Make Them Sorry

by Sam Hawken

  The priest sat behind the desk in a large leather chair. He spread the pages on his blotter. He read quietly, and occasionally made an astonished noise under his breath. “Is it something?” Ignacio asked.

  Hayrapetyan shook his head. “This man was very disturbed.”

  “I kind of got that.”

  “No, I mean he was twisted. I assume there’s more of this?”

  “A whole book’s worth.”

  “I imagine it’s all the same.”

  “We figured it for some kind of logbook. Tracking his victim’s movements.”

  “It is, but there’s more. Obviously the narrative, if you can call it that, is fragmented because I don’t have all the pieces, but what is here is genuinely upsetting. How badly hurt was the woman?”

  “He beat her up pretty good.”

  Father Hayrapetyan’s face creased with pain. “I don’t know what to say. Armenians are people like anyone else, and there are good ones and bad ones, but when you live in a country where most people couldn’t tell you what an Armenian is…well, you can’t help but feel personally affronted when someone does a terrible thing. We’re still living down the Kardashians.”

  Ignacio hesitated. “Uh.”

  The priest smiled. “It’s a joke. And Lord knows we need one right now.”

  “What exactly did he put in this book?”

  “Much of it has to do with the various sexual things he wanted to do with this woman Faith. I won’t bother you with the specifics of it, but there was going to be a lot of pain and humiliation involved. There are references to keeping her like a pet, to killing her in ways I’m sickened to read, and more. In between all the ranting there are notations made of her every move. When she went to lunch, when she left her apartment, when she came home from work. All of it.”

  Ignacio digested this. “I think maybe it was a good thing he got shot dead, Father. Not that I want to say it in a church.”

  “No, you can say it. He absolutely should have been shot dead, because if he hadn’t been, he would have committed unspeakable acts. The fact that he only beat her is, sad to say, something of a blessing.”

  “Does it say anything about who he might be working for? Where he came from? I didn’t see any phone numbers anywhere except hers, but he was in contact with someone who kept their calls a secret. I was hoping there might be something in there I could use.”

  “I’m sorry, but no. Maybe if I had more. Are you sure he was employed by someone?”

  “Watching somebody like this is a full-time job. And maybe he was wrong in the head, but somebody had to pay his rent. I’m sorry you had to read all that.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Someone had to. It might as well be me. I can pray for him, but I think it’s a little too late to save this man’s soul.”

  “Way too late.” Ignacio stood up. “I want to thank you for your time, Father.”

  “Not at all. But before you go, Nacho, I thought I’d share something with you. Officer Marshall—William—he showed me a picture of this man’s tattoo and I translated it for him.”

  “It’s some kind of motto,” Ignacio said.

  “It is. Of an Armenian group called Hayasdani Azadakrut’ean Hay Kaghtni Panag.”

  “I hope there’s not a quiz after this.”

  “The Armenian isn’t necessary. Essentially it means ‘Armenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia.’ They were a militant group I barely remember from when I was a young teenager. They wanted to force the Turkish government to acknowledge the Armenian genocide and cede territory for an Armenian homeland. They disappeared twenty-five years ago and haven’t been heard from since.”

  “So they were, like, terrorists in Turkey?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. They killed a few dozen people over the years, and injured more. But it’s passing away into history now. As Armenians we still want the same things, but we don’t go about it in that way. The HAHKP never spoke for the majority of Armenians.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “Yes, thank God.”

  “I should go.”

  “Let me walk you out.”

  Ignacio let the priest escort him. Before long they stood outside the front doors of the church, with traffic droning past. “One last question,” Ignacio said. “Do you think any of these ‘secret army’ guys ever came to the United States?”

  “I don’t know. But it seems at least one of them did. God be with you, Nacho. I’ll pray for your safety.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  KAUR’S SECRETARY BUZZED the intercom. Kaur touched the speaker button. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Roche to see you, sir.”

  “Send him in. And bump my next appointment by thirty minutes.”

  “Yes, Mr. Kaur.”

  The office was on a corner of a mirrored-glass tower in downtown Miami, with a spectacular view of Miami Beach. The building was constructed in 1984, and the funds to erect it had come from the booming business done by M&I Bank and Trust. The valuation of the real estate had risen astronomically since then. The office was itself one of the most expensive spaces in the city by square yard.

  The double doors to the outer office opened. Kaur caught a glimpse of Ms. Caits, his assistant, before Roche swept into the room and shut himself in. Roche came no closer. He stood at the doors with his mouth turned downward. It was a full minute before he spoke. “You should have told me about Lorca’s call right away.”

  “I needed time to think over what he said.”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “I see.”

  Roche came closer. He had a folder in his hands. He flexed it between them. Kaur saw the tension in the tendons on the backs of his hands. Kaur said nothing until Roche sat down. Outside the window, a helicopter flew past, its racket silenced by thick glass. The sea was green.

  “We expected this,” Kaur said lightly. “Right? We expected it. This isn’t ideal, but it’s not a disaster.”

  “He understands we couldn’t kill the woman outright?” Roche asked.

  “I explained it thoroughly.”

  “I’m sure you did. In the meantime, he’s probably wondering how to take this to the next level. I intend to act before he gets a chance to put his foot in it.”

  The folder now sat on Roche’s knee. Kaur gestured toward it. “What’s that?”

  “This is our new problem.”

  Roche handed over the folder. Kaur opened it on his blotter. Inside was a stack of pages a quarter inch thick, and on top of it a black-and-white photograph of a woman staring directly into the camera. A driver’s-license photo, or a passport. Kaur looked into her face and saw nothing but pure calm. She had obviously had her nose broken more than once, and a scar cut through her eyebrow. He lifted the picture out of the way. “Camaro Espinoza? That can’t be a real name.”

  “It is a real name and she’s a real person. She’s also a real problem, because she’s involved with both Faith Glazer and with the police.”

  “So she’s a policewoman?”

  “No, she’s the captain of a fishing charter. There’s information on her boat, the Annabel, in the file, but it’s not interesting or important. What’s troubling is she’s a decorated military veteran, a licensed bail fugitive recovery agent, and a woman with a difficult past, which, quite frankly, I’ve never seen with someone who’s not in prison.”

  Kaur continued to sort through the papers. Included were military records. Time served in Iraq and Afghanistan. She was a health-care specialist, which Kaur assumed was some sort of nurse. She’d been honorably discharged three years previously, her last station Fort Irwin in California. Her Miami license said she’d been in Florida for two years.

  “This woman is the reason Faith Glazer had a gun. It’s the only explanation I have for it. I heard the name in Serafian’s reports, but he said she was some kind of personal trainer. Cardio kickboxing. That sort of thing. He didn’t look any deeper—otherwise he would
have found what I found: registrations for multiple firearms, and a concealed-carry license. She owns guns, she knows how to use them, and she was training Glazer to fight back. Our man is dead and Glazer is still alive because Camaro Espinoza helped that happen.”

  On the last page of the report, Kaur found a picture of the Annabel. “That’s a nice boat,” he said.

  “Forget the boat,” Roche said. “The point is this: she was talking to Glazer, and now she’s talking to the police. I had my people do some deep digging, and she has some sort of connection to a homicide detective named Ignacio Montellano. Montellano is handling Serafian’s death. And even though we were sure to insulate Serafian from anyone trying to dig up his identity, when I went to his house to clear out his equipment I found her there already. And later the cop came. Montellano.”

  Kaur closed the folder. “What do you think she’s telling him?”

  “The more pertinent question is, whose side is she on? Depending on whether Glazer told her everything, she knows about us. And she tracked down Serafian. The link between the bank and Serafian is dead. No one will ever be able to follow it, but she’ll put together what she can. Whether she takes it to the police or tries to take advantage herself, we don’t know.”

  “I don’t see what the problem is,” Kaur said. He got up from the desk. “We silence her. We silence her, we silence Glazer, and maybe we silence the cop. And then that’s it.”

  Roche glared at him from his seat. “That’s it? Are you listening to yourself? Days ago you were begging me to make this airtight. Now you have me killing two women and a cop?”

  “Then why bring this to me at all? I don’t have the answers! You’re the one who’s supposed to have the answers!”

  “I’m bringing this to you because I think we might have to consider a deal. If we kill one woman, that’s not a hardship, but we start killing too many people and there will be questions. The FBI and the DEA are already on the case. They’ve spoken to Glazer already. It’s only a matter of time before something breaks for them.”

  Kaur put his fingertips to his temples and worked them in a circle. “This is not happening. This is not happening in my office.”

  “Larry, listen to me.”

  “No. Listen to me. Everything I told you before stands. If this means people have to die, then so be it. This is what we allowed for all along. This woman, this Camaro Espinoza, she’s some opportunist looking for a payday. Maybe she thinks she’ll get it from us. Who knows? She won’t get rich going to the police. So deal with it. Deal with it.”

  “If you say so,” Roche said.

  “I say so. Do your thing. Get it done.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  THE CLOCK BY Camaro’s bed made a dull buzzing sound day and night. It was old. She had found it in a closet when she moved into the house. At first the buzzing drove her crazy, but eventually it became part of the background noise of the room, along with the fan of the window air conditioner. She settled into the sounds of the night and the neighborhood, and she slept well. Tonight she woke.

  Without changing positions, she glanced at the clock. It was past last call. Outside the neighborhood was tranquil, with not even the wail of a siren to break the quiet. The air conditioner circulated cool air. The house was settled.

  She closed her eyes and looked for sleep. The tinny sound of metal scraping on metal made her open them again.

  She tensed on the bed under the thin blanket. She was stripped to a T-shirt and underpants, and the skin on her legs prickled. Without rustling the bedsheets, she put out a hand and rested her palm on the grip of a .45 on the nightstand.

  The sound repeated itself. Camaro knew it: a set of picks in a lock, working the tumblers. She’d seen it done, and she’d started to learn herself. The noise was unmistakable.

  A louder click sounded. The lock was open. The door would follow. Camaro used her feet to pull the bedsheets away from her body, then slowly rolled onto the floor by the bed, bringing the pistol with her. She crouched, feeling her heart against her breastbone and the rustle of her lungs.

  She heard the first footfall. They were quiet steps, but she was listening for them and there was no way to hide the sound completely. She knew the tread of a boot, and these were boots, thick-soled with rubber.

  Her bare feet made no noise as she crouch-walked across the bedroom to the door. She pressed against the wall and listened. Now she heard two sets of footfalls moving through the front room. They split up, one headed toward the kitchen and one angling toward the bedroom. She calmed her breathing and edged up to the door frame.

  The men said nothing, but she was sure they were men. Despite the quiet, they had an unmistakable heaviness to their step. Camaro caught the whisper of a breath taken from behind a balaclava. The man was on the opposite side of the wall. Camaro shifted her grip on the .45 and waited.

  The muzzle of a carbine passed through the door, followed by the long guard and the lead hand of the man wielding it. Camaro let a half second pass. The man took a short step. Camaro moved.

  She grabbed the gun behind the barrel and wrenched it upward. The carbine discharged into the ceiling, a deafening report filling the bedroom like a thunderclap. Camaro jammed her .45 under the man’s left arm and squeezed the trigger three times. His body muffled the gunshots.

  When the man crumpled, Camaro went down with him, the carbine over her shoulder and the man’s body slumped into hers. She caught a glimpse of the other gunman moving in the front room, cutting across from the kitchen. She fired twice as she fell, and saw the second gunman duck away behind the couch.

  The front room lit up with muzzle flash as the second gunman opened fire. Slugs tore into the form of the dead man covering her. Camaro saw wood strip from the door frame as the man’s partner squeezed off rounds in quick succession, each report landing on top of the other until she heard nothing except a bright, piercing tone drowning out every other noise.

  Camaro scrambled backward, scuttling on heels and palms from beneath the dead man until she was clear of the doorway. She sprang up, blood on her T-shirt. She crouched low beside the door. Bullet holes were torn through the penetrable walls.

  The blast of the second carbine died. Camaro peeked out. The top of the second gunman’s head was visible above the back of the couch. She emptied the .45 in his direction. Stuffing sprayed the air, and Camaro caught sight of wet droplets like dark pearls in the light coming in from the backyard through the kitchen window.

  She dropped the .45 and sprang from her position, dashing across the intervening space and clearing the end of the couch in a full-length leap. The man crouching behind the couch struggled on the floor, with blood coursing from a wound high on his shoulder, trying to fit a fresh magazine into the well of his carbine. He was buried beneath Camaro. The magazine flew away, skittering across the floor.

  They tangled. Camaro reared up, knees pressed to the floor on either side of the man’s waist. She saw his eyes widen before she smashed his nose beneath the balaclava, hammering down with her fists until crimson painted the slash of face still visible beneath the cloth.

  The man exploded his hips, bucking her, and they rolled. Camaro tried to lock her ankles at the small of his back, but he threw her aside with enough force to send her tumbling. She hit the wall with hair in her face. She swept it away from her eyes and came up at the same moment the man did.

  She jabbed, and he caught her wrist. He bent the joint at the wrong angle. Camaro went over, contact with the floor causing a shock of pain in her forearm. She was on her back again, but he was over her. She swept out with her leg, snagged his ankle as he moved. The man stumbled backward and fell.

  Camaro panted as she made it to her hands and knees. She went for the man. He lashed out with a boot and struck her hard in the stomach. Her lungs emptied and she came down bodily on top of the small table in her dining area. She felt the vertebrae pop in her spine. The table’s legs gave way in every direction. She was down again.


  As they made it to their feet, she heard the rasping sound of the man’s breath. He clawed at the balaclava and peeled it from his head. He was tan-skinned with liquid black hair. Sweat mingled with blood on his face. Both of his nostrils drained wetly red into a slab of mustache.

  He went for his waist. Camaro saw a knife whip loose of the sheath. He slashed at her and she retreated, out of the dining area and into the open kitchen. He closed the distance, thrusting with the blade. Camaro twisted to let the weapon pass and brought her fist around. The blow snapped the man’s head back. He collapsed against the sink, knife hand on the edge of the counter. Camaro grabbed his wrist and hammered it against the Formica. The knife fell. She kicked it between his legs. It slid to a stop by the door at the far end of the kitchen.

  The man bulled into her with his shoulder. They crashed into the refrigerator and rocked it. Camaro got an elbow between them, opened a gash on the edge of his scalp. He punched her low in the stomach, and straight across the jaw. Her knees wobbled and she sank. He put his knee into her face.

  Camaro’s head swam. Her ears were still deaf. She saw him move toward the fallen knife. She forced life into her legs, grabbed for a nearby drawer. She dragged it open until it hit the stays. Kitchen tools inside rattled. Camaro’s hand closed on the worn wooden grip of a chef’s knife.

  She pulled it free as the man rushed her with his blade. He cut the air when she ducked, backhanded to slash her on the return. Camaro felt sharp cold in her, followed by heat. She didn’t have to look to know she bled.