Make Them Sorry

by Sam Hawken

  They skimmed the coast, passing through Miami Beach. Outlandishly expensive houses and condos were wind-lashed and gray under the unforgiving sky. Camaro tried to keep track of their turns. They took a bridge across water she thought might be Sunset Lake.

  The agent took her farther, navigating close streets with beautiful homes on both sides. Their owners were huddled away now, shrinking from the storm. Everything seemed deserted. The Ford sedan carrying them was the only vehicle on a road scattered with fallen branches.

  Another short bridge took them into a new area, no less wealthy. The houses here went for millions, even though a solid hurricane blow could flatten them all. The agent took a right turn, slowed along a stretch of high greenery that hid a lot from the street. They came to a complete stop in front of a wrought-iron gate.

  The gate had an intercom mounted next to it. The agent didn’t open his window. He made a call on his phone. “Yeah, it’s Mills. I’m out front. Open it up.”

  No one came to open the gate. It swung wide of its own accord. The agent, Mills, pulled through an arch in the green and onto an oval drive surrounded by palm trees. The house was white as bone in the darkness, windows glowing yellow from the inside. A two-car garage let out into the drive, but both doors were closed. No other vehicles were parked outside. Someone opened the front door. Camaro saw a man silhouetted in golden light. He had a shotgun on a shoulder sling.

  Mills parked directly in front of the house. He turned around in his seat. “All right, this is it. We’re gonna get out and we’re gonna walk straight in. Don’t slow down, don’t look around. Once you’re inside, stay clear of the windows and only go into areas you’re given permission to use. Got that?”

  Camaro looked at him.

  “Okay, you got it. Let’s go. I’ll get out first and open your door. Wait for me.”

  Wind and rain blasted through the driver’s-side door when he opened it. Camaro watched Mills hurry to her side of the car. He opened her door and waved her toward the house. The man with the shotgun stepped back to allow them entry.

  The ten feet from the car to the house was enough to soak Camaro to the skin. She entered a broad foyer painted stark white, the floors a matching shade of marble. The man with the shotgun closed and locked the door behind them. “Pouring, huh?” he said.

  “I didn’t notice,” Mills said. He took off his jacket and shook it out. He had a holstered Glock 22 under his arm. “This is Camaro Espinoza. Ms. Espinoza, this is Deputy U.S. Marshal Romero. He’s part of a two-man detail protecting the house. Whatever you need, he’s the one to talk to, but when he tells you to do something, you listen.”

  “Nice to meet you,” the marshal said.

  “Where’s the other one?” Camaro asked.

  “Marshal Stanley’s out back,” said Romero. “Somebody has to walk the grounds. Poor bastard. It’ll be my turn next. Hey, Mills, you sticking around?”

  Mills shook his head. “I have to keep moving. We’re still looking for our guy. Might have some activity on that.”

  “Does he get a cell or a safe house?”

  “Depends on what he has to say, I guess.”

  Camaro looked deeper into the house. She saw open stairs going up, chrome, steel, and wood, beyond that a formal living room, white on white, with only the furniture providing splashes of color. The walls displayed perfect, balanced artwork. She heard rain drumming on the roof. At the far end of a long hall, high glass windows let in dingy sunlight. “How large are the grounds?” she asked.

  “About half an acre,” Romero answered. “Big house, though. Six thousand square feet, give or take. Four bedrooms. You have three to choose from.”

  “Why three?”

  Footsteps fell on the stairs. Camaro turned. She saw Faith on the landing.

  “One of them’s taken,” Romero told her. “Unless you want to bunk with Ms. Glazer.”

  Camaro looked at Mills. “We shouldn’t be here together. She should be somewhere on her own. It’s too easy for them if we’re together.”

  “Relax,” Mills said. “We have the situation under control. And we don’t have unlimited resources, so you go where we can put you. Better to have both of you where we can keep an eye out.”

  Camaro saw a look pass between Mills and Romero.

  Faith came all the way down. “I could use some company,” she said.

  “See? There you go,” Mills said. “It’s all good. Settle in and enjoy yourselves. The kitchen’s fully stocked, and if Romero thinks it’s okay, you could even send out for Chinese.”

  The agent and the marshal shook hands. Mills let himself out. Romero paused at the door long enough for Mills to drive away before he secured the entrance. He turned to Camaro and Faith. “All right,” he said. “The arrangements are pretty straightforward. You have full access to the second floor. Special Agent Mills probably told you about the windows. If you want to come downstairs, make sure one of us is with you. The kitchen’s enclosed, so you don’t have to worry about being seen when you’re cooking. Dining room’s off-limits.”

  “Anything else?” Camaro asked.

  Thunder made the whole house tremble. Romero looked up and grinned. “And no dips in the pool.”

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  JOHN MANSFIELD DROVE with the storm at his back. He would be lucky to beat the rain.

  His phone trilled. He pressed an icon on his car’s dash screen. “This is Special Agent Mansfield,” he said.

  “It’s Trina.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Pope said. “What’s the status on Kaur? It seems like the storm is slowing everybody down.”

  “We’re on it. I expect to have him in custody before I make it back to my office. How are things going with the Miami cops?”

  “As well as you’d expect.”

  Mansfield checked his blind spot. An Audi was a white lozenge in his mirror, hugging him closely. He signaled, but the Audi didn’t fall back. He cursed and wobbled the steering wheel until the Audi’s driver got the picture. Mansfield changed lanes. The engine of his BMW hummed.

  “Is there a problem, John?”

  “No, no. Florida drivers. Anyway, about Montellano: it’s a shame he has to be sacrificed, but that’s how these things go. The Bureau probably won’t ask for his head, but I imagine he won’t have too many promotions in his future. You cut corners, you get into trouble. Everybody knows the drill.”

  “Your man took Camaro Espinoza out of here a little while ago.”

  “Good. We’re keeping her at the 27th Street safe house for now. It’s all been arranged.”

  “The 27th Street safe house?” Pope asked. “Sunset Islands?”

  “That’s right. We grabbed it up from a big embezzlement case last year. Nice house. She should be comfortable.”

  “How long will you keep her?”

  “Until we’re sure she’s not a target anymore. The same goes for Faith Glazer. The two of them are walking around with huge bull’s-eyes on their backs, and I don’t think we can afford to have more people getting killed on our watch. We don’t have Montellano to dump it on if things go wrong from here on out.”

  “Sounds like you have it under control.”

  “Were you worried?”

  “I always worry. It’s how I know when there’s a problem close to me.”

  Mansfield frowned. “Problem?”

  “I’m working on resolving it. You have enough on your plate. Working late?”

  “Yeah, I’m headed into the office.”

  “Staying there awhile?”

  Mansfield frowned again. “Are you thinking about stopping by?”

  “I might. If not, have a good night.”

  “Will do.”

  The call ended. Mansfield waited until he heard the double beep confirm it. He allowed himself to hum a little as he drove. He was nearly there, but the storm had caught up to him. Rain spotted the asphalt and splattered the black lacquer of the BMW. Mansfield pu
t on his headlights and touched the wiper controls. He glanced over and saw the Audi pacing him again. He shook his head.

  His phone rang. Mansfield made an exasperated sound. “Yes, who is it?”

  “Do you wish for me to use names on the phone?” asked the man on the other end.

  “This is the wrong number to call,” Mansfield told Lorca.

  “I wanted you to know it’s done. We’ve concluded our business with Mr. Kaur. You can tell your people to move at any time.”

  The storm picked up. “So he’s dead?”

  “You have to ask this question? And you are half a million dollars richer. Thank you very much for your cooperation.”

  “Listen, I hope your boys did a good job of covering up the transfer. People are watching.”

  “People close to you?”

  “I don’t know. I took precautions on my end, but you’re compromised. I don’t want any of this coming back on me.”

  “Special Agent Mansfield, you are a humorous man,” Lorca said. “You worry about things you shouldn’t, and you forget things which are most important.”

  “Like what, exactly?”

  The Audi came abreast of him, its interior dark, the windows showered with rain. Mansfield wanted to curse out loud. He gave the driver the finger instead.

  Lorca continued. “What is important now is you take the steps necessary to close out our dealings. I did not pay for one man’s death. I paid for a resolution. And remember: you came to me. I did not come to you.”

  “I know how it happened,” Mansfield said. “And I also know if you’re paying so much to everyone else, there’s no reason you couldn’t pay a little something to me. So long as you know I’ll spill everything if it serves my interests to do so. I’m not spending the rest of my life in prison for a million dollars.”

  “Our agreement was for five hundred thousand.”

  “Now it’s for an even million.”

  Lightning arced across the sky. For a moment the road was lit as brilliantly as midday. Thunder hammered Mansfield’s car. Lorca’s voice was the quiet in the storm. “Are you threatening to expose me, Agent Mansfield?”

  “I’m in a position to do a great deal of damage.”

  “I don’t think so. If you thought you had a chance to hurt me, you wouldn’t have cut a deal for yourself. So the Glazer woman has a copy of the information she failed to destroy. It’s meaningless if she’s eliminated. Your government can attempt to turn numbers into convictions without her testimony, but I assure you it will be more difficult than you imagine. Or perhaps not, since you decided to take my money. And if those numbers should disappear…”

  “I told you before, I can’t get access to that. It’s in the hands of our forensic accountants. I’d never be able to delete everything, and that’s assuming I could penetrate all the safeguards to get to it. You’ll have to find some other way.”

  “So your…bonus is for nothing at all.”

  “Maybe you want to look at it that way. If there’s nothing else, I’d like to go back to work. The more normal things appear on the surface, the better it’ll be for both of us. I have to continue to work the case. And Special Agent Pope is not going to drop it, not even if you offered her as much as you paid Faith Glazer. My part is done. All that’s left is for you to deposit the next half million.”

  “I suppose it is time to say goodbye, Agent Mansfield,” Lorca said. “I have enjoyed our time working together.”

  Lorca terminated the call. Mansfield found himself gripping the wheel with both hands so tightly his knuckles bled white. Fresh sweat was in his pits.

  His turn was up ahead. The Audi had fallen back. He forced his limbs to relax. By the time he reached his office, he would be as calm as a breezeless sea.

  The Audi moved up again. It honked its horn. Mansfield turned his head. His window shattered.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  IGNACIO STAYED AT his desk long after the captain told him to go home. He busied himself at his computer going over open cases, double-checked reports on the last five cases he had closed. They had told him he was on administrative leave. He had no business doing anything at all. He didn’t want to go, and he did not want to drive in the storm. Every time the captain left his office, he threw darker and darker looks Ignacio’s way.

  Someone touched him on the shoulder. He jumped in his chair. “What the—?”

  Pool smiled down at him. “Gotcha. What are you still doing here?”

  “Getting everything neat for whoever takes my caseload.”

  Pool pulled up a chair. “That would be me. Things went sideways with the feds, huh?”

  “Yeah. And Captain Palmer is going to throw me out of here any minute, or have some unis drag me away.”

  “Why stay? From what I hear, it’s a huge mess anyway.”

  “I don’t like letting things go, I guess,” Ignacio said.

  Pool clapped him on the shoulder. “Sometimes that’s exactly what you have to do. Go home. Forget things for a while. When you come back, it’ll all have blown over. I promise.”

  Ignacio smiled a little. “Maybe so. All right, I’m out.”

  He gathered his things and put on his hat and headed for the door. He was halfway to the elevator when he heard Pope talking to someone. He spotted her standing near the drinking fountain, phone pressed to her ear. He stepped out of sight and listened.

  She was talking to Mansfield. He heard the man’s name. Ignacio listened to their conversation end, and heard her low heels click on the floor toward the elevator. He waited until he heard the elevator come and go before stepping back out into the hallway. He stood still, his mind working. He went to the stairs.

  By the time he reached the ground floor, he wheezed with the effort. He opened the stairwell door and peered out. Pope was nowhere around. He stole down a side hallway. At the end, a large glass window impregnated with wire above a small counter with a bank teller’s slot and a sliding security drawer. A uniformed cop was on the other side of the glass. Beyond was a broad room filled with shelves and boxes and trays. Ignacio didn’t recognize the man. His name tag said STRICKLAND.

  The cop looked Ignacio over. “Something I can help you with?”

  Ignacio stepped up to the glass. “I’m Detective Montellano, Homicide Unit.”

  “ID?”

  He slapped his breast and felt the void where his identification had been. His badge was in Captain Palmer’s desk, along with his weapon. “Oh, man, I left it on my desk. Look, call up to Homicide Unit and ask for Detective Pool. He can vouch for me.”

  Strickland gave Ignacio a sour glare, but picked up the phone. Ignacio watched him dial out. Strickland turned his back on Ignacio while he talked. Strickland hung up. When he turned around his demeanor had shifted into something friendlier. “What can I do you for, Detective?”

  “I wanted to know if a weapon had been checked in. Belongs to Camaro Espinoza. It would have come down a few hours ago.”

  “I recognize the name. It’s not in evidence. One of those federal folks turned it over.”

  “That’s right. It was only confiscated temporarily. They asked me to return it to Ms. Espinoza.”

  He thought Strickland would balk. He didn’t. “You’ll have to sign for it.”

  “No problem.”

  Strickland retrieved the .45 from somewhere in his lair. The 1911 was in a plastic bag. A separate bag held the magazine. Strickland took a few moments to note the numbers on the bag in a ledger. He filled out the top half of a form he passed through the teller’s window. “Sign the bottom.”

  Ignacio signed with a flourish, and passed the form back. His mouth was sticky.

  The gun went into the security drawer. Strickland shoved the drawer on his end and it popped out on Ignacio’s. Ignacio gathered both bags. “Much obliged. Talk to you another time.”

  “Stay dry,” Strickland said.

  Ignacio stopped at a trash can and stripped the weapon and the magazine of their plastic
bags. He threw away the bags, loaded the .45, and stuck it in his waistband. He went out of the building and into the rain.

  Behind the wheel of his car, he leaned over to unlock the glove compartment. He found a .38 revolver inside in a leather hip holster, along with an ID wallet. He checked the weapon to ensure it was still loaded.

  Rain gusted as he started the engine. He pulled out of the parking lot as the downpour sheeted over the street. He muttered to himself, “You are not doing this. You are not a stupid person. Everything is not all right.”

  He directed his car toward the coast. The Sunset Islands were a small quartet facing the water directly. The 27th Street safe house, Pope had said. The storm would be even worse once he got there. In his mind he turned over the things he’d say and the things he’d do. He tried to lead himself away, back to his empty house and the long hours of administrative leave open to him. He returned again and again to the water’s edge, and the multimillion-dollar houses abutting it.

  Traffic moved sluggishly in the rain, as if everyone had been beaten down to the three feet in front of their bumper. Ignacio wanted to hurry. He couldn’t.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  THE STORM SHOWED no sign of moving on. Camaro and Faith sat on a large bed in the biggest of the bedrooms, curtains drawn and the curved eighty-five-inch 4K UHD on the wall showing the Weather Channel. The front was enormous, covering Miami in a blotch of green extending completely across the metro area, with still more out to sea. The woman reporting promised the storm wouldn’t end for hours.

  Faith didn’t talk. Camaro didn’t either. Thunder rocked the house every time a massive flash of lightning exploded outside. Twice the lights flickered. Camaro felt Faith tense up when it happened.

  “It’s only a storm,” Camaro said.

  “I don’t like it. I came to Miami because it was supposed to be sunny all the time.”

  “There has to be a storm eventually.”

  The Weather Channel moved on to other regions. Camaro tuned out. She listened for the sound of the marshals downstairs. They didn’t talk much, but when they did speak, their voices rang off the marble floors and the stretches of blank white wall, carrying all the way up to where Camaro sat with Faith. They complained about the weather and having to go out in it. They discussed who would make dinner. A phone rang after a while. Camaro left the bed.