Dan took this in slowly.
George said, “Kelly Dorff was a snitch for the feds, my man.”
CHAPTER 27
Miami rush-hour traffic was usually bad; today it was insane. Dan cursed other drivers. They flipped him off. He cursed himself for not having a car phone. It took him almost an hour to reach the exit for North Miami.
He found the warehouse complex ten minutes later, screeched into the entrance, and gunned his engine along the road leading to the back, where Manatee Studios was located. In the graying light of dusk he saw Rick Robbins’s yellow Mustang. He parked beside it and went inside, walking straight down the hallway past the office.
A man stuck his head out. “Hey, who are you?”
“It’s okay. I’m looking for Rick Robbins.”
“He’s in a closed session. Hey, you can’t—”
Dan heard another door opening behind him in the hall, glanced around, and saw a man with a dark beard and a wind-breaker. The man shouted, “Stop where you are!”
He ran.
The sound of a rock guitar whanged through the hall from the studio behind the last door. Dan sped toward it. Behind him came the pounding of footsteps. Dan reached for the doorknob, but the man caught up. He grabbed Dan around the waist, and they both careened into a door on the opposite side of the hall. It fell open and they staggered inside. Teenage musicians screamed and scattered. A drum set went over, crashing in a cascade of thumps and cymbals. The man threw Dan to the shag-carpeted floor and put a knee in his spine.
Dan craned his head around and found himself looking into the barrel of a 9mm pistol. He stared up into the man’s eyes and he knew. He hadn’t seen him up close in two years, but he knew who it was. Vincent Hooper, DEA.
“Get off me, goddammit.”
“Shut up!” Hooper ordered the kids to get out. They did, leaving their instruments behind them.
Pointing the pistol at Dan, Hooper went over and kicked the door shut. The vibrations shook the slabs of gray foam rubber soundproofing.
“Hands flat on the wall, feet out and spread. Do it! Now!”
Enraged, Dan stood up. “Get out of my way, Hooper. You have no right to tell me to do a damn thing.”
Hooper reholstered his pistol under his windbreaker. Dan moved back, his arms automatically moving up to protect his face. Hooper slammed a fist into his stomach. “There’s my right, asshole.” When Dan gagged and dropped to the floor, Hooper came down close and clenched his fingers in Dan’s hair. “What are you doing here?”
“None of your fucking business.” He found himself suddenly flying toward the wall, which was covered with ugly purple shag carpeting. Overhead, fluorescent bulbs buzzed and flickered.
The door opened and a woman with short auburn hair burst in. She saw Hooper with his fist drawn back. “Vince! That’s not a good idea.”
Hooper gave Dan one more shove. He asked her, “What are they doing across the hall?”
“Still going through guitarists. They didn’t hear anything.” The woman looked down at Dan. “Now what do we do?”
Ribs aching, Dan struggled to his knees. “Unless you’re making an arrest for a specific crime, I’m walking out of here.”
Hooper lifted Dan by his lapels. “I could have your ass right now on any number of charges—”
“Name one.”
“Interfering with an investigation. Battery on a federal agent.”
“Bullshit. I came in here looking for my client and you attacked me.”
Hooper threw Dan into a chair, which tipped, then came back down on its legs. “Sit there with your mouth shut or I will break your fucking jaw.” He pointed at Dan long enough to make sure he got the message, then went over to speak to the other agent. Their voices were quiet. The woman went out.
Hooper turned another chair around and faced Dan. “We’re going to sit here for a minute. My colleague went to make a phone call. We want to find out what to do with you. I asked a question, so answer it. What are you doing here?”
“Kiss my ass,” Dan said.
Hooper laughed. “Still the same pathetic jerkoff you always were, Galindo. I should have taken you out two years ago.”
“You finally got Luis Barrios,” Dan said.
“Not on purpose. I didn’t know he’d be there. We got lucky. I got lucky. He drew a Tec-9 on me and I blew him away. God watches out for the good guys.”
Dan knew that Vincent Hooper was looking for an excuse to get his hands on him again, so he sat quietly, trembling more from anger than fear. Hooper was even bigger now across the chest than he had been, and there was some gray in his beard, but he had lost none of the thuggish physicality. His thighs, straddling the chair, were tight with muscle. His scarred fists rested lightly on the chair back, ready to reach for him. Hooper would probably enjoy fracturing his jaw more than shooting him.
A flame leaped from Hooper’s lighter and he drew deeply on his cigarette, then clicked the lighter shut and slid it back into his shirt pocket. “I shouldn’t complain. A major doper is gone, and you ended up in a rat-hole law office down on Biscayne Boulevard. Common street criminals for clients. A washed-up old fart for a partner. Now you’re a murder suspect. No, I can’t complain.”
Dan leaned back casually in the chair, just out of arm’s reach. “Kelly Dorff was your confidential informant.”
Hooper exhaled smoke. “Is that why you killed her?”
“Who was she spying on? Rick? Me?”
“I told you to shut up.”
Smoke drifted upward to the acoustical tiles in the ceiling, which had been painted black. Cold air and drops of condensation came out of a hole half clogged with filthy yellow insulation. The metal vent was missing. Dan could hear a rock guitar going across the hall. Start, stop. Start again.
The female agent came back in and whispered into Hooper’s ear. Hooper nodded, then said to Dan, “We’re going to sit here for a little while longer. Fifteen minutes. I don’t want to hear you whining about false imprisonment. I don’t want to hear anything out of you. Got that?”
Dan tensed, ready to duck away from a fist. “Where is my client? What are you doing with him?”
“Nothing. He’s having a good time picking out a new lead guitarist. Rock and roll.”
A half hour later there was a knock at the door. The woman agent brought John Paxton in. Paxton was not happy. Under his thick gray brows, his eyes snapped with fury. He glanced down at Dan, then told the agents to leave, both of them.
As soon as they had gone, Dan exploded out of his chair. “You’re all going to be in deep shit for this, John. I want to see my client. Now.”
“If you walk through that door, we’ll arrest Rick Robbins immediately.” The tone was sharp enough to make Dan look around. “I told Hooper to keep you in here till I arrived. If there’s any fault, it’s mine. Give me a few minutes, Dan. You need to understand what’s going on.”
John Paxton told him that a federal task force called Operation Manatee had been gathering evidence against members of the Guayaquil cartel living in South Florida. They had imported and distributed an average of 1,000 kilos of cocaine per year for the past six years, which at approximately $18,000 to $20,000 per kilo—Miami wholesale prices—came to around $115,000,000.
Miguel Salazar was the man who turned the proceeds into spendable cash. He used several methods, most often bank manipulations and wire transfers. These were difficult to trace. Salazar also ran money through legitimate businesses. One in particular the DEA had been watching—Coral Rock Productions. By creating false reports of ticket sales and expenses, Salazar had sent over $3,000,000 through this company—with the knowledge and assistance of its owner, Richard Robbins.
The grand jury had issued a sealed indictment against Richard Robbins, based in large part on evidence supplied by Kelly Dorff. The problem for the government, Paxton explained, was that evidence against Salazar was not as solid as against other members of the cartel. The DEA had arranged a meeting betwee
n Salazar and agent Vincent Hooper, posing as Victor Ramirez, the man whose company, Manatee Studios, was recording Rick Robbins’s band. Ramirez wanted Salazar to launder a half million dollars for him. If Salazar took the money, the DEA would have him. The meeting could not be rescheduled. The arrests would go down next week.
Hooper had not known why Dan was here, but when he saw Dan rushing toward the studio, he had to stop him.
“Here’s my offer for you,” Paxton said. “Your client helps us out, we won’t send him away. Otherwise, he’s looking at a minimum mandatory of twenty years plus a fine of two million. Based on the business this cartel has done, he could get so much time, he’d die owing us years. In any event, he forfeits the business, his real estate, and his personal property. Everything. I want him to testify to the grand jury early next week, before we announce the indictments and send the marshals out.”
Dan realized that the music across the hall had stopped awhile ago. He doubted that Rick had left. Hooper would see to that. Rick might have headphones on, listening to the guitar played back with the bass, drums, and keyboard tracks. Not a clue that his world was about to end.
“Are there any questions?” Paxton said.
“I need to discuss it with Rick.”
“Of course. Take the weekend. I hope to see you both in my office at eight o’clock Monday morning. We’ll debrief him in the afternoon, and he can go before the grand jury the next day. And tell him I expect the meeting with Salazar to proceed as planned.”
“Rick has no control over what Salazar decides to do.”
“Just don’t let us find out he warned him. That would be very bad for your client.” Paxton added, “And tell him to be careful. Most of these dopers are businessmen. Profit, loss. They try not to use violence. I don’t think it bothers Salazar. He was married awhile back. He caught his wife cheating on him. He made her watch him castrate the guy, then he shot her.”
Dan blew out a breath as if he’d been holding it too long.
Guitar music filtered in from the studio. Loud. Not the same player, someone else this time. A heavy, rocking blues beat. “What about the demo?” Dan looked back at Paxton, who didn’t know what he was talking about. “The band is recording tracks for a demo tape, a sample of their music to send to the labels. Someone is coming from New York next week and wants a copy before he attends their concert. The band members aren’t targets of your investigation. Let them have the demo.”
“Well, that’s up to the DEA. It’s their studio,” Paxton said.
“Listen to me, John. If you want Rick, work with him on this. He lives for the band. If all their work comes to nothing, I’m not sure he wouldn’t shoot himself.”
“All right. I’ll talk to Vince Hooper.”
“No. You tell the son of a bitch.”
“Here’s what we’ll do,” Paxton said. “If this meeting with Salazar goes off without a hitch, your client can have the tapes. I remind you, however. He’s not going to keep the company. If he makes any money on this band, it will be forfeited.”
“If he pleads guilty,” Dan said, keeping a hold on his temper. “If. I’m not promising you a damn thing at this point.”
A slight smile twisted the lines in Paxton’s face. “Combative as ever.” He uncrossed his legs and stood up. “We haven’t talked to each other in a while, have we? I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances, but it’s good to see you again.”
He offered his hand, and after a second or two, Dan took it. At the door, Paxton said, “I’m glad to hear you’re off the hook with that other matter. I never thought you should have been charged.”
Dan looked at him. “What do you mean, off the hook?”
“For Ms. Dorff. They quashed the arrest warrant. You hadn’t heard? A friend of mine at the state attorney’s office told me. The police say you had an alibi.”
“Who?”
Paxton let out a laugh. “Someone who swears you were elsewhere at the time of death, obviously. I don’t know who.”
It took Dan a few seconds. At the time of death, he had been knocking on Elaine McHale’s door. For some reason she hadn’t told Paxton. Dan could see that Paxton was curious, but he shook his head as if he had no idea.
Dan said, “I’d like to talk to my client.”
CHAPTER 28
Dan told Rick that they had a matter to discuss and that Rick had to come with him. Now. It might have been his grim expression that kept Rick from putting up much of an argument. Rick told the sound engineer to close down for the evening, he’d see him tomorrow. There were some lank-haired guitarists sitting around. Rick had a two-minute conversation with a tattooed bald guy while Dan waited by the door.
In the hall, Rick said, “He’s the one I’m gonna pick for the band. He played with Ozzy Osbourne. Would you slow down? What the hell is the matter with you?”
“Just keep walking.”
It was dark outside and getting cold. Dan headed around the corner out of view of anyone inside. A security light on the roof filtered through the tree overhanging the parking lot. Rick was so impatient his shoulders were jerking. He said, “Okay. What?”
Dan told him.
Halfway through, Rick squinted his eyes as if he’d walked into a sandstorm. “U.S. attorney’s office,” he said, moistening his lips. “Okay. Be there Monday. We do the overdubs on Saturday, the final mix on Sunday—There’s time.”
“Rick—”
“Did you hear that new guy? Bobby. He’s fantastic.” Rick laughed. “He’s not as pretty as Kelly Dorff, but we’re gonna feature Martha now. We’ll be okay. She can carry it.”
“Listen to me!” Dan grabbed him by the front of his tweed jacket. “They won’t let it be okay. You are going to be indicted under the drug trafficking and conspiracy statute. They want to seize everything you own—your business, your house, cars, bank accounts. They want you to give them Salazar, and they’ll burn you if you don’t do it. If you plead not guilty and go to trial, and you lose, you would spend a minimum of twenty years in prison.”
Rick stared up at him. “What?”
Quietly Dan said, “You’re in trouble, Rick.”
“Drug trafficking? No. No way. I didn’t do that, Dan. I would never do that.”
“Anyone who helps a drug cartel can be held liable for everything the cartel has done. That’s the law. If the cartel has received more than ten million dollars—and this one had earned closer to a hundred million—a person who renders assistance will receive a sentence of mandatory life in prison. If Paxton has the evidence he says he does, and they can prove it, they’ve got you in the cross-hairs. If you don’t cooperate, they’ll tag you for the entire conspiracy.” Dan took a breath. “But we’re going to discuss this calmly, then we’ll decide the best course of action.”
Even in the dim glow from the security light, Dan could see the sheen of sweat on Rick’s forehead. “I didn’t know Victor was DEA. He offered me free use of the studio, if I’d put him in touch with Salazar. That’s all he wanted. Just to set up a deal with Miguel. And I did, trying to help him out. That’s all. Was that such a crime that now they want my blood?”
“That is not all, Rick.”
“Maybe they faked the evidence.”
“No.”
“They have the capacity to doctor evidence,” Rick said. “The federal government has access to all kinds of advanced technology.”
“They don’t, Rick. They don’t do that. It would be stupid. They tapped Salazar’s phones and they have you on tape discussing his business. They have your bank records showing that you profited from Salazar’s activities.”
“Victor lied to me! How can they get away with that?”
“Of course he lied. What did you think? That you could ask him, ‘Are you a narc? No crossing your fingers, now. Be honest.’ And he says, ‘Why, no, I’m not a narc.’ ‘Well, all right, then.’ Is that what you thought?”
“It was entrapment,” Rick said. “They suckered me into this.”
<
br /> “Maybe. We’ll talk about it,” Dan said. “I’ll get your side of it and we’ll see. We might argue entrapment if the DEA led you into a crime that you weren’t predisposed to commit. That the only reason you went sliding down the chute to hell was that the DEA greased it and gave you a push.”
“That’s exactly how it was!”
Dan said quietly, “But you were already involved with Miguel Salazar before you met Victor.”
“I didn’t mean to do this!”
“Great argument. ‘Your honor, I didn’t mean to do it.’”
Rick took a breath. When he spoke his tongue was so dry it clicked in his mouth. “What I told you the other night at my house about Victor Ramirez was the truth, I swear. The guy was so damned convincing. Victor—whatever the hell his name is—said he owned some nightclubs and wanted his own record label. He also told me—which, okay, I didn’t tell you about—that he had half a million in cash he wanted to make disappear, and he heard that Miguel Salazar could help him out. I didn’t want to get into that, so I told him no way. Then he offered me a deal on the studio. I had to do a high-quality demo tape, and I didn’t want Miguel involved any further than he already was. He has his way, he’ll make the band sound like Abba. Jesus Christ, Dan, I swear to you, I got sucked into this. First Miguel, then the DEA. Oh, Jesus, I’m gonna pass out. I might as well die right here.”
“Calm down, Rick.”
“Oh, God. Sandy. Oh, what am I gonna tell her?” Rick put a hand flat on his chest. “What about the demo? Did you ask him?”
“Yes. You can have the demo if you cooperate with them, but forget the demo, Rick. It’s over.”
“How can it be over? The concert is a week from Saturday!”
“I’m a little more concerned right now with keeping you out of prison.”
“They can’t do this,” Rick said. “I’m not a criminal, not like Miguel. I’ll happily give them Miguel. I’ll testify, whatever. But why do they have to take everything I’ve got?”
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