Sink, Swim, Die

by Jay Giles

  He waved a hand at me. “Nonsense, there are boat people who will handle all that.”

  “I’m afraid I have to insist. There are things you’ll be angry about if I don’t explain what happened. This doesn’t have to take long, if you’re worried about time.”

  He made a show of looking at his watch. “Have to be quick,” he said in a chiding tone. “I’m meeting the buyer at two.”

  “Then let’s go,” I said and led him back in the bar.

  I left dark roots some money, herded the cast of characters to the skiff, and loaded them on. Su and Sloane sat in front, Cabrera sat with me. I fired up the outboard and we were on our way to the Venetian.

  “Are those bullet holes?” Cabrera asked as I slowed approaching the stern ladder.

  “Yeah, this side’s the worst.” I leaned forward and said to Sloane. “It’s what the fire did to the boat’s interior that’s really bad.”

  “Fire?” Cabrera asked.

  “Long story,” I said and angled the boat to the ladder. Su went first, followed by Sloane and Cabrera. I tied the skiff off and joined them on the stern deck. Sloane was standing in the deck’s center, his gaze surveying the damage. Cabrera, standing two steps from Sloane, was looking, too. He turned, said to me, “I thought she would be in better shape.”

  “She was when—”

  There was a pop. Not loud. Not close. Had a bit of reverb. Sloane’s head exploded like a melon hit by a hammer. His limp body thudded to the deck. I saw the carnage, saw his body go down, but my mind refused to register what I’d seen. Second pop. Blood, brain, and bits of bone splattered me as the side of Cabrera’s head was blown off. His body brushed mine as it fell. Even that didn’t get me to move. I stared, transfixed, at the two motionless bodies on the deck, only jarred out of my stupor when Su tackled me, pulling me to the deck as a third pop sounded. I felt something whiz by my head, heard it burrow into the salon wall.

  Arms protecting my head, eyes squeezed shut, ears alert for the next pop, the reality of what had just happened sunk in, the shock of near death reverberated through my system. When no more pops sounded, I opened my eyes, and found myself looking at the grisly remains of Cabrera’s face. I turned my head away. This was going to give me nightmares; in fact, they’d already started.

  My theory Sloane and/or Cabrera were behind the smuggled diamonds died with them.

  Chapter 10

  Once again, I was in a police interview room. I consoled myself it was an American police station and they weren’t referring to me as a suspect. At least not in my presence. For now, I was that ubiquitous person—a material witness.

  Hammond and Ewers had arrived within minutes of the shootings and had taken charge. They’d immediately escorted Su and me off the stern deck and secluded us in separate staterooms. Hammond used a small recorder to tape my recollection of what happened. I guessed Ewers did the same with Su.

  An hour and a half later, Hammond returned to my stateroom with a homicide detective, James Mackay, who Hammond said would be taking over the investigation.

  “Call me Mack,” he said, sticking out his hand. I sized him up as we shook; sure he was doing the same of me. Mackay was a couple of inches shorter with longish blond hair that fell over his ears and curled up in the back, an oval face, and gray green eyes that surveyed me critically. He wore a blue button-down oxford shirt open at the collar, tan sportcoat over dark jeans, and polished cordovan loafers. Under his open sportcoat, there was a gun in a shoulder holster. “I know you told Tom everything, but it would help if you’d tell it to me while it’s fresh in your memory.”

  I looked at Hammond. “The shootings? Or everything?”

  “Let’s start with the shootings,” Mackay prompted.

  I replayed it from meeting Sloane and Cabrera at Marina Jack’s.

  “You think the third shot was meant for you?” Mackay said when I finished.

  “Yeah, I do. I froze. If it hadn’t been for Su, I’d be dead, too. Have you talked to her?”

  “She’s next.” He said getting ready to leave. “When we finish here, we’re going to take the two of you back to the station. Just precautionary.”

  He got no protest from me, I was happy to be protected. “Fine.”

  Twenty minutes later, Mackay stuck his head in my room and with a nod indicated I should come with him. Su was in the hallway with Hammond and Ewers as we made our way to the stern deck. I noticed the bodies had been removed, but the gore remained. CSIs were down on their knees, scraping little bits of bone and brain into specimen bags. Even trying not to look, I saw more than I wanted. A police boat rode us to the dock, a cruiser took us to the station, and Su and I were placed in separate interview rooms.

  Mackay came and went. He spent half an hour going over who knew we were in Sarasota. I got his point, the list was not large: Su, myself, LeeAnn, and via LeeAnn, Sloane and Cabrera.

  He returned a few minutes later and asked if I knew who Sloane’s buyer might be. I never thought there was one and told him as much.

  His final visit of the evening was the most troubling. He placed a manila folder on the table in front of him, opened it, found the page he wanted, and asked how Su had become part of the crew. I told him about Pena’s recommendation of her as a cook and her arrival the following day with Ollie and Nestor.

  He leaned back in his chair, his gaze intense. “Did you ask to see any identification? Any references?”

  “No, not from any of them. Why?”

  He frowned as he pulled the top sheet of paper from the folder and placed it in front of me. It was a photocopy of a passport page that showed a younger Su with shorter hair and without the scar. I stared at it a long time before my gaze traveled to the name underneath: Angie Chang. I read it and felt angry with myself. She must have thought me the easiest mark in the world.

  Mackay placed a second sheet in front of me. It was a color headshot of someone I didn’t recognize—a Chinese woman with small features and dark eyes set in the center of a large round face. Her hair was parted in the center, pulled back on the sides and held in place by blue barrettes. Thick glasses hung on a chain around her neck. “That’s the real Su Li,” Mackay said. “She’s dead. Murdered.”

  My head dropped at the news. “How?”

  “Two shots to the head,” he said, watching me intently. “Do you know something?”

  I swallowed, my mouth dry. “The fellow who was supposed to meet me in Rio and take me to the Venetian, Ray Nunez, died from two shots to the head.”

  Mackay’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward looking annoyed. “You didn’t tell me that before.”

  “I told you Nunez had been murdered,” I mumbled while my mind tried to come to grips with the possibility Su had killed them both. “I didn’t think to tell you it was from two shots to the head.” I had to know. “You think it was Su?”

  Mackay’s mouth stayed a hard, straight line. “At this point it would only be speculation. I’m more concerned about the two murders here and what she might know about them.”

  “She was on the boat with me.” I protested. “She saved my life.”

  He almost smiled. Probably thought me naïve. “You’re an attorney, Mr. Taggert. What little information we have at this point is circumstantial. We won’t know more until the files I’ve requested on Su Li and Angie Chang arrive from the Brazilian authorities, but Angie Chang appears to have played a role in the smuggling from the very beginning. Surely you see that? The question is how involved was she in the murders?”

  “What’s she saying?”

  “She admits having worked in the past for—” He opened the manila folder and flipped through several pieces of paper until he found what he wanted. “—this man.” He placed a classic front and side mug shot in front of me. “Rodrigo Moreno,”

  It was similar to the mug shot I’d seen of Moreno in Maceio, but in this one he was smirking. It was smirk that did it.

  Bruce Willis

  Mackay must have seen
the recognition on my face. “What?”

  “Ban Sloane told me he found out about the Venetian from a private investigator he called Bruce Willis.” I spun the photo around. “This has to be that guy.”

  Mackay studied the picture, frowning. “Both bald,” he reluctantly agreed.

  “Same guy. I’m sure of it,” I insisted. “I don’t know if it’s in the police report, but this guy has his own black-ops crew of ex-military. I saw ‘em. They kidnapped three of us off the Venetian and parked us in jail for a week. Su rescued us. So if she was working for them, that’s how she knew where we were.” I thought of that Luis got lost story she’d tried to feed me. Pure poppycock.

  Mackay cocked an eyebrow. “You were kidnapped?”

  I waved him off. “Don’t worry about that. What’s important is Moreno’s men are ex-military. Who else could make that shot but a military sharpshooter?”

  Mackay was noncommittal. “We’ll be looking at that. But play it out. If your girlfriend is working for Moreno, she was the one who tipped him off about your arrival in Sarasota. That makes her an accomplice to murder.”

  “No. No.” I was adamant. “You don’t understand. Moreno cut her face. He was threatening her. She may have told him where we were going, but it had to be under duress. She had no idea he was going to shoot Sloane or Cabrera.” It all tumbled out in a semi-incoherent rush.

  Mackay stood, gathered his papers. “We’ll see. I’m going to have you stay here tonight while we sort this out.”

  “I can help. Let me I talk to Su and I can—”

  “That’s not a good idea,” he told me as left the room.

  Minutes later, a tall balding, older man with a long fringe of gray-to-white hair and a gold tooth smile, arrived and led me to a room for the night.

  The bunk was comfortable enough, but I was too wound-up to sleep. I tossed. Turned. Worried about the killings. How deeply was Su involved?

  Chapter 11

  Mackay met with me again in the morning. This time, we were in a small, sparse interview room with a rectangular fake-wood table and four faux leather chairs on rollers. Mackay handed me a cardboard cup of coffee, had me sit facing the wall with the one-way mirror. He took the opposite seat, put his coffee and two fat manila folders on the table in front of him. “The file arrived on your girlfriend.”

  I shifted uneasily in my faux leather hot seat. “And?”

  “There are no outstanding warrants,” he said, voice even, gaze on the contents of the manila folder now open in front of him. It had grown thicker since our last tete a tete. “That’s the good news. The bad news is that she’s got a history.” He looked up, his gaze met mine, before dropping back down to tick off the list of offenses. “Smuggling. Fraud. Conspiracy to defraud. Grand theft. Fencing stolen property. ” His gaze returned to me. “We can now add identity theft to that list.”

  “I didn’t hear murder or mayhem mentioned.”

  “No,” he said skeptically. “Her crimes to date appear to be non-violent. We think she was working as a spotter, there to keep the three of you on the deck long enough for the shots to be made.”

  The lawyer in me pushed back. “There’s no evidence to support your theory,” I countered quickly. “You’re reaching.”

  “We’ll see.” He closed her folder, opened the other. “I also have the file on her boss, Rodrigo Moreno—”

  “Again, you don’t know he’s still her boss.”

  He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well, according to the Brazilian authorities, she worked for him off and on for four and a half years, was arrested twice, both times as an accomplice, and served time once for antiquities smuggling.” He looked over at me, probably expecting I’d object again. When I didn’t, he continued. “The question is—is she working for him now?” He shrugged. “Could be a coincidence they’ve both turned up together in this. But even you’ve got to admit it doesn’t look good.”

  Mackay seemed like a good guy. But he had a policeman’s bias—if a person looked guilty, he or she was. Happened all the time in my practice of immigration law. If a family looked or acted undocumented, they’d be picked up and questioned. It was up to them to prove their innocence. So I wasn’t buying his guilt by association argument.

  I viewed this as discovery. He wanted information from me and I wanted to know what he knew. “Can I see her file?” I asked innocently.

  Mackay hesitated. Probably calculating if this would come back to haunt him. “Want some more coffee?”

  I hadn’t touched mine. “No. I’m good.”

  He stood, held-up his cup. “I’m going for a refill. Back in a few.”

  He was giving me time alone with the file. I appreciated that. Quickly, I pulled it over, started at the beginning, and went carefully page-by-page.

  Su had been so secretive; this was a look behind the curtain. From the file, I learned she’d grown up in a modest section of Rio, raised by parents who ran a small Chinese restaurant called Chang’s Palace. As a teenager, she’d been a good student and earned a scholarship to the Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro, where she’d majored in Social Sciences with an emphasis in Archaeology. Junior year, she was one of twelve students selected to help three UFDJ professors curate finds at the Temple of Inscriptions—the tomb of Pacal the Great—in the ancient Mayan city of Palenque.

  It had to have been a dream summer job until the night it turned deadly. Masked thieves overran the camp, killing the professors and seven of the students. Su and the other survivors were taken prisoner and forced to pack-up statues, stone carvings, jade objects, and gold jewelry they’d uncovered from the tomb of Pacal’s oldest son K’inich Kan B’alam. They spent the next four days fast marching at gunpoint through the Mexican jungle. Two of her fellow students died on the way.

  My first thought was that this was Moreno’s work, but no, he was smarter than that. When the thieves emerged from of the jungle, Moreno’s men were waiting. The captured thieves each received a single gunshot behind the ear. The students, suffering from exhaustion, dehydration, sun poisoning, and insect bites, fared better. Moreno dropped them off at a clinic in Tuxtla before disappearing with the antiquities.

  The clinic had been an act of kindness I hadn’t expected. To Su—who probably thought the thieves would kill her at any moment and felt near death from the forced march—Moreno saved her life. Gratitude was one thing. But allegiance? I doubted that.

  After a week at the clinic, she was released and returned to UFRJ. As returns go, it was a short-lived. A grease fire in the Chang’s Palace kitchen destroyed the restaurant and her parent’s home above.

  Three things followed: Su left UFRJ, Chang’s Palace II started construction, and Su was arrested for fraud, having sold the same antiquity to three different buyers. The file theorized the antiquities belonged to Moreno and that she was acting as his agent because he’d financed the rebuilding of the restaurant. I noted the connection with Moreno hadn’t been proven and that she’d been acquitted.

  A year later, she was arrested and convicted along with two of Moreno’s men for smuggling rare jewelry artifacts. The file detailed twenty-three pieces of gold, silver and precious gems worth 3,603,520 Brazilian Reais. A little mental gymnastics converted that to $2-million U.S. She’d made the jump to the big time. Her sentence reflected it, 36 months at Taubate Prison in Sao Paulo, a prison notorious for riots and violent inmates. She served 23 months and was released.

  Five months later, she was one of four arrested in Johannesburg, South Africa, and charged with stealing diamonds from DeBeer’s. The company was mum on how the theft was discovered, value of the diamonds taken, or if they were ever recovered. One police investigator described the haul as “a brown leather briefcase containing seven kilos of cut stones.” However, before the case could come to trial, the prosecution’s star witness, Palo DiStassa, a DeBeer’s security executive, was gunned down at his home in one of Johannesburg’s better gated communities as he stepped out of his red Mercedes S Class. Prosecut
ors had no choice. With DiStassa dead, Su and the others walked.

  The doorknob rattled. Mackay was returning. He didn’t say anything, just eyed me as he sat down, sipped his coffee, and let me finish the jacket.

  Booted out of South Africa and back in Rio, Su and a man named Jan VanGroot—where had I heard that name—were arrested for trying to broker the sale of three Mayan religious statuettes to a private collector in San Paulo. The mug shot following her arrest showed Su with the ugly red scar running down her face. VanGroot’s mug shot showed a face I’d known by a different name—Ray Nunez.

  Diaz. That’s where I’d heard it.

  Diaz had mentioned Nunez had an accomplice—Angel. The sound of the names was so close it wasn’t much of a stretch to think Angel was Angie. Nunez ends up dead and Angie ends up on the Venetian crew. Much as I didn’t want admit it, the two events had to be connected and there could only be one reason why—the diamonds.

  I closed the cover on the file and pushed it over to Mackay. “Thanks.”

  He nodded. “Here’s what we’re looking at. She knew you were bringing the boat to Sarasota not Lauderdale, knew when Sloane and Caberra would be on the boat, and knew Moreno had people who could make those shots.”

  “That’s all supposition.”

  “She’s not denying it. You’re a lawyer. If an innocent person is accused of being an accomplice to murder, what do they do?” He paused for effect. “Not a word. Not a single stinking word.”

  “You’re going to charge her with that?”

  “Right now, we’re holding her on being in the country illegally. The assistant DA is planning on filing accessory to murder.”

  “That’s craziness. He has no case.”