by Glenn Trust
“Don’t get smug with me,” Fields bristled. “I was investigating crime while you were still trying to get laid in the back of your daddy’s sedan.”
“Maybe so,” Lance said. “But what have you done lately?”
“Go fuck yourself.” Fields tossed the briefing paper they’d given him on the desk. “This is too risky … too much potential for fallout with no real evidence of wrongdoing.” He leaned forward, his voice rising. “Sillman is a sitting senator for God’s sake.”
“That doesn’t place him above the law,” Lance said evenly.
“No, you’re right, it doesn’t.” Fields’ voice became quieter, trying to reason with them. “That doesn’t make him a target either. What if he is being set up?”
“That’s what the investigation will discover.” Lance waited for his next objection.
“You’re overreaching.” Fields shook his head. “It might seem like a feather in your cap to bring down a senator, but there would be … there are … repercussions to consider.”
“Jesus, only the FBI would frame an investigation that way,” Lance sneered. “This isn’t about feathers in caps. This is about a credible tip from a reliable source with corroborating evidence that a crime may be in progress or about to be committed.”
Fields slapped his hand down on the briefing paper. “You call this corroboration? So Sillman’s business is in financial trouble. So are a lot of others. Why aren’t they all being investigated?”
“Because they didn’t have a head-to-head meet a suspected organized crime boss.”
“Suspected crime boss,” Fields snapped back. “Not convicted.”
“That’s right,” Cusins said. “Suspected. You know, like Vito Genovese, or Carlo Gambino, Paul Castellano, John Gotti, all suspected crime bosses, until … guess what?” Cusins smirked. “They became convicted organized crime bosses.” He shook his head before Fields could reply. “We may not have a case on Ortega yet, but the evidence is mounting, and now we have information he has been in contact with a man who owns a fleet of boats that could bring drugs into the country.”
“Sillman denied meeting with Ortega.”
“No. He said he didn’t know what his aide met with Ortega about. That’s different.”
“Still not proof of anything.” Fields leaned back arms crossed, his body language as closed as his mind about taking part in an investigation of a popular U.S. Senator.
“There’s no sense wasting time here.” Bill Lance rose. “For the record, the GBI will be working with the other agencies involved. If at some point you want a further briefing on the investigation’s progress …” He nodded at Cusins. “Get it from the DEA.”
He walked from Fields’ office, leaving the door open. Gene Cusins stood to follow.
“You’re not going to fall into this trap are you, Gene?” Fields’ puzzled expression matched the disbelief in his voice.
“I was wondering,” Cusins said as he gathered up his briefing papers.
“What?” The corner of Field’s mouth turned down in a smirk.
“I was wondering when you forgot what it is we do … what you are supposed to do … investigate.”
“I understand investigations and when to open one!” Fields’ eyes blazed. “This isn’t it. There are too many downsides. The fact that you can’t see that, Gene, is … disappointing.”
Cusins shook his head. “You say there is no proof, and I’ll grant you that, there is no evidence to take a case to court, but there are a hell of a lot of red flags and arrows pointing in that direction. Isn’t that why we investigate … to gather the evidence … get the proof, or does the Bureau just wait for everything to be wrapped up nice and neat. If that’s the case, then what’s the point?” He shook his head as he stepped to the door. “For the record, there won’t be any more briefings on this. Next time you want a report on what the hell is going on, you can get it from the news.”
In contrast to the FBI’s reluctance, the other involved law enforcement agencies were eager to get started. They dug in with gusto, nicknaming the case the Surf and Turf Investigation, Sillman Shrimp being the surf and Ortega—El Toro the beefy turf.
ICE and DEA brought the Coast Guard in to begin surveillance of the Sillman fleet of trawlers. Lance and the GBI compiled a list of known Sillman assets and boats so they could track their movements. Sole and Travis along with Chuck Rayburn and the Atlanta narc squad assisted where they could, staying close to things to make sure they were there when the time came to move forward with an arrest or interdiction. Both came faster than anyone expected.
Three days later …
Gene Cusins huddled over a conference table in the DEA offices in southwest Atlanta pointing at a map of the Georgia coastline. He drew a circle in red marker around a small town in the southeast corner of the state, just above the Florida line.
“Here. We think this might be our target … one of them at least.”
“So soon?” Sole said, leaning over the map.
“Wasn’t that hard to come up with it … assuming our logic is correct.” Cusins shrugged and smiled good-naturedly “And that is debatable.”
“St. Mary’s.” Travis peered at the small dot on the map. “Down next to King’s Bay sub base.” He looked at Cusins. “You think they would run a smuggling operation so close to a Navy base?”
“I think it would be the perfect cover.” Cusins nodded. “Who would suspect a shrimp boat using the same channel that nuclear subs use to enter and exit a secure naval facility?”
“Okay,” Sole said. “But how do you know one of Sillman’s boats in St. Mary’s is involved?”
“We don’t,” GBI’s Bill Lance interjected. “But here’s what we do know. All of Sillman’s boats have been in the water operating for fifteen to twenty years each … except for one.” He put a piece of paper on the table and tapped it. “Registration shows that Sillman’s company mothballed one boat a few years back … used it for spare parts … that is until a couple of months ago when it was re-registered under the name of the Sara Jane.”
The group around the table leaned forward looking from the sheet of paper to the map.
Lance continued, “That trawler, the Sara Jane, is based out of St. Mary’s.”
“Still thin,” Travis said. “Sillman just might have needed another boat in the water to make up his losses … increase his haul.”
“Maybe.” Lance nodded. “Although it would have been more likely that he would take one out of service to reduce costs. Either way, we did some checking on this one boat, since its re-registration coincides with the time frame we’re dealing with.”
He looked up from the map. “We took a couple of investigators from our Savannah office and sent them down to St. Mary’s a few days ago, to scope things out … posing as fishermen looking for a charter. They’ve been hanging out in local taverns, getting the lay of the land and asked around to see whether the Sara Jane might be available for a fishing charter, since it was idle, tied up at the docks. Locals told them to ask a guy named Tully Sams. He’s the guy runs the boat. Locals called him Captain Tully.
“They went to Sams with their fishing gear to see if they could charter him for a day. He was friendly, and in a friendly but firm way said hell no. In his words, he is a shrimper, and the Sara Jane is a working boat, not some damned tourist fishing charter.”
“But you don’t believe that,” Sole said.
“No. We don’t,” Lance and Cusins said in unison.
“Tully Sams is a local legend, an old-timer with lots of ties to the community. His work fixing up the Sara Jane for Sillman has raised eyebrows in town. Word is, Sams spent a good bit of time and Sillman’s money getting her seaworthy, but she’s only been out once since.”
All the heads were nodding around the table now.
“So the question is why fix her up if she’s not going out on regular trips to bring in a haul of shrimp? We figure, if she goes out again, we should track her and see what she’s up
to.”
“I want to go,” Sole said before Travis could.
“You’re in,” Cusins said with a nod.
“Hey, not fair,” Travis griped.
“I’ll flip you for it.” Sole grinned.
“Hell no, not with your coin. Use mine.” Travis pulled a quarter from his pocket. “Call it.”
“Heads,” Sole said as the coin flew airborne and then clinked onto the table.
“Son of a bitch.” Travis shook his head and retrieved the coin. “Hope you get seasick.”
“Not me, but the good thing is if this turns into anything, guess who gets the first shot at Sillman?”
“Didn’t think of that.” Travis smiled. “Hooking the cuffs on a senator might be satisfying at that.”
45.
There is Always a Way
“Anything?” Senator James Sillman held the phone tight against his face, his voice low, almost a whisper.
Since the visit from John Sole, he had remained alone in his penthouse condo, canceling appointments and delaying his trip back to Washington D.C. Wilson Bettis protested that it made them look guilty, as if they had something to hide from the police. His sudden reclusiveness would only increase their scrutiny.
“Nothing,” Bettis sighed, giving the same response he had five other times that day. “The detectives have not tried to contact me. There is no sign they are looking at us for anything. I told you; they have no proof of any illegal activity. It’s likely they are moving on to a case with some real evidence.”
“What about …”
“Nothing there either.” Bettis was losing patience with his timid boss. “Our friends from south of the border have made no efforts to contact me. I’m sure we would have heard something by now if it was a concern to them.”
“Good,” Sillman said, not sounding relieved.
“We have to talk,” Bettis said. It was time to get things back on track.
“What about?”
“About getting you back to work. That’s the whole point, isn’t it … your position … influence … the anti-drug initiative and legislation? No one will be looking at you, but if we let it all drop now, if you stay locked up in your condo, it will raise suspicions.” He didn’t add his worries that the Senator’s behavior over the last couple of days may have already signaled to the cops that something was up.
“I can’t …”
“You have to!” Bettis raised his voice with Sillman and didn’t care.
The man was weak, he thought. That weakness was a threat to all of them. He wondered what Ortega and Moya, or Elizondo back in Mexico, would think if he made them aware of the Senator’s weakness … how shaky and untrustworthy he was becoming. They might look around for someone new to work with, someone younger and unafraid. Someone like Wilson Bettis.
He smirked and pushed the thought away. They weren’t working with Sillman because he was strong. They needed his fleet of trawlers and the business he had inherited from his father.
That’s the way it always was. Those with money prospered. Those without had to find success and make their own way in the world. Wilson Bettis was determined to make his way in the world.
He should be the one dealing with Elizondo. He wondered what the hillside hacienda was like. He pulled himself away from his reverie.
“Let me schedule a flight back to D.C. for you,” Bettis said, his tone milder. “We need to get you back to work.”
Sillman remained silent for several seconds. It was true. Hiding out here only made him look guilty.
You are guilty! One side of his brain screamed at him. The other side, the rational side, had to admit that Bettis was right. They were committed now.
Sillman held no illusions. There could be no turning back. Maintaining the façade, leading the charge against the drug traffickers while steering the authorities away from the smuggling operation was his only value to Bebé. Without it, Elizondo would find another partner, devise another snuggling scheme. Sillman would be expendable. Worse, he would be disposable. Every trace of their partnership would be eliminated along with Sillman.
“All right,” Sillman said. “Get me on a flight tomorrow evening.”
“Why not in the morning? Just jump right back in and let them see you fighting the good fight against illegal narcotics.”
“No. Make it tomorrow evening. I have some things to … ah, take care of tomorrow.”
What he didn’t say was he was planning to finish off the bottle of I.W. Harper fifteen-year-old bourbon the building concierge had sent out for and delivered to his penthouse. Tomorrow morning he would be sleeping off the hangover. Tomorrow evening would be soon enough, and at that, he would still be feeling the effects.
“Fine,” Bettis said, his tone curt and annoyed. “I’ll text you the flight arrangements.”
The call ended. Wilson Bettis set about making the senator’s travel arrangements. The senator worked on the I.W. Harper.
The office had emptied by the time Bettis called it a day. As a final task, he texted the flight information to Sillman. He smirked, knowing the message would not be read until the next day. By now the old man was probably three sheets to the wind and unconscious.
He loosened his tie and headed for the elevator, descending to the below-ground parking garage. Senate office staff parked on a private level, monitored by security cameras and patrolled hourly by a building guard. At this hour, it was deserted.
Bettis always made a habit of leaving the office last. He thought it made a good example for the others to follow. The other staffers just assumed he was a kiss-ass trying to curry favor with the senator.
Heels clomping on the concrete, he made his way to the four-year-old Japanese car with a dent on the rear bumper he had not had the time to have repaired. He clicked the remote to unlock the door, giving the dent and car a disdainful look.
That would be the first thing to change, he thought. There would be a new car to go with his newfound wealth. Nothing too ostentatious that might draw attention. Just something more upscale, with leather upholstery and a sunroof.
A sunroof. He smiled, thinking of tooling around Atlanta on a summer day, breeze in his hair and maybe a girl by his side. Like the car, the girl would not be anyone who would draw attention. No models or beauty queens. Just a reasonably attractive woman to be seen with—and to sleep with when he felt the need. Red hair would be nice, he thought.
He reached for the door handle, pulled it open and tossed his briefcase in. Behind him, the sound of soft-soled shoes shuffling over the concrete caught his attention. He started to turn.
A pair of muscular hands shoved his head from behind, slamming his face into the edge of the car’s door frame. The hands spun him around. Blood gushed from lacerations in his forehead and on the bridge of his nose. Stunned and wobbling, he stared wide-eyed at the two men.
They wore hoodies over baseball caps with the bills pulled low over their faces to prevent the surveillance cameras from getting a look at them, but Wilson Bettis recognized one. His jaw gaped at the grin on Esteban Moya’s face.
The other man, the one who had struck him from behind, was unknown to him. Tall and angular, his cold, passionless eyes sent a shiver through Bettis.
He tried to focus through the blood streaming from the gash over his eyes. He squinted through the pain at Moya and the terrible dark thing in his hand.
“No … don’t,” Bettis shook his head. “You don’t have to …”
But he did. Esteban Moya squeezed the trigger of the Beretta three times. The first two slugs punched into his chest, breaking through the sternum and piercing his heart’s right ventricle before exiting his back to lodge in the Japanese car. The third crashed into his skull.
Wilson Bettis, a young man of so much promise, thudded to the concrete as if they had cut his legs out from under him. As the blood pooled around him, Moya jerked his wallet from his pocket and took his watch and cell phone. Then he reached into the car, grabbed the briefcase, opened
it, shuffled through the papers then turned it upside down dumping the contents over Bettis’ body.
The papers floated to the pavement to become saturated in blood. They adhered to Bettis’ body like wet gauze. Moya and Garza turned and jogged to the stairwell. Climbing to street level, they exited the parking garage through an emergency fire door into an alley. A block away, traffic and people bustled by on Peachtree Street, unaware of the two men. Five minutes later, they were in Moya’s car blending with the evening traffic. He was careful to obey the speed limit.
“Eso fue perfecto!” Moya exclaimed. That was perfect! He pounded the steering wheel in triumph and looked sideways at Garza who remained silent. “¿No?”
“Si perfecto.” Garza agreed. “Por lo que va.” As far as it goes. Then he added, “The next will be harder.”
“Yes. I suppose it will.” Moya felt the exhilaration subside. His brow furrowed in concern as the adrenalin high dissipated. “Is there really a way to do it … the next?”
Garza nodded, turning his head to the window where the upscale shops and bistros of Buckhead flowed by in a ribbon of light and motion. He was neither excited by the murder they had just committed nor concerned about the one they were planning.
“There is always a way.”
46.
Soon
“Papi, see what I’ve drawn!”
“Why it’s beautiful, chiquita!” Bebé Elizondo lowered the phone from his ear to pat little Rosa on the head. “But may I ask, what is it?”
“Papi! You know! Can’t you see it? It’s Tio Alejandro!”
“Oh yes,” Elizondo held the paper out at arm’s length, nodding seriously as he studied the almost random collection of lines drawn with different colored crayons. “Yes, I see it now.”
The lines depicted a long thin body, long arms that hung almost to the figure’s feet and eyes. Over the eyes were two black lines drawn in a downward angle.
“See,” Rosa said, excitement in her chirping voice, as she pointed. “These are the eyes.”