Sole Survivor

by Glenn Trust

  Elizondo lifted the phone to his ear again. “Little Rosa has drawn a picture for you.”

  “Is that Tio Alejandro on the phone?” Rosa jumped up and down, excited, her hand out for the phone. “Let me speak to him. Please, Papi!”

  Elizondo handed his daughter the cell phone and watched, smiling as she began chattering at once to Alejandro Garza. He could picture Garza’s face, staring straight ahead, listening without comment. Elizondo found it humorous that the deadly, quiet man who never knew what to say or do around the children was so beloved by them. They doted on him when he visited and looked forward with anticipation to his return when he departed.

  He was a man of mystery to them. Perhaps that was what they liked about him. A mysterious presence, yet solid and always there, watching without judgment. Elizondo had given up trying to understand the reasons for their affection. It was enough that Alejandro Garza was accepted by his children as one of the family and that he was their protector.

  After several minutes, Rosa finished her description of the picture she had drawn for Garza, listened for a moment and then handed the phone back to Elizondo.

  “And what did Tio Alejandro say about your picture?”

  “He said, thank you very much, young lady.” Rosa’s face spread into a gap-toothed grin. “He called me young lady!” she called out as she scampered off to find her sister and brother.

  Elizondo lifted the phone to his ear. “You have a fan.”

  “The picture was a nice.”

  “You haven’t even seen it!” Elizondo laughed. “If you had, you might not think it was so nice.”

  “The gesture was nice.”

  “Yes, it was.” It was time to get back to business. “So, things went well?”

  “Yes. There were no problems.”

  “And your assistant … Moya? Can we rely on him?”

  “It was the first test. We will see.”

  “Good enough then.” Elizondo nodded. “When do you expect to return? I will be more comfortable when you are out of the United States.”

  “I expect to complete the work soon, a few more days, perhaps. My cover identity is secure. There should be no problems.”

  “Problems do not concern me. I know you will handle everything with your usual efficiency, but the children miss you. Come back to us safely.”

  “I will.”

  Elizondo disconnected.

  “Our work, it satisfies Bebé?” Moya cast a nervous glance at Garza as the call ended.

  “Satisfy is not a word he would use. His only concern is that we complete the assignment.”

  “Right.” Moya nodded. “When do we complete the assignment?”

  “Soon.”

  47.

  That Makes Two of Us

  “You know an aide to Senator Sillman? A man named Wilson Bettis?”

  Bert Collins, Atlanta Homicide investigator, stood in the office building’s lobby near the large plate-glass windows facing Peachtree Street. The reception was better there than in the sub-ground level parking garage.

  “I do.” Randy Travis was on his way home. “Why?”

  “He’s dead,” Collins responded with no preliminaries. “Looks like a mugging in the parking garage of his office building. Checked with his staff and they said he had a meeting with you the other day. Thought you would want to know. Maybe you could shed a little light on things for us.”

  “On my way.” Travis flipped a U-turn at the next intersection and brought up John Sole on the car’s Bluetooth.

  “What’s up?” Sole said from his car.

  “Call from homicide. Bettis is dead.”

  “Shit. Where?”

  “Office building parking garage.”

  “Meet you there.”

  Travis arrived first. By the time Sole got to the parking deck where Bettis’ body lay beside his car, covered by a blood-stained sheet, Travis was already walking through the crime scene with Bert Collins. Sole caught up and tagged along.

  Collins looked up as he arrived and grinned. “Glad you could make it, Sole.”

  “Hi, Bert. Nice hat,” Sole said, nodding at the traditional homicide squad fedora perched atop Collins’ head.

  “Thanks, John. Want one?” By tradition, every Atlanta homicide detective received a fedora to wear after solving their first murder case.

  “I’ll pass. Hanging out with dead bodies isn’t my thing. Besides,” Sole chided, “I like a challenge. You Homicide boys just ask the husband or wife … bingo, case solved.”

  “Yeah, thank God for domestic disputes,” Collins agreed with a wry smile. He nodded at the body under the sheet. “Not this time, though. Not much to go on here.”

  There wasn’t much more to brief either. The crime scene and security cameras told the story. Bettis was walking to his car, about to get in when two men, unidentifiable because of the hoodies, ball caps and gloves they wore, approached from behind, shoved him hard into the car and then shot him. One took his wallet, cell, phone, and watch, then opened his briefcase and dumped it out. The whole thing took thirty seconds.

  An exterior camera caught them leaving the building through an alley exit. After that, they disappeared up the street.

  “Couple of things don’t add up,” Collins said as he wrapped up the briefing.

  “Such as?” Sole had his own thoughts on why things weren’t making sense.

  “Video shows he opened the briefcase and dumped it out over the body, but he didn’t search it for valuables. It was almost like he was staging the scene to make it look like a mugging.”

  “But you don’t think it was,” Sole said.

  “I have my doubts.” Collis nodded.

  “What else?” Travis asked. “You said a couple of things didn’t make sense. What else?”

  “The surveillance video from the lobby and other points of entry. Can’t find any record of two men entering. Forget the faces. We’re looking for two men of similar size and proportions to each other. Video shows a tall, thin man and another, the shooter, shorter and stockier. There is no video of two such individuals coming in.”

  “How far back did you go?” Sole asked.

  “Two hours.”

  “Check the entire day’s video.”

  “You think muggers came into the building and hung out all day waiting for someone to rob and murder?” Collins shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense either.”

  “Maybe not.” Sole shrugged. “But when you check the video, don’t just search for two men entering together. Keep an eye out for any individuals that match either of the perps’ body types and builds.”

  “That could be a hundred people … a thousand. This is a busy building.”

  “Yep. No one said the job would be easy,” Sole said with mock sympathy. “That’s why they call us detectives, Bert. We detect things, like people who don’t belong in Senator Sillman’s office building.”

  “You’re saying they could have come in earlier … alone at different times.”

  “I’m saying it’s possible.”

  Collins' eyes narrowed. “Then they waited all day and targeted Bettis. You think we have a hit on our hands? Who would snuff a senator’s aide?”

  “I don’t think anything … yet. Could be a mugging. Killers tried to make it look that way at least, but things don’t add up.” Sole looked around the interior of the garage, noting the stairwell door in the far corner, visualizing the approach of the two men behind Bettis as he unlocked his car. He turned back to Collins. “All I’m saying is you might want to check out the possibility that this was a planned hit … an assassination.”

  “Assassination! John, you’re worrying the shit out of me.”

  “Good. That makes two of us.”

  48.

  On the Go

  “Something’s up,” GBI Agent George Tagland muttered, peering through the binoculars.

  He spun the focus ring until the image was clear. Tully Sams leaned against his pickup, smoking a cigarette.
That was not unusual. What happened next was.

  Three men came out of the small general aviation building at the Brunswick airport. As they came up to Sams, they tossed their bags over the side into the bed, exchanged a few words and climbed into the truck cab.

  Tagland watched from the Gulf Aerospace parking lot next door. He picked up his cell phone with his free hand and pressed the speed dial button for his partner, Bob Sewell.

  “I think he’s heading back … just leaving the Brunswick airport.”

  “Roger that,” Sewell said.

  “He’s got company.”

  “You ID them?”

  “No, but there are three of them … could be the crew.”

  “I’m standing by,” Sewell said. “No activity on the trawler for now.”

  “Okay, they’re leaving now, heading down Glynco Parkway to Highway 405.” Tagland started his rental car and pulled from the lot, following Sams’ pickup a quarter mile back. “Looks like they’re headed back to St. Mary’s.”

  “Want me to let Lance know?”

  “Yeah. If this is the crew, they could be leaving soon. Boys in Atlanta will need some prep time to get out there.”

  “I’m on it.”

  The call ended. Tagland cruised behind the pickup, blending with traffic to remain hidden then moving out for a better view now and then to make sure Sams continued on to St. Mary’s. He did.

  By the time he arrived at the bar across from the lot where they had been watching the Sara Jane, Sewell had notified Bill Lance. The DEA and Coast Guard were in the loop now. A Coast Guard cutter patrolled offshore. They had two helos in the air for good measure with instructions to stay well away from the Sara Jane until called in by the surface vessel.

  The two GBI agents loaded their fishing gear into a small cabin cruiser they had rented under the pretext of checking out the fishing along the St. Mary’s River. As they passed the Sara Jane, tied up at the dock, they waved at Tully Sams and the two crewmen on deck.

  “See you found you a boat!” Sams called out as they idled past.

  “Yeah,” Tagland waved back, holding up a beer to show they were in party mode. “Gonna check out the fishing along the river and backwaters.”

  “Be careful out there. Easy to get mud-bound if you don’t watch yourself.”

  “Thanks. Will do.”

  The two GBI agents motored out onto the St. Mary’s River and headed for the channel that cut by Cumberland Island before opening out into the Atlantic Ocean. They cruised close to shore, around the small inlets and waterways, keeping an eye on the channel. They didn’t have long to wait.

  “Here he comes,” Sewell pointed.

  The Sara Jane was visible, a mile away in the main channel. She made about six knots, just another trawler headed out, with nothing remarkable about her on the surface.

  Below the surface, there was a lot that might appear out of the ordinary if not downright suspicious. A crew that arrived that very morning at the Brunswick airport. A refurbished trawler that spent most of its time tied up at the dock. The floundering financial condition of her owner’s company. All things considered, a great deal seemed remarkable and out of the ordinary about the Sara Jane.

  Tagland picked up his cell phone and punched Bill Lance’s number to give the signal that would send the interdiction operation into full speed.

  Lance answered. Tagland said one word.

  “Go.”

  *****

  They looked like shrimpers this time. That is to say, they wore simple work clothes not so different from any other deckhand. Tully Sams nodded with approval.

  Hermie, Paco, and Julio exited the small service building at the Brunswick airport and crossed the lot to the old Ford pickup where their captain waited, leaning against the tailgate, the ubiquitous cigarette dangling from his mouth.

  “Where’s your boss?” Sams asked as they tossed their small duffels over the sides into the truck bed. “Your jefe?” He pronounced it with his best Spanish accent—Hef-fee.

  “¿Qué?” The three looked at him, smiling, eyes narrowed trying to decipher the meaning of his question.

  “Oh.” Hermie nodded his comprehension. “Jefe … Esteban Moya … yes?”

  “Right. That Moya fella. He’s not coming this trip?”

  “No, Capitán,” Hermie said, shaking his head. “No here … biz-ee-ness.”

  “Hmm.” Sams regarded the three, wondering how things would work out without Moya as the interpreter.

  Hermie understood the concern on Sams’ face and patted his chest, motioning at his companions. “We work. We know what to do. You tell. We do. You steer boat. We go.”

  Sams inhaled a deep last drag on the cigarette, snubbed it out on the bottom of his boot, and tossed the dead butt into the pickup’s bed. “I suppose you’re right. You fellas know what to do. My job is to get us where your GPS contraption says and then stay out of the way.”

  “Right.” Hermie nodded, grinning, which provoked grins from the others. “You stay out of way. We do.”

  “All right then. Let’s mount up.”

  The drive back to St. Mary’s was uneventful and without the questions this time about the proximity to the naval base at King’s Bay. Sams stopped at a Wendy’s along the highway into town to pick up lunch from the drive-thru window then headed to the Sara Jane. His three crew members hopped out of the cab, grabbed their duffels from the bed, and boarded the Trawler while he parked the truck in the dirt lot across the street.

  After downing the burgers and sodas, they spent the afternoon getting things ready to leave. It was make-work mostly.

  Tully Sams kept a spotless boat, leaving little for his temporary crew to do. Hermie and Paco spent most of their time checking equipment that didn’t need to be checked and recoiling lines already coiled in the exact spot they had left them after the last trip. The activity kept up appearances, making a show of being a working trawler about to leave port.

  A little before noon, a small cabin cruiser slid by in the river channel. The two men on board had approached Sams a few days earlier about going out on the Sara Jane to do some fishing, but he’d set them straight on that account. They waved and shouted a greeting at Sams, lifting their beers. Sams lifted a hand in return and yelled back. Hermie and Paco waved and smiled but remained silent.

  As the cruiser passed out into the river channel, Tully muttered, “Damn day fishers.”

  Throughout the day, Julio stayed below in the galley, checking his GPS equipment and going over the charts. He pointed with a finger to show Sams where they expected to meet the freighter from Lázaro Cárdenas that night. Like the first transfer, this one would be more than thirty miles offshore.

  A few locals had raised their eyes at the fact that the Sara Jane had sailed out so far in search of shrimp. There was no need to go so far when there were plenty of whites and browns from the shoreline up to eight miles out.

  To satisfy their snooping, Sams spread the word over beers at his local hangouts that Sillman had him heading out farther than the usual eight miles, in search of Royal Red Shrimp. He said that they had migrated down from the north and a trawler could bring in a haul off the Georgia coast if you went out far enough and knew where to look.

  Some wished him luck to his face, then shook their heads behind his back, calling the scheme a boondoggle—a waste of time, fuel and money. Most were glad to see old Tully come out of the lonely depression he had sunk into since Sara Jane’s death. If he could get back out on the water where he was happiest, there was no reason not to wish him luck, boondoggle or not.

  With appearances kept up, the Sara Jane sailed from St. Mary’s in the mid-afternoon. Hermie and Paco took up their positions on deck. Julio stayed below in the galley trying to maintain a grip on the contents of his stomach. Tully Sams stood in the deckhouse at the wheel, a smile of pure contentment on his face. There was no place else he would have rather been.

  He sounded the trawler’s horn a couple of times, just fo
r the hell of it and grinned. Hermie and Paco gave him a thumbs up and grinned back.

  God, it was a fine thing to be on the go again.

  49.

  Both

  The third time was the charm. Sole and Travis first tried to contact Senator James Sillman by telephone. He was a sitting senator, and you didn’t just burst in on senators without at least going through the proper protocol.

  In this case, the protocol was to establish a reason for concern about his safety. So, they called him. He didn’t answer.

  They called again a few minutes later. Still, no answer.

  A reasonable concern for his safety now existed. Someone had murdered Sillman’s assistant. Sillman was either out of town, in hiding someplace else, hunkered down in the condo and not taking calls, or had become a victim as well. Sole contacted the building security director, Jimmy Cutshaw.

  “Need another favor, Jimmy.”

  “Getting to be like old times. What do you need this time?”

  “Hear about the murder of Senator Sillman’s aide, Wilson Bettis?”

  “You mean the mugging? Yeah, been on the news all morning. High profile case like that … they’ll be talking about it all week.”

  “We need to talk to Sillman about it.”

  “You think he’s involved?” Cutshaw’s voice lowered to a whisper.

  “Not sure, but we’d like to talk to him about it and see if he can give us any insight on why someone would want to kill his assistant.”

  “So you don’t think it was a straight mugging,” Cutshaw surmised.

  “I didn’t say that,” Sole replied. Cutshaw was no rookie and could put two and two together as well as any cop. “We need to talk to him. Tie up loose ends.”

  “So tie them up. Talk to him,” Cutshaw said.

  “We tried. No one is answering the phone. Is he there?”

  “Hold on.” Cutshaw punched the hold button. He was back a few seconds later. “Checking the building log. Our officers keep track of tenants coming and going.” Cutshaw paused, scanning the log. “Yep, he’s here. Sillman hasn’t been out in a couple of days.”