by James Lepore
28.
8:00 PM, December 16, 2004, Miami
El Pulpo was an unpretentious place, with a worn mahogany bar, comfortable leather banquettes in the front, and a dining room and kitchen in the back. It was located on 17th Avenue, at the western edge of Little Havana, in a residential neighborhood of tightly-packed bungalows, duplexes, and two-family houses with small patches of lawn or dirt yard in front. When Jay and Dunn arrived, there were four or five kids, boys and girls aged eight or nine, catching fireflies in the street and putting them in a glass jar. The E of the neon sign above the entrance consisted of three of the eight legs of a stylized octopus, which flashed red, while the remaining letters flashed yellow. White and silver Christmas wreaths hung on the fixed glass windows that flanked the front door.
Inside, they were greeted by Maria Perna. Petite, gracious, her long, black, gray-streaked hair pulled back and tied with a plum-colored ribbon to match her sleeveless silk blouse, Angelo’s Cuban-American wife was El Pulpo’s hostess. Her ankle length black skirt and high-heeled sandals made her seem taller than her actual height, which appeared to Jay to be just over five feet. She gripped both of Dunn’s hands in hers, and kissed him on the cheek. She did the same to Jay, and then brought them to Angelo’s office, a banquette in a corner of the front room. She promised to return later, when they were done with their business. Dunn and Angelo shook hands, and Dunn introduced Jay. A waitress took their drink order.
“So, how are you?” Angelo said to Dunn.
“I’m good. You?”
“I’m good.”
“That’s a hell of a wife you have there.”
“Thanks,” Angelo replied. “I’m a lucky guy.”
“How’s Sam?” Dunn asked. “Is he here?”
“He’s good. He’s not working tonight.”
“How old is he now?”
“He’ll be sixty.”
“Your kid brother sixty? Unbelievable.”
Jay watched the two old friends smile at each other. He had heard Dunn’s stories of the days when they were rookie cops in New York. They were sixty-two now. A lifetime had passed. Angelo looked content, younger than his years. Dunn looked tired and older. He had ordered bourbon, and Jay wondered if Angelo knew his friend had been sober for many years, and that it was the torture and murder of Dan Del Colliano that had started him drinking again.
The waitress came with their drinks, and while she was setting them down, Angelo said to Jay, “So, you lost a good friend?”
Jay nodded.
“I was in the Army with a Del Colliano,” Angelo said. “In Nam.”
The waitress, to Jay’s right, seemed to stop in mid-motion as she was reaching with his drink, then it fell from her hand onto the table with a bang, ice and scotch making its way to the edge before she recovered and placed a napkin quickly down. Jay had seen this happen peripherally, but he looked full at her as she cleaned the table, and saw that she was gaunt, but very beautiful, young, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six, with short-cropped dark hair, full lips, and fine, deep blue eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping the last of the spilled ice onto her serving tray, “the glass was wet. I don’t think I got any on you. I’ll get you another drink.” She was embarrassed, but calm, and her accent was what? Jay could not place it.
“There’s no damage done,” Jay said, “don’t worry about it.” Her breast had brushed against his shoulder, and he had caught the scent of her perfume when she reached quickly to stop the scotch from spilling onto his lap, and he found himself watching her as she walked back to the bar to get him a replacement drink.
Jay, collecting himself, turned to Angelo and said, “Yes. He was a good friend. We grew up together.”
“Where was that?”
“In Newark.”
“You’re Italian?”
“Yes. My grandparents, three of them, are from Benevento, near Naples.”
“My people are from Avellino, the next town over.”
Danny’s grandparents had emigrated to the United States from the town of Avellino in 1911, but Jay did not mention this to Angelo, thinking instead of the trip to Italy he and Dan had discussed for years, which they had never taken.
“We appreciate your helping us with this,” he said, instead.
“It’s no problem, except there’s one thing we should talk about.”
“I’m listening.”
“You don’t know anything about my contacts in the Miami Police Department,” Angelo said. “I haven’t given you a name, and I won’t. If anybody ever asks, you don’t know where I get my information. I need your word on this.”
“You have it.”
The waitress returned with Jay’s drink and menus.
“What’s good?” Dunn asked Angelo.
“Sam bought the place last year, and he’s turned it into the only Cuban-Italian restaurant in Florida. I like it all, so you can’t go by me. Try the bistec empanizada. It’s great.”
Now that Jay had his drink, the other two men picked up theirs and, reaching to touch glasses, Angelo said, “To your friend.”
They sipped their drinks, and then Dunn said, “Anything new?”
“I just talked to my guy today. He’ll get back to me. Tell me what’s going on.”
Dunn told him about Jay’s encounter with the two young Mexicans the night that Bill Davis was killed, then recounted what they had learned from the clerk at the South Miami Beach Motor Hotel: that it was not Danny she checked in, but one of the presumed killers, and that the FBI apparently had pictures of them even before Danny was killed. Last, he mentioned Agent Markey’s visit to Jay’s office the week before, his seizure of the Powers divorce file, and his recent intimidation of Jay’s secretary.
“The FBI wants to talk to you, Jay,” said Angelo. “You can’t duck them forever.”
“He’s taken care of that,” said Dunn.
“I called Markey’s office before we left the hotel,” said Jay, “and told his secretary where I was staying.”
“Good,” said Angelo. “You might as well get it over with. Take this”—he handed Jay his business card—“You can reach me at this number twenty-four hours. If you get arrested, I’ll get you a lawyer and arrange bail. What’s this guy Markey like?”
“He’s an asshole,” said Jay.
“He’s obsessed,” said Dunn. “He’s got the New Jersey authorities under his thumb, he’s brought suit for a reporter’s notes, and he’s threatening to put Jay’s secretary, who’s totally innocent, in jail.”
“He must have a monster case on his hands,” said Angelo.
“No doubt,” said Dunn.
“Of course if these two Mexicans are looking for you,”—Angelo addressed this to Jay—“and I think we should assume they are, you’ve got a lot bigger problem than Agent Markey.”
“I’m aware of that,” Jay said, “but how would they know I’m in Florida? No one knows I’m here except Linda Marshall—she’s the reporter that Markey is also trying to put in jail—and I don’t see why they’d think to approach her to find me.”
“Agent Markey now knows,” said Angelo, “but let’s assume for now we can trust the FBI. What’s your take on all this, Frank?”
“They all sound like contract hits to me,” Dunn replied, “drug related. But Markey can’t be interested in the shooters themselves.”
“I agree,” Angelo said, “which means he must think he has a shot at somebody much higher up the food chain.”
“Somebody here in the States.”
“Right.”
On the plane ride to Florida, Dunn had recounted this theory to Jay, telling him that no South American or Mexican drug lord, no matter how strong the evidence against him, had ever been extradited to stand trial in the United States.
“Let’s assume,” said Angelo, “that this Bryce Powers guy was cleaning drug money for one of the cartels, as a broker—that’s what they’re doing nowadays. He steals some, gets caught, and they kill him an
d behead his wife as a diversion or to get Powers to talk.”
“Right,” said Dunn. “They want their money back, and they want to know who’s helping him.”
“He gives them Donna Kelly,” said Angelo. “They find her a few days later here in Florida, with Del Colliano. They kill Del Colliano and get their money back, but the broad gets away.”
“They go up to Jersey,” said Dunn, “to see if they can find a trace of her in Dan’s apartment. They run into Bill Davis. Then they read in the paper that Davis has ID’d them to the FBI. They go back, kill Davis, and run into Jay, but he gets away.”
“For Markey,” said Angelo, “the link to whoever he’s looking to nail is either the broad or the two Mexicans. Right now, you can be sure he’s hunting them both.”
“He probably won’t appreciate our help,” said Jay
Jay saw Dunn looking at him, to see, he assumed, if there was any sign that he fully understood the danger inherent in his pursuing either Donna Kelly or the Mexican killers on his own. Being arrested for obstructing justice, Dunn had said to him on the plane, would be a pleasure compared to what the cartel’s hit men would do to you if you fell into their hands. And who’s to say that Miss Kelly wasn’t in league with them and just as nasty a character?
“Doing what, exactly?” Angelo asked.
“Tracking down Donna Kelly,” Jay answered. “We can save the Mexicans for later.”
“And do what with her when we find her?” Dunn asked.
“That’s easy,” Jay answered. “If she’s innocent in Danny’s death, we’ll give her to Markey. If she had a hand in it, we’ll use her to draw out the Mexicans.”
Dunn and Angelo looked at each other.
“I think he’s serious,” said Angelo.
Dunn, looking at Jay, shaking his head almost imperceptibly, said nothing.
“Look,” said Jay. “You guys don’t have to help me. You’ve done enough already. But I’m not stopping. Do you think Markey gives a shit about Danny? He’s probably glad he got killed. It gets him closer to his big arrest. They crushed his balls, the motherfuckers, think about it.”
The banquette they were sitting at was circular, with a circular table in front of it, the three men sitting in a triangle facing one another. Dunn and Angelo leaned back, away from Jay’s heat. They each held his glance for a second, then Angelo motioned to the waitress for another round of drinks.
29.
5:00 PM, June 14, 2003, Palm Beach
“How do I advise you of the deposits?”
“You fax me the receipts immediately.”
“Who takes care of the wire transfers?”
“I do. I fax you the confirmations. We meet once a month to exchange originals.”
“What about the cash you receive directly?”
“I deposit it, and transfer it overseas, faxing you copies of the paperwork. Originals you get when we meet.”
“I thought Paredes made those deposits?”
“He did, but he was stealing, so I’ll take care of them from now on.”
They were sitting at a sidewalk table at Olive’s on Worth Avenue in Palm Beach on a warm, sunny day. Isabel had arrived late that morning from Mexico City, and taxied to Bryce’s condo, where she found the door unlocked and a note from Powers telling her to meet him at Olive’s at five. Next to the note were the keys to a Saab 9000 that was “hers to use” while she lived in the condo. She unpacked and took a long bath, and then went into Palm Beach, where she strolled, not buying, but observing the fashion scene and soaking up the luxury of Worth Avenue, among the grandes dames of the world’s shopping streets.
She and Bryce had spent the last hour discussing the details of Isabel’s job, Isabel sipping Pellegrino water while Bryce finished off two Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. On the table to her right was a folder containing a list of the banks used by Bryce Powers & Company around the country and a dozen or so deposit slips, neatly organized, for each of the company’s accounts in each of those banks. Bryce’s private fax and cell phone numbers were written on the inside of the folder’s front cover. Platinum American Express and Visa cards in Isabel’s name were clipped to the outside of the folder.
“What about the ten thousand dollar limit?” Isabel asked, referring to the federal law requiring banks to report all cash deposits of ten thousand dollars or more to the IRS.
“Try not to go over it, but if you have to—on a modest basis—go ahead. We make numerous legal deposits each month over ten thousand dollars. Twenty to twenty-five thousand is okay. If there’s too much cash, which will happen often, put it aside and give it to me at our monthly meetings. I’ll deposit it in special accounts where I have a relationship with my banker.”
Isabel was wearing a pale yellow, sleeveless linen dress, with fine multicolored beading along the top of the square-cut bodice, and sandals of the same pale yellow. The color of the dress and its simple cut created the perfect setting for her beautifully turned arms and legs, richly tanned and glowing in Worth Avenue’s late afternoon sunlight. At her neck was a necklace of Bakelite beads, a brilliant red to match her finger and toenails. Her earrings were two-karat rubies on posts, a gift from Herman. On her right wrist was a thick bracelet of the same fine beadwork as on her dress.
She had put on makeup—the little she used—and, relaxed and refreshed after her bath, she was not surprised to see the impression she had made on Bryce Powers when they met, and since then. What surprised her was the impression he had made on her. He was not the serpent, like Herman, or the pig, like Rafael, that she expected, but a man of intelligence and modesty, a combination of qualities rarely found in the men she met in her line of work. And he was good-looking, his dirty blond hair cut short, his gaze direct, his finely cast face, though lined with care and clearly carrying a heavy interior burden, still bearing the stamp—faded but visible—of a youthful beauty not entirely lost.
“Those sums I will of course report to Rafael,” said Isabel, reigning in her wandering thoughts.
“Of course,” Bryce answered. “I’m sure he has a reporting system up and down the line.”
“Not with the client cartels.”
“No, but stealing that money would create two deadly enemies. It would have to be a one-time thing—you’d have to run immediately—but there’s never enough at one time to make it worthwhile.”
“How would you steal?” Isabel asked. “You know the game as well as anyone.”
“I’d need a partner,” Bryce answered. “You for example. We’d chip away and blame the delivery people.”
Bryce smiled as he said this—his first full smile in the hour-plus they had been talking—a smile charming and surprisingly boyish, the sun appearing for a moment on a cloudy day. Isabel, disarmed, smiled in return, and, because her smile was spontaneous, that is, genuine, she could see that Bryce was equally disarmed, delighted to see this beautiful and somber young woman—so willing and able to involve herself in the deadly work of a drug cartel—let her guard down even for a moment. They held each other’s gaze, and then two shadows fell across the table. Looking up, Isabel saw two starkly pretty young women standing over them, their smiles anything but genuine.
“Hi, Dad,” said Marcy.
“Father,” said Melissa.
As Bryce rose and received kisses on his cheek, Isabel saw the quick flash of a mocking look in the girls’ eyes as they exchanged glances, and Bryce’s face change, the sun having returned behind thick clouds. Still standing, Bryce introduced his daughters to Isabel, his “associate,” and then he returned to his seat. Melissa and Marcy sat at the two empty chairs at the table, arranging their Saks and Versace shopping bags around them like ladies-in-waiting.
“Would you like a drink?” Bryce asked.
“No, we can only stay a minute,” Marcy answered. “We have to drop these things off, then get ready for dinner.”
“Where are you staying?”
“At the condo.”
“Isabel will be stay
ing there for a while.”
“Were those your things we found?” asked Melissa, turning to face Isabel, her eyes bright but her smile false. “Beautiful things,” she said when Isabel did not answer. “We saw them when we dropped our bags off.”
“You’ll have to go back and get them,” said Bryce.
“You mean she can’t move out for the weekend?” said Marcy, referring to Isabel without looking at her or acknowledging her presence.
“No. She’s living there.”
“Where will we stay?”
“Check in to the Breakers. It’s on me. Leave your keys on the kitchen counter.”
Isabel watched Marcy and Melissa take this in, seeing through the detached air they affected. They had lost a small turf battle, and were trying to conceal their resentment. Gazing at them with seeming disinterest, as a lioness might gaze at two hyenas who had wandered into her territory, Isabel saw what she might have been had she been the pampered child of rich parents and, for the first time since her brief affair with Patricio Castronovo, she was not absolutely certain of the hopelessness of her life.
“The Breakers is so passé, Father,” said Marcy, keeping it light. Isabel, her eyes said, whoever you are, I’ll deal with you another time.
“I have an account there,” Bryce answered. “Ask for the company suite. Have fun.”
Melissa had already risen, and now Marcy got up as well. They gathered their bags, went in turn to kiss their father good-bye, and left, neither of them looking, let alone addressing, Isabel. When they were gone, Isabel picked a cigarette out of her silver case and leaned toward Bryce while he lit it for her. She took a deep drag and, sitting back, blew the smoke out in a gentle stream from her nostrils and partially open mouth.