"Nah. You got the wrong idea. Think about the last time you bought Girl Scout cookies, Joe. Was one of 'em blond, maybe a little over five feet tall? Say about 115 pounds?"
"You're shittin' me now, Russo. I gotta go to work. Let me know what you find on the Alfieri guy."
"Thanks, Joe. I appreciate the help."
"No problem. Call if you need something else."
Paul considered what it might mean that Alfieri had no history. A crook like Rolle would be unlikely to partner with a nobody, so Alfieri was probably an alias. He was intrigued with the thought that it was Alfieri who had drawn Toby Rodriguez into this hunt for the diamonds. He really needed to talk with Rodriguez. It had been almost two days since Rodriguez disappeared. He wondered if the man had returned home in the interim. If not, Paul wondered if his wife would go to the police. He placed a call to his former partner, Luke Pantene, who still carried a detective's gold shield in the City of Miami.
"Toby Rodriguez," his old partner mused. "If you got friends mixed up with him, you ought to get new friends."
"That bad, huh?" Paul asked, listening to the click of a keyboard over the telephone and picturing Luke hammering away with his sausage-sized index fingers, calling up the record for Rodriguez.
"Worse, from what I'm seeing here. Drugs, hookers, owned a few strip joints over the years. Moved just fast enough to stay out of the pen. Surprised you and I never had a run-in with him."
"Sounds like his wife probably wouldn't call missing persons if he didn't come home for a couple of days, then," Paul said.
"Hard to know for sure. Some of these scumbags keep the family and the business separate, but that's probably a safe gamble. Doesn't say he's married here, anyway. You want an address and a phone number for him?"
"Yeah." Paul scribbled the information in his notebook as Luke rattled it off. "Thanks."
"Any time. I'm off to protect and serve, now."
"I'll sleep better knowing that," Paul said with a laugh as he hung up the phone.
****
Paul parked at the curb in front of the garish, neo-Spanish McMansion at the address Luke had given him. If bad taste were a crime, Toby Rodriguez would be serving 20 years to life. Paul reluctantly got out of the air-conditioned car into the humid, late-morning heat and walked up the sidewalk to the front door. He glanced at what he could see of the neighboring houses, all of a kind with Rodriguez's. The development was probably five years old, and Paul guessed that the going rate for a house like Toby's was between three and five million dollars. Rodriguez was doing all right for himself.
He rang the doorbell, and after about thirty seconds, a chime sounded from a grill beside the door.
"Yes? Who is it?" A soft, sultry, female voice asked.
"I'm Paul Russo; I'm a friend of Mario Espinosa's and I was hoping to visit with Mr. Rodriguez for just a moment."
"Wait, please. I'll be right there." The woman's voice conveyed anxiety this time.
A minute went by, and then there was a flicker of movement behind the peephole in the door. A few seconds later, Paul heard the sound of a deadbolt being thrown. The door swung open onto a cool, dimly lit foyer, and a darkly tanned, six-foot-tall blonde in a string bikini gave Paul a cool once-over. "Stripper," he thought. His next impression was that her body was a tribute to the work of Miami's finest plastic surgeons.
"You're a cop," she said. She held herself with practiced poise, ensuring that her considerable assets didn't escape notice.
"Retired, ma'am. Would you be Mrs. Rodriguez?"
"If that's who you'd like me to be," she said, stepping back gracefully to draw him into the foyer. "But I'd rather just be Lena Mele. Toby's gone; come on out by the pool and have a cup of coffee or some juice while you tell me what you want," she purred dramatically, dragging the second 'you' out for several beats. She turned and sashayed through the house, leaving Paul to follow.
When they were seated at a small round table by the pool and she had poured Paul a cup of coffee, she said, "So, what can I do for you, Mr. Retired Cop?"
"I was hoping to talk with Toby for a few minutes. When will he be back?"
"Now that's a good question. Two friends of his came by night before last, late, and he left with them. He doesn't check in and out with me; I'm just here, you know, to keep him, like, company?" She batted the eyes again. "But we each go our own way…"
"I see. So you aren't actually Toby's wife?"
"No. That would be boring."
"Tell me about these two friends who picked him up the other night, then."
"Mm. One of them was just yummy; tall, slender, dark hair and eyes. He had that look that screamed 'danger!' Just looking at him made me melt, but I think he was gay. He didn't seem in the least interested in what I had to offer, if you get my meaning."
"I think so. And the other friend? What about him?"
"Creepy. Short, but muscular and hairy. Like a bear, kind of, but not a teddy-bear."
"Think he was gay, too?" Paul asked, hiding a smile behind his coffee cup.
"No, he was way too interested in looking at me. I woulda felt naked even if I'd been dressed, you know. Like that. Licked his lips, winked. Copped a feel on the way out the door. One of those jerks that sits in the tittie bars waiting to stuff a grimy, greasy dollar bill in your g-string."
"So you've never seen these guys before?"
"No. Never."
"How do you know they were friends of Toby's?"
"Oh, he knew 'em, all right. Called 'em by name."
"Do you remember the names?"
"Yeah. Davey and Peter, I think. No, not Peter. Something like that, though. Toby said, 'Davey, Peter. The hell do you guys want?' or something like that."
"Did you hear what they said to Toby?"
"Yeah. Something like, 'Rollerskate's at the Miami Beach Marina. Mr. Rolle needs to see you; he said to tell you it's important to Mr. Espinosa that you meet with him this one last time.' Weird, huh?"
"Yes. Rollerskate?"
"Uh-huh," she said, unfolding herself from the chair and rising slowly to her feet. "I'm gonna hop in the pool and cool off. You wanna come?"
"I can't stay, but thanks. I appreciate your time. You go ahead; I'll find my way out."
Chapter 22
The next morning Paul Russo sat at the desk in his makeshift office, the smaller of the two bedrooms in his condo. When he had first retired, he had planned to set up shop as a private investigator, but he hadn't gotten around to it. Instead, he had been drawn into Mario Espinosa's circle of friends and had joined a couple of them in some small entrepreneurial ventures. From time to time, one of the crowd would ask him to check out a potential client or partner, so he'd kept his contacts with various law enforcement agencies current, and he had subscriptions to a couple of online database services that were useful for tracking people down. He had a yellow legal pad on the desk top, covered with scribbled notes overlaid with circles and arrows. His efforts to find Sam Alfieri had been fruitless, and he had been rehashing all the information he had, looking for a loose thread that might begin to unravel the puzzle Mario had given him. In a flash of inspiration, he picked up the phone and called Mario.
"Good morning, Paul," Mario answered his cell phone.
Paul smiled, thinking briefly that caller i.d. had forever altered the way people answered calls. "Good morning. I've been thinking about this Sam Alfieri character."
"Yes," Mario said. "What have you learned?"
"Nobody's heard of him. Searching my usual databases turned up a number of possible matches on the name, but none of them even begins to fit. Not one of my contacts in law enforcement knows anything about him, either, although they all know Rolle's name."
"Well, at least that's encouraging," Mario said.
"Yes and no. Rolle's too well connected in the Bahamas to be of any use to us, but I realized there's another avenue that I can take."
"What's that?"
"I want to run some checks on their char
ter guest. If you gave me her name, I missed it."
"Maria Velasquez," Mario said. "Rodriguez said she's a young, attractive Latina. Shoulder-length dark hair. U.S. passport, but no number. She gave a Miami address when she checked into the hotel in Nassau, but it turned out to be bogus. Paid cash for the room. That Willie guy told Rodriguez that she held a gun on him after Dani broke his arm. That's all I have right now, but I'll check with J.-P. He didn't mention her name before, but he may know more, or you can try calling Dani on their satellite phone. You have her number?"
"Yeah, but I'll hold off calling. You can ask J.-P., but tell him to keep it quiet; I'd like to get some background on her before she knows we're looking, okay?"
"Okay. You suspicious of her?"
"Until I have a reason not to be. She showed up out of nowhere with several million dollars worth of hot diamonds, don't forget. That's odd, by itself."
"Yes, now that you mention it. I guess J.-P. and I were focused on the attack the other night. That reminds me. Something else about that's strange, now that I think of it."
"What's that?"
"Rodriguez said that Willie got the diamonds. He told Rodriguez he found them and was about to leave when the two blond women surprised him. That would have been Dani and Liz. He told Rodriguez he had them under control, holding a knife on them, when the Velasquez woman came below with a gun. Dani disarmed him by breaking his arm and he managed to get away with the diamonds," Mario paused.
"So what's odd about that, besides the Velasquez woman having a gun?"
"What's odd is that J.-P. left me with the impression that Dani and Liz caught him below decks," Mario said. "He held a knife to Dani's throat and told Liz to get the Velasquez woman below or he'd kill them. Dani took his knife and broke his arm. Then she asked who sent him before she threw him over the side."
"Right. That's what you told me the other day. It doesn't match the story you got from Rodriguez, does it?"
"No, it doesn't. Especially about the diamonds. J.-P. said they still had the diamonds aboard, so Dani figured somebody would be coming after them. I hadn't put that together until just now. Sorry."
"That's okay. That's why cops learn to keep asking the same questions over and over. Let me see what I can find on Maria Velasquez. I'll be in touch."
"Thanks, Paul," Mario said, disconnecting the call.
****
"Right. Her name is Maria Velasquez," Sam paused. He was in Wallace's office on the phone with a private investigator that a bookie friend from his former life had once recommended.
"No, I don't have her middle name or initial." He paused again, waiting.
"Let's start with Florida. She gave the hotel in Nassau a Miami address, but it was fake." Pause.
"Right. A U.S. passport, but I don't have a number." He waited again.
"Probably between 20 and 40 years old, looks Hispanic. Attractive, shoulder-length straight black hair." Another pause.
"Okay. We'll wire the retainer right now. Call me on this number with a status every day." He disconnected the call.
"He any good?" Wallace asked.
"She," Sam said. "Yeah. She'd do better if we had a little more to go on, though. We'll just have to see what she comes up with."
"We'd be better off if we caught Velasquez down in the islands," Wallace said.
"Yeah, but all we know is she's not in St. Martin," Sam mused.
"No, we don't even know that. We just know the boat's not there and that they didn't clear out with the Dutch authorities. They were probably cleared in on the French side, though. Most of the smaller yachts don't want to pay the higher fees on the Dutch side."
"Damned French bastards," Sam muttered. "The way they move people around in the government offices makes it tough to do business."
"Yeah. The gal we used to work with in St. Martin got rotated to St. Barth's a few months ago. I asked her if she could still get into the system in St. Martin, but she can't. She'll call us if Vengeance shows up in St. Barth's, but I don't think that's likely."
"Not if they know we're after them. They'll want to put some miles between them and St. Martin, after Willie's mess. At least, I would. How far is it to St. Barth's from St. Martin, anyway?" Sam asked.
"Ten or 15 miles," Wallace said. "Probably too close, like you said, but I've got the word out in the Virgins and all the British Commonwealth islands."
"Yeah, but those people are too laid back to bother with being corrupt, half the time. Boat like Vengeance could be headed damn near anywhere -- the Med, through the canal into the Pacific…" Sam shook his head. "Maybe we'll find something on Velasquez back in the States to help narrow things down."
****
Paul was having better luck with his online search for Maria Velasquez than he had with Sam Alfieri. After a couple of hours of poring over screen after screen of data, he had a list of 11 likely candidates. He had decided to focus on Florida, since the woman had given the hotel a bogus address in Miami. His instincts and experience led him to believe that there was some reason for her choice of city and state. By eliminating married women, single mothers, employed women, and welfare recipients, he had quickly winnowed what had begun as a long list. His top candidate at the moment was Maria Constanza Velasquez, whose address was in north Florida, in a small town near Jacksonville.
He had established that the address was actually a mail-forwarding service. For a monthly fee, they provided their subscribers with a street address. Most people who used such services did so for benign reasons; it was a perfect solution for people who traveled continuously, for example. Paul knew that such an address was also ideal for maintaining a false identity. Maria had a Florida driver's license and two credit cards which were current but had no recent activity. She had once been registered to vote, but was no longer, which kept her from being called for jury duty. Maria's identity could effectively hibernate until called upon for whatever reason it had been created.
His suspicion that something was wrong with Vengeance's current charter guest was growing ever stronger. He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed a number from memory, hoping that a familiar voice would answer. He wasn't disappointed.
"That you, Mac? This is Paul Russo."
"Paul Russo! You been retired now for, lemme see, must be two years, about. Right?"
"Yep. Your memory's still sharp as ever. When are you going to pull the pin?"
"Oh, I dunno, Paul. Not much incentive to quit, nowadays. It's gotten pretty cushy here since all the records are on the computer. I mostly just sit on my fat ass and eat donuts bought by retired detectives looking for favors. What can I do for you?"
"I'm looking for anything you might have on a Maria Constanza Velasquez." Paul rattled off the rest of the particulars, explaining that he suspected that this was a false identity.
"You in a big hurry?"
"Depends. How many donuts if I'm in a hurry?"
"Nah. You got lots of donut credits. I was just about to go to lunch. How 'bout I'll call you in a couple of hours?"
"That would be great; enjoy your lunch."
Paul looked at his wrist watch, considering whether to go out for lunch or make himself a sandwich. Before he reached a conclusion, Mario called to report on his conversation with J.-P.
"You were right. Maria Velasquez is an alias. Her real name is Connie Barrera," he told Paul. "But J.-P. says to keep that strictly to yourself. They've decided to use the Maria Velasquez identity until this is settled, and they don't want anybody to connect the two."
"Smart. Looks like this woman knew what she was doing when she put this identity together. Now the question is why she did it. Innocent people don't create solid false identities. Speaking of which, she must have a passport if they're hopping around the islands."
"Yes. Genuine. As you said, it makes you wonder why."
"J.-P. didn't know?" Paul asked.
"No. Dani told him they'd explain later; she wanted to sort out the clearance paperwork so they could mov
e down island in a hurry if they needed to."
Chapter 23
Paul was finishing a late breakfast when Luke Pantene called. "What's up?" he asked, after they had exchanged a little pleasant banter.
"Toby Rodriguez," Luke said.
"Yeah? What about him?"
"What did you learn at his house the other day?"
Paul gave Luke an abbreviated version of his encounter with the big blonde.
"She live there?"
"I guess. Acted like it, anyway. Why?"
"I need to get somebody over there to ask her a few questions. You mind dropping by sometime and giving me a formal statement?"
"No problem. I'll come in later this morning. You gonna be around?"
"Should be, but call first. Your buddy Toby turned up dead early this morning. I got a lot happening right now."
"Where?" Paul asked.
"In a stolen go-fast boat with a big hole blown in the bottom. Should have sunk, but there was enough air trapped in the forward cabin to keep it afloat. Washed up at the north end of the beach sometime during the night."
"Collision in the dark?"
"No, I don't think so. He had about 30 feet of heavy chain wrapped around his ankles, and his throat was cut. They blew the bottom out of the back end of the boat with a few shotgun blasts. Looks like somebody meant for him and the boat to disappear, probably out in the Gulf Stream. But they didn't stick around long enough to make sure it happened. Some eddy current apparently brought it ashore."
"Jesus," Paul said.
"Yeah. We need to find those two guys that the gal told you about. Looks like a hit, but there was some weird stuff."
"Weird?"
"Yeah. The M. E. 's not through yet, but he said it looks like somebody cooked old Toby's fingers and had 'em for a snack – while they were still attached. Before they cut his throat, too."
"Okay. That's weird. Wish you had called before I ate breakfast," Paul said. "You get any prints?"
Bluewater Ice: The Fourth Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Bluewater Thrillers Book 4) Page 13