by Tim Stevens
Estrada thought about it. Then she punched the desk in frustration.
“Venn, that’s bullshit,” she said. “Cops don’t arrange hostage transfers that way. And Brull will know it.”
“Regular cops don’t,” Venn said. “But I’ll persuade him I’m a maverick, working outside the rules. Which I am, of course, like you are. That’s why we’re doing it this way. If I was a regular cop, and I knew Brull had taken a kid captive, the first thing I’d do is arrest him. He’s easy enough to find, after all. The fact that I haven’t done that will suggest to him that I really am an outsider.”
“Jeez.” Estrada rubbed her eyes. “There’s so much that could go wrong.” She looked at Venn. “What if he flips when you mention the kid? What if he acts irrationally, just orders the boy killed?”
Venn said, “I don’t believe he will. Think about it. What would make a guy like him angrier? A vain, grandiose little gangster? To have an insignificant grocery store owner disobey orders and tell somebody that his little boy had been kidnapped? Or to know that a man who insulted him to his face, in front of his minions, is out there, taunting him?”
“Still a hell of a goddamn risk,” said Estrada.
Venn’s phone rang just then. It was Beth.
She told him she’d just been to visit the unconscious man, James Harris, in the hospital, after he’d woken briefly and asked after ‘the woman’.
And she told Venn about the man’s scars. And the fact that the address on his driving license was bogus.
Venn told Beth he loved her, and that their dinner plans were still on.
He wondered if he was lying to her about the second part.
After they’d hung up, he relayed the information to Estrada. “You should call the DMV about this Harris’s driving license.”
“Already did that,” she said. “It checks out.”
“Tell them to take another look.”
Estrada rolled her eyes. “They don’t make mistakes about things like that. Either somebody has a legitimate license, or they don’t.”
Venn thought for a moment. “Hold on.”
He called Fil in New York. “Got another job for you.”
“A straightforward one, I hope,” said Fil. “I’m still trying to find somebody who can get me into Britain’s police databases.”
Venn said, “Yeah, this one’s easy. I want you to search the births and deaths lists for a James Harris.”
“Where?”
“All of them,” said Venn. “The whole of the US.”
“James Harris?” Fil paused. “Boss, there must be like a million guys with that name.”
Fil was getting more and more like Venn’s other sidekick, Harmony, with his whinging. It wasn’t in his nature.
Venn said: “I’ll make it easier for you.” And he gave the date of birth from Harris’s driving license.
“Ah. Yeah, that helps,” said Fil. “You think this license is using a dead man’s name?”
“Possibly.”
Venn ended the call.
“Still haven’t figured out who that guy in the hospital is,” said Estrada.
“And we won’t, until he finally wakes up,” said Venn. “So. My idea. You willing to give it a shot?”
Estrada sighed, raised her hands. “Okay. But I have a feeling we’re both gonna regret it.”
Chapter 25
The call came through on Brull’s cell phone at four twenty pm.
It was Maria, the receptionist at the office.
“Guy wants to speak to you, sir,” she said. “He’s quite insistent. He sounds like the one who came to the office this morning. Says his name’s Joseph Venn.”
“Son of a bitch.” Brull gritted his teeth.
The guy had called to mock him again.
“Tell him to go to hell,” he said. “And this time, don’t be nice about it.”
“He said he thought you’d say that,” said Maria. “And so he wants you to know that he’s prepared to discuss giving himself up to you.”
“What?” Brull hadn’t been expecting that. The guy was full of shit, of course. But did he think Brull was so dumb as to even consider what he had to say?
All afternoon, and for most of the morning, Brull had been trying to track Venn down. He’d considered having him followed from the office that morning, but Venn would be wise to that. He’d Googled the guy, found a few mentions in news reports from New York. There was never much detail on the man, but he’d apparently busted a serial killer in Manhattan earlier this year.
No mention of what department or division he worked in, either.
Well, he guessed there was no harm in hearing the guy out. If all he wanted to do was abuse and threaten Brull, then Brull could easily hang up on him. Equally, if Venn tried to goad Brull into saying something incriminating, like he had back in the office that morning, Brull wasn’t going to fall for it.
He said to Maria: “Put him through.”
There was silence for a couple of seconds. Then Venn’s voice came: “Brull?”
“What do you want?”
“To trade.”
Brull said nothing. He was in his Dodge Challenger once again, headed downtown. In his car he felt a power, the same power he felt behind his desk in his office. Venn didn’t scare him.
Venn continued, “You have a little boy. Hector Fuentes. You snatched him from the street yesterday.”
Brull froze, almost forgetting to brake at a red light. He gripped the steering wheel with his other hand.
Fuentes. That weasely, little...
“I’m calling to offer you an exchange. You let the kid go, and in return I’ll hand myself over to your custody. No strings attached. No tricks. I know you want me. And you want me alive, at first. Not just so you can have a little fun with me. But also because I know about you and the Merry May, and what your guys were doing on the pier last night. And you need to find out just how much I know, and how I know it.”
Brull laughed. “What? Once again, Detective, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t expect you to say anything on an unsecured line like this,” said Venn. “But listen up. I was originally going to take you down. And I could still do that. But I can’t guarantee the safety of that kid if I do. And that is a price I’m not willing to pay. Somebody else will get you, eventually, Brull. Sooner rather than later, I hope. But not me. So. The offer is this. A boat named the Sea Stealer will be two miles out in the bay at ten o’clock tonight. The exact location is the following, and I hope you’re a nautical man and can understand it.”
Venn gave the co-ordinates. Without thinking too much about it, Brull grabbed a pen from his pocket and scribbled on the leg of his pants, the first thing he could find to write on.
“I won’t ask if you got that, because if you didn’t, it’s tough luck,” said Venn. “If you want to make the exchange, have a boat of your own approach at exactly ten pm, but keep a quarter-mile away. Watch for a flashlight. It’ll flash ten times. That means we’re ready to roll.”
Brull took in the details, though he didn’t yet know what to think of it all. How much to believe.
Venn went on: “Oh, and make sure your boat has a rowboat on board. Once you’ve seen the signal, the flashing lights, launch your rowboat. The kid has to be on board, with no more than two men. At the same time, I’ll start rowing from the other boat. We’ll pass one another, and reach the opposite vessels. On board my tug, a sharpshooter will be aiming at your rowboat, at the men in it. If they try any tricks, try and double back without handing the boy over, my sniper will kill them. Similarly, if you try attacking my tug after I’m in your hands, the sharpshooter will take you out. Even if it means sinking your boat and killing me along with it.”
Brull ached to say something. To point out the most glaring hole in the idea. But Venn did it for him.
“You’re thinking, what’s to stop me double-crossing you, and, when the kid’s safely delivered, having the coast g
uard come swarming all over your vessel? Well, the answer is, there’s nothing to stop me, really. But here’s the thing. You don’t even need to be on the boat. You can send your lackeys along to do the job. Sure, we could storm your boat afterward. But all we’d get is the monkeys. Not the organ-grinder. And you’re the one we want. You could be tipped off that it all went wrong, and be long gone before we found you.”
Brull listened to the silence for a few moments.
Venn said, “Give it some thought. The boat will be there at ten o’clock tonight. I hope you will be, too.”
And he hung up.
Brull held the silent phone to his ear for a second. Then he dialed Maria again.
“Sorry,” she said. “The caller withheld his number.”
Of course he had. But it was worth checking.
Brull tossed the phone on the seat beside him. He clenched and unclenched his hands on the steering wheel, noticing that his palms were sweaty.
He saw Joseph Venn’s big, mean face in front of his eyes once more.
Laughing at him.
Laughing. At him. Ernesto Justice Brull.
Damn it. Venn had something up his sleeve. He must have.
Did he plan to have Brull’s vessel stormed, after the kid was released, just as he’d suggested he might? And try to take prisoners, so that they could be coerced or bribed into giving statements against Brull? But that seemed a clumsy way to go about getting him. And it also seemed so obvious.
Whatever. Brull knew there was no turning back.
He had to make that rendezvous.
*
There was another problem, one that would need to be addressed way before the meeting at ten o’clock. Like, now.
The Irishman, O’Reilly, wasn’t answering his phone. In fact, each time Brull had dialed the number, he’d gotten dead air at the end.
Did that mean Venn, or the Miami PD, had O’Reilly in custody? Had the guy been killed? Either way, it meant Brull couldn’t set up a new meeting.
They couldn’t meet on the Merry May. That was clear. O’Reilly had proposed it for last night’s get-together, but the boat was radioactive now. So the final exchange of cash, the last settling of contractual terms, would need to take place in altogether more improvised circumstances.
But Brull needed to get hold of the goddamn Mick first.
And sooner or later, the Turkmen, Abdu Popok, would be calling. Brull had assured him that the meeting, and the subsequent despatching of the product, would take place tonight. But Popok was apt to call before then, to check that it had been arranged.
And Brull didn’t think he could continue to bullshit the guy.
If Popok decided to terminate their agreement, Brull would be in a heap of trouble. Not just because he’d miss out on the substantial fee. A fee which ran to the tune of ten million US dollars. A life-changing sum of money, but pure gold dust to an underworld businessman like Brull, who was only at the beginning of his career.
No, the bigger problem was the advance Popok had already paid. The Turkmen had been crystal clear: in the event of either party pulling out of their arrangement, the advance was required to paid back in full. With no interest attached, but still. It was a straight one million dollars.
And Brull had already spent the money.
Well, he’d spent half of it. The remaining five hundred K he’d been keeping back, to pay O’Reilly at their final meeting. He understood O’Reilly would receive the rest of his fee from Popok, upon delivery of the product.
So Brull had five hundred grand to give back to Popok. But he simply didn’t have the remaining 500,000 to hand.
Popok would want it back immediately. And Brull had some idea of what was in store if he didn’t pony up. There wasn’t a Turkmenistan mob here in Miami. But there were Russians, plenty of them. And Ukrainians. Brull had no doubt that the debt collectors would be drawn from their ranks.
And those Eastern European gangsters were bad.
Brull floored the accelerator of the Dodge in frustration, cutting up a monster-wheeled pickup truck in the process. The driver made a panicking jerking-off motion with one arm out the window as he swerved to avoid a collision.
Blind rage surged through Brull, and for a moment he considered turning and shooting the driver through the windshield.
But he got a grip. Steadied his breathing. Eased back on the gas a little.
He was Ernesto Justice Brull. He was the Gamma Blade.
And he was in complete control of himself, and of his world.
Even if, as a small but shrill voice in his head told him, that control was starting to slip just a little.
Chapter 26
Brull’s fortune turned twice in the next three hours, and both times for the better.
The first time was at a quarter of six. By that time, he was prowling the streets on foot, his cell phone hot in his hand from all the calls he was making: to Elon, his right-hand man, and to assorted other guys, and to O’Reilly’s number, which by now appeared stone-dead.
No leads on Venn’s whereabouts.
No progress on finding the guy in the hospital.
And no word from O’Reilly.
Brull told Elon to make plans for the ten pm rendezvous out at sea. He had a couple of suitable boats at his disposal. When Elon asked how many guys to send, Brull had already made his decision.
“Just four,” he said.
Elon sounded doubtful. “The boat will hold many more than that.”
“Four,” repeated Brull. If Venn or his people attacked the boat after the exchange, there’d be fewer of Brull’s guys to take prisoner. With luck, they’d all be killed. That would reduce the risk of blowback on Brull.
Though he itched to be there himself, on the boat, just for the satisfaction of seeing Venn hand himself over.
At five forty-five, Brull’s phone rang. No caller ID.
He said, “Yeah.”
A familiar voice said, “Can you talk?”
A harsh accent. Irish, or Ulster, or whatever the guy called himself.
It was O’Reilly.
Relief made the breath catch in Brull’s throat for a moment. He said, “Where you been?”
“Out of contact,” said O’Reilly.
“Yeah. I gathered that. What happened?”
“The police interviewed me. They got nothing. They know nothing.”
“You sure about that?” said Brull.
“I left town for the day,” O’Reilly said. “No-one tried to stop me. No-one followed me. My men have been on the Merry May all day. They haven’t been hassled.” He paused. “What happened last night?”
“Somebody was watching the boat,” said Brull. “Somebody else. White guy. Tall. One of my men got behind him and hit him. Would have dragged him away and got to work on him, but this off-duty cop intervened.”
“That would be Venn,” said O’Reilly.
Brull was surprised. “You’ve heard of him?”
“He was the one who questioned me this morning,” O’Reilly said. “He doesn’t know anything, as I say. My alibi was that I was in Orlando last night, and he had no way of proving otherwise.”
Brull wasn’t so sure. He said, “You have any idea who this guy was, watching the boat?”
“Maybe he wasn’t watching the boat,” said O’Reilly. “Maybe he was watching your men.” The implication being, maybe the security was lax on your side, not mine. “You get a detailed description of him?”
“Even better,” Brull said. “I got a photo.”
“Send it to me. In the meantime, we need to arrange an alternative rendezvous. If the deal is still on, that is.”
“Sure it is,” said Brull. “Tonight. There’s an empty warehouse out west. I’ll send you the details. Make it nine pm.”
O’Reilly seemed to think about it. “Yes,” he said. “That suits me.”
“Sending you the guy’s photo now.”
Brull texted the profile picture of the man.
His phone
rang again, ten seconds later.
There was something new in O’Reilly’s tone. Something urgent.
He said: “You have to find this man immediately. Find him and kill him.”
“We’re already looking for him,” said Brull. “Who is he?”
O’Reilly told him.
Holy shit, Brull thought.
Now things really were getting complicated.
*
Brull’s second break came at seven-fifteen.
He’d spent the last ninety minutes pulling every single remaining available one of his men out of whatever they were doing and sending them to the city’s hospitals. Even the smaller ones. Anywhere that had an ER, or a neurosurgical, or neurology unit, because he figured that if the guy was still being kept in, that was the kind of ward where he’d be.
More useful medical tips he’d learned from his nurse cousin.
When the phone rang, Brull saw it was Pedro, the big dumb one. Except, as it turned out, he wasn’t so dumb.
“Boss,” Pedro said, his normally unemotional voice betraying an edge of excitement. “I just saw her. The woman from last night.”
“Who?”
“The woman who was with the cop. Venn. Looked like his wife or girlfriend. She was the one who took care of the guy after Elon hit him.”
“What? You sure?”
“Yeah. And Ricky’s with me now. He was there on the pier last night, too. He swears it’s the same girl. Auburn hair. Kind of hot. She’s just gone into the hospital through the main doors.”
“Which hospital are you at?”
“St Ignatius’s.”
“Okay. Okay.” Brull felt his blood rising. This was a lead. If the woman was going into the hospital, she might be visiting the injured man. At the very least, she might know where he was. “Get after her. Take her. If you have to be rough, do it. Just take her. Call me when you got her.”
He hung up, checked the GPS map on his phone. There was a smaller hospital four blocks away. He scrolled down his list of contacts till he found the men he’d posted there.