He looked inside again. He saw a clipboard with some documentation hanging inside the container. It wasn't in English, so he just left it on the wall.
As he left, he reset the lock and didn't even think about leaving the keyhole facing out like every shipper knew to do. He just did it out of habit.
15
ALEX DUARTE WATCHED FÉLIX BAEZ MAKE SOME NOTES BUT knew it was bad news. Félix said into the phone, "Yeah, John, I'll hold." He looked at Duarte, his pockmarked face dark. "They found Gastlin's body. He'd been cut up pretty bad."
Duarte considered this. He knew it was wrong, but he was trained to look at situations first. This meant their case was over. Now they had to find out who had killed him and why. Was it related to the case? Was it Ortíz?
Duarte said, "Have they done an autopsy yet?"
Félix shook his head. "No, and they might not. They're not even certain it's him. They have his torso and a finger. He's missing his head and left hand."
Duarte held his breath. He hadn't heard of anything like that since Bosnia.
Félix looked away from the phone like he was on hold and caught Duarte up on the conversation. "The finger is whole, but they're not going to check DNA."
Duarte knew they needed to know if it was Gastlin as quickly as possible.
Félix listened on his phone some more. When he looked up, he said, "I don't know, Rocket. This doesn't sound like they can even confirm it's him. Got any ideas?"
Duarte thought about the problem and the red tape that would be involved in getting the body to the U.S. for examination. The Panamanians could say they didn't even know if the victim was American. He didn't know how they operated down there. He just pictured Byron Gastlin in pieces in a drawer in a foreign morgue. He shuddered. No one deserved that. Then he thought about who would miss him if something like that happened. Gastlin had to have family that would care. Duarte had not talked about the drug dealer's personal life with him at all. He hadn't cared at the time.
Who would miss Duarte? His folks, of course. Alice. He froze. Alice could help.
He tapped Félix on the arm as the DEA agent listened to the other agent in Panama.
Félix looked up. "You got an idea?"
"I do."
"I'm all ears, man."
"We want this off the record and fast, right?"
"Yeah, the faster we find out the better."
"If someone prints the loose finger and faxes it, there might be enough of the print to identify or maybe not. If not, we're screwed."
"So?"
"If they mail the loose finger, we could have someone print it quietly, without any attention to it, and do it fast."
"I'm not following you, Rocket."
"Can your man get one of the severed fingers?"
"What? You loco, amigo?"
"I can get it identified without too much administration if they can get it to the U.S."
"You mean the FBI? I don't know."
"No, Félix. Alice could print him. He was booked into the Palm Beach County jail. It'd be quick."
"Snap, Rocket. That's a balls-up idea. Would she do it?"
"I don't know. See if you can get a finger first."
Félix spoke into the phone for a few more seconds. He looked back at Duarte. "He's with a cop at the morgue now. He's gonna check. Man, that's one stone-cold cool squeeze you got."
Duarte nodded.
"Why don't you publicize her more?"
He thought about it and almost shrugged, then said, "Because I'm an idiot."
Félix held up his hand as he focused back on the person on the phone.
Duarte heard him say, "No, really. Your pocket. Man, you are dope." He looked at Duarte. "All we need is a mailing address."
***
Cal Linley pulled to the side of the road about a mile from the little hotel in Metairie where he had been told to hand over the crate to the guy from Omaha, Ike. He wanted to go straight there, but his curiosity had gotten the best of him, and he couldn't resist. He had to see what was in the box. It was heavy, and it was important. They had had help in Panama and here, or else all that pot never would've made it through security.
He parked his old Ford F-250 in the parking lot of a closed grocery store. There was plenty of light from the streetlamps, and he lowered the rusty tailgate and hopped into the back. He rapped the crate with his knuckles and then tried the end by tugging on it. It didn't budge.
He went back to the truck's cab, dug into the rear-seat compartment and pulled out the extra tire iron he carried, as much for protection as for use in helping other people with flats. The narrow edge of the iron fit into the gap between the boards of the crate, and he peeled off the end.
He peered inside, but couldn't see anything. There was a soft metal foil, like lead wrapped around some kind of machine. He used his flashlight to look deeper. All he saw were wires and a shiny cylinder and some electronics.
He had finished the ninth grade at Pancetta High before being expelled for hitting a smart-ass Mexican kid in the head with a two-by-four. He was never charged, but he never went back to school either. His experience with electronics was limited. Mostly he used a lift to unload ships for minimum union wage and that was it.
He knew he wasn't prepared to make a rocket or even a firecracker, but he thought he had figured out what was in the box. Based on what he had just seen and what he had been told by President Jessup, he figured he was carrying some kind of equipment that concerned the oil business. He knew President Jessup used to be a big shot in the oil business in Houston. This thing he was carrying had something to do with funding a revolution to make America safe again. The machine he was looking at right now had to do with oil wells, maybe a new drill head or something that stopped oil flow. It was all making sense now.
He looked at the machine again and thought, Or maybe it's some kind of stolen technology that the National Army of White Americans will use to make a fortune and fund their political party better.
Either way he was happy to be a part of it.
He closed the box, hammering the nails back as best he could with the edge of his tire iron.
Five minutes later, he was knocking on the door to room nine at the Starlight Motel. The big U-Haul truck was parked in the slot right in front of the room.
It was now almost four o'clock in the morning. He saw a light flick on behind the cheap curtains. A younger man with short hair peeked out and nodded. A few seconds later, the door opened.
The man said, "You Cal?"
"I am." He eyed the muscular young man.
"You got the package?"
"In the truck."
"You know what it is?"
"No idea."
The young man smiled. "Good."
16
ALEX DUARTE LISTENED TO THE PHONE RING AND CHECKED HIS G-Shock wristwatch again. It was an hour later in West Palm Beach, so he was catching Alice at home before seven. He didn't like calling so early, but this was important, and he didn't want to make this call on an official sheriff's office phone line.
On the third ring, he heard her bright voice say, "Hello."
"Alice, it's Alex."
"I knew it was you. No one but my family would call this early, and none of them are up at this hour. How're you?" Before he could answer, she added, "Miss me? You must, to call this early. What time is it there? Five to six?"
"Still dark." Now he felt bad that the main reason he was calling was for a favor from her lab. He thought and said, "Getting ready for work?"
"Yeah, gonna hit the gym after work today. When will you be home?"
"Hard to say."
"Everything okay? You sound like there's a problem."
"We had a setback."
"No one is hurt, are they?"
"Sort of." He paused. She'd raised the question. He charged ahead. "Our informant went missing in Panama, and we think he's dead, but they can't identify the corpse."
"Was he disfigured? What happened?"
&nbs
p; "He was murdered, that's clear."
He heard her take a breath. "Is Félix okay?"
"Yeah, he's here in New Orleans with me."
"Why don't they print the body?"
"That's what I asked, but I had another idea."
"What's that?"
"What if they sent his finger to a local police agency in the U.S. who already had his prints on file?"
"Why would they cut off one of his fingers?"
"They're already off."
"Oh, I see." She sounded ill. Then she caught on to the nature of the call. "So you didn't call because you missed me, you called to ask me to print an unattached finger."
"Both."
"Alex Duarte, you're a lousy liar. That's one of the things I like about you. Don't try it now."
He smiled and said, "Could you print the finger and match it to this guy Gastlin who was booked in the Palm Beach County jail?"
"It feels like I do a lot of forensic work for you off the books."
"And I appreciate it."
"How much?"
"A lot."
"How will you show it?"
"Dinner?"
"At least." She added, "How on earth will you get a human finger into the country?"
"Customs worked it out. A DEA guy will deliver it to you sometime tomorrow."
"You were pretty sure I'd do it."
"You're a very helpful person. I didn't see you saying no. We need to know what happened to Gastlin. The next step will be looking for the killer. It won't be easy."
"At least I'm easy."
Duarte didn't know how to respond to that, but he was good at just keeping his mouth shut.
***
William "Ike" Floyd watched the U-Haul truck from the big bay window of the diner while he ate a stack of pancakes with Cal Lindsey. They had loaded the crate with little problem, and Ike knew he couldn't stay at the rundown hotel. He went ahead and packed up his few clothes and decided he wouldn't turn down the older port worker's offer of breakfast.
Cal asked, "So where's the thing go now?"
Ike looked at him, remembering the words of one of the leaders of another group he used to belong to who said, "Never trust anyone who asks too many questions." The FBI always had people trying to get into the groups. The old leader of the American Nazi Party claimed the federal government hated white people, that's why they'd left the black groups alone. He looked at Cal's simple, long face and didn't think he could be a snitch for the FBI. He had a little experience in the matter and knew you couldn't tell by looking at someone, but it didn't matter right now. He just told the truth.
"Don't know exactly. I'll check for messages later." Ike figured if this guy was a snitch he'd ask about the messages and where he checked.
Instead, Cal said, "President Jessup says you were into some serious shit for us a while back."
Ike had to smile. "Can't talk about it."
"You think this is as big a deal as that shit?"
Ike considered it and said, "Yeah, if it works, it'll be bigger. There's a long way to go and a lot to do until we know for sure."
Cal finished the last bit of his scrambled eggs and wiped his mouth. "I need to check in at the port. The beauty of a union job is someone will always cover for you. I'm off-duty at seven so I can go home and get some rest." He pulled out a pen and wrote a phone number and his name on a napkin. "This is my home number. Call me if you need more help."
"You're a good man, Cal."
"Anything for my country."
***
Félix Baez sat at the end of the long conference table in the administrative office of the Port of New Orleans with his arms folded and his mouth shut. He didn't care for the way Lina Cirillo had acted toward Lázaro Staub. Sure, the colonel was tall and handsome. Félix realized he had a certain charisma and obviously wielded some power back in Panama. But Félix didn't think that was any reason for Lina to hang on his every word and offer to show him around the city.
He thought he had staked his claim on the FBI agent. They had gone out twice for dinner and drinks back in Florida. He had paid both times. Now her full attention seemed to be focused on Staub. Shit.
Even as he thought about Lina, he knew his real source of unease was the fate of Bryon Gastlin. If the body they had found really was Gastlin. He held out hope that some other tubby white man in boat shoes and shorts had been killed and Gastlin was hiding out in Costa Rica. Unlike in the movies, the loss of an informant in real life could be very traumatic. Gastlin was Félix's responsibility. He'd possibly been killed because of something the DEA had had him do. Félix had promised him he'd be safe. Of course the possibility existed that he'd simply been robbed and murdered, or killed as a result of some other crime unrelated to Ortíz. But in all likelihood Félix would never know. The Panamanian cops were overwhelmed with street violence. Gastlin was just another statistic. And he was heavy on Félix's mind.
Lina said to the group, "Well, what now?"
Duarte looked at Félix since it was his agency's pot. Félix said, "Who the hell knows? I guess we pack it up and write off the case."
Staub spoke up, using his broken English for Lina and Duarte's benefit. "I contacted the investigators of the homicides, and they will do all they can to solve Mr. Gastlin's murder."
Félix spit out, "That mean anything?" He didn't want to hear from the Panamanian.
Staub looked at the DEA man with his dark eyes. "It means they will do all they can."
Duarte cut in before anyone was offended and said, "The gun case is closed, that much is for sure, but I can help you clear things up here."
Félix sighed. "We might as well get the pot into evidence. Customs has a facility here." He was glad Duarte was here to keep him from fixating on how he had let down Byron Gastlin.
***
An hour later, Félix and Duarte were at the container with a couple of customs agents and a step van.
Félix said, "Shit, this don't seem like fun anymore. Ortíz is off the hook, and Gastlin is dead."
Duarte nodded and patted his friend on the shoulder. He had seen plenty of grief in Bosnia from the locals involved in the war and from the military guys caught between the Serbs and Croats. That didn't mean he knew how to comfort anyone, but he was there for his friend if he needed anything. Duarte just had a hard time figuring out what people needed.
Félix stepped up to the container and dug out the keys from the front pocket in his pants.
Duarte said, "Wait a minute."
"What's up?"
"You notice anything odd about the lock?"
Félix looked at the shiny metal padlock. "No."
"The keyhole is facing out."
"So?"
"When you locked it, you had the keyhole in, remember? We didn't worry about it then."
Félix slowly nodded. "Yeah, I guess. What's it mean?"
"I don't know, but let's handle the lock carefully and see if anything is missing before the customs guys walk over."
Félix held the lock with two fingers as he worked the small key. It popped, and he fed it through the door latch.
Duarte picked up a crumpled paper bag from the littered ground and put the lock into the bag. Quickly they stepped inside, the smell of the pot soaking into their clothes and nasal passages. Duarte's eyes watered a little.
The load looked intact. They walked through to the rear of the container.
Félix said, "Looks like it's all here."
Duarte looked at the walls closely and the load of pot. "I think there was a wall here. See, the last two feet of the container has a clean floor and the walls aren't as dingy."
Félix looked closely at the indents in the sides of the container and the floor. "Snap, man, you may be right."
"Someone took out the wall last night."
"But why? How much more scrutiny do you get than bringing in a load of dope? Especially a load that the cops know about. It'd be crazy to hide anything in it."
Duarte shook his hea
d, considering the possibilities. He heard the customs guys walking from their van. "Let's keep this quiet for now."
"Why?"
"Do you know who came in here?"
Félix thought about it, looked quickly at the approaching customs agents and shook his head.
"We got the lock." He stepped to the front of the load and pulled a few old sheets of the manifest off the hanging clipboard. He crumpled them and put them into the bag with the lock to keep it from moving around. "I bet Alice can tell us whose prints are on this thing."
"Damn, that girl is going to expect a lot from you now."
"She deserves a lot."
They stepped out of the way as the customs agents started to unload the marijuana bales.
***
William "Ike" Floyd sat in a Starbucks, chatting with a woman about his age, maybe a little older. He had a coffee or whatever the fucking place called a regular coffee, and the woman, whose name was Faith, had one of the fancier kinds with whipped cream that was the size of a 7-Eleven Big Gulp.
"You from New Orleans originally?" He smiled and looked right at her. He thought that most men probably found her attractive with her blond hair and pretty smile, but she didn't do anything for him. His main interest was in her computer.
Faith said, "I'm from Houma, but I'm here today because of a job interview. That's how come I got my computer with me. I'm checking my e-mail to see if anyone tries to contact me about other job interviews while I'm in New Orleans."
He smiled and took a sip of his coffee. "What do you do?"
"Mostly secretary work, but I can work computers good, too. The jobs haven't come back so much since Katrina."
Ike nodded, knowing that women liked to talk about themselves.
"Where are you from?" asked Faith.
"Omaha. I'm just here on business."
"What business you in?"
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