A Killing to DIE For

by P Gaseaux

  Chapter Nine

  Even the unseasoned flyer knows when their destination is close by. The turbines wound back to a melodic hum and PR103 descended, the airplane jolted a few times and the seat-belt lamps came on with a ‘ping’. Over the last of the Pacific Ocean the rising sun touched the towering monsoon rain clouds. Tanaka caught his first glimpse of the crinkled hills and pointed mountaintops of Luzon, the northernmost island in the archipelago. Razor sharp emerald green hills dropped into an ocean the shade of Indian ink and miles deep. He craned his head, imagining the world below, something he had never seen -- indeed in his life he had only been abroad a few times. This was another world altogether. Hawaii was an island paradise for some and home to Tanaka but here it was different.

  Why do they call it the ‘Far East’ since the flight had been heading west all night?

  JJ Hatfield had spent the previous ten hours asleep but prior to that the two had spoken briefly. Tanaka had whiled away the flight, downing San Miguel in the front section of the airliner; courtesy of business class. Not quite a Lear Jet, but the next best thing. Hatfield sat nearby. He was a teetotaler. Didn’t suit his rugged image, something to do with his failing liver; he didn’t look well.

  The humidity and heat struck them both like the open door of a pizza oven as they exited the glass door and onto the traffic ramp after clearing ‘barrier’...if you could even call it that. Tanaka couldn’t believe just a day ago he had been in the snow. Pandemonium reigned in the drive through area; hundreds of people milled around, taxi drivers tugging at them, hangers-on loitering with no purpose and armed soldiers stood mutely at various points outside the glass barriers. Vehicles and buses charged past belching fumes. Puddles and litter all over the place; it was a madhouse, worse than O’Hare.

  “Thought you guys’d never make it.”

  A southern accent above the chaos.

  “Special Agent Mike Jackson, Manila Office.” A Caucasian with a crew cut wearing long dark trousers and a white shirt thrust his hand at Tanaka first, then towards Hatfield who kept both hands at his sides. “I take it you’re our man’s father, sir. We’re very sorry for everything-”

  “He ain’t your man, he’s my son, damn it!” Hatfield retorted, no mood for a getting-to-know-you session. “Just take me to see him and find out who did this.”

  The Manila agent was taken aback. For a moment he thought the old man would strike him and he thought the better of saying anything.

  The blacked-out embassy vehicle contrasted with the other decrepit automobiles and rusted out ‘Jeepneys’ as it attempted to negotiate the potholed journey and traffic snarls like a drunken elephant. The driver dodged and weaved jarring the three passengers constantly. Agent Jackson attempted small talk, pointing out land marks and other places of interest. While Tanaka was caught up in the novelty of it all Hatfield peered ahead with a still and stony faced silence; this was nothing new to him -- just another foreign city.

  Jackson leaned over the seat and spoke for the second time: “First time in Asia, sir? Like it? For me I love the place-”

  “I was up here before you were even born, sonny,” growled Hatfield. “We’d all hit the bars here just before shipping out of Clark Base on a 727 to the delta. Down the tunnels then back to Saigon for a hangover cure. Been in these here parts more times ‘n’ you’d be able to count.”

  Hatfield peered out the darkened windows of the vehicle. “Ain’t how I remember it though; looks like its dying, by inches. Once upon a time used to be the best two cities in the world, this place and Hong Kong -- look at it now,” he sniffed. “Knew this’d happen, ever since we pulled out.” He changed the subject: “Look, I need to see Billy-Bob. What are you guys doing about it anyway -- looks like nothing much and real quick. Damn bureaucrats,” he grumbled despondently. “Take a fully blown disaster….” His voice trailed off.

  An hour later they were settled in Jackson’s office and the induction began. It was Tanaka’s investigation and he made that clear from the outset, it was Jackson’s turf but sure as hell Hatfield’s son they were talking about. Tanaka was beginning to feel the onset of jet lag but the old man didn’t feel a thing. He was all for going out right now and burning the place down, no stone unturned. That was the easy part. He would also have to collect his son’s remains and take him home for burial. He’d need to face up to it sooner rather than later.

  Debriefing over, they delivered JJ Hatfield to a nearby hotel, one within walking distance from the compound gates. They’d done up arrangements to pick him up the next morning for the official ID, a grim task. Tanaka and Jackson strolled to the embassy. They got in through the gate and it was then they were surprised, a voice calling out, a voice Tanaka remembered from way back.

  “Hey Tanaka…holy cow man, you must’ve really pissed someone off to end up here.”

  PK Tanaka spun around. Carlos Cortez. How many years -- still got that damn ‘stash; suited the guy though.

  “Cortez! Son of a gun. Talk about a small world.”

  They shook then embraced, it had been years. Tanaka and Cortez had been close several years ago, joined the bureau at the same time. Both had gone in during a big Clinton-era ‘affirmative action’ push; got a few ribs from the other grads but made it through okay…only made them work harder, smarter. Ironic too, the only ‘cultural’ thing about Tanaka and Cortez was their names, though Cortez was a fluent speaker of Spanish. They’d worked and socialized together, thick as thieves. Then Cortez had jumped ship. Went undercover for the DEA, high risk work…spent months underground in Latin America, Colombia….lost contact after a while.

  “Jeez Tanaka, what gives? Howzit going? How’s the family?”

  Tanaka looked slightly guilty. “They’re okay, s’pose…you and yours?”

  “Just fine, me, myself and I,” said Cortez. “Hey, we gotta catch up, man.”

  “Sounds like a plan…Jackson, you up for a couple’ve brews? Say six or seven?”

  Jackson was disinterested, he had other ideas. “Well… maybe when it’s finished. Week’s end, maybe. Still a bit worn out after last night.”

  Tanaka cleaned up and sorted his stuff; he was in the room next to Hatfield. After checking on the old guy made his way out and waited for DEA Agent Cortez who met him. They walked and entered some place a few blocks up. They pushed past a group of beggars into the tavern, inside was a bar with a guitar player and band; they were doing a Simon and Garfunkel repertoire; they were good too, even dressed up to look like the real thing. Not too noisy, they could chat. Soon the conversation turned to the present day.

  “You had much to do with this case?” asked Tanaka. “Pity Mike Jackson couldn’t make it this evening.”

  “Yeah. Never mind though, he’s been raiding up in Pampanga?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Where’s that, you mean,” said Cortez. “Pampanga Province, few hours north of here…Angeles City…heard of it?”

  “Sort of…Sodom and Gomorrah meets the twenty-first century.”

  “Something like that, biggest red light district in the whole region. Having a big drive against human trafficking, the presidents of our country and theirs have a personal interest in exploitation of women and children, so-on,” said Cortez as he drained his beer. “Another one?”

  Tanaka nodded. While Cortez was up at the bar, Tanaka leaned back in his chair. There were a couple of attractive local women a few tables away, one of them making eye-contact and smiling at him. Extremely attractive. Strange they’d be even sitting alone like that; anywhere else they’d be getting mobbed. On the pick-up or on the game…well presented, though.

  He smiled back then turned in the direction of the musicians. They started playing a song Tanaka remembered, except the title. A very famous number and these musicians got it perfect. But it made him feel uneasy.

  Cortez clunked the two jugs down and sat. “Cheers.”

&
nbsp; “So what’ve you been up to, Cortez? Can’t get over it, meeting up in a place like this.”

  “DEA,” he replied. “Sort of a consolation prize, sort of a protection scheme.”

  PK Tanaka was puzzled. “Protection scheme?”

  “Yeah. You know they had us in Bogota a while back. Coupla years.” Cortez sipped his beer.

  “How was that?”

  “Great actually. I got in on the tail end. Pretty good there now…choice buncha people, too.” Cortez nodded. “Colombia probably has the best future of all countries in Latin America.”

  “So what went wrong…why are you under protection?”

  Cortez sighed. “All started in Mexico. The Agency sent us near Laredo and we were training local cops. Some paramilitary unit.”

  “What happened…no good?”

  Cortez was silent once more. Frowned at his drink. Looked back at Tanaka.

  “It was just like you and me sitting down here. Done a day’s theory, finished late. All of us were to meet up and we did. Few cervezas, a few laughs; I got up and went to the john…” He stroked his moustache. “Zetas put a wagon out front packed with Nitropril interlaced with welding rods. Took out every single one of the guys we’d been training with, also my colleague from the agency. Killed other patrons there as well. I got dug out of the rubble and woke up a day later with all these commandos guarding me and the whole hospital. After I recovered they sent me here. Can’t even risk having me in Arizona or Texas. Never set foot in the place again.”

  Tanaka didn’t answer; he didn’t have any reply he could think of. Peered around the place. The two Filipinas sitting nearby still there but they were avoiding him now. He elbowed Cortez. “Check out any of the local talent?”

  The DEA agent leaned forward, saw the women and frowned. “Don’t even think about it. Scammers -- freelance crooks, the pair of ‘em.”

  “How so?” asked Tanaka.

  “Works like this,” said Cortez. “You befriend them, get talking, you buy them drinks and they buy you drinks. Share a taxi and it takes the first one home and the second one whom you’ve really taken a shine to invites you in to her place. She jumps in the shower and comes out in this dazzling lingerie outfit, slips under the sheets. You jump in the shower and when you’re done you come into the bedroom…only your date’s gone and there’s some schoolgirl sitting there in her place. It’s a niece or something like that, complete with her school uniform. Cops burst into the room, game over, red rover.” Chuck Cortez lifted his drink.

  “Twenty grand minimum to buy your way outta that one. Our money, not theirs.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “No problemo,” said Cortez. “Jackson was the one who warned me when I first got here.”

  “Sounds like a nest of vipers,” said Tanaka, shaking his head. “How do they put up with it?”

  “PK, what you gotta realize is that ninety-nine percent of the poor folks here are decent, honest God-fearing people. I like the place. Just be on your guard…stay alert. That’s all.”

  “Wilco that.” Tanaka looked at his watch. “See what tomorrow brings.” He moved to get up then something else crossed his mind. “Cortez…one last thing…what’s your take on Mike Jackson?”

  “Aw, you know. See how you find him. He’s alright.” Cortez screwed up his face, couldn’t miss it.

  “Anything I should know -- what’s he like? We’ll be collaborating on this case for a few days, maybe longer.”

  Cortez drained his beer then looked serious. “Probably shouldn’t say this about a fellow colleague, but you and I go back years. Just don’t repeat me, okay? But the kid’s as dumb as dog-shit. He’s an Ivy-League who scraped through law by the skin of his teeth. His daddy used to be in the DA’s office in Miami-Dade years ago, and then started up private practice.” Cortez sniffed. “The old man was smart enough not to let Jackson anywhere near his firm. Pushed him into the feds instead. They sent the kid out here to get rid of him.”

  “Out of sight; out of mind,” said Tanaka.

  “Something like that.”

  They spent another hour listening to the bards singing away, so true to the original artists. It’d been a long flight and a busy day. Time to turn in.

  Hatfield, Tanaka and Jackson met up the next day before lunchtime. The medical facility they were headed to was only a short distance from the crime scene, about five or ten minute’s drive from the embassy. They were collected by a black car from the embassy. Nothing was said, the mood was grim, just like the city, just like the overcast morning. The mortuary waiting room on the ground floor of the Santa Lucia private hospital was unusually quiet. Only a distressed local woman sat nearby, trying her best to control a pesky toddler…son, grandson or nephew, whatever…whole country appeared to be overrun with ill-disciplined brats. Tanaka and Hatfield senior waited silently while Jackson fielded an incessant barrage of calls and texts. More like a realtor than a government employee.

  The two agents were unarmed. As Jackson explained in a subdued voice they were not approved to carry firearms, even as law enforcement officials.

  “There are more fucking guns in this city alone than the entire United States, as if carrying one more would help us,” he whispered to Tanaka. “Need backup, we organize it beforehand, get an approved escort or a local officer. Personally, I’ve never had a problem.”

  “Lucky you,” mumbled Tanaka. Something just didn’t feel right. Special Agent Jackson was cocky, started to get on Tanaka’s nerves.

  Several minutes passed and nothing happened. The waiting, it was tedious. They were starting to fidget, get uneasy. The misbehaving child sitting with the haggard lady opposite was busting everybody’s chops. Not much they could do about it anyhow, children here seemed to have the run of the mill, and they could do whatever they wanted.

  JJ Hatfield had been shifting uneasily about on the bench; uncomfortable or in pain, not quite sure which. He frowned at the child who had been crying and tugging at the woman. Irritating, the shrieks and grunts echoed along the corridors of the place. Hatfield wanted to yell out at them to keep it down; instead he just stayed silent, frowning. He wanted to see his son. He stood and walked to the double swinging doors and peered through a glass cutaway, he paced around and then stood where the two agents were seated. The old guy turned back to the corridor and stopped just shy of the swing-doors leading out. With no warning at all the doors whipped open, right in front of him; the stainless handle barely missed Hatfield and he jumped. Startled him.

  That was when she appeared.