by A. J. Adams
There was some glaring and grumbling, but they couldn’t refuse. Beefy was McClutsky, skinny was Davenport, and they were Serious Crime Squad. This was trouble, but Arturo didn’t care. He looked them over and sneered. With him in Armani and the plods in polyester, plus them being caught out, they looked pretty glum. They didn’t like the crew surrounding them, either. Me, I was enjoying myself. It’s nice to be on the winning side.
“We can book you for possession of a deadly weapon and assaulting a police officer,” Davenport threatened Rafa. “You can get life for that.”
“Slapping Solitaire can cost you your life,” Arturo growled.
There was a dead silence, and after a brief staring stand-off, the plods dropped their eyes, and Arturo won.
“We have questions!” McClutsky was trying on some last minute blustering.
“Refer them to my lawyer.”
Kyle loomed briefly, and spoke quietly to Arturo. Whatever it was, it was good news. Arturo grinned and looked at his watch. The crew was looking smug. Whatever it was, they were expecting to have some fun. The entertainment entered the room a minute later.
“’Allo, ‘allo, ‘allo! What’s all this then?” He was a real comedian in a blue suit with a red tie and eyes deader than a shark’s. McClutsky and Davenport looked grim the second they spotted him. He nodded at them. “Hello, lads. I’ll take over now, if you don’t mind.”
“Hello, Fred.” Arturo shook hands. “Have a seat.”
Then we all sat down, with me on the sofa next to Arturo, and we acted out a little comedy.
Fred brought out a notebook and a pen, flipped through a few pages and put on an impressive frown. Then he switched on a little tape recorder, said the date and time and turned to Arturo. “Mr Arturo Vazquez, resident of Nuevo Laredo, Mexico?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m afraid I have to ask you some questions.”
“I’m happy to help in any way.”
“Did you know José Escamilla?”
“Of course!” Arturo replied. “He managed my record company for me. We were supposed to meet today. I was shocked when I heard he was dead.”
“Were you close?”
“Not really. It was a business relationship.”
Fred nodded. “Mr Vazquez, where were you on the evening of Friday the third?”
“That’s the night we arrived,” Arturo replied genially. “We landed at about five, I think.”
“We were coming in to land at about five,” Kyle corrected him. “Touchdown was about six.”
“Yeah, but don’t forget daylight saving,” Quique added. “And we lost that bag, remember? The one hidden under one of the seats? It took us an hour just to get out of the airport.”
“So you arrived between five and eight,” Fred was writing busily. “And then?”
“We came here,” Arturo said. “But we got a bit lost on the way.”
“So about an hour and a half?”
“More like three hours, I’d say. Traffic was hell.”
“It was my fault,” Chema said. “I was driving, and I turned north instead of south. Got stuck in a jam, and it took forever to get here.”
“And we stopped for snacks.” Kyle was being helpful again. “It was dark when we got here, remember?”
“So you checked in about ten or eleven?”
“We didn’t check in at all,” Arturo said. “Someone from central office did that for us and left the key in the car at the airport. We just drove in, parked and came straight up.”
“You know, it might have been close to midnight,” Quique was musing.
“Maybe.” Arturo agreed. “But I can’t be certain.”
“Check hotel CCTV,” Kyle suggested.
“There isn’t any,” Fred answered. He waited as the crew deplored this terribly unfortunate circumstance and then continued. “Did anyone see you?”
Arturo was nodding. “I spotted a chambermaid. Not sure which one, though.”
“I’m sure we’ll find her.”
From Arturo’s smile there would be a well prepared chambermaid, dead keen to give Arturo an alibi – if Fred even bothered to track her down, which was doubtful.
“Do you have any information about Mr Escamilla’s death?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s all very shocking.”
Then it was my turn to join in.
Arturo ran a hand over my hair. “Solitaire was waiting for us, but we were late, and she was asleep by the time we got here. I don’t think she noticed the time.”
Fred’s blue eyes were on me. “What were your movements on Friday?”
“I’m not sure. I was fed up, and I knew Arturo was coming, so I ditched Escamilla and came to London.”
I sounded a total slut, and Fred was nodding and smiling, writing it all down.
“Do you remember what time you left?” Arturo asked.
I was onto the game now. “Well, it was after breakfast, but I didn’t notice the time. Maybe ten or eleven? It could have been a bit later, I guess.”
“You drove?” Fred spoke without a look or glance to show he knew we were all lying like rugs.
“She hitched,” Arturo said comfortably. “I was very upset when I heard. It’s so dangerous.”
“I walked for miles, and then I got a lift from a truck driver, but he wasn’t heading for London,” I was embroidering madly. “I got another lift and got dropped off about two Tube stations away from here or maybe three, I’m not sure. I didn’t have any money so I walked.”
“And you got here at what time?”
“I don’t know. It was already dark. A chambermaid let me into the room, and I had a bath and took a nap.”
“So you weren’t there the night José Escamilla was killed.”
“No. Just think: if I’d been there, I would have been killed too!”
“Any idea who did it?”
“No. If I did, I would have said something.”
Fred smiled at me approvingly. “Absolutely.” He stood up. “That’s all for now. I may be in touch later with some more questions.”
“Any time!” Arturo was up and smiling. “Always happy to cooperate.”
“And we appreciate it.”
Then Fred swept McClusky and Davenport out with him, and that was that. The crew disappeared, too, leaving Arturo and me alone.
Arturo touched my cheek. “You planned this? Why?”
“I reckoned I was the weak link. And I thought it would fix them, at least temporarily.”
“Sirena!” Arturo was shaking his head. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I knew that the second your mate Fred walked in. But until then, I didn’t know you had the Met in your pocket.”
“I should have told you.” He was examining my face. “I’ll kill him for this.”
“No more killing this trip,” I said firmly. “We’ve got trouble enough.”
“We, huh?” Arturo was grinning. “I can’t believe you planned this!” He was hugging me, clearly delighted. “I’m giving you a necklace. Sapphires, to go with your eyes.”
Typical Arturo. “It’s sweet, but my loyalty is not for sale.”
“Sirena!”
I knew that if I didn’t speak up now, Arturo would always think of me as one of the many girls he’d bought and paid for. I couldn’t bear that. “Arturo, I can be pushed about like anyone else, but it doesn’t stick. The threats had me going for a while, but that’s not why I did it.”
“Why then?”
“Because you took me on the Eye and out dancing. And also because of this.” I put my arms around him and kissed him. “Because no matter how this started, Arturo, you’re not a pig. That’s why.”
“I won’t hurt you. It was a mistake to threaten you. I’m sorry.” Arturo spoke quietly, calmly, but I knew he meant it.
“I know. Forget about it.” I was sitting in the circle of his arms, feeling light and happy. “Look, Arturo, I’m looking for a new life, and as I said, I’ll do my b
est for you. When you’ve finished your meetings, let’s go for a walk.”
Arturo shook his head. “Too many people know I’m here. But we can have dinner and go dancing.”
So that’s why he’d been so happy going out and about. He’d truly been on holiday, free as a bird. And now it was back in the cage. A gilded one, but a cage nevertheless.
His phone buzzed. “Solitaire, grab that pink bag from the room? The one with the Barbie Mermaid?”
By the time I’d unearthed it, Fred had returned. He was sitting in a chair, tequila in hand, talking to Arturo, Kyle and a bloke I’d never seen before.
“My cousin, Jorge,” Arturo announced.
It looked social, and I was curious so I sat down. There was a tiny hesitation, and then they continued talking.
“Nice job,” Arturo said. “You can expect a bonus.”
Fred was grinning. “Scratch my back –”
I didn’t like him, and although everyone was acting friendly, they didn’t like him, either. Fred was a bent copper and although he was useful, they despised him. Nobody likes a double-dealer, and quite right, too. Traitors are scum.
“There are questions being asked in parliament,” Fred said. “It would be nice to hang this on someone.”
“I’m sure you’ll find who did it,” Arturo replied smoothly. He handed the bag over. “For Lacey.”
Fred froze. “Lacey?”
“Sure. Cute little thing! All blonde bubble curls.”
Arturo was smiling, but Fred looked sick. I was missing something.
“They’re great at that age,” Arturo continued. “So innocent.”
“You want to take good care of them,” Kyle added. “Girls need their grandfathers.”
“Incidentally,” Arturo said. “I heard Yilmaz got his last week.”
Fred was sweating. “Nothing to do with me.”
Arturo was looking rather grim. “Yilmaz was shot while escaping arrest. Funny that. I thought you and he were close.”
“Arturo, I swear, it had nothing to do with me!”
Kyle showed him his phone, and Fred turned as white as a sheet. Whatever was on that screen had him scared to death.
“I like you, Fred,” Arturo said softly. “I’d be upset if we fell out.”
“Difficult to trust a man when you know you can’t turn your back on him,” Kyle observed.
Jorge said nothing, but his eyes were merciless. The way he looked at Fred said he was looking at someone who was already dead.
Fred put down his tequila. “Listen, you need me!” His voice was a squeak. “I know something. I was going to tell you!”
They watched and waited, three cats with a rat.
Fred reached into his pocket. “Here. A gift.” He pulled out a sheaf of papers. “From our files.”
Arturo looked them over and frowned. “Where did you get this?”
Fred shrugged. “Came across it by accident, actually. It was in the wrong file. It’s from the Met’s Intelligence Support Unit.”
Arturo handed the papers to Kyle. Both were inscrutable, but I sensed that whatever was on that paper had rocked them both.
“I thought so,” Fred said relieved. “You’ve got a leak.”
“Who’s this Songbird?” Arturo asked.
Fred smiled and looked at me. “I rather thought it was Solitaire.”
And suddenly it was all eyes on me.
Chapter Nine: Arturo
I felt like I’d taken a punch to the gut. My first thought was that it was a set-up and that Davis was fucking with me. He’s a slippery son of a bitch – a cop on the take always is –and I didn’t trust him.
I’ve got hundreds of cops on my payroll. Some, like the ones in the poorer countries in the Far East and Africa, are guns for hire. They often go unpaid for months by their governments, and everyone knows they’re corrupt. Hell, they’re expected to make the bulk of their income on the side! But Davis didn’t need to be on the take. He was just a lazy, greedy bastard on the make.
As he wasn’t married and had never been married, he always boasted he was untouchable. “No wife, no kids, no ties,” he’d say. “Nothing to threaten me with.”
But we’d found the ex who’d had his kid, watched her baby-sit her granddaughter and knew we had a handle on him. Offering him a doll frightened the shit out of him because he loves that little girl to death, and he won’t do a fucking thing that might bring her into danger. Like trying to set me up.
So I had something on him, but there was always the possibility that he might figure out at some point that I’d never give the order to kill a kid. I never have, you see. Not once. In fact, it’s about the only crime I’ve never committed. And I hope to God I never have to, either. Kids are the world’s only innocents.
So I had Davis cornered nice and tight, but the hold was precarious to say the least. Luckily Davis had gone on to make a mistake, and it was a whopper. Davis was on the take, but he was clever. He only took money from a handful of top syndicates, and he busted everyone else. It made him rich, and it gave him a glorious arrest record.
He had taken Yilmaz’ money for two years, protecting every one of his dealers and turning a blind eye even when they sold heroin to preteens outside schools, but when internal affairs began to sniff a rat, and Yilmaz looked as if he might talk, Davis solved the problem by shooting his pal in the back – escaping arrest, he claimed.
He didn’t know at the time that we were watching Yilmaz with the aim of taking him out, so the second our man knew what was going down, he downed his gun, picked up his phone and taped it. I now owned Davis from dandruff to bunions, but I still didn’t trust him a fucking inch.
What he’d handed me was a list of payoffs. I own a record label, and the first set of names consisted of DJs and VJs who’ve been paid to plug my music. That wasn’t exactly earth-shattering, but the second half of the list covered my English customs contacts. With the right background information, it could link me to dozens of consignments. It was dynamite.
The list was limited to England and to the last six months. That meant the leak had happened under Escamilla’s watch. That was bad enough, but when Davis pointed the finger at Solitaire, all the air exploded from my lungs.
My first thought was, “Not again! Not another Gina!” My second was despair. “I can’t do it! I’ve only just found her! It’s not fucking fair!” I’d been so damn self-involved for so long that it wasn’t until later that I realised what a selfish fuck I was – this was Solitaire’s problem as much as mine. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Solitaire sat there, giving him the ice princess treatment and biting off every word, “I’m not a snitch.”
I was desperate to believe her. “You’d better have proof, Davis.”
He shrugged. “The file was triple coded.”
That meant top level security. In the movies, the leak always has a nickname, right? Like Songbird. Then people put together all the leaked information, figure out who had access, and whammo, the rat is iced. Well, life isn’t like the movies.
When a snitch gives up information, each item is assigned an ID, a tag made up of twelve numbers and letters. The first digit is a confidence level rating from 1 to 9, with 1 meaning it’s solid, no doubt about it, and 9 meaning it’s unreliable – in other words, drunken ramblings overheard in a club one night.
The rest of the tag is assigned randomly, so there’s no way of knowing what comes from whom or even how old the information is. Only the rat’s handler and those who ‘need to know’ can run the ID to see who gave it up. With a single coded agent, you’re talking about a street source. It’s nothing special, and practically every police officer in the country can find out who’s talking – if they don’t already know, which they probably do. They just plug in their ID (the single code) and get access.
With a double code, you need your own code and also the approval of senior brass, like the head of a division. With a triple coded agent, you need to be fucking God, and ma
ybe even He’d get a knock back. This is because triple coded agents are gold. We’re talking like Big Joey Massino, the Bonanno family boss who ratted on Carmine Persico, the Colombo family boss.
Unlike everyone else, triple coded agents get nicknames, simply because the very few people who are in the loop can’t ever say the real name or put it on paper. So they go the movie route and use a nickname.
My gut was churning at the thought of a triple coder aimed at us, but the bottom line was that Davis had no proof. “So you’re blowing it out of your ass.”
“I checked it out, and rumour is that the hot new informant is a woman closely connected with Escamilla.”
“Who’s your source?” Kyle asked.
“Got it straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“Burnet?”
“Yes.”
Burnet was the head of the Intelligence division, incorruptible and determined to root us out. Luckily, he was hamstrung by his people, most of whom could be persuaded to turn a blind eye to anything if the backhander was big enough.
“Why does Burnet think it’s a woman?”
“Because this list came a week after Escamilla moved Solitaire in,” Davis said.
At this, Solitaire’s eyes snapped with fury. “You knew he had me, and it didn’t occur to you to do something?”
Davis shrugged. “You’re not exactly lilywhite. And you didn’t ask for a rescue.”
“I’m not Songbird, you blithering idiot!”
While Solitaire tore a strip off him, I sat and thought. All Davis had was rumour. Time to kick him out. Fucking sleaze-bag, drinking my tequila and trying to throw my girl under the bus. I wanted to kill him, but he was valuable. Too valuable to remove on a whim. I’d find a replacement, and then I’d take him out.
He knew I was pissed, so he disappeared quick. The second he was out the door, Kyle was giving me the look that said this had to be taken care of. He had sensed I didn’t want to deal, and he was reminding me I had no choice. You can ignore pretty much anything in our world, except for accusations that you’re an informer. Once it’s been made, someone has to pay.
We take loyalty very seriously, so if the accusation is found to be true, the accused dies. On the other hand, if you’re fucking with us, we get pissed at whoever pointed the finger. Sometimes they get away with a beating, but it can go further, especially when you’ve accused someone popular, because then everyone piles into the revenge. So you can see why everyone takes this kind of situation very seriously.