Bloodline

by Jeff Buick

  “I wish,” Pedro said, grinning. “I’m going to change and do some laps. See you in a while.”

  “You bet,” Rastano said, watching Pedro as he left the kitchen.

  Pedro could feel Rastano’s eyes on his back as he padded lightly across the cool tile floor. He reached the hall entrance and turned the corner, glad to be away from the man’s penetrating eyes. Pedro hated Rastano’s stare, it seemed to pierce his defenses and look directly into his deepest thoughts. But as quickly as that occurred to him, he knew it couldn’t be true. Because his innermost thoughts centered almost entirely on how much he hated Javier Rastano, and how to find Julie and Shiara. And if Rastano could indeed read his thoughts, then he’d be dead. And so far, Rastano seemed to like his new welterweight boxer.

  But Pedro knew one thing. When the time came, and it would, one of them was going down.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Alexander Landry cradled the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he jotted a quick note on a loose piece of paper. By the look on his face, he was not a happy man. It was early Monday morning and the team, minus Irwin Crandle, was gathered around a central table in their command center at EPIC in El Paso.

  “Yeah, we’re off to Florida,” Landry said, as he and Bud Reid wrapped up their international call. How did you know?”

  “Crandle told me,” Bud said. “I’ve already spoken with him this morning concerning this situation.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Enough. And I’m sure you’re thinking the same thing he was.”

  “It doesn’t take a neurosurgeon to realize we have a problem,” Landry said. “Are you heading back now?”

  “My flight’s in an hour.”

  “See you soon.”

  Alexander Landry turned to the room, where all eyes were on him. “Bud Reid located Pablo’s banker,” Landry said, his voice monotone. “Someone sliced his carotid artery open in a dark alley Sunday afternoon.”

  “Any suspects?” Cathy Maxwell didn’t bother asking if Shweisser had survived the attack. People didn’t survive a severed carotid artery.

  “No witnesses to the murder, but Jorge Shweisser, that was his name, was seen dining with a woman a half hour before he bled out in a nearby alley. She could be our killer.”

  “You were quite specific a moment ago, Alexander,” Cathy said. “You said Pablo’s banker. What did Bud get?”

  “He broke into Shweisser’s townhouse and hacked into his computer. According to Bud, the man was fastidious in his record keeping. There were a number of secure files showing just over five years of regular deposits. Bud thinks Shweisser had been using that particular computer for that length of time. The deposits all had the same transit number, so they came from the same source, which is, as of right now, unidentified. Bud copied a bunch of floppy disks but didn’t have time to look on them and see what he was downloading. Hopefully one of them will be a backup from whatever computer he used prior to this one. But the bottom line is that Jorge Shweisser looks dirty.”

  “So we’ve got our connection to the numbered account,” Eugene said. “Do you think the access code may be on one of the disks Bud copied?”

  “Not a chance,” Cathy Maxwell said. “The banks use a completely different set of numbers for their staff to access the accounts than the clients. That way if there’s any cash missing, they can trace back to who withdrew it—the client or the banker.”

  Eugene looked despondent, but managed a smile. “That makes sense. So we’re not much further ahead.”

  “We don’t know that, Eugene,” Cathy Maxwell said encouragingly. “Bud has the transit codes for the transfers and if we can decrypt them that should allow us to trace where the regular deposits into Shweisser’s personal account originated.”

  Eugene brightened. “And that will give us Pablo’s location?”

  Cathy shook her head. “I doubt it will be that simple. If Pablo was sending that money, and right now that’s a big if, he probably routed it through a Caribbean country, like the Bahamas or the Caymans. If he was smart enough to do that, then the trail will end abruptly. And the banks have some of the toughest encryption software in the business to mask the account number and the transit codes. It’s not easy identifying where the transfer originated. Plus, the offshore banks in the Caribbean are tight-lipped at the best of times, and if Pablo is sitting on money in a Cayman account, it’s a well-established account and the bank is going to shut the door in our face when we come poking about. New money, just deposited, is a different story. The banks don’t want to be accused of laundering drug money, so they open their books a little quicker if the DEA asks about a recent deposit.”

  Eugene ran his hand through his thick, curly hair and let out an exasperated sigh. “This is unbelievable. Banks protecting drug dealers.”

  “Why do you think it took us so long to find Pablo back in the early ’90s?” Landry said. “We weren’t up againstjust banks, but entire governments that didn’t want to give him up. Nicaragua and Panama were the worst. They stonewalled us for years, pretending to cooperate, while everything they were feeding us was a crock of shit. Christ, Noriega was a pain in the ass. We never knew what to believe when he opened his mouth. And Noriega didn’t just dump on us. He pissed off the drug lords by appropriating the money they had on deposit. Nobody was happy with that prick.”

  “He got what he deserved,” Cathy said.

  “There are a few narcos would disagree. They think a bullet would have been more in line than prison time.” Landry checked his watch and pointed at the door. “We have to go, Eugene, or we’ll miss our flight to Florida.”

  They collected their bags from the small table near the door and hustled to the front doors. Their cab was waiting and traffic was light, putting them at the airport in plenty of time for their flight. They hubbed through Dallas-Fort Worth and arrived in Miami just after three in the afternoon. Mario Correa’s Renault dealership was in Miami Beach, on the busy south stretch of Collins Avenue. They grabbed a rental at the Hertz counter and arrived unannounced at the dealership at four o’clock, five hours before the nine o’clock closing time posted on the main doors. The showroom was quiet; only one salesman was on the floor speaking with a customer. The middle- aged receptionist, her reading glasses perched on her nose, looked up from her computer screen as they entered. She slipped off her glasses, and smiled.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was pleasant.

  “Yes. We’d like to speak with Mario Correa,” Eugene said. “I’m his cousin.”

  A disappointed look crossed her face. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Correa is not in Miami today.”

  Landry took over. “We called earlier,” he said. His voice was anything but pleasant. “We were told Mr. Correa would be in all day.”

  “He was supposed to be here, but he got called away to an emergency meeting in West Palm Beach. He has another, smaller dealership up there.”

  “When will he be back?” Landry asked, obviously perturbed.

  The receptionist shrugged. “I’m not sure. He said he might take a couple of days and play some golf. He prefers the courses north of Miami. He says they’re not as crowded.”

  “Could you get him on the phone, please?” Landry asked.

  She hesitated. “As I mentioned, sir, he’s in West Palm Beach for an important meeting. He specifically asked not to be disturbed.” She looked at Eugene. “I’ll let him know that his cousin was here,” she said. “I can take your name and phone number, if you wish.”

  Eugene glanced at Landry, and stepped forward to give his cell phone number. “Sure,” he said, and gave her his name and number. If Mario knew anything about Pablo, he’d get in touch with him first. And, well, it was one edge he’d have on the team, which just might come in handy. And, unlike Pedro’s situation, an incoming call wouldn’t put him in harm’s way. He joined Alexander Landry, who was leaning over checking out the sticker price on a Vel Satis, the flagship of the Renault luxury line.
He looked puzzled.

  “Holy shit,” he said. “Look at the price they want for this thing. I could buy four Crown Vics for that.”

  Eugene laughed and shook his head. “Americans. The engineering in this car is phenomenal. It’s on the same level with top of the line BMW and Mercedes. You’re paying for European technology and engineering.”

  “I’ll still buy American,” Landry said, giving the sheet one last look and heading for the door. They broke out into the late-afternoon Florida sunshine, and Landry flipped open his phone. He dialed long distance and when it connected, he said, “Hi, Cathy, it’s Alexander.”

  “How are things?” his CIA counterpart asked.

  “Not so good,” Landry said, resting against the metal railing and running his free hand along the painted surface. “Correa was gone when we got here, called away to an emergency meeting in West Palm Beach.”

  There was a marked silence, then Cathy Maxwell said, “What’s going on, Alexander? First the banker, now Correa. Something isn’t right.”

  Alexander Landry continued running his hand gently back and forth on the railing, his face a mask. Eugene was watching him closely and on the other end of the line, in El Paso, Cathy Maxwell waited for his response. Finally, he said, “Maybe, after all these years, we still have a leak.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  They took the Florida Turnpike north from Miami to West Palm Beach. Traffic was moving well and Alexander Landry wound out the rental, topping a hundred miles an hour a few times, and reducing the hourlong drive to less than forty minutes. Eugene called ahead and got the address to the dealership. It was on the narrow spit of land across the Intracoastal Waterway from the main body of the city. He had Landry exit the turnpike at Okeechobee Boulevard and follow it straight though until they crossed the water and entered the high-rent district. Massive Royal palms lined the wide road, their fronds barely moving in the light afternoon breeze. About halfway to the ocean they spotted the Renault dealership on the right side of the road. Landry pulled into the parking lot and switched off the ignition.

  “Want to bet whether he’s here or not?” Landry asked.

  “Only if I can bet that he’s nowhere near West Palm Beach,” Eugene said.

  “No bet.”

  They walked into the air-conditioned showroom. At sixty feet by forty, it was about half the size of Correa’s flagship enterprise in Miami. Land values flanking either side of Royal Palm Way were through the roof, but from the glittering glass and chrome look of the ultra-modern dealership, Correa appeared to be covering the rent with no problems. Alexander Landry crossed the exposed aggregate floor, his soft soled shoes squeaking slightly on the polished surface.

  “Mario Correa, please,” he said in a polite, but firm, voice.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Correa is in a meeting and cannot be disturbed.” She smiled as she spoke, but her tone was equally firm.

  Landry flashed his DEA creds at her. “Get him out here now, miss, or I’ll have a SWAT team here in ten minutes to drag him out.”

  Her tough veneer cracked immediately. “He’s not here,” she said, her voice wavering. “Mr. Correa phoned from Miami earlier today and told me that if anyone came looking for him he was in a meeting and was not to be disturbed.”

  “How do you know he was in Miami?” Landry asked, leaning over the reception desk and using his size to get close to her. “And don’t lie to me, miss, or I’ll have you up on obstruction charges.”

  “We have call display. He was in his office in Miami Beach when he called.”

  “What time?”

  “Around ten o’clock.”

  Landry fished a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. She took it with shaking hands. “If he calls or walks through that door, you call me. And if I find out you’ve seen him or spoken with him and haven’t called me, I’ll personally travel back here and throw you in jail.” He spun on his heels and marched out of the showroom, Eugene trailing behind him.

  “You were a little rough on her,” Eugene said. “She was just doing what she was told.”

  “Eugene, get something straight here. Someone lies to you, that makes them a dishonest person. Someone lies to me, that puts them in jail for obstruction. It’s one of the perks of having the badge.” He stopped next to their rental car and continued in a less aggravated voice. “I’ve been lied to so many times I can’t remember a tenth of them. Sometimes I have to swallow it and sometimes I don’t. When it’s a car lot receptionist, I don’t.”

  “Got it,” Eugene said. He paused, his hand on the door handle. “What now?”

  “Back to EPIC. This is going nowhere right now. We need time to find Mario Correa, and time is one thing we don’t have.”

  Traffic was heavier heading south toward Miami and Landry had to settle for cruising at eighty miles an hour. It pissed him off, and turned a bad mood into a downright foul one. They were on the south tip of Fort Lauderdale when his cell phone rang. He answered it with a gruff, “Hello.” A moment later he said, “Hello, Senator. What can I do for you?”

  “Cathy phoned me, Alexander. She filled me in on the result of Bud’s trip to Zurich and your wild goose chase to Miami. Did you find him in West Palm Beach?”

  “No, sir. It was a lie. He was in Miami the whole time.”

  “Shit.” A pause, then, “Are we all thinking the same thing here, Alexander?”

  “I think so, Senator. We’ve got a leak.”

  “I agree. I’m leaving Kentucky inside the hour for El Paso. I’ve booked off the next few days and will be working side-by-side with you and Cathy for the duration of this problem. This is getting out of hand, and I want it reeled in right now. If Escobar is alive, I want him.”

  “We all do, sir.”

  “We’ll see about that. I’ll talk to you in Texas.”

  Landry dropped the phone on the front seat and shook his head. “What the hell is going on, Eugene?”

  Eugene didn’t answer, just stared out the window at the passing buildings. But he was wondering the same thing.

  Chapter Thirty

  Senator Irwin Crandle stood amid the organized confusion of their EPIC command center and made it perfectly clear who was in charge. This was his covert op. Cathy Maxwell and Alexander Landry were simply representing their respective agencies. Eduardo Garcia was an afterthought, and Eugene Escobar was a private citizen connected to the search for Pablo only through blood. It was late in the evening when Bud Reid arrived, straight from the airport after eleven hours on planes, but Crandle still took the time to put him in his place.

  “Bud,” he said, as the man took a chair at the conference table, “you missed my little speech to the group, so let me sum it up. No one makes a move without my approval. Every lead is to be channeled through me. There is no independent action without my clearance. If the wheels come off and the public finds out that Pablo Escobar is still alive, and that I knew about it, I’m the one who will take the heat. And unless I’ve miscalculated the response to this hitting the nightly news, the heat will be unbelievable. Since you guys are insulated and my head is ultimately on the block, I want control. Now, is there anyone in this room who doesn’t understand the chain of command?”

  Five heads shook in unison. No one spoke.

  “All right. Now, before we go any further, we’ve got a small problem. Someone tipped off Mario Correa that we were on our way to Miami. And I think we all agree that Jorge Shweisser’s death wasn’t a coincidence. The man had his carotid artery sliced with a curved scalpel. He was professionally murdered. Since we don’t have any support staff, I’m going to suggest that someone in this room is responsible. Anyone care to disagree?” He took a few short breaths, and continued. “We’ve got a rat. Whether it is the same person who kept the narcos informed of our movements while we searched for Pablo thirteen years ago remains to be seen. If it is, then Agent Garcia is in the clear. But then again, our informant might be new to the DEA and on someone else’s payroll.”
He turned to Eduardo Garcia. “Were you on your regular shift when Mr. Escobar showed up?”

  Garcia shook his head and nervously bit his bottom lip. “No, I was on overtime. Filling in for a buddy.”

  “Why?” Crandle asked, then added, “And don’t give me any bullshit, Garcia, because I’ll check your story to make sure it’s true.”

  “Ben Smythe wanted some time off. I offered to take over his shift.”

  “He wanted to be relieved of that shift in particular?” Crandle asked harshly.

  “No. He needed some time to find a new house. His wife is having another child and they need a bigger house. I offered to take that shift if he could arrange to see houses with his realtor.”

  Crandle looked mildly amused. “And what realtor doesn’t make the time to show his clients houses. You knew he’d say okay when you offered. Which means, Agent Garcia, that you could have known within a fairly narrow time frame when Eugene was going to arrive. And you made sure that you were working that day.”

  Garcia was flustered, his face flushed and his mouth dry. He took a drink of water, and rallied. “How could anyone have known which DEA office Eugene would head for? He could have gone directly to D.C. just as easily.”

  “Common sense says that he’s going to head to an office where he can get results. That’s Arlington or El Paso. And our narcos probably have a man in Washington as well, Eduardo.” Crandle twisted his head slightly in Bud Reid’s direction. “And you’ve known what’s been going on since I have. We’ve both been about ten milliseconds behind Alexander and Cathy throughout this whole thing.”

  Bud leapt from his chair, shaking with rage. “That’s ridiculous, Irwin. I traveled to Zurich to find out Jorge Shweisser’s identity and interview him. I certainly didn’t fly to Europe to talk to someone I knew would be dead.”

  “Why not?” Crandle snapped at him, pacing about the room. “What a great alibi. No one is going to suspect the guy who flies to Europe to talk with the target he just had Escobar order a hit on. Well, Bud, fuck that. I suspect you. Right now, the only person in this room I don’t suspect is Eugene Escobar.” He gazed at Cathy Maxwell and Alexander Landry for a few moments. “And you two. Both of you had Pablo’s name flagged in your computer systems. How many dead-ends and red herrings were dropped on your desk before this happened? Has one of you been on Pablo’s payroll all these years? Were you watching for something like this so you could warn Escobar?” He stopped and sat on the edge of a desk. “Well, by the looks of things, we’ve all hit the big-time. I’m getting the distinct feeling that Pablo is alive, and we’re the only ones who know what’s going on here. Whoever is feeding Escobar the information has earned their money this week.”