The Death Box (Carson Ryder, Book 10)

by J. A. Kerley

  “How so, sir?”

  “Mainly it was guys working hard on rehabilitation. But now and then George would sponsor a candidate I never figured would get straight.”

  “They stood out?”

  “Some of them were freaking scary. Hardcores. But they were at the end of their stretch and George figured he could save them.”

  “You know Paul Carosso?”

  A nod. “Don’t know why Carosso appealed to George. Carosso was a loner with all the personality of a clam. Did max time because he wouldn’t inform on a guy already doing life. Not real bright.”

  “But loyal,” I noted. “Not a bad trait in an employee.”

  The Parole Board had faxed a list of cons selected for Kazankis’s program over the years. I passed it to Sloan. “We’re kind of in a hurry, Warden. Could you check the bad boys on this list? Just pencil-mark the ones you never figured for salvation.”

  He scrutinized the list. Gershwin had told me Sloan had been with the prison for twenty years. I figured he knew most of Kazankis’s cons from day one.

  “You want their records?” Sloan said, picking up a pencil. “I can have copies made pronto.”

  We went buzzing back to Miami with dense clouds in the western sky, but a strong wind seemed to be pushing them quickly over the horizon. Gershwin and I passed the time reading Sloan’s paperwork on the men Kazankis had sponsored.

  “He spends a lot of time with the prison personnel and the cons,” Gershwin said. “Gets a lot of background, sees a lot of records, hears a load of scuttlebutt. Then picks the cream of the crop, so to speak.”

  “I bet most want to go straight, Zigs, how Kazankis keeps up the illusion. But every now and then I figure he finds a prize. A guy with a trade he needs. Like a knife psycho.”

  “Here’s Carosso’s pages,” Gershwin said. “Everything down to cellmates: Two years with Frank Turner, four and a half with Ambrose White, two months with a guy named Orlando Orzibel. Then Carosso’s out and under the Bible-thumping tutelage of Kazankis.”

  “Any cellies match with Kazankis hires?”

  Gershwin cross-checked as I studied the landscape. Miami lay twenty miles or so distant, looking like a prosperous Oz on the shores of an emerald sea.

  “Got a match,” Gershwin said, checking against parole records, picking up where the prison records left off. “The Orlando Orzibel guy. He was also a sponsored release by Kazankis.”

  “What’s the PB say about Mister Oh-Oh?” I asked. I heard myself, paused, looked at Gershwin.

  “Oh-Oh,” I repeated.

  “DOUBLE OUGHT!” he yelled. I saw the pilot wince beneath his amplified headset.

  I scanned the pages, heart pounding. “Orzibel went to work for Kazankis three and a half years ago. He hit all his meetings with his parole officer. The reports from Kazankis were glowing: Model employee, hard and dedicated worker, always on time. Even so, Mr Oh-Oh left the employ of Redi-flow after only eight months, just as he went off parole.”

  “Going where?”

  “Said he planned to work in the entertainment industry.”

  I grabbed the chopper’s land link and called Warden Sloan.

  “I thought Orzibel the oddest of Kazankis’s choices.” Sloan said. “A good-looking SOB, big smile, articulate, but …”

  I noted Sloan was no longer calling Kazankis by his first name.

  “Never turn your back on him?”

  “We suspected Orzibel of nasty incidents, two killings among them. One victim got his genitals carved off. Another, a rock-bodied psychotic fuck, by the way, got his neck slit. Of course …”

  “No one saw a thing.”

  “While I’m amazed Kazankis sponsored a borderline sociopath like Orzibel,” Sloan said, “I’m more amazed someone as violence-prone wasn’t back inside within two weeks.”

  “Maybe Mr Oh-Oh got to keep cutting people apart,” I theorized. “But found he could get paid for it.”

  Amili looked from her desk to the couch, currently occupied by Juan Guzman, one of Orzibel’s lieutenants. He was heavy, with dull eyes and bad skin. His fat and tattooed fingers twiddled at a video game on his phone. Another cholo leaned against the wall and stared at the ceiling.

  “Are you to watch me all the day?” she asked Guzman.

  “I apologize, Señorita, but it is Señor Orzibel’s request. You must stay in my sight and not use the phone.”

  Amili studied herself in the mirror above her credenza. Who was this woman? She had two subhumans watching her, Orzibel’s foul seed within her. Music came through the floor and below danced young girls she had helped bring here under all manner of lies. There were so many others as well, stretching into Alabama and up to Georgia.

  But today was the first time she had sent one to certain death.

  There had been a plan once, hadn’t there? Conceived in those first days when she’d slowly gained small pieces of freedom. When she’d moved into the enterprise she’d realized both the limits of her life and its unique access. The plan was how she had kept her sanity. That and the drug … the only way she had found to sleep without nightmares.

  Had the plan been a lie she’d made to herself, a way to live in long-ago dreams? A justification? There was little she could change in the Today, she had told herself time and time again. It was all for Tomorrow. Gifts came from El Jefé, raises, designer clothing, a nicer place to live. For Tomorrow, Amili had told herself. I’m doing this for Tomorrow. For many Tomorrows.

  She closed her eyes against the image in the mirror and turned to Guzman. “I must do my work.”

  “Si. But you must do it here without using the phone.”

  Amili thought for a long moment. She frowned at Guzman. “It is a delivery day, you know that? The money.”

  His mouth drooped open. “Uh, si. I think.”

  “I must prepare the records for the bank. You have been given importance, so perhaps you understand.”

  Guzman’s chin jutted with pride. “Si. I understand.”

  No, Amili thought. You do not. She withdrew her computer and began preparing the records.

  It was becoming Tomorrow.

  43

  The sky was a searing blue as the chopper roared south and banked toward Miami, now a distant cluster of jagged forms breaking the horizon. I wondered what we could accomplish at our desks. We were doing damned good at present: pulling the case together a half-mile in the air with little more than snippets of history, some inside information from a prison warden, and a lap full of records. I suddenly needed a sense of place and tapped the pilot on his shoulder.

  “Think you could spare time to fly over a concrete plant below Homestead?”

  The pilot’s eyes shot a quizzical look. “You’re a Senior Investigator from FCLE, sir. You don’t ask, you tell.”

  Well, damn, I thought. Score one for Roy. We banked into a sky blazing with promise as I turned to Gershwin with more pieces assembling in my head. “Kazankis worked us like puppets, Ziggy. Expressing sorrow about Carosso while pointing us directly at him.”

  “Who gave Carosso the occasional packages? The guys Scaggs saw from the Redi-flow tower?”

  “Pure fiction, I’ll bet. Scaggs was likely one of Kazankis’s hardcores shoveling more dirt on Carosso. Packages, my ass, Kazankis invented the solution while we were in his office: lay the action off on Carosso, make him a lone wolf. When Carosso got his throat cut, Redi-flow became a dead end.”

  “Brilliant. And cold.”

  “Five minutes to destination,” the pilot said. We were riding the edge of the ’glades southward. The subdivisions were replaced by lone roads and solitary buildings. I saw Homestead to the east, the cistern site nearby. A minute later I saw the branch between the main highway and the road to the Red-flow complex.

  “Glasses?” I asked the pilot, hands cupped around my eyes.

  “Binocs under the seat. Gyro-stabilized. You can see up someone’s ass from a thousand yards.”

  I pressed them to my eyes
, finding the high water tank of Redi-flow, the cross sailing over the compound. “Stay back,” I cautioned. “Don’t want to spook anyone.”

  He pointed to another chopper a couple miles away. “We’re in the flight lanes of helicopter tours of the ’glades, sir. They’re used to choppers.”

  We flew closer. I ID’d the Redi-flow building and the closed Olympia Equipment structure nearby. I saw an old Quonset hut a thousand meters south. The treeline kept it hidden from ground view.

  “Swing south.” I frowned. “Let’s check that q-hut.”

  The semi-truck rumbled down the sandy lane in the South Florida coastal backcountry, a battered red tractor pulling the kind of intermodal container loaded on ships.

  “You looked worried a few miles back, Joleo,” Landis said. “Any reason?”

  “Ain’t nothing. I thought we was being followed but looks like we’re clean. I get wired up. Nerves.”

  “This how it’s supposed to be?” Landis asked, nodding to the spare, scrubby land. “Just us and nothing else.”

  “Quiet and peaceful. I climb atop the cab and keep watch while you open the trailer. It’s gonna stink. The guy I told you about – Mr Orzibel – he’ll come and inspect the load, and grab some for local use. The others head to that hut to get fed and watered. From there they move wherever they’re supposed to go. I don’t ask.”

  “I expect I know, now that I know the hut’s here. Redi-flow, where I work, is on the far side of those trees.”

  Joleo looked at Landis.

  “We got a couple guys at the plant,” Landis continued. “Drivers who haul the portable concrete plants. I’ve seen them drive a dirt path behind Olympia, come out a bit later and hit the road. Sometimes they return after just a couple days, still hauling the stuff, like all they were doing was taking the equipment for a ride.”

  “I know,” Joleo said, pulling the rig into the dirt. “I worked at Redi for a year. Best keep all that to yourself and let’s git busy.”

  Landis grabbed the bolt cutters and jumped from the cab as Joleo climbed atop the rig. “Looks clear,” he called. “Set ’em loose.”

  “What about that chopper over there?” Landis pointed to the west.

  “Glades tours. They’re too far to see anything, so we’re fine.”

  “Glades tours?” Landis said. “What? They lookin’ for ’gators up there?”

  Joleo laughed.

  I fixed the glasses on the Quonset hut as we approached. On the far side I was surprised to see a semi rig, even more surprised by what was atop the cab.

  “That semi rig parked beside the Quonset hut – can you see it? There’s a guy standing on the cab.”

  “Weird,” the pilot said.

  “Another guy’s moving to the trailer, the rear. He’s … at the door.”

  Even with the gyro I was getting a lot of bounce from the glasses. Add in heat distortion and it was like watching a jittering film. “Uh … the doors are swinging open and … and … uh, one, four … uh, eight, ten, fourteen, fifteen, nineteen and twenty-one, two … twenty-three.” I dropped the glasses for a moment’s relief.

  “Twenty-three what?” Gershwin asked.

  “Twenty-three people leaving that trailer. They’re heading for the hut.” I lifted the binocs again. “Well, looky here.”

  “What?” said the pilot, now as transfixed as Gershwin.

  “A loaded semi moving from Redi-flow. Not north onto the highway, but south toward the Quonset hut.”

  “Are you seeing what it seems like you’re seeing?” Gershwin said.

  “Watching hell from the heavens,” I said. “Wonder how that fits into Kazankis’s theology?”

  I grabbed the phone and dialed Roy. Perhaps it was adrenalin or maybe being loosed from the bonds of blindered earth, but as it rang I felt a moment of pure triumph, the sense of pulling victory from thin air, of fulfilling my heart’s every desire in law enforcement.

  It wouldn’t last.

  44

  Without knocking, Orzibel entered Amili’s office, crossed to her desk and stood beside her. Amili was making calculations with a pad and pencil. Orzibel plucked the pencil from her fingers.

  “Forget Kazankis’s numbers, Amili. Tonight we start making our own.”

  Amili closed the pad and set it atop the ever-present laptop. She gave Orzibel a questioning eyebrow. “This deal with Chalk, Orlando? I am truly to receive twenty-five thousand dollars?”

  “Ah, the money has your interest now?”

  “I have never lost interest in money. Otherwise, how should I find myself in this place?”

  “You’ve been here one year now, correct? A very prosperous year for a girl from the Honduran countryside? But we shall prosper tenfold in this next year, Amili Zelaya.” He winked. “In the business and in the bed.”

  “Is Chalk coming here to the club, Orlando? Is there risk?”

  Orzibel waved it away. “Risk is slight and to be shared. I am to pick up a Lincoln Town Car rented by Mr Chalk. Chaku will follow me to Marathon Key where Chaku will enter a certain bar. Mr Chalk will arrive by cab. When Chaku enters, Mr Chalk will exit, and check his merchandise. If satisfied, he will leave the blessed money and return to Key West in the Lincoln with a shiny new toy in the trunk.”

  Amili closed her eyes. “Toy.”

  Orzibel grinned. “Who knows, Amili Zelaya. Perhaps Leala Rosales will capture Chalk’s heart, just as you captured the heart of El Jefé.”

  “Kazankis has no heart, Orlando. He has only desires. In his own way he is as sick as Chalk, just more sane.”

  “Sometimes you make no sense, little whore.”

  “I am to be your partner and you call me whore?”

  “Amili … I make a joke. We can joke now, can we not? We have enjoyed one other to the fullest. And we will continue to do so, correct, my little … lady? Lovers and partners.”

  Amili nodded toward the hall where Guzman sat. “You have no trust in your partner? I continue to be guarded.”

  Orzibel moved behind Amili, his hands stroking her shoulders. “Only until little Leala has been delivered. You have not been yourself in matters of Leala Rosales. Fighting my wishes to discipline the mother, wanting to send Leala home when she is worth much money.” He lowered his head to whisper in her ear. “Did you recognize something in Leala, Amili … this girl delivered a year after you arrived? Do you see something I cannot?”

  Amili sighed and shook her head. “Your mind is too busy, Orlando. You make me more than I am.”

  “So you have no feelings for the girl? No similitud?”

  “I saw only a danger, that’s all.”

  Orzibel’s fingers slipped beneath Amili’s chin and turned her face to his. “Prove it then, Amili Zelaya. Prepare Leala for her journey tonight. Can you do that?”

  Amili shrugged as if asked to paint a door. “Of course. She is an investment.”

  Orzibel grinned. “Ah … here’s our true Amili Zelaya again. Maker of contracts, seller of flesh. Bookkeeper of souls.”

  Taunts. All true. Amili spun away and stood. “Enough for now, Orlando. Do you have the clothing?”

  “Let’s go and decorate Leala Rosales. She has a big date awaiting.”

  The pair stopped at Orzibel’s office where several pink dresses lay on his couch. “I keep several sizes for Mr Chalk. They will get used.”

  Amili picked the size she knew would fit Rosales and they went to the depths of the nightclub, through the sturdy gate and down the shadowed hall to a locked room. “Are you to follow my every step, Orlando? Or do you have more important tasks?”

  “I will tell Chaku we are preparing to leave. Guzman!” He motioned the gangster to continue watching and strode away. Amili paused at Leala’s door, pushed it open. The girl was sitting on the bed, her eyes lost. Amili knew the look: the girl had given up hope.

  “I warned you to behave, Leala Rosales,” Amili said. “This is not my fault.”

  “How do you do this thing that you do?” Leala
said quietly. “How do you look at yourself?”

  “Shut up! Put on these clothes. Now.”

  Amili threw the clothes in Leala’s face. Pink dress and shoes, white panties. With Guzman at her back, she set the red scarf carefully on the bed. “Put the clothes on. The scarf must be last. Keep it nice.”

  Leala stepped into the clothes like a robot. Amili nodded at the ensemble. “Now give me your face.”

  Leala closed her eyes and Amili applied lipstick and eye shadow and brushed rose into her cheeks. “Don’t touch it or Señor Orzibel will put it back on. You will not like his methods.”

  “We must go,” Guzman said from the door. “I hear Señor Orzibel calling.”

  Amili looked into Leala’s eyes. “Go to the bathroom and relieve yourself. I am sorry, it is all I can manage in the circumstances. But you have a sharp mind. Use it and let it take you away.”

  Leala stared. “What are you saying?”

  “Bathroom,” Amili pointed. “Now.”

  Leala shuffled to the dirty toilet. Amili went to the door and stepped into the hall. Guzman started to push into the room but Amili stopped him with a hand on his chest.

  “She is urinating,” Amili told Guzman. “So she will not piss herself on the journey. She will be out in dos minutos.”

  Leala stepped to the toilet but was as empty in her body as in her heart. Something terrible was about to happen. She wanted to cry but her eyes had emptied as well. Everything was gone. She passed through the room for the door, but stopped. She had almost forgotten the headscarf. She plucked it from the bed and was surprised by its weight. Something was knotted into the fabric. She slipped loose the knot and a small black object fell to the bed.

  A phone.

  The yellow tab stuck to it said simply, 911 = Emergencia.

  Amili returned to her office with Orzibel’s minions at her side. Guzman sat on the couch and ticked at the video game, the other gangster wandered the hall and sucked a soda pop. Music from below shivered the floor. Amili marked on a large pair of padded envelopes and snapped her fingers.

  “The bank deposit is prepared. Can you be trusted?”