Criminal Justice

by Parker, Barbara

  “No, just cleaning my closets.” At the door the Siamese cat yowled softly, staring at them with round blue eyes. Elaine reached over and pulled the door shut. “Where are you going, dressed like that? On a boat? Make me jealous, Dan.”

  He glanced down at his khaki shorts and well-worn canvas deck shoes. “I borrowed a really slick forty-six-foot Bertram from a client—the client’s boyfriend, more accurately. I’m going to take Josh out, maybe go around Key Biscayne and back. He’s a little afraid of the ocean, and I want to get him over it, because the big plan is—We’re going to Cat Cay. That’s just north of Eleuthera.”

  She smiled. “Such an adventure.”

  “I’ll tell you about it.” He handed the bag to Elaine. “How about some coffee to go with these? Orange juice?”

  She took the bag reluctantly. It had occurred to her with a sudden stab of regret that she shouldn’t be talking to him at all. Worse, she couldn’t tell him why: The DEA suspected he was involved with Miguel Salazar.

  “Dan … I’d invite you in, but I’m just about to get dressed. I’m expecting company any minute now.”

  He came closer, having to look down at her. His eyes searched her face. “How are you doing? I mean, generally speaking, are you all right?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  “Charlie Dunavoy told me he saw you the other night.”

  “Charlie. Yes, at the Northside.”

  “He said you seemed a little depressed.”

  “Depressed? Me?”

  “He said he hated to see you in such a bad way.”

  She laughed. “What?”

  “You were too smashed to drive yourself home.”

  There was a silence. Elaine said, “I had a few drinks. Big deal.”

  “On a Thursday night?”

  “Excuse me? I don’t see you in months, then you show up asking me questions.”

  “You know I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, gently chastising.

  There were some dead leaves on the ivy that wound through the wooden slats in the privacy fence. She picked them off, one by one. “Sorry. I was up till all hours last night going through all the stuff in my closets. It accumulates so fast you feel buried. Some of it’s been in boxes for years—” Dan was still looking at her. He used to look at witnesses that way in the courtroom. Concerned. Expectant. Brown eyes wide open, eyebrows slightly raised. Not accusing, just waiting for the witness to say too much. She smiled and tucked the leaves into one of the trash bags. “Well. Thank you for the bagels. Tell Charlie I’m fine. Not to worry.”

  She could tell Dan wasn’t satisfied with that. If she were more duplicitous, and if he weren’t an old friend, she would bring him into her kitchen, slice a bagel, pour the coffee. Tell me, Dan, why you and your former wife were having drinks at the home of the chief money launderer for the Guayaquil cartel.

  He asked, “How are things downtown?”

  “You know. Same old, same old.”

  “Are you dating anybody?”

  “No. Not really.” She smiled at him. “What about you?”

  “Me either.”

  “Wait a minute. Somebody told me you were going with a rock guitarist. Now where did I hear that?”

  “Well, I was dating a rock guitarist. Yeah, I know. Bad idea. We split up.” Dan leaned against the stucco wall with his hands in his pockets. “Listen, don’t mention this to Charlie, but I’m looking for a job closer to Lakewood Village, maybe something in Fort Lauderdale.”

  “Why?”

  “Well … it’s closer to Josh. And Lisa. I’ve been thinking of making another go at it—if she’ll have me.”

  “That’s great,” Elaine said. “I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “No, it is. Definitely.”

  He nodded. “Lisa’s a terrific person. She’s attractive, smart. A great mom. I’ve dated since the divorce—not a lot, but enough to know that it’s depressing, what’s out there these days. She and I split up a year ago, and now I can’t explain why. I took a nose dive after the Barrios case and never recovered. Oh, well. That’s history. I’d like to see if I can rewind the tape. Get it right this time. I’m hoping for that.” Dan smiled as if it were he who had revealed too much.

  “Be careful,” Elaine said. “Statistics prove that a second marriage between the same people doesn’t usually work out any better than the first one did.”

  He said, “You’ve done a study.”

  “Oh, yes. I always read Cosmo in the grocery store checkout line.” She smiled when he did, then said, “Well. I have to go now.”

  He reached for her hand. “I’m going to call you more often.”

  “No need.” She backed away. “Thank you. And stay out of trouble.”

  At the sidewalk he waved good-bye, car keys in his hand. When he was out of sight, Elaine leaned against the fence and thanked all manner of deities that Vincent Hooper was not waiting inside with his ear at the door. He would tell her that Dan Galindo was a manipulator who expected that half a dozen bagels and a hug would buy him information about Operation Manatee from a former pal at the U.S. attorney’s office.

  In his car, parked along the street under a banyan tree, Dan sat staring through the windshield at the shady entrance to Elaine’s apartment. He had last seen her in October, a chance meeting on the street downtown, leading to a shot of espresso outside a Cuban diner and a slow walk back to the federal building, where they had parted company at the revolving glass door. Even so, he decided that he still knew Elaine McHale well enough to rely on his instincts. She had been hiding something.

  He considered briefly the presence of another person—a man—in her house, then discarded the idea. No woman would wear a stained T-shirt and red socks with a man around—unless they had been married for years. Was her house in such a state she would be embarrassed for anyone to see it? Were there empty liquor bottles sitting around? An X-rated movie on the video? Dan was not reassured about her state of mind, but if she didn’t want to talk about it, there was nothing he could do.

  He started the engine. As he reached the end of the block, a late-model sedan pulled along the curb on the other side of the street and the door opened. A man got out. At the stop sign, Dan put on his turn signal and glanced automatically at the rearview mirror. The man seemed to be going up the walkway to Elaine’s apartment.

  Dan stared across the intersection. He waited for a bus to go by. Then a bicycle. He glanced in the mirror again, then made a fast U-turn and went back the way he had come. Driving slowly, his hand at his face as if to scratch his temple, Dan looked through the passenger window at Elaine’s front porch. The man was waiting by the door, his profile to the street. A second later the door opened. He went inside. A dark-haired man with a beard. Black windbreaker, heavy shoulders. Five-ten, mid-forties, probably Hispanic. Dan made another U-turn.

  At the intersection he studied the man’s car. Dark blue Chevy Caprice. No bumper stickers. Regular state of Florida license plate. No blue light on the dash, no extra radio antenna. But an undercover cop car, sure as hell.

  As Dan turned toward the expressway, heading north, he knew he had seen the man before. He tried to grab it, but the memory skittered out of reach.

  CHAPTER 19

  Vincent Hooper had seen the white Acura coupe going the other way when he parked at the end of Elaine’s street. As it passed he noted the license plate, making sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

  Dan Galindo.

  He didn’t think Galindo had recognized him. It was possible but not likely. When Elaine opened the door, he went inside and waited to see what she knew.

  She kissed him, then said, “This is a surprise.”

  “I was on a stakeout all night and couldn’t call. How about some coffee?” He hung his windbreaker over the back of a chair, put his cellular phone on the table, then took off his pistol and holster. He noticed a deli bag. He unrolled the top and looked inside. Bagels.

  “We heard from Salazar,” he s
aid. “The meeting’s on.”

  “Congratulations.” Elaine was fixing coffee. “What did he say?”

  “Let’s meet on Monday. He’s going to let me know where. He’s being cagey, wants to sniff me out first.” Vincent took a serrated knife out of the block and put a bagel on the counter to slice it.

  “Dan Galindo brought those,” Elaine said. “He just left. I gather you didn’t see him.”

  Vincent dropped the bagel back into the bag.

  She laughed. “They aren’t poisoned.”

  “What was Galindo doing here?”

  “Well, obviously he was attempting to bribe a government official.” Elaine finished slicing the bagel, then put the halves in the toaster. “Look. Strawberry cream cheese. Maybe I should’ve said yes.”

  “Funny, Elaine.”

  “All right. He came by to say hello. I made some excuse about having no time to visit, we chitchatted on the porch for five minutes, and he left.”

  “Really? He shows up the morning after I speak with Miguel Salazar. What a coincidence.”

  “Good Lord.” She thrust a coffee mug at him.

  He laughed. “Dan Galindo would have to be caught in flagrante delicto before you’d believe he’d so much as jaywalked. Listen to this. You know we got photos of him and his former wife at Salazar’s house having drinks. Last Tuesday we intercepted a call he made to Salazar, alluding to some business they had satisfactorily completed—I think that’s how he described it—and he wanted to be paid. Then Martha Cruz called Galindo and left a message about picking up ‘keys.’ What could that be, Elaine? Keys. Makes you wonder. On Wednesday he and Martha Cruz got on Salazar’s boat at the marina in Coconut Grove. Nobody knows where they went in it.”

  She was staring at him, and the color had gone out of her face. Vincent kept his voice quiet. “But he brings you bagels on Sunday morning. For no reason, just to say hello. What a sweet fellow.”

  “This is crazy,” she said.

  “You tell me, Elaine. What do you think he’s doing?”

  She shook her head.

  Then he watched her put the toasted bagel on a plate and smear cream cheese on it. “You’re going to eat that?”

  “Yes, Agent Hooper. It’s fresh. I’m hungry. And there is no principle that would be subverted by eating one damned bagel.” She raised her eyebrows at him.

  “I hope you enjoy it,” he said. When she turned to tear off a paper towel, Vincent swatted her on the back of her running shorts. “Let’s go sit down. I’m about to fall over.”

  Generally her place was fairly neat, but today the living room was strewn with boxes and loose papers. “What’s this, spring cleaning?”

  “Excavation,” she said, moving a box off the sofa. “Clearing out the debris that’s accumulated over the past ten or twelve years. Some I’ll keep, most of it just takes up space. I’ve been at it all night.”

  “Don’t save so much junk, you won’t have to go through this,” he said.

  Vince sank into the sofa and closed his eyes, exhausted to his bones. He stretched his feet out on the coffee table, the only corner of it not stacked with papers. Before dawn he had been lying on his stomach on a Little Havana rooftop with a pair of night-vision binoculars watching for a drug shipment that never came.

  Elaine sat beside him. Kissed his cheek and combed her fingers though his hair. Asked him about the meeting with Salazar, and he told her what he knew.

  The DEA had already lined up certain people who could verify to Miguel Salazar that Victor Ramirez was who he said: a freelancer out of Puerto Rico, handled heroin for the nightclub trade, very discreet. Vince could act more like a doper than the dopers. The trick was to adopt the target’s mannerisms and style of dress, make him feel he was talking to his kind of guy. Depending on the situation, Vincent might wear a hooded sweatshirt and gold chains or an Armani suit and a $15,000 Patek Phillipe wristwatch. The DEA had a safe full of jewelry seized in drug busts. For Miguel Salazar he would do an upscale suburban—a golf shirt, designer jeans, and a gold link bracelet. He wouldn’t be wired. Right now they were only at the hand-holding stage.

  If Salazar was interested, he would propose another meeting. The special agent-in-charge of the DEA’s Miami office would then frantically beg the Justice Department to release the $500,000 cash they had been told about several weeks ago, and which Justice had promised in writing to release. There would be arguments, whining, and threats. Justice might approve the money, but Vincent wouldn’t get all of it. He would have a flash roll of maybe a hundred K and tell Salazar the rest was coming. If Salazar took the bait, they would nail his ass.

  Elaine had the plate in her lap. She took another bite of bagel. Crunched into it, then licked pink cream cheese off her thumb. Strawberry. Vincent had spent an extra half hour bullshitting with the Miami narcotics unit this morning, killing time. What if he’d come straight here instead? He and Galindo could have had a few words. But then the deal with Salazar would be off.

  Elaine McHale was a tough prosecutor, one reason Vincent had been drawn to her. He had seen her destroy defense attorneys and make witnesses do a one-eighty on the stand. Her blind credulity about Daniel Galindo surprised him. It could be a problem if she ever had to prosecute him. Vince wanted to grab the bagel out of her hand and pitch it through the open door into the backyard.

  He shifted on the sofa and stroked his fingers through her hair. “Put that plate on the coffee table, Elaine, and come here.”

  Smiling a little, she leaned over and dropped plate and bagel on a pile of old newspapers. He pulled her back by one arm and maneuvered so that he lay stretched out on the sofa and she was on top of him. He was tired, but not that tired. He toed his shoes off. Elaine straddled him, crossed her arms, and pulled her T-shirt over her head. She had small breasts. Pretty. He kissed one then the other, working his tongue around the tips till they hardened. He lay back and let her unzip his pants, pull them off. His cock sprang up like a salute out of his briefs, and they laughed. She kissed it, then lay beside him and ruffled through his beard with her nose. “Make love to me, Vincent.” She kissed him open-mouthed.

  He could taste the cream cheese. Strawberry cream cheese. Jesus Christ. He shifted, making a little more room, and pushed her head down to do him. She was good at this, and he watched her moving up and down. Saw her mouth and her tongue on him, the shine of her saliva. When he was close to a climax, he turned her over, parted her legs, and came inside her.

  They lay like that for a while. He might have drifted off to sleep. He heard her moving around in the bathroom. The toilet flushed.

  He opened his eyes. One of the cats was curled up by the back door staring at him. Then he noticed the clock on the VCR. “Holy Mother of—” He sat up quickly and put his briefs on.

  Elaine came out drying her face on a towel. “What’s the matter?”

  “Kelly Dorff. I have to call her before ten o’clock. She’s moving to Salazar’s house, staying with Martha Cruz for a while. She said I’d better call her, whatever that means. You wouldn’t know, would you?” Vincent zipped his trousers.

  “No. I haven’t talked to her since last week,” Elaine said. “What a sad, mixed-up girl she is.”

  “Oh, please. People put themselves where they are. Nobody’s responsible for fucking up their own lives, are they?” He reached into his hip pocket for the small notebook he kept there, then held out his hand. “Bring me my phone, will you?”

  She looked at him for a second, then tossed the towel onto a chair and went into the kitchen to get his cellular telephone. He’d have used her line, but it might show up on caller-ID. He dialed the number at Kelly’s place. She lived in a condo her father owned near Hollywood Beach. He checked his watch. 9:52. She answered on the sixth ring, just as he was about to hang up.

  “This is Hooper,” he said.

  Kelly Dorff talked; he listened.

  She sounded out of breath, which meant that she was either scared or lying, or both. Elaine mou
thed the words What’s going on?, and he waved for her to be quiet. He wondered what he’d been thinking, making this call with her standing there. He went into her bedroom and shut the door.

  He said, “Kelly, this is bullshit. You know it, I know it.… Don’t fuck around with me.… Yeah, that’s extremely amusing.… Here’s my counter-proposal. Pay attention. You keep your fucking mouth shut, I won’t let Salazar’s friends find out who set him up. Okay? They’re not nice guys, sweetheart.… No. That’s it. Good-bye.”

  He hit the disconnect button and cursed under his breath. He looked at his watch. No time to send somebody to pick her up. She must have dropped the phone and scooted out the door. By now she was on her way to Lakewood Village.

  He came out to the living room, glanced at Elaine, then went back to the kitchen. He put his phone down next to his holster. He heard footsteps. She was going to ask him, so he told her.

  “Kelly Dorff just informed me that she was going to expose the so-called Luis Barrios cover-up if we don’t drop her as a C.I. and give the band the master tapes from the studio. She’s going to call the Miami Herald and the TV stations. She says she has a tape recording of the raid. She’s got my voice on it. The sound of my gun blowing away Luis Barrios in cold blood. What do you think about that, Elaine?”

  “My God.”

  “All bogus, of course, but it makes a hell of a story.”

  Elaine let out a breath. “Kelly has mentioned Barrios to me a couple of times. She was there.”

  “I know she was there!” He slammed his palm against the wall. “That’s what I have been telling everyone. She shouldn’t be anywhere near this fucking operation. What did she tell you? Agent Vincent Hooper shot Luis Barrios in the back while he was on his knees praying the rosary, and the rest of them—DEA, City of Miami cops, and Florida Department of Law Enforcement—they covered it up. They all lied. But I know the truth, by God, because I was there. I recorded the whole thing on a hidden microphone.”