"G'night, skipper."
Chapter 9
"He's not answering his phone," Sam said.
"You try his cell?"
"Come on, Pinkie. I tried all his phones, and his car isn't at his house. You forgotten who I am? You think I'm one of your college boys? Or some wet-behind-the-ears punk like Kilgore?"
"Take it easy, Sam. I didn't mean to piss you off. I just ain't used to havin' a grown-up to work with; I'll get there. I know you didn't call to tell me he ain't answerin' his phone. What's up?"
"Pinkie. I been dealin' with these damn kids, too. Makes me short-tempered. I was wonderin', has Torres got a new hangout? I tried the Pussycat, but there's no sign of him there; it looks like it mighta changed hands since I was around."
Schultz laughed. "Yeah, he's moved on. He still owns it, but he's moved to another place called 'Alice's Wonderland.' It's one of those upscale tittie bars, where they mop the floor every once in a while. Kilgore will know where it is, probably. It's outta his league, but I'd figure Horton would like it. I'm surprised he didn't take you there. Torres has an office upstairs in a kind of loft."
"All right. I sent Kilgore to get us some breakfast; I'll ask him when he gets back. I called mostly because I thought maybe you mighta heard from Torres."
"Nope. Nothin'. He's probably scared shitless about now."
"Yeah. Long as I got you, lemme ask if you got a preference."
"What? A preference?"
"Right hand, or left?"
Schultz laughed. "I thought you let them choose which hand for the first one."
"Yeah. That's how I used to do it. Torres will be expecting that, so I wanted to do something a little different."
Schultz laughed again. "I don't care, but stick to the little finger, okay? Because of the rest of my collection. I like for 'em to match."
"Yeah, okay. I got a new way to do it. I learned it from a fellow down in Honduras. First, see, I make him put on a blindfold. And then I make him put both hands in a bucket of ice for a while. Once he's shakin' real bad, I -- "
"I gotta go, Sam. Do it however you want. Just bring the money and one finger or the other, okay? And don't forget, you and Kilgore gotta get back to Tampa this afternoon."
"Yeah, Pinkie. Okay. Kilgore's just pulled up outside. See you later."
****
Senator O'Toole was in the study of his West Palm Beach home, reflecting on the conversation he'd had with Art Jansen over breakfast. He was frustrated by Jansen's news. Indeed, some new organization was attempting to lure away their distributors in the southeast. Jansen's information from the field confirmed that. The problem was that they couldn't determine the identity of the interloper.
Jansen wanted someone to talk with Ralph Giannetti, who had been the unquestioned king of drug distribution in the south until his recent incarceration. Giannetti's ideas would doubtless be valuable, but the challenge was how to get him to talk. The man was serving a life sentence without the opportunity for parole; there weren't a lot of options to sweeten his situation.
That aside, there was no easy way to even open negotiations with Giannetti. He'd repeatedly refused to talk with any of the Federal agencies that were waiting in line to question him. O'Toole had decided to approach Giannetti's attorney, a hot-shot criminal defense lawyer from Jacksonville with the unlikely name of Dilbert Watson Ryan, the third. Ryan was better known by his nickname, Gator Jaw.
It would be easy to laugh at the skinny, balding, bespectacled man if his nickname weren't so apt. Like an alligator slithering through the swamp of the criminal justice system, Ryan kept a low profile. Also like his namesake, he attacked without warning, and once he had his prey in his jaws, there was no escape.
Interestingly, he had not represented Giannetti during his perfunctory trial. There was a good bit of speculation about that, as Gator Jaw had been the lawyer of choice for Joe Greco and all his minions. Greco had been the face of the mob in Florida forever, until an interagency taskforce had stitched him up a few years ago.
Everybody had thought that Greco, with the able assistance of his pal Gator Jaw, would ultimately be acquitted. Greco's situation had been complicated when a young, Ivy-League-educated hood named Mark Murano had rolled over for some reason that nobody understood. Murano had disclosed that Ralph Giannetti was the brains and power behind Greco. Until Murano's disclosure, nobody had ever heard of Giannetti.
The word was that Gator Jaw had declined to participate in Giannetti's defense for ethical reasons. O'Toole had known Gator Jaw since they were in college, and he knew better. Gator Jaw Ryan had the ethics of a crack whore, and always had. Instead of Gator Jaw, Giannetti had been represented by a recently admitted Harvard Law grad from out of state who had little experience with criminal cases.
O'Toole had seen the fine hand of Gator Jaw in Giannetti's choice of counsel, suspecting that he'd chosen the attorney with an eye toward setting the stage for appeals. Sure enough, once the dust cleared and Giannetti and Greco were both locked away, Gator Jaw had become Giannetti's attorney of record.
He'd lost no time in holding a press conference on the steps of the courthouse to announce that Giannetti had been railroaded, and that before he got through with the Justice Department and the FBI, heads would roll from Washington all the way to Tallahassee and Miami for convicting an innocent man while allowing the guilty to roam the streets.
The young lawyer who had represented Giannetti was nowhere to be found. O'Toole suspected he was either sleeping with the fishes or comfortably retired on some obscure island in the middle of the Pacific. When Mark Murano 'committed suicide,' Gator Jaw had suggested that he'd been another victim of the great Federal conspiracy to pervert justice.
Meanwhile, Gator Jaw was hard at work for his client, filing an endless series of motions with the objective of securing a new trial for poor old Ralph Giannetti. O'Toole thought there might be merit in some of Gator Jaw's novel theories. He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out an unused prepaid cellphone.
Dialing a number from memory, he heard Gator Jaw's whiny, nasal voice say, "Yeah? Who's this?"
"Me. How you been, boy?"
"Cain't complain. Ain't nobody gives a shit ennyhow. What's up?"
"I got the urge to do a little night fishin'. How 'bout yew? Wanna come?"
"Shit, I reckon. Reg'lar place?"
"Yeah, 'roun' ten, ten-thirty?'
"Yeah, bo'. I'll bring the likker."
****
"Good morning," Paul said, as Kathy and Frank climbed into the cockpit to join him and Connie.
"Morning," Kathy said.
Frank suppressed a yawn. "Good morning. Sorry I crashed before dinner last night." He shook his head as if to clear it. "Kathy told me you made me a cold plate. That was nice of you, but I never woke up until a few minutes ago."
"I'm glad you got some rest," Paul said. He reached for the tray on the cockpit table and turned two coffee mugs upright. Picking up a thermal carafe, he filled the mugs and said, "Have some coffee while I get breakfast going. Any requests?"
"Any chance of bacon and eggs with toast?" Frank asked.
"Sure," Paul said. "Kathy?"
"Sounds good to me."
"How do you want the eggs?"
"Over well, for me," Frank said.
"Me, too," Kathy said.
"Connie?"
"I'm okay with the fruit we had a few minutes ago, thanks."
Paul nodded and went below. Once he had bacon in the frying pan, he sat down at the chart table across from the galley and took out their laptop computer, thinking that he might as well check their email.
He powered up the satcom system and turned on the laptop. By the time the computer booted up, the satellite system had acquired a signal. He opened the mail client and watched as several messages downloaded.
There were a couple of spam messages and one from their charter broker, checking to see if things were going all right with the Lewises. A message from W.OBrien at an FBI a
ddress caught his eye. Bill O'Brien was an agent they had met when Diamantista II had been hijacked by terrorists. He'd become a friend, coming down-island once for their wedding and again to go sailing with them.
Paul heard the bacon beginning to sizzle and got up to adjust the burner under the frying pan. In a moment, he returned to the laptop, opening the email from O'Brien and reading the brief message. He frowned and shook his head, reaching for their satellite phone. He checked the battery level and put the phone in his pocket. He deleted the email from O'Brien and shut off the computer and the satcom equipment. A few minutes later, Frank and Kathy were digging into their eggs and bacon.
Connie looked over at Paul and said, "You look bushed. Why don't you hit the sack? It's easy sailing; I'll put the autopilot on in a few minutes and clean up the galley. Get some rest."
"Thanks. I'll take you up on that, but I need to make a phone call first."
"What's up?"
"Not sure, exactly. We got an email from O'Brien. He asked me to call him as soon as I could."
Connie frowned and started to speak, but thought better of it when she caught the warning look in Paul's eyes.
"I'll just go up on the foredeck and see what he wants; it's probably about coming sailing with us this fall."
Connie nodded as he stepped out of the cockpit.
Looking back over his shoulder, he asked, "Does anybody need anything from below before I go?"
Frank and Kathy both shook their heads, and Paul went forward to make his call in private.
Chapter 10
"We found his Mercedes," Sam said, his hands draped on the arms of the guest chair across the desk from Schultz. He flexed his fingers, opening and closing his fists, drawing out the pause. "He was in it."
"Was he gonna skip out?"
Sam shook his head. "He was in the trunk."
"In the trunk? What the hell?"
"Looked like zamochit."
"Zamochit? That Yiddish or somethin'?"
"Russian," Sam said.
Schultz shook his head, his eyes squinted in irritation. "He tell you what happened? Who put him in the trunk?"
"He's dead, Pinkie."
"Dead? He didn't have the money, then? So Kilgore made his bones."
"Uh-uh," Sam said. "No sign of the money. He was dead when we found him. Kilgore didn't do shit. Little bastard threw up on my shoes when we found Torres."
"When you found him? His body was in the trunk?"
"Yeah."
"What's this zamo -- uh -- what was that word?"
"Zamochit."
"Yeah. What's that mean?"
"It means he was killed by breaking every bone in his body."
"No shit? Every bone? Why the hell do that?"
"It used to be the trademark of a Russian mob hit. They probably questioned him as they went."
"Jesus, Sam. Russians?"
"They don't have a patent on it, Pinkie. It's just somethin' they used to do. Coulda been anybody that did it."
"But why?"
"Why what?"
"Why would anybody do that? Kill Torres, I mean?"
"Payback for the guy we killed the other night, probably. How much did Torres know about our business?"
"He's been around a long time; probably too much."
"So," Sam said, "He ratted out their guy, Collins, and we questioned him. They balanced the books. Score's one-all, Pinkie."
"Who could it be?" Schultz asked. "Russians?"
"If the Russians were movin' in, we'd a probably heard somethin'," Sam said. "The one we questioned the other night was Mexican."
"With a name like Mack Collins?" Schultz asked.
"Half-breed. Grew up in California. American father, Mexican mother."
"You didn't tell me that."
"Didn't figure it mattered yet; we'll see what we get outta the one tonight. If he's from out west too, that might mean somethin'."
"Yeah, okay. I see what you're sayin'."
"We'll see if this one knows anything about zamochit," Sam said. "Or Russians. My bet is it's one of the other cartels."
"You hear from Horton? Did he find Nicholson?"
"Yeah. He called. We're all set for this evening."
"Where was Nicholson yesterday?"
"Out in the Gulf," he said."
"On that boat of his?"
"Yeah, I guess. Horton said he was with a couple of babes."
"Yeah, okay, Sam. Call me when you get to Tampa, before you get busy, okay?"
"Sure, but why?"
"I got some feelers out, is all. Thought I might pick up somethin' you could use with this guy tonight."
"Yeah. Okay. I'm outta here, me and my little buddy, Kilgore."
****
"What did Bill want?" Connie asked, in a soft voice. She was behind the helm, steering.
Paul sat down beside her and put an arm around her; she leaned her head on his shoulder, and he bent close to her ear. "What are they up to?"
"Working; they're going to be in their cabin until it gets too warm. I turned on the satcom for them; he's managing some of their funds, I guess. While the system was up, I sent my cousin an email, too."
"The Contreras guy? Leon, right?"
"Right. I just thought I'd respond, since he took the initiative to call me; I was so off balance that I got to thinking maybe I'd snubbed him. I wanted to let him know his call was welcome."
"That was nice," Paul said.
"What did O'Brien want? Is he headed this way anytime soon?"
"No. His call was official business." Paul felt Connie stiffen. "Not terrorism; nothing dangerous, but the Bureau had him call us because of our relationship."
"What's going on?"
"Their Miami office is running down leads on a suspected fraud. They don't know who the perpetrators are yet, or even if it's fraud."
"I don't understand," Connie said.
"Neither do I. I'm not sure Bill does, either. He's just a messenger. He gave me the name of an agent in Miami; we're supposed to get in touch when we get to St. Martin."
"Why there?"
"Because I told him that's the first chance we'd have for a private conversation. And they aren't in a huge hurry. Here's what I know. They've been doing some kind of large scale metadata analysis -- looking at ISPs in South Florida. They've come up with a bunch of names of people in the private investment management business. Bill's guessing at the number -- could be a hundred or more, he said. They're also seeing suspicious money movements, and they're trying to correlate them to people. Their first cut was to try to pin down physical locations for the people on their list. The Lewises are on it."
"I don't like this, Paul. You know how I feel about this kind of thing. Is that even legal, what they're doing?"
"I don't know."
"You didn't tell them we'd cooperate, did you?"
"All I've agreed to do so far is listen to the guy Bill wants us to talk to. We'll have to see where it goes from there."
"They should have to get a warrant, or something." Connie clenched her teeth, fuming.
"And they may have to, before this goes much further. It sounds like it's in the early stages -- they aren't even saying that there's been a crime committed. They're chasing rumors, I think."
"Don't they have enough to do?"
"Come on, Connie. I spent an embarrassing amount of my career tracking down dead ends; that's part of police work. Don't go to war just yet; this may turn out to be nothing. Odds are, it probably will."
"Okay, I'll wait and see. Bill's a good guy, at least. I trust him."
"Me, too. There's no reason to think they're targeting our guests; they're just running down leads. They'll probably eliminate Frank and Kathy, and that'll be the end of it."
"If you say so. Now, you should get some sleep. I'm going to need a long nap after lunch."
"Yes ma'am. Anything I can get you before I turn in?"
"No, thanks. I'm fine."
He kissed her on the cheek and
stood up. "G'night, skipper."
"Oh!" Connie said, "I forgot to tell you. I plotted our position while you were on the phone. We're flying; if the wind holds, our ETA in St. Martin's about noon tomorrow."
"Great!" Paul said. "See you in a few hours."
****
"I heard from Schultz right before I picked you up," Nicholson said, taking his eyes off the road long enough to check his passenger's reaction. He need not have bothered. The puckered skin on the man's face hid any emotion that the comment might have evoked.
The man turned slightly, facing Nicholson. "So?" he prompted.
"His guys found Torres this morning."
"Torres?"
"Don't play with me. Joe Torres -- my counterpart in Miami."
"What about him?" the man with the scarred face asked.
"He's dead." Nicholson said, cutting his eyes to the right again to see if the man's expression changed.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Bullshit. You people killed him."
"Why do you say that, Nicholson?"
"He was tortured."
"Really?"
"Yeah, really."
"And that makes you think we had something to do with his death? He was in a high risk occupation. Maybe he upset the wrong person."
"They did some kind of Russian shit to him, to try to make him talk," Nicholson said.
"Russian shit? I don't know what you're talking about, my friend."
"Zamo -- " Nicholson shook his head. "Something where they broke every bone in his body."
"Zamochit? Is that the word you're looking for?"
"Yeah, that sounds right. How come you know that?"
The man shrugged. "I read a lot. Crime novels. That's something the Russian mob used to do. Why would you blame it on my associates?"
"Schultz thinks you guys did it for revenge, maybe."
"Revenge? We are businessmen, Nicholson. We only do things that benefit us economically."
"Torres set your guy up, remember."
"Our guy? You mean Mack Collins?"
"Yeah, that's the name."
"We already talked about this. What is your point?"
"Schultz wanted to send your people a message with Collins. He figures you're getting even."
Sails Job - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 6th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers) Page 7