by David Wind
“That’s your choice. You think they’ll let you live if you walk out of here?”
The fire in his eyes died as he thought it through. “They know I won’t talk.”
“No they don’t, and when I leave I’ll make sure everyone believes you spilled it all.”
He shook his head.
“Scotty Granger was my friend. He was murdered and you’re involved.”
Streeter’s brows pulled together. He shook his head. “I don’t know who you mean.”
“Don’t give me that shit. He was killed the same morning you made bail.”
“You mean the writer guy? Why the fuck would I do him?”
The words held the ring of truth, but something didn’t feel right. “‘The writer guy’ had a hobby - finding children who were abducted—and, I didn’t say you ‘did’ him.”
Comprehension showed in his eyes. “I didn’t have nothing to do with him.”
“But you know something.”
He shook his head hard.
I started to say something else when Mancuso and Cortés walked in, a minute short of the five I’d been promised. “Ignatoff recognized the girl from a sheet. She was abducted from Alabama two years ago. She’s thirteen. He’s taking her to the hospital. We’ll notify her parents later.”
He looked down at Streeter. “It’s over, pal. This one puts you away for life.”
Streeter looked from Mancuso to me, gave a nervous wash across his lips with a stud-embedded tongue. “I just got her.”
The way he said it cut through me like a saw. “Just got her? You–”
Mancuso’s hand on my shoulder stopped me as swiftly as if he’d put a gun to my head. I took a step back and a deep breath.
“As far as I can see,” Mancuso said, his voice so low Streeter leaned forward, “you kidnapped her two years ago, crossed state lines, raped her and enslaved her. I’m sure the judge will see the same thing—the Federal judge.”
I liked what I saw in his eyes now: The fear and the knowledge of knowing he was trapped, like the animal he was.
Chapter 48
“I can deal,” Streeter whined.
His fear smelled like rot. “Start now.”
“I want a deal.” His eyes flicked from me to Mancuso.
“When I hear what you have to say, we’ll talk deal.”
He tried to tough it out, but with the three sets of eyes bearing down on him, all he could do was shift. “I’ll give you a taste.”
Mancuso shook his head. “You give. If the info’s good I’ll work something out.”
I tried to judge if Mancuso was playing or would deal. I wasn’t sure.
“Cortés,” Mancuso said.
Cortés stepped close to Streeter and read him his rights. When he finished, he said, “Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them?”
“Yeah, I understand.”
Cortés stepped back and Mancuso leaned forward. “Talk to us.”
The pimp looked surprised. “Ain’t you going to take me in first?”
Mancuso smiled. “If I don’t hear what you have, right here, right now, I leave you with him.” He jerked a thumb in my direction and smiled.
Warez closed his eyes for a second. “You gonna protect me after I talk?”
“That’s what we do,” Special Agent Mancuso said.
“Look, I’m just small time. I get a couple’ a girls a year to turn out. When they come to me, they’re like… head jobs—wasted. I take them and I build them back up. I teach ‘em how to handle things, what to do and what not to do.”
“You’re a real Professor Higgins aren’t you?” Warez gave me a blank stare. I guess he never saw My Fair Lady.
Cortés snickered, but Mancuso didn’t react. “Who did you get the girls from?”
“I don’t know. I get a phone call. They tell me where to be and when I get there, the girl is there.”
“You never see them?” I asked.
He shook his head, but his eyes didn’t hold the lie well.
Mancuso stepped close and cupped Streeter’s chin in his hand, jerking his head up. “You’ve been doing this for a long time, Warez, don’t even try to make us think you don’t know who you work with. Forget the deal.”
“No… wait,” he pleaded. “When it started, I was introduced to a man in New York. He had a girl he needed to move. He… he was some sort of a politician, I think. From Pennsylvania.”
“Give me a name,” Mancuso said.
Streeter shook his head. “I don’t know. I met him one time, that’s all. After that, I got called by different people.”
I considered his denial. I didn’t believe him—people like Streeter make it a policy to know these people. It gives them a sense of insurance. “What people?”
“There were a lot. It’s… it’s a connection thing. Some of these guys who dig these little girls, they need new ones all the time. It’s like a chain. One of them knows another one, who knows someone else. Word gets around, and I get contacted, I take some of the girls, if they’re old enough. I don’t touch the young ones.”
Mancuso cursed. “What the hell do you consider young?”
Streeter shrugged. “Ten, eleven….”
“Mierda,” Cortés spat.
Mancuso held up a hand to Cortés but spoke to Streeter. “You supply them too?”
“Me, no,” he said surprised at the question. “I don’t do that kinda shit.”
My hands balled into fists. “And the ones you don’t take. Who gets them?”
He shrugged. “There ain’t no shortage out there.”
“After you got busted, and bailed out, someone took target practice on me at the Looker’s Club. Who was that?”
Streeter’s expression said he was sorry they hadn’t shot me at the club. “I don’t know.”
“There isn’t much you do know, is there.” I turned to Mancuso. “This isn’t working. I’ll call New York and tell them where he is. They’ll be here tomorrow to extradite him.”
Streeter’s eyes widened. “Bullshit! I got a deal here!”
“You don’t have anything,” Mancuso said to Streeter. “You haven’t told us a thing we don’t already know.”
“I got a contact number. I called it after I got bailed out. That’s all I know.”
“Contact for who?”
His eyes shifted again. “Just voices on the other end.”
“Right…. What’s the number?” I asked.
He spat it out and as Cortés wrote it down on his pad, I sucked it into my memory. “You still get girls from the guy in Pennsylvania?”
His eyes did a nervous dance between us. “I told you I just met him once.”
“And I didn’t ask if you’d met him again. I asked if you got more girls from him.”
I could tell by the way the beads of sweat on his forehead grew he was thinking hard. “Yeah,” he whispered at last, “A couple more.”
“Were they blonde?”
He gave me a thoughtful look. “Blonde… Yeah, yeah, come to think of it.”
Son of a bitch was all I could think. “Margaret McNickles—Sugar. Where did she come from?”
He licked his lips. “Not him—she came from someone else.”
“Who?” Mancuso interrupted.
“Some guy in North Carolina.”
“Who?” Mancuso repeated.
“I told you I don’t know names.”
“And I told you I get names or you don’t get shit.”
“His name’s Morrison. Jack Morrison. He…he ain’t one of them. He works like I do.”
“So you guys just pass these kids around between you?” I couldn’t keep the loathing out of my voice.
“We don’t pass them around, we pay.”
Lines of disgust grooved Mancuso’s face. “I need more,” he said.
Streeter shook his head. “I don’t have more.”
“If I show you photos, can you pick out people you know are involved?”
He grabbe
d the out I was giving him. “Sure.”
Mancuso turned to me. “You want to push for anything else?”
“You bringing him back to your lock-up?”
“That’s the plan.”
“If I think of things, I’ll come there.” I turned to the pimp, who was relaxing like he’d found an old friend. “Who’s your contact with the Contes?”
Streeter’s reaction was watching like a puppet show. His body twitched and his eyes got large. He started to shake his head, and then stopped. He looked at Mancuso, but the FBI agent was looking at me.
I bent until I was an inch from his sweaty face. “Who is it?”
“Joey Paradi.”
“He doesn’t have the muscle.”
“I just talk to him.”
“Who did you talk to before Joey?”
“Connie Olletti.”
Olletti, a made man in the Conte organization, rumored to be in line for a Capo position until he’d gotten stupid. “And now it’s Parodi, because Olletti got blown away?”
“It’s all I know.”
I didn’t believe him. I knew there was more about the man from Pennsylvania who liked little blonde girls. I nodded to Mancuso. The Special Agent motioned to Cortés, who pulled Streeter to his feet. “Take him to your car. I’ll be down in a minute.”
When the two left, Mancuso turned to me. “Did you get what you needed?”
“I got a little, maybe enough to keep me going in the right direction.”
“But not what you wanted?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll see where the phone number leads. The politician from Pennsylvania may be important.”
He scrutinized me for five seconds. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours on the number before I go after it. And I want everything you get on the politician.”
“No problem. What now?”
“We’ll grill Streeter for a couple of days. Sweat him hard and see what else comes up. If it fits your venue, I’ll let you know.”
“Will you work a deal?”
“Oh, we’ll give him a deal. And when he’s indicted, I’ll make sure New York is there to make their requests on a murder charge. That’ll take precedence and they’ll get Streeter—after we get everything we can.”
“Fair enough.”
“Back to the airport?” he asked.
“No, I have to rent a car and go to Palm Beach. I need to see someone there.”
He looked down at my waist. “You need the Glock as well?”
“I wouldn’t mind the company.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t. Just make sure I get it before you go back home.”
“No problem. I think I do want another session with Streeter after I finish in Palm Beach.”
“I’ll arrange it. Grab your jacket and let’s go. I’ll drop you at a rental agency.”
Putting on the jacket, I said, “Mancuso, thank you.”
He gave me the visual once over, again. “One more thing.” He paused for a beat, then, “Make sure Gina doesn’t get hurt any more than she’s been.”
Caught short, I wondered if he still had feelings for her. “She won’t.”
Downstairs, Cortés was unlocking the back door of the car. Streeter was staring straight ahead, looking at nothing. Mancuso nudged me to follow him to his car. Across the street, a car pulled out from a parking spot across the street and almost hit a kid on a bicycle. The boy took a spill, but fell away from the car.
We watched him pick himself up and curse the car, which continued on; its dark tinted windows gleamed in the morning sun. The sight of the car triggered the memory of watching it park when we’d entered the hotel, and my inner alarm came to life.
The passenger window rolled down and the snout of a machine pistol appeared. “Down!” I shouted, reversing my body, I shouldered Mancuso to the sidewalk and lunged at Cortés and Streeter, but there was too much distance. Cortés reaction was instinctive. He dove sideways toward Streeter as the automatic pistol let loose a barrage of steel-jacketed bullets.
Cortés was a half-second too late. Streeter flew backwards under the impact of the high-powered rounds; squealing rubber and the blare of a hopped up engine echoed from the buildings. I raced to the fallen pimp while, next to him, Cortés lifted himself from the sidewalk to kneel next to Streeter.
Streeter’s blood was forming into a lake that spread across the pale material of the shirt, while another pool blossomed lower on his belly. I’d been in enough firefights to know how badly he’d been hit. The chest shot had taken out one lung and God knew what else; the gut shot had ripped apart his intestines. Streeter wouldn’t live another ten minutes. His moans were wet bubbles and his eyes were wide with fright.
I looked at Cortés to make sure he hadn’t been hit. When the FBI agent nodded, I turned my attention back to Streeter. “Who were they?”
Streeter shook his head. His words came out low and broken. “They should’ve… known… I wouldn’t… give… them up.”
“But they didn’t. They killed you Streeter! They killed you. Are you going to let them get away with it? Are you going to let them fuck you like they do to everyone else?”
His eyes rolled behind the lids. I grabbed his face, pulled it toward me and shouted, “Streeter!”
His eyes came back. They tracked left and right and then found me. I saw recognition in them, along with the knowledge of what was happening. “Yeah… Yeah, the fucks…”
He started to slip away again. “Damn it Streeter. Give me the name!”
“Name… yeah… Name…”
“Who killed you?”
He blinked, trying to focus. Blood bubbled down from his left nostril and his chest was pumping hard.”Brandin… no… Veranamin…I….Vo…” And then he died.
“Shit! God Damn It!”
Chapter 49
Streeter’s eyes remained open in a sun reflected glaze of death. My stomach was knotted with anger. Once again, I had been followed. I knew I was responsible for Streeter’s death and for not getting the information that died with him.
A hand fell on my shoulder. “Thank you,” Mancuso said.
His words didn’t ease my anger and frustration; but the knowledge I’d prevented more deaths helped. “I should have known.”
Mancuso shook his head. “You can’t always spot them. And these guys were pros.”
“What am I?”
Turning from me, he dialed his cell phone and barked orders for and ambulance and for a call to notify the locals and send them to the scene.
“Johnny, I need you to handle this. I’ve got to get him out of here.”
Cortés, still on one knee nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll be back in twenty.” Mancuso motioned me to follow. We pushed through the small crowd gathering to stare at the bloody body with horror and fascination.
“It could have been all of us, not just Warez,” Mancuso said when we got underway.
Using my cell, I called Femalé’s cell. When she answered, I said, “Don’t speak. Either our apartment phones are tapped, or the office is bugged. When you get off the call, go outside and call Jacobson. Have him go through the office, and then get him to my apartment. I’ll call you later.”
I put the phone away and exhaled. “The only way anyone knew I was coming to Miami, would be to have heard me talking to my assistant or to Gina. And, no one would be stupid enough to put a tap on Gina’s phone.”
Mancuso chewed it over while negotiating the heavy traffic we’d entered. “Unless it was from within the agency.”
“Your Kelvar coated Assistant Director may be putting out favors, but I don’t read it as him being involved. This is coming from somewhere else.”
“Your friend’s killer?”
“That’s the way it’s looking. It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“Do you know why I took you away from there?”
Doing the math was simple. He didn’t need me visible to either the local police or the press�
�there would be too many questions and word would get back to Washington about my getting another agent involved. “No problem.”
“The rental agency is up ahead. I’ll drop you off. Call me when you’re finished with whatever you’re doing. I’ll see if I can come up with anything from the shooting.”
“I’ll call when I’m done. If I find anything, you’ll know.”
“That’s all I’m asking.” Mancuso pulled to a stop in front of Enterprise car rental.
As I opened the door, Mancuso said, “That was a good spot. I didn’t see the car. You saved Cortés’ life. Don’t beat yourself up because Warez bought it.”
“There was a lot more he could have given us. That’s what gets me - and the fact that I didn’t watch my back and let them find me.”
“It happens.”
Accepting his words, I got out, went to the back door and retrieved my bag. “I’ll call.”
I went into the building and arranged for a car. I had one solid lead left, which pointed to the private security agency headquartered in Rochester. I tasted how much I wanted to talk to Fuhrman, the retired PI
<><><>
I felt like a pretzel crammed in a kid’s pocket. The rental place had two cars left, a shiny new Mustang convertible and a Chrysler Crossfire. Both were considered high-end cars, but I never drove in convertibles—at least not since college when I was the passenger in one that flipped over. I settled on the Crossfire.
While the inside of the two seat sports car was roomy enough, it was also claustrophobic, which didn’t help to make me feel comfortable in what passed for driving in South Florida.
The car had a GPS system, and the map the rental clerk had marked up was easy to follow. I took Four-Forty-One out of Miami and hooked into Ninety-Five and the Florida Turnpike.
The traffic was heavy and crazy: picture yourself in a destruction derby, on a five-lane highway, and you’ll get the idea. Traffic flowed between forty and ninety miles an hour. It seemed like anyone over the age of reason drove from forty to seventy, in any lane they felt like. Then there was the other group of drivers—the ones who hadn’t yet reached the age of reason, and most likely wouldn’t. They drove in fifty-thousand dollar machines that roared, weaved and did on-and-off the brakes routines, leaving strips of black rubber on the macadam. Worse was how these morons drove just under the sound barrier and didn’t give a rat’s ass who was near them. Me, I tried to keep the car at a steady sixty-five and prayed I’d make to Palm Beach alive.