Make Them Sorry

by Sam Hawken

  Camaro saw Ignacio approach. She hung up the phone and left the cabin. When she looked toward the road, she saw the car and watcher were gone. The back of her neck itched. “Come aboard,” she told Ignacio.

  He clambered over the side. They went into the cabin together. Camaro checked one last time before shutting the door. There was no one.

  “You don’t have to worry,” Ignacio told her. “These FBI guys, they’re not interested in you. They don’t have any idea you’re in touch with Faith Glazer, and I didn’t tell them anything.”

  “Why not?” Camaro asked.

  “Why should I? If I tell them you’re conspiring with her, they’ll come down on you like a ten-ton weight and we’ll lose Faith completely. If I let this play out, everything comes together the way we need it to. She talks, the feds listen. Even without her copies of the records, she can tell the accountants where to look. You know the bank has to have this buried deep.”

  Ignacio sat on the couch. Camaro leaned against the counter. She crossed her arms. The muscles twitched in her forearms. “I don’t know if I can get her to listen to you. She’s barely listening to me. If I come on strong with you there…she’ll run. And I don’t want her cuffed and dragged off, because she doesn’t deserve it.”

  “I don’t know how to put this to you, but if Faith Glazer is deliberately withholding evidence—and she is, so I don’t think we can argue about it—she’s committing a felony. Maybe it’s not the kind of felony you’re used to, because nobody gets stabbed or shot to death, but it’s still the kind of thing that gets you prison time. I’m a nice guy, but I’m also a cop. Eventually I gotta lay my hands on somebody and take them to jail.”

  “Not her,” Camaro said.

  “Why stick up for her? She’s the reason those two guys busted into your place. If it hadn’t been for her, you’d be running charters like nothing ever happened. Do you want her to turn your life upside down?”

  Camaro made fists where her hands were tucked. She felt her pulse in her temples. “I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.”

  Ignacio leaned back. He looked thick-bodied on the couch, sturdy like the trunk of an old tree. He loosened his tie. “Maybe you don’t. People help people for lots of reasons.”

  “What are we doing?” Camaro asked.

  “I don’t know, but some shrink would probably have a field day with it. Maybe it’s because I can’t stand to see a lady in trouble. I’m old-fashioned that way.”

  Camaro looked over his head and past him. She didn’t raise her voice when she spoke. “If you want to help, you can come. But I want you to promise you won’t take her into custody. She gets a walk. Everything she’s been through…I’m telling you, she doesn’t deserve it.”

  “We don’t always get what we deserve.”

  She turned her gaze on him. Ignacio’s face was stolid.

  “If something goes wrong, and you need somebody to turn over to the FBI, let them take me. I’m not afraid.”

  “You’re not afraid of anything.”

  “Faith thought that, too.”

  “Was she wrong?”

  “Yes.”

  “When do you want to meet?”

  “My charter ends at nightfall.”

  Ignacio slapped his knees. “So it’s decided. You want breakfast?”

  “I ate.”

  “You want to watch me eat breakfast?”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe I like an audience. I want eggs with hot sauce,” Ignacio said. “Lots of eggs. Lots of sauce. What do you say?”

  “Are you going to want to talk?”

  “Not if you don’t.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then we won’t. Come on.”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  LAWRENCE KAUR TRIED to reach Brandon by phone all night, but no one answered. He left a dozen messages, and sent twice as many texts. He used the encrypted e-mail account they agreed to utilize only in case of an emergency. No response came by morning. Enrique cooked a breakfast that Kaur didn’t taste at all. He stared at his phone as the battery slowly ran down, waiting for a notification to tell him all was well.

  He had an early meeting with his attorney, but it would still be a few hours. Already the FBI had petitioned the court for a warrant to search his home. Delaying tactics put it off for a while. The attorney told Kaur he was insulated: whatever they found they would never use. His attorney didn’t want to know if there was anything to find. “What I don’t know, I don’t have to lie about in court,” he said. “That’s the best way to handle it.”

  It was unspoken between them: Roche had to be sacrificed. He was on the front lines of this thing with Faith Glazer. The leads came directly to his office. Brandon knew this might happen. Kaur knew it, too. They never discussed it openly. Now Kaur wished they had both been more careful. Anything to keep Brandon Roche clear of what might come. What had come.

  “Not hungry today, sir?”

  Kaur saw Enrique standing over him. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “You barely touched your breakfast, Mr. Kaur. Is there something else you prefer?”

  “No, no. Don’t bother. I’ve eaten everything I can. I’ll make up for it at lunch.”

  “I’ll take your plates.”

  “Thank you. And when you’re done cleaning up, take the rest of the day off.”

  “Are you sure, Mr. Kaur? Your lunch?”

  Kaur looked toward the ocean. “I’m sure.”

  He waited until Enrique was gone. He called Roche again. As it had before, the phone went to voice mail, but now it didn’t even ring first.

  He got up from the table and adjusted the belt of his robe. The ocean remained, steadily rolling in, unchanging. The sun turned the water brilliant, clear blue. Groundskeepers raked the beach every night. Not a thing was out of place.

  His phone vibrated on the table.

  Kaur jumped an inch at the buzz. He grabbed the phone with both hands. He had a text notification. He opened the app.

  Brandon Roche looked directly into the camera. He had a cut over one eye, and severe bruising on his face. He was stripped to the waist, and was soaked in perspiration. His medallion was missing, and there was a red line on the side of his neck where the chain had been yanked and broken.

  The message app vibrated. A new photograph arrived. Men in black, only their arms visible, held down Roche on his couch. His chest was covered in long, straight slashes, none too deep, but all bleeding freely.

  More pictures followed, the progress of torture advancing in each shot. Once, Kaur caught sight of the knife, an expensive Wüsthof filleting knife, the silvery flat slimed with red. Roche’s face drowned under a mask of blood.

  The second-to-last picture showed Roche’s throat cut. The final photograph was vile: they had pulled his tongue through the incision in his neck, so it lay on his chest.

  Kaur put his hand on the edge of the table and hunched over. He covered his mouth, but it was too late, and he vomited on the floor. He heard Enrique running from the kitchen. “Mr. Kaur! Mr. Kaur, are you okay?”

  His stomach heaved on nothing. He spat thick saliva. His throat tightened. He heaved again. “I’m fine,” Kaur managed to say. “I don’t need any help.”

  “I’ll send someone to clean up.”

  “Whatever. Go. Go away!”

  Enrique retreated. Kaur sucked air, his stomach settling until there were no further rebellions. He gripped his phone and left the breakfast room, sweeping through the house and up the stairs to his bedroom. He tossed the phone on the bed and went to the nightstand.

  In the drawer was a 9mm automatic that Brandon had encouraged Kaur to learn how to use. Kaur had fired it once, and only once, before putting it away. He laid the gun by the phone. He raided the cavernous walk-in closet. He piled clothes on the bed to await suitcases. Those were in a closet in the hall. He got them and opened and stuffed them, paying no attention to order or wrinkling.

  The suitcases full, he dressed in a sa
lmon-colored golf shirt and linen pants and loafers with monogrammed socks. His underwear was also monogrammed. He dressed quickly, catching sight of himself in the full-length mirror in one corner. He was pallid, his face damp and feverish. The clothes were grotesquely casual.

  He put his phone in his pocket and grabbed the gun. It didn’t fit in his other pocket. He tried stuffing it in the front of his pants and pulling his untucked shirt over it, but its shape was too obvious. He put it at the small of his back and examined himself in the mirror. Anyone looking would know in a second what he had underneath his clothes. “To hell with it,” he said.

  His phone used a charging station by the bed, but the station was too bulky to carry. Kaur searched drawers until he found an adapter. He wadded up the wire and jammed it in an empty pocket.

  Kaur had a suitcase in each hand as he deserted the bedroom. He nearly collided with a woman in a tan dress and white apron. She squawked, “Mr. Kaur, where are you going? I saw the mess downstairs. Do you need a doctor?”

  “Liza,” Kaur said, breathless. “I’m taking a trip. If anyone asks, I left early this morning and no one saw me go. Do you understand? No one saw me go. I didn’t say where I was headed.”

  “I don’t understand. Do you need me to call a car?”

  “I’m taking my own car this morning. Not a word to anyone, Liza. Nothing.”

  Kaur pushed past her and fled down the hall. He took the stairs two at a time and nearly fell down the steps. His loafers made hollow sounds on Italian marble in the foyer. He muscled his bags through the front door. A Porsche waited in the drive.

  It took a minute to load the car and another thirty seconds to secure himself behind the wheel. He pushed the ignition button. Nothing happened. He pushed it again. Silence.

  He searched himself. The keyless ignition fob wasn’t there. Kaur hit the steering wheel. “Shit!” he shouted.

  Liza stood at the open front door, wringing her hands. Kaur got out of the car. “I need my key ring. My key ring, Liza! Hurry!”

  The woman scurried away. When she returned, Kaur ripped the ring out of her hand and returned to the car. This time the engine started when he pressed the button. Kaur saw Liza’s distraught face before he disengaged the brake and slammed the car into drive. He left skid marks on the brick drive, and accelerated away as fast as he could.

  Chapter Sixty

  IGNACIO WAS ON his way to the bullpen when his phone rang. He was trapped in congestion. He answered hands-free. “Detective Montellano speaking.”

  “Detective, it’s John Mansfield. Where are you right now?”

  “I’m stuck on the Dolphin Expressway. There’s an accident and we’re down to two lanes.”

  “When you get a chance, grab an exit and head to Coconut Grove. Brandon Roche’s residence.”

  “What’s happening there?”

  “Roche is dead.”

  Ignacio gripped the steering wheel. “Say again?”

  “Roche was murdered sometime last night. Miami PD already sent a detective, but I asked them to defer to you since you’re working with us. It’s a mess here, so be ready.”

  “How bad are we talking?”

  “I’ve got people puking their guts out right now.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  The call ended. There was silence in the car.

  Ignacio pressed a button on the face of his phone. “Call Harley.”

  “Calling Harley,” the phone returned.

  He got voice mail. “This is Coral Sea Sport Charters,” Camaro’s voice said. “Leave your name, a number, and information on your charter request and I’ll get back to you inside twenty-four hours.”

  Ignacio hissed with disappointment as the tone sounded. “Camaro, I don’t know when you’re going to get this, but we need to move on your girl now. Brandon Roche was murdered last night. Call me as soon as you can, okay?”

  He ended the call. He looked at the clot of traffic ahead of him and leaned on the horn. He thought to curse, but didn’t.

  “Serafian tries to kill Faith,” Ignacio said out loud. “Faith kills Serafian. Roche tells his people to move on Camaro. Camaro kills them. Faith disappears. Roche doesn’t have any plays left. Roche dies. Roche dies.”

  Traffic crept forward. Ignacio rubbed the back of his neck. He sweated despite the AC.

  “Roche dies,” he said again. “Who kills Roche?”

  He called Mansfield back. “Are you on your way?” Mansfield asked.

  “I’m getting there. Listen, who’s working the scene?”

  “Detective Pool is here.”

  “He looked through any security video Roche had in the house? A guy like him, he had to monitor himself day and night.”

  “It’s the first thing he checked. All the hard drives were pulled. We’re canvassing the neighborhood right now, trying to grab any footage we can from security cameras at other residences.”

  “I don’t get it,” Ignacio said. “All this time it’s been Roche, and probably his boss, behind everything going down, and then he gets himself offed? Who’s the new player?”

  “Do you want my hot take?” Mansfield asked.

  “If you want to share.”

  “I’ll forward some photos if you want to see right now, but I’m thinking Colombians. Pope thinks the same. It’s classic, all the way down to…well, you’ll see.”

  Ignacio honked his horn again, put on his signal, and forced his way between two cars in the next lane. A swarm of protest honks burst behind him. He waved through his back window. “So Roche and Kaur try to clean up their mess, and now the Colombians are doing the job for them,” he said. “Except Roche and Kaur are the mess.”

  “It fits, but I don’t want to jump to any conclusions. That’s why I want you to work it. If M&I Bank and Trust were doing business with the Black Eagles, it stands to reason they were in deep with other groups, foreign and domestic. These banks can’t help themselves. They go wherever the money is. What we’re seeing here might be another set of players entirely.”

  “What about Kaur?”

  “My people hit his house as soon as we found out about Roche. Kaur already cleared out. His housekeeper says he was in a panic about something. Which he probably is. The question is whether we can find him before these people do.”

  “You want me to cover that end?”

  “No, I want you on Roche. You did a good job for us, and you’re going to get the credit you deserve, but it’s time for the Bureau to step up.”

  “What about Faith Glazer? Even with Roche and Kaur out of the way, she has to be a target. I don’t want another body on my hands.”

  “We’ll find her. I have people going over every part of her life with a fine-tooth comb. We’re on top of it.”

  “Yeah, like you were on top of the bank guys. Why wasn’t anyone watching them?”

  Mansfield cleared his throat. “That was an oversight.”

  “Well, I hope you tighten things up, because it seems like we’re running out of people to arrest.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “I see my exit.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Ignacio hung up and shook his head. His mind moved too quickly. He reached out. His finger hovered over the phone. He stopped himself. She’d call when she called. “I hope you catch a lot of fish today, lady, because I got a serious problem on my hands,” he said to no one.

  He made it to within a few yards of the exit, yanked the wheel to the side, and pulled onto the shoulder. He pressed the accelerator, rushed down the edge of the road, tires grinding on pebbles and grit and broken glass. More people honked as he streaked past. Ignacio paid them no mind.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  HER PHONE PINGED when the Annabel came within signal range. Camaro stood on the flybridge with the throttles open, hair streaming in a twenty-nine-knot wind. A few of her charter party were on the afterdeck, and a few were in the cabin. The sun was directly in her eyes, dazzling ev
en though she was wearing sunglasses. She played her voice mail.

  When she was done listening, she called Ignacio. He answered. Camaro heard the sound of men speaking in the background, a deep-voiced babble of people at work. “Thank God,” Ignacio said. “Are you back?”

  “I’m coming in. It’ll be a little while longer. What’s going on?”

  “All hell is breaking loose. Roche is dead. Kaur is missing. The feds are in control of everything.”

  Camaro watched the Miami skyline draw closer. Tall buildings gained definition.

  “Are you hearing me?”

  “What about Faith? Do they know anything about Faith?”

  “Give me a second.”

  Through the phone, Camaro heard a car door open and close. “Listen, I’m leaving Roche’s place right now. I need to be at the medical examiner’s office for the postmortem on Roche, but there’s time for us to meet. We can get Faith and put her in protective custody before anything else happens. Roche’s people were dangerous, but whoever did him took it to a whole new level. I don’t want to see your girl carved up.”

  “Meet me at the marina in an hour.”

  “You have people with you?”

  “They’re off as soon as I get there. I don’t host parties.”

  “Ditch them as soon as you can. It’s go time.”

  Camaro didn’t say anything right away. She pushed the throttles farther forward. The engines picked up. “I’m trusting you,” she said at last.

  “I won’t let you down.”

  She ended the call. Down on the afterdeck, two men exploded with laughter. The Annabel danced on the swells, cresting one after another. The ride smoothed at a lower speed, but Camaro notched the throttles again anyway. The Annabel topped out at around forty knots.

  “Hey, Skipper!” shouted one of the men on deck below. He held up a can of beer. “What are you drinking?”

  “I’m driving,” Camaro replied.

  “Come on! One beer!”