by Matt Lincoln
Yeah, this was definitely a place to go shopping. I made no promises, and she moved on. It didn’t take long for a drunk party girl to try some awkward flirtation. I hesitated for half a breath when a guy barely old enough to be there diverted her back to the dance floor.
This went on for a while. I saw Holm dancing with a different girl every time I looked. He had a way about him that I never cared to master. It was something to behold, and I eventually went upstairs to watch from above. And to check out that scene.
I leaned on a banister and was watching people dance when someone joined me to my left. She was tall and lanky in a black dress with black lipstick to match. Her red hair was pulled back with a pearl-encrusted comb. This woman looked too fancy to be in the club.
“Can I help you?” I offered. The noise was more tolerable up there, and I didn’t have to shout so much.
“I was about to ask you that,” she answered with a flash of even, white teeth. “Your friend is having a good time. You seem… unimpressed.”
Was she the Trader’s observer? I decided it didn’t matter. If I didn’t fit in with everyone, I wouldn’t make it past the first round of the buying process. I forced a smile and made myself believe it was real.
“It’s not bad.” I stood and hooked my thumbs in my front pockets. “If it were my venue, I might stir things up a bit, but this is fine.” I added my best attempt at a boyish face, and the corners of her lips twitched.
“I spent a lot of money to clean this place up.” She arched a perfect brow at me. “I would call it passable.”
I nodded and turned back to the floor. Speaking with the club owner wasn’t part of the plan. Unless she was the Trader. Or working for him after all.
“It’s better than some of the dumps I’ve checked out.” I pointed toward Holm. “My business partner is setting up a club like this in Miami. Millions of tourists each year, and they’re all ready for a good time.”
“There is a lot to be made off hungry tourists,” she agreed. “It takes a discerning taste to provide a menu they’d appreciate.”
A commotion broke out near the entrance. Holm’s blond hair bobbed above the fray, and I swore.
“It’s been a pleasure,” I told the woman, “but I apparently need to rescue my associate.”
Her delicate laugh somehow cut through the din. “Don’t be a stranger…”
I flashed a smile. “Ben Winters, and I’ll be sure to drop in again.”
She winked and went to mingle among other people on the upper deck. It felt like I was dismissed from a formal meeting, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it. Holm was in the middle of a dustup over who knew what, and I only had seconds to decide what level of force I could get away with in my guise as an investment banker.
By the time I got close, I had to swallow my laughter. Holm was doing his Drunken Master routine, and the crowd had no idea. Some idiot kept taking swings, and Holm swayed just so this way, and just so that. After a moment, I realized it was the same guy who led that drunk girl to the dance floor.
Holm must have seen something and decided to help her. If I was right, he pegged her as a college kid on vacation, just like I did. She was no prostitute, and she didn’t have anyone looking out for her. Luckily, Holm was doing fine by avoiding the guy’s punches, but another dude stalked him from behind. Oh, hell no. I casually moved toward the scene and intercepted the asshole who was sneaking up on my partner.
“Oh, hey, man.” I got his attention and used my thumb to point at the scuffle. “What’s going on over there?”
He glared at me and tried to shove past. Funny thing, it’s hard to shove past a guy who’s rock solid on his feet.
“What was that for?” I complained. “All I did was ask a question.”
He snarled. “That dumbass won’t let my buddy’s date out the door with him.”
I thought as much.
“Dude, I’m the only one who gets to call that dumbass a dumbass,” I tossed back. “I saw my friend dancing with that girl. She wanted a dance with me, too. You sure she’s his date?”
He tried to push me away, but I still didn’t move.
“Get out of my face, you piece of shit,” he yelled and tried to go around me.
When I stepped to the side to block him, he cocked his arm back and let his fist fly. The move was so basic and telegraphed that I deflected it without effort. I dropped into a simple martial arts fighting position, something a rich guy might know from taking classes with his kid.
“Are you for real?” the brawler griped.
He pulled something out of his pocket and gave a quick flip of his wrist, and the watching club-goers gasped and moved back. Switchblade. Great. Way to try to blow my cover on the first night out.
“We don’t have to do this,” I called out. In the corner of my eye, I saw Holm swing around while doing his part with the other douche canoe. “I’ll buy a round of drinks if we can forget all about this.”
Some of the onlookers cheered. My antagonist wasn’t amused. He flipped the blade around the way some street fighters do when they want to intimidate opponents. He had no idea that my problem was how to get out of this without letting on that I had superior fighting skills.
“Move, ‘bro,’” he hissed. “Maybe I won’t cut you or your friend.”
Dammit. Switchblade-guy was intent on getting a beating.
“I’m a black belt,” I bragged. It was true, in several disciplines, but I acted nervous about it. “I—I don’t want to hurt you.” Oh, yes, I did. So bad.
“Think I care about that shit? To hell with this.”
He charged me. I dodged the blade, and he missed my chest by no more than three inches. The guy wasn’t half bad. I grabbed his arm and used his momentum to spin him to the ground. He clung to his knife and sprang to his feet. At the same time, I heard things getting serious behind me. Holm must have gotten tired of messing around.
“That was luck,” Switchblade yelled.
He tucked his free arm into his side to prevent me from getting the chance to spin him another time and then charged me again. A roundhouse kick to his shoulder threw him off balance. I jumped on him and wrestled the knife away, much to the onlookers’ delight.
I looked toward Holm. “How goes it?” I yelled.
He showed me the thumbs-up sign, so I planted my ass on Switchblade’s back to wait for the police to show up. The sirens were as good as a “Closed” sign for Zest’s personnel and club-goers. Holm finished up with the guy he was fighting and dropped him to the floor next to Switchblade.
Neither of us had the desire to be mentioned in police reports, so Holm and I split from the scene.
I checked my watch on the way back to the hotel. It was just after three in the morning. Gramps always said nothing good happens after two. He couldn’t have been more right.
28
“I got you a meeting with Mr. Wright,” Forde told me over the phone the next morning. “I did not tell him your suspicions other than you’ve learned who he is.”
“Thanks, Tomás.” I tried not to sound snide. “Text me the details.”
Even if Wright turned out to be clean of this crime, which I doubted, he was dirty somewhere. Forde should know better than to put anyone on a pedestal.
“Trap or no?” Holm asked.
“I don’t know. May as well be prepared.”
I slipped my shoulder holster on over a thin undershirt and then added my Caribbean Joe Hawaiian shirt over it. The combination of “Caribbean” and “Hawaiian” in a shirt name amused the hell out of me, and the shirt itself was a great way to cover my weapon.
The text with the meeting details pinged my phone. I had to chuckle.
“We’re going to that dock where we met him the first time,” I told Holm. “One hour from now. That leaves us time to go see the crew.”
“I’m all about it.”
We took the stairs two floors down. It was early enough that we could see our team before they headed out for
their day. Muñoz had sent a text before we woke up that morning with a vague reference to an agenda.
Birn greeted us at the door to the shared rooms.
“About time.” He laughed and stepped aside to let us in. “What time did you kids get to bed?”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Holm answered with a fake yawn.
“Ethan, Robbie!” Emily waved from where she was doing something with Luci. “How’d it go?”
“It went.” I walked over and saw Emily working makeup over the still-raw skin on Luci’s face. “I hear you all are going out today.”
Muñoz crossed her arms. “Yes, we are. Do you have objections?”
“I do,” I informed her. “How is this lying low? Until we know who the players are, it’s too dangerous for the girls.”
“Women,” Muñoz growled. “And what makes you think they’re any safer here? Anyone on the hotel staff could work for the Trader. Besides, pictures on a tablet aren’t the only things Luci might recognize from her time here. Sounds, smells, those kinds of things.”
I knew she was right, but their safety was more important. It wasn’t just that they were ultimately my responsibility… they were innocents in all of this, and I didn’t want them hurt on my watch.
“We’ll be fine.”
Emily had Luci pull back her hair, and I barely recognized the other young woman. The ugly tattoo was nearly invisible, and the fading bruises were expertly covered. Emily had thinned and shaped Luci’s eyebrows, which made a surprising difference. A pair of scissors lay on the bed nearby with a comb and hair clips.
Emily handed Luci a pair of oversized sunglasses to show me how those would hide a quarter of her face.
“She’ll be in disguise,” Emily explained, “and the people here don’t know who I am.”
“If the Trader is Wright, he knows who everyone is here.” I gestured to the entire room.
“Then I guess we’re screwed no matter what we do,” Birn said nonchalantly. “Marston, we are professionals. This might be your mission, but micromanaging it won’t do us any favors.”
I looked to Holm for help, but he shrugged. “They aren’t wrong. Let them do their job while we do ours.”
I hated being outvoted.
“For the record, I think it’s a bad idea for our witness and consultant to leave the hotel.” I looked at Emily and Luci. “Do not take unnecessary risks. Can we at least agree on that?”
“Of course,” Emily answered with a frown. “I know it’s your job to be overprotective, but it’s not helpful.” The frown melted into a mischievous grin. “Besides, we have more than the mission on our agenda. Remember how I said my great-aunt was something of an archivist? Well, she says she might have some records about pirate ships. She invited the four of us for lunch at her house.”
“It’s gotta be better than hotel food,” Birn said with a hearty rub of his belly.
“Dude, have you tried the food here?” Muñoz razzed her partner. “You have no idea what you missed at breakfast.”
“Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “And you couldn’t bring anything back to the room?”
Muñoz shook a finger at him. “Not for lazy asses.”
Birn sent a pleading look to Muñoz. “What about those bagels?”
“Oh, that’s right!” Luci got off the bed and picked up a white paper bag from the dresser. She handed it to Holm.
“We got you agents some bagels,” she told Holm. She turned to Birn. “But not you. Sylvia said you could take care of yourself.”
Muñoz snickered behind her hand, and Holm’s cheeks reddened just enough to notice. Luckily for him, nobody pointed it out. Yet.
“Thanks, Luci,” he said. “You take care today, okay?”
“I will, Agent Holm. You and Agent Marston be careful, too.”
Holm checked his watch. “We gotta get going,” he announced. “We’re meeting Wright in a while, and I want to scout the area for trouble first.”
We left the room. After the door shut, Holm stared at it for a minute before walking to the elevator with me. He took a blueberry bagel out and handed me the bag. I took a plain one and handed the bag back to him. Luci had put in one of each flavor, and there were at least two or three left.
“You have a thing for her.” I watched for a denial and found none. “She’s vulnerable, Robbie. Don’t take advantage of that.”
His face darkened. “You think I don’t know that?” He clenched the bag so hard his knuckles turned white. “I’m doing my damnedest not to see her that way. It’s just that I want so badly to keep her safe, to make the pain go away.”
The elevator arrived at our floor, and we rode in it without another word. My buddy was hurting, and there wasn’t much I could do other than help him keep on point for the mission.
We drove our rented Land Rover out to the dock where we met Wright on our first trip to Barbados. I parked down the street, out of sight of the dock. We were half an hour early, but I wasn’t surprised to see Wright had already arrived. Before walking out to meet him, Holm and I did a perimeter check around the small beach.
As far as we could see, the dock was deserted other than the lone fisherman with the cigar hanging from his mouth. The only visible boat was a cruise ship on the horizon. If the meeting was a trap, we didn’t see any evidence of it. That didn’t mean we were safe. Holm and I cautiously went out to meet our suspect.
Wright gestured for us to join him. He was barefoot and wore an old t-shirt and Bermuda shorts.
“If you gentlemen will indulge me, I believe I have a bite,” he announced as he began to play the reel. “It is likely a bonefish. Not great eating, but they are satisfying sport.”
“Catch and release?” I asked.
Wright nodded with a smile. He pulled back on the rod, and it curved with the weight on the line. A little give, a little take, and he slowly reeled his catch in until it struggled ten feet from the dock. He winked at us and jumped into the shallow water and reeled the fish until it was next to his shins.
“The flesh is sweet, but there are so many bones that, for many people, it ruins the pleasure of the meal.” He used his free hand to place the pole into a rod holder that was built into the dock and grabbed a pair of pliers that were next to the holder. “I feel no need to cause unnecessary harm, so I use a barbless hook and handle the fish with care.”
The hook came out with a deft twist of his pliers. He maintained a gentle grip on the stunned fish as it listed to port.
“When done with the catch, most fishermen take ‘hero’ photos,” Wright continued. “The fish’s chances for surviving goes down with such handling. If one must have a photo, they ought to do so at this point, when we help the fish recover.”
I bit back my impatience. Wright was either trying to pass on a lesson or was simply enjoying a display of his expertise. I could think of worse ways to spend time with a suspect. Next to me, Holm was tuned in to Wright, but he subtly scanned the area while we waited. Yeah, I was doing that, too.
“How long do you wait to release it?” I asked.
“Not long, Agent Marston. As soon as it regains its equilibrium and can stay upright, I let go.”
Even as he spoke, the fish seemed to wake up and gave a sharp swish of its tail. Wright opened his grasp, and the fish made a slow, curving line away from the dock. It picked up speed and soon disappeared into the sea.
Wright went up to the sand and padded onto the dock.
“As you gentlemen may have guessed, I gave this demonstration as a metaphor for other aspects of my life.”
I couldn’t help a wry smile. Forde’s admiration of the man wasn’t without merit, I decided, but that didn’t clear him of suspicion.
“We have a witness who places trafficking victims at your mansion,” I informed him. “This person remembered specifics that left no doubt.”
Wright gave a slow nod. “It was an unfortunate event, and I am sure you will hold me at fault for not reporting it.” He clasped his
hands behind his back. “It was, believe it or not, a bit of a setup. I was at a private event that night, and I agreed to allow a trusted associate access to my estate for a few hours. That individual betrayed my confidence and is no longer an associate.”
Holm lowered his sunglasses and narrowed his eyes. “So you’re saying that they were there, and you had nothing to do with it?”
“Of course I had something to do with it,” Wright admitted. “I unwittingly provided the venue. By the time I learned the purpose of the event, it was too late to do anything about it.”
“You could’ve filed a police report,” I suggested. “Turned in your associate. That kind of thing.”
Wright held up a finger and offered a bitter smile. “My lads, I wish that were so easy.” He shook his head with a humorless laugh. “This Trader fellow, if fellow he is, manufactured the situation in a manner so as to implicate me should I try to report it. In other words, it was a warning that I dare not cross him.”
“Then why did you tell us where to find Sealy?” Holm wanted to know. “That was a hell of a risk if you’re so concerned.”
“Because you were with Inspector Forde. He is one of the few police I trust. I have not shared with him the details of the Trader manipulating me, but I have lent information when possible.”
“Mr. Wright—” I began.
“Please, call me Samuel. I do not stand on formality unless I need to.” He made a childish face which I did not expect on an otherwise dignified man. “But never Alvin. I had no issue with my name until a dreadful little chipmunk character got famous.”
Holm snorted but regained his composure in short order.
“Okay,” I said. “Samuel, do you have any way whatsoever to corroborate your story?”
“There are many witnesses to my presence at the gala I attended that night.” He reclaimed his fishing rod from its holder. “However, I have no way to prove that I had no knowledge of the, er, training session the Trader’s captives endured in my home.” His pale cheeks turned red beneath his Panama hat. “Please, I beg of you, capture this Trader maniac. I and the likes of me have been quietly fighting these trafficking rings, and I must say, this operation is the worst of the lot.”