Make Them Sorry

by Sam Hawken

  “Yes,” Ignacio replied. “She shot him to death. And a good thing, because he was a grade A wacko. But I kind of figured you’d know that, what with him working for you.”

  The light drained from Roche’s expression. His mouth turned down, and new lines formed on his face. He had a deep voice, and his tone was flat. “What was that?”

  “He worked for you,” Ignacio said. “His name was Eduard Serafian, and he was an Armenian in this country illegally. Apparently he was wrapped up with some kind of revolutionary group in the home country, but that’s not really why he was trying to kill the nice lady who did your books. He was a subcontractor for a man called Michael Bamanian. You know him…right?”

  Roche’s brows were heavy. They furrowed together. “If you’re asking me, then you already know Michael had contracts with us.”

  “It’s a funny thing,” Ignacio said. “Bamanian got himself killed trying to murder another woman. A friend of the first victim. Him and a second guy whose name we’re still trying to dig up. I figure he’s another undocumented alien. Armenian like the rest of them.”

  “I don’t know anything about it. I don’t ask people where they’re from. In Miami they come from all over.”

  “That is very true. And I have to admit, the whole Armenian thing had me thrown for a little while. I couldn’t figure out what the connection was. I mean, Armenians? They don’t exactly have a bad reputation around here. Not like Colombians.”

  Roche didn’t reply. He watched Ignacio and Ignacio watched him. Roche’s face was very still.

  “Colombians,” Ignacio said again. “Old-school. Before my time. But the cops who were around back during the cocaine cowboy days? They have some stories to tell. Crazy stuff. Shoot-outs in the street, people with their tongues pulled out through holes in their necks…wild. Working homicide is a full-time job today, but back then? I can’t imagine. Can you?”

  “I assume we’re coming around to a point here, Detective,” Roche said.

  “Oh, sure, sure. Sorry to keep you. I know you’re busy. I’ll get right down to it: your bank is laundering money for a Colombian paramilitary running coke into the U.S. through South Florida. The bank’s been doing it for years. In fact the whole bank is built on drug money from these same bloodsuckers.”

  The stillness in Roche’s face extended to the rest of him. “I’m listening,” he said.

  “This is how I figure it: you find out someone’s snooping where they shouldn’t. A call gets made from somewhere up the food chain, maybe all the way to the top, and they put you on it. Somehow or another you figure out who’s got your numbers. But you’re not quite sure if you can kill her without exposing yourself. After all, she’s smart, so she’s probably got copies tucked away. You contact your buddy Bamanian, who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty. He puts someone on her. Just to watch and see how things pan out. The problem is, the guy who’s doing the watching, Eduard Serafian, is some kind of pervert, and what starts off as a job ends up being a full-blown obsession.”

  “I see.”

  “Anyway, you decide to make your move. You tell Bamanian, Bamanian tells Serafian, and he does what he’s been waiting to do all this time. Maybe he’s still thinking about his assignment a little bit, but he’s more interested in hurting his target before he kills her.”

  Ignacio stopped. He waited for Roche to respond. Roche’s frown picked up slightly at one corner of his mouth. He ran a hand through his hair. He leaned forward. “Assuming all this is true—and I don’t admit to anything—what evidence do you have? If this crazy man…What was his name?”

  “Serafian.”

  “Right. If this man, Serafian, was working for a contractor who occasionally did work for the bank, shouldn’t Michael Bamanian be the prime suspect?”

  “If he’d kept his cool, he probably would have been. Eventually. But you told him to clean up whatever loose ends Serafian left behind, and unfortunately Bamanian decided to step in and take care of things personally. That’s how he ended up dead.”

  Roche spread his hands. “And there’s the other problem. If Bamanian is dead, you have no one to confirm Serafian worked for him, let alone anything connecting me or the bank to any of this.”

  “You’re right. I don’t.”

  “Well,” Roche said. He stood. “If that’s everything, I’d like to thank you for an entertaining story.”

  Ignacio rose with Roche. “Look, I may not have a paper trail leading directly to you, but I have enough.”

  “Enough for what?”

  The sound of the receptionist’s raised voice carried through the wall. The door rattled. Roche looked past Ignacio, and Ignacio caught the hint of something different in Roche’s manner. “Enough to get a search warrant to look through all your records, interview employees, and what’s the other thing? Oh, yeah: enough to start digging through accounts to find what Faith Glazer found. Because we know it’s still in there somewhere.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?” Roche asked.

  The door swung wide and hit the wall. Mansfield and Pope burst into the room in dark blue windbreakers. His said FBI in yellow letters. Hers said DEA. They were accompanied by a phalanx of agents. “Me and my friends with the federal government,” Ignacio said. “You might want to call your lawyer.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  CAMARO HOSED DOWN the Annabel’s aft deck. Water ran off through holes and merged with the sea. She had lights on against the failing day, and they cast hard-edged shadows as she worked. She heard her cell phone ringing in the cabin. She dropped the hose. By the time she reached her phone it had rung five times. “Hello?”

  There was silence.

  “Hello?” Camaro said again. She looked at the display. The number was listed UNKNOWN.

  “Camaro.” Faith’s voice sounded as though it was coming from the bottom of a well. She was on a speaker.

  “Where are you? What’s happening?”

  “I’m safe. Nothing’s happening. I wanted to talk to you one more time. You know, before I go.”

  Camaro shut the cabin door. “Did you take their money?”

  “They have everything they wanted. I destroyed my online backups. I took the hard copies somewhere to be shredded.”

  Camaro swung a fist in the air. “Why? If you don’t have a safety net, there’s no reason for them not to come after you.”

  “These people are businessmen, Camaro. They made a deal. They’ll stick to the terms.”

  “No, they are not businessmen. Do you know anything about them? Detective Montellano told me all about it. These Colombians are butchers—that’s all they are. They have a cause and the money they make selling drugs is what they use to fight a war. People with a cause can’t be reasoned with. They don’t think about what they do. They only know they’re right, and then people die.”

  Faith made a sound. Camaro realized she was crying and trying to hide it. “I don’t want to argue with you, Camaro. I wanted…I wanted to thank you again for what you did. I don’t care why you did it. I won’t try to understand. All I know is you helped me when no one else would. And the more I thought about it after you were gone, the more I realized you said the things you said because you still wanted to save me. But I don’t need to be saved. I can take care of myself from here on out.”

  “Are you still at the hotel? Let me come see you. I won’t try to stop you, but I want to make sure you get where you need to go. Airport, train station…wherever. Because you have their money now. They might tell you it’s okay, but it’s not. If they can get it back, they will. And if they can shut you up about everything you know, that’s even better. Faith? Can you hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Are you still at the beach?”

  “Yes. I haven’t checked out yet. I’m paid for a few more days. But I’m not staying.”

  “I’m coming to you.”

  “No. Don’t. All you’re going to do is what you’re doing now. I told you before, you’re not my sister
. We’re not family. We’re…I don’t know what we are.”

  “We’re friends,” Camaro said.

  “Do you really have friends?”

  “Sometimes.”

  This time Camaro heard Faith sob without attempting to hide it. “I’m tired of being scared,” Faith told her.

  “I know.”

  “How do you do it? How do you keep on when you’re scared? You never told me.”

  “You have to care more about surviving than you care about getting hurt,” Camaro said. “Then you can do anything.”

  “I should go,” Faith said.

  “Please don’t,” Camaro said. “Switch hotels if you want to feel safer, but don’t go tonight. There’s still something I can do for you if you’ll let me.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “I won’t tell you. Stay put for another day. Keep the door locked. Don’t let anyone in. Wait for me. And if I can’t do what I say I can do, I’ll help you any way I can. I’ll drive you out of town myself.”

  Faith didn’t answer.

  “Faith? Are you listening to me?”

  “Okay.”

  Camaro realized her chest was tight, holding a breath. She let it go. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. Be safe.”

  “I won’t wait past tomorrow night.”

  “I won’t be late.”

  Faith hung up. Camaro listened to the silent phone. She walked with it to the counter in the galley and slammed the phone down. She spread her fingers on the cool granite surface and stared at the backs of her hands. She nodded to herself. She picked up her phone again.

  Ignacio answered. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

  “I talked to Faith.”

  “Wait, what? When?”

  “A minute ago. And a while before.”

  “Hold on a second.” Camaro heard the murmur of voices in the background. They faded. A door shut. Ignacio spoke again. “Were you ever going to tell me this? She’s a material witness!”

  “She’s dealing with the Colombians. They paid her for everything she had, and in return she destroyed it all.”

  “This is not happening,” Ignacio said. “This is not happening. That’s evidence of an ongoing felony directly related to three homicides! And she destroyed it? All of it?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “I can’t go to the feds with this. They’ll turn me inside out if they think for a second I was in on this with the two of you.”

  “I’m not in on anything. She made this decision on her own. I tried to stop her. All I could do was get her to wait until tomorrow night before she disappears.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Are you going to send someone to pick her up?”

  “Of course I am. Did you miss the part about her being a material witness?”

  “I promised her it would be me.”

  “You are climbing out on the same limb with her, Camaro. This is not what you want.”

  “Can we meet?”

  “Not tonight. I’m going to be with the feds until morning, at least. I can forget about sleeping or eating.”

  “Meet me at the boat. I have a charter in the afternoon.”

  “How can you work when this is going on?”

  “I need money. I don’t have people handing it to me on the street.”

  “But this is important!”

  “Believe me, I know. But everything stays normal. You said the FBI was all over this, right?”

  “Sure. They dropped a blanket over the whole thing.”

  “Then they could be watching. Find out what you can. Tell me later.”

  “What are you going to do until then?”

  “Be here.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  THE FBI KEPT Roche cornered in his office all day. From the moment Detective Montellano entered to the time they finally released him, Roche was trapped at the bank for twelve hours. They didn’t allow him to send for food, and they only offered him a chance to drink water and occasionally use the restroom.

  Kaur wanted to come down from the top floor, but Roche said no. If they climbed the tree high enough, they would come to Lawrence Kaur in due time. There was no need to rush it. “I’ll talk to you soon,” Roche told him. “Stay far away from me for now.”

  He was exhausted and his stomach felt hollow. His skin itched. He wanted a shower. He parked his Audi in the drive of his house in Coconut Grove, and spent minutes draped over the steering wheel listening to the sound of his own breathing. Eventually he got out with his keys in hand. The lights inside were already on, set to illuminate when he was nearby. The doorstep was bright.

  Roche went in. He heard the chirp of the alarm system and stopped. When the system was armed, the sound when he opened the door was a long tone. When disarmed, it simply beeped to indicate that a door had opened. He took an instinctive step back before he was rushed from behind.

  A man in black grabbed him and shoved him into the arms of another man dressed in the same garments. They were joined by a third, and the trio manhandled Roche through the foyer and into the living room. They threw him onto the couch. One of the men searched him and found the small gun holstered on his belt. Everything was done in silence. Roche knew there was no point in calling out, or cursing, or saying anything at all.

  When they finished, the three men stood over him, watching from behind ski masks. Roche looked from one to the next. Then he looked down. The buttons had popped off his jacket. He tried to straighten his clothes and tuck in his tie. His hair fell onto his forehead. He wanted to sweep it away. He didn’t want to raise his hands so high.

  Roche couldn’t even hear the men breathing. His own lungs sounded like bellows, and his heart wouldn’t slow. He swallowed repeatedly to loosen his throat. Eventually he tried to speak. “What do we do next?”

  None of the three men spoke a word. “We have questions,” said someone else.

  At an unspoken command, the others stepped aside to reveal a fourth man in a panama shirt and khaki trousers. He looked like a young tourist, his shirt open at the throat, a gold watch on his wrist. Only his hairstyle gave him away. It didn’t speak of money.

  Roche squinted at the man. “I don’t know you.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Roche sagged. “Lorca sent you.”

  “You’re quick. El General, he said it was so. You and Señor Kaur have been very smart. But now I am here.”

  “If you want to know where the woman is, I have no idea. We lost her. Any chance we had of finding her was gone the minute her friend killed my people. Sending one team after another until someone breaks isn’t going to work.”

  “I agree.”

  Roche tried not to let surprise show on his face. “You do?”

  Another man entered the living room. Like the others, he covered his face, but he also wore gloves of black latex. He carried a filleting knife from Roche’s kitchen. Roche felt an ill sensation.

  “My name is Captain Daniel Parilla,” said the man in the panama shirt.

  “I don’t want to know your name,” Roche said.

  “I know. And you don’t ever want to see me. Because if you hear my name and you see my face, you know there is no way out for you. I cannot let you talk to your federal police. This is a storm you brought to your own doorstep.”

  The sick feeling intensified. “Look,” Roche said. “This doesn’t have to end badly. The FBI and the DEA are on a fishing expedition. We’ve already taken steps to eliminate any connection between the General and our operations. The woman doesn’t seem interested in turning over what she found to the authorities, so it’s only a matter of stringing the auditors along.”

  “And you think this will save you and Señor Kaur.”

  “Won’t it?” Roche asked. He didn’t like the sound of his own voice.

  Parilla stepped closer. The man with the knife stayed in his shadow. “Señor Roche, there is a problem. It was bad enough when your incompetence
exposed a business deal so old it goes back to before I was born. Your bank exists because of the General. You have this beautiful house because of his money. But you’re greedy and you stole from us. Not once or twice, but again and again.”

  Roche raised his hands. They trembled. The other men moved forward and he put his hands back in his lap. “It can all be explained,” he said.

  “You will explain. You will tell me everything. And when you have finished, I will be merciful.”

  The three men grabbed Roche. He cried out and soiled himself as the men stripped off his jacket and tore open his shirt. The man with the knife came to him, and the cutting began.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  CAMARO SLEPT LIGHTLY. Every small sound stirred her. Sometimes she knew where she was. Sometimes she didn’t.

  When morning light came, she rose and made breakfast in the galley. She went to the aft deck and looked out over the marina toward the parking lot and the road beyond. A single car sat on the road, a figure beside it, and while Camaro watched, a silver flash burst over his face, a reflection from binoculars.

  Camaro crouched and scuttled into the cabin. She closed the door and waited. She peered out over the lower edge of the windows, but it was impossible to see the road from this angle. She found her phone and called Ignacio. “Where are you?” she asked when he answered.

  “I’m pulling up now. What’s wrong?”

  “Look toward the street. There’s a car parked up there. A gray sedan. The driver’s out on my side with a pair of binoculars.”

  She listened. “I don’t see anyone,” he said.

  “He was right there.”

  “I’m telling you, I don’t see anyone. I saw a car driving away when I came up. It might have been a gray sedan. I can’t be sure. Are you okay?”

  “Did the FBI say anything about monitoring me?”

  “No, but I’m not exactly high on the totem pole. They’re letting me tie my investigation to theirs, but right now it’s the guys and gals with expensive calculators doing all the work. The bank president lawyered up the second we knocked on his door. He’s not talking to anyone. We sweated their security guy, Roche, all day. He’s tough to read, but I’m thinking we might have an in with him.”