately. A natural blonde. She would have been treated like a queen in Iraq. It was too bad about the tides, though. She should have been shark bait. Instead she’d floated back to Orange County, surprised a wedding party, and made the front page of the Orange County Register.

  The second woman, Malic had assured him, would be a most persuasive message. Help maintain the balance of power in Malic’s new job with Vargas Development Group. It was too dramatic for Hassan’s taste. He would have been happy putting a bullet in the back of her head.

  And now this demon. He bridled at Angelica’s sour disposition and wanted to slap the petulant look off her face. She was the last-minute replacement for the floater. All three women were interchangeable, cut from the same cloth. She would be made available to fill the order for an important Iraqi sheik, one of Malic’s oldest friends and wealthiest accounts.

  Who was Hassan to argue? He would follow orders and live the American dream. At least he wasn’t driving a cab.

  He answered Angelica in Arabic. It gave him pleasure that she was ignorant and spoke only the infidel’s language. He explained as to a child that she must remain sober and healthy. That alcohol was forbidden in the Koran. Besides, he said with a sneer, drinking would bring down her sale price.

  Hassan picked up one of the rucksacks filled with her food and set it on the table.

  Angelica attacked with the speed of a viper.

  She wielded her breakfast fork like a dagger. It arced down with one hundred and twenty pounds of blind fury and impaled Hassan in the back. Red blossomed on his upper shoulder as he roared with pain and dropped the sack of food, spilling salad, fruit, and cold cuts onto the rugged floor.

  Angelica bolted.

  Hassan spun wildly and grabbed for her, missed, and then caught her by the hair. She was already out of the door and into the hallway by the time she shrieked with the pain of her hair being yanked.

  Hassan grappled with her and then pulled her back against his body, wrapped his right arm around her while flailing with his left hand to pull the protruding utensil out of his shoulder.

  Angelica bit down on his wrist, breaking the skin, and pulled free again.

  Maddened by pain, Hassan dove for her and dragged her back into the room. He raised a fist—he wanted to kill her, wanted to strangle her, but knew he couldn’t damage the goods. And so he threw her down onto the dinette chair, oblivious to his own pain. He efficiently bound her hands behind her and her legs to the chair’s legs with the plastic ties he always carried when doing this kind of security work for Malic.

  Then he walked into the bathroom and carefully pulled out the fork, growling. Stupid, he chided himself. Never turn your back on an enemy. Had he learned nothing in the Iraqi army?

  Malic would have him killed if he damaged the prisoner, but Hassan had learned certain techniques, skills, and he would have his revenge.

  But first he applied soap to the bite on his wrist and stanched the flow of blood with a towel. He only hoped she was clean. He might need a tetanus shot. His shoulder was tender and sore, but he had suffered worse shrapnel wounds in the war.

  “Let me go,” Angelica ordered in even tones, fighting to control her breathing and keep the desperation out of her voice. “Untie me. Now. I can get you money, and my father will let you live to spend it. It’s your only hope. I’m your only hope.”

  But Hassan denied her with a firm shake of his head.

  A tightly rolled Live Orange County magazine that had been left for her reading pleasure would now take some of the fight out of this spoiled girl.

  Angelica did not cry out as Hassan pulled back the rolled magazine baton and methodically beat her with it. Her eyes became moist, but she didn’t make a sound. Hassan almost respected her stubborn strength as he hit her again and again, working meticulously up her stomach, stopping short of her breasts, then down her arms and again from her outer thighs to her ankles.

  Satisfied, he stopped, unrolled the magazine, and placed it on the table next to her bed as a reminder.

  Hassan made sure the beating left no marks. Malic would take his job, maybe his head, and his wife would have to shop for a new husband instead of Bloomingdale’s fashions.

  He stepped over the spilled food and grabbed all of the silverware out of the kitchenette and stowed it in the empty canvas rucksacks. Then he pulled out his Leatherman multitool and cut the plastic cuffs off her ankles and then her wrists.

  Women, he thought with an ambivalent shrug as he walked out the door and locked it behind him. He was pleased with his work, pleased that his prisoner’s anger seemed to have waned.

  * * *

  With the clanging metallic sound of the exterior door being slammed shut, Angelica’s eyes started to brim with tears, but she willed them dry.

  Angelica tried to stand but felt dizzy and sat back down.

  This was her twenty-eighth day of captivity. She was sure of that because each night she would place her slippers incrementally farther down the wall, away from the bed, counting the knots in t
he rug.

  Angelica knew she had dodged a bullet. If she had stuck the makeshift weapon in his neck as planned, she might now be free. But he’d stood up just as she struck. Her mistake could have cost her her life. She would be sore for days, but she was still alive. He had been thorough with his punishment but careful. Interesting, she thought. They wanted her alive, but for what?

  Twenty-eight nights ago, Angelica had thought she might have a sexual encounter with the man she ran into at Club Martinique. He seemed nice enough at the time. He offered to take a photo of Carol and her. And then he made a clumsy offer of company as she was leaving the club. Why not? she had thought at the time. Agreeing to the assignation wasn’t about him. She was exploring. Pushing herself. Trying to unlock her emotions. Inhabit her character.

  Back at her apartment, though, all went blank. Had he spiked her drink? Had he even entered her apartment? Angelica couldn’t remember.

  She’d woken up here. In this room. But where was here? Angelica didn’t have a clue. She had no memory of falling asleep that night. She didn’t remember having sex. Didn’t know what was expected of her now. Was she being held hostage for ransom? Was her kidnapping tied to her father’s business? Some kind of Mafia retribution?

  She did know she wasn’t the first person who had been held captive in this room. That’s where her night terror came from. Taking a bath, she had noticed a faint carving in the white caulking above the tub.

  HELP.

  Faint but unmistakable. Probably carved with a fingernail.

  Help.

  On that thought Angelica lurched unsteadily to her feet, ran into the bathroom, pushed up the toilet seat, and heaved, turning the clear water in the ceramic bowl bloodred.

  14

  The loft felt empty, Jack thought as he unpacked his carry-on and contemplated his next move.

  Thursday was usually one of the nights Leslie stayed over, and he would come home to find her assembling a meal or throwing on some makeup for a night out.

  It was too quiet, and Jack didn’t know how to proceed. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let a relationship dictate his caseload. When he made a decision, he made that the right choice. Good managerial skills, he thought.

  But it was too damn quiet.

  He thought about calling Leslie and hashing it out but rang up Tommy Aronsohn—who was on East Coast time and had just finished watching The Tonight Show—instead. He apologized for the late-night intrusion.

  “No problem. Couldn’t sleep anyway,” Tommy said, walking the phone into the den so as not to wake his wife. “Damn dog snores like a drunken sailor.”

  “Duke?”

  “Oh yeah. He’s bad. I’m thinking about getting him a CPAP mask. But I thought that might be cruel and unusual.”

  “How so?” Jack asked, playing along.

  “He wouldn’t be able to lick his balls.”

  Jack laughed and then filled his friend in on the situation with Chris. Both men decided they didn’t want to make matters worse, and Tommy promised to talk to a psychiatrist friend and pick his brain. Then he changed subjects.

  “Any movement on the Cardona front?”

  “One person of interest, a Raul Vargas, but going after him could whip up a political shit storm.”

  “Never stopped you before.”

  “I’m getting a bad feeling. I’m gonna have a sit-down with Cardona. See if there’s been any internecine warfare, grudges, whatever. Something close to home.”

  “Have you filed a missing-persons report?”

  “If something doesn’t break tomorrow, I’ll call Gallina.”

  “Let me know how that goes. I’ll get on the Chris thing and get back to you.”

  Jack then called Cruz, who picked up on the first ring and thanked him profusely for the bump in pay.

  “Anything interesting on Angelica Cardona’s laptop?” Jack asked.

  “I downloaded the flash drive. She’s a looker, I’ll give her that. A few close friends, no mention of travel, said she was going to stay in character for forty-eight hours straight, whatever that means. And that was sent to a Carol Williams. They had plans to meet at a few clubs over the last weeks before she disappeared. A slew of unopened e-mails, again from Williams, her father, and some of her other friends. Facebook friends matched the names on the e-mails. No sexting or really personal posts or pictures. Nothing on YouTube. I did a printout, so you can let me know. I’m just playing catch-up. Later.”

  Jack hung up the phone, stripped off his clothes, stretched out on his own bed, and fluffed up his pillow. By land or by sea. The phrase popped into his mind for some reason. Must have been his trip to Paradise Cove. The more he thought about it, the more a new possibility firmed in his mind. Jack had a stop to make first thing in the morning.

  * * *

  The thick salty air whipped Jack’s hair as he powered his boat up the narrow channel that led to the main central waterway of Marina del Rey. He steered toward the pastel colors of Fisherman’s Village.

  He planned on taking the piece of wooden boat debris he had plucked out of the water at Paradise Cove to the Coast Guard for identification. Jack decided to run the errand on the water.

  Symmetrical rows of pristine white sailing yachts, the brilliant colors of their nautical flags, the scent of the Pacific, the nylon lines snapping on cold rolled steel masts, and the muffled vibration of his own craft helped center Jack. He knew he had to confront his son and hoped Tommy would weigh in later in the day. He didn’t want too much time to pass, but he didn’t want to make the wrong move and push Chris farther away.

  Right now, though, he had to focus on Angelica Cardona.

  The uniformed officer seated behind the gray spartan desk was thirty-two, trim, clear-eyed, and knowledgeable. The metal plaque said CAPTAIN DEAK MONTROSE. He gestured toward a black-framed photo and offered up that his father and grandfather had both been career officers in the Coast Guard. They all shared the same square chin, thick eyebrows, and military bearing.

  Deak felt an instant rapport with Jack because of his extensive police background, and he was happy to answer some questions. He typed a few commands into his computer and swiveled his screen so that Jack could look over his shoulder.

  A black-and-white rendering of a low-slung wooden boat appeared with the dimensions of the craft in the right-hand column.

  Deak picked up the foot-square section of the wreck Jack brought in and examined it thoughtfully. He knew exactly what it came from.

  “The boat’s called a panga. It’s a Mexican fishing vessel and the smuggler’s vehicle of choice lately. The Sinaloa cartel is using them to ship drugs and illegals north since the border patrol beefed up enforcement along the U.S.-Mexican border.

  “Yours isn’t the first we’ve seen in the Paradise Cove area,” he said, referring to the piece of wreckage. “Up in Malibu, on a stretch of coastline known as Smuggler’s Cove, we just grabbed another boat with fifteen hundred pounds of pot aboard. We arrested three men there. Plus, we got twenty-two illegals up near Montecito a few weeks ago.

  “Desperate times,” Deak said with compassion. Handing back the piece of wooden plank, he added, “Too bad about the woman. I heard it was a suicide, but I sure can’t figure why she’d choose a fishing boat.”

  “No sense at all,” Jack agreed, but he didn’t think she’d chosen the boat any more than she’d chosen to die. They talked for a while about the Orange County body that had washed up on shore, and then Jack had another thought. “Is there any way to get a list of the registered cigarette boats in the L.A./Orange County area? The night of the accident, a go-fast boat was reported leaving the scene, moments before the crash. If you have any stats on the distance one could travel on a tank of gas, it would help.”

  Deak tapped on the keys for a few seconds, hit Print, and handed Jack a few sheets. One listed the boat’s specs
and the other a list of the cigarette boats registered in the areas requested, along with the owners’ names and addresses. “But just know,” Deak said, “if the cartels are using the boats for drug pickups or deliveries, they do custom work on the gas tanks that could double or triple the mileage.”

  Jack thanked him for his time and walked over to Whiskey Red’s for lunch.

  Jack grabbed a table on the outdoor patio, near the water, and ordered a cheeseburger. While he waited for his food to arrive, he pulled out his cell and called Terry Malloy, the medical examiner who had handled the grisly crime scene and autopsy of Mia, one of Jack’s most successful confidential informants. After an all-too-brief affair with Jack, Mia had been found brutally murdered and Jack had been framed for the crime.

  After Jack hunted down the killers and cleared his name, Terry Malloy had called to apologize for his behavior during the investigation.

  Jack didn’t feel too bad about exploiting a little guilt. He needed some information.

  15

  Malloy was just stubbing out a cigarette on the side of the Los Angeles courthouse before resuming testimony on a triple homicide. He checked his watch and talked while he and Jack started a circuit around the building.

  “I compared notes with my southern counterpart because of the time line and physical similarities between the two women,” he said. “The Orange County body had enough drugs in her system to take down a rhino. Dead before she entered the water. No sign of a struggle, but get this. There was lividity on her lower back and buttocks.”

  “So she died at another location. Someone transported her body and dumped her into the Pacific,” Jack said.

  “Looks that way. Coroner listed cause of death as an accidental overdose. No distinguishing marks except a star tattoo, just below her bikini line.”