by Karl Tutt
Chapter Three
Lobo was a business man. There was nothing personal in any of it. At the University of Florida, he’d studied economics and best practices of capitalism, not to mention Darwin’s ON THE ORIGIN OF THE SPECIES. It all made perfect sense. Survival of the fittest --- and he was one of them. The weak were crushed. It was their destiny, self-wrought and deeply deserved. Morality was an academic concept, not even a part of the equation. The path of right and wrong was a road for fools . . . and he knew what happened to them.
His real name was Juan Carlos Perez, but few people knew it. He had an office in downtown Miami not too far from South Beach. It was small and fashionable without being ostentatious. He did have the private elevator hidden in an alcove behind his desk. It was concealed by what looked like a closet door. Just a precaution. Not many knew it, and he’d only used it a couple of times, and not in an emergency. Still something about the small shaft gave him a sense of comfort, if not total safety. After all, his business was wrought with risks . . . some of them very final. Irate clients, crazed junkies, and, of course, the cops. What the hell? Hazards of the trade, but mostly easily managed . . . sometimes with their own brand of finality. He was protected.
His secretary was plain, but competent and loyal. Of course, she knew instinctively what happened to those who weren’t. And he paid her quite well for her selective ignorance. The name of the corporation was Hispanic Family Enterprises, LLC. Business was thriving. He had a 2800 sq. ft. condo on the eighth floor at the beach, a 65 foot Princess luxury yacht at the Miami Beach Marina, a full-time captain and three paid crew. He rarely drove. His assistant served as the chauffer of his shiny black BMW 750. Yes, business was thriving and he’d made damned sure that his clients had too much to lose if things were discovered. His only worry was a constant supply of his product, but then there was plenty of it. Mig and his lieutenants all over the Caribbean saw to that. They were quick, attentive, and the goods they delivered were fresh and tempting.
Sometimes it was Guatemala, sometimes Mexico, even a white girl if that was what business demanded, and of course trade with other Central and South American contacts. Actually, Lobo sometimes took special orders if the price was right. After all, with the product he supplied, and the billions his clients had hidden in numbered bank accounts, cost was no object. Europeans, Chinese, Arabs, dictators of all nationalities. Their lackeys came to his door, their smiles leering, and he delivered, sometimes in the dead of night, or in some cases, in God’s own daylight. He didn’t care as long as the wire transfers had reached his accounts. He kept very copious and detailed records . . . names, dates, amounts. I guess you could call it insurance, in case one of his clients got a sudden attack of conscience. He didn’t think it would happen, but a good businessman always considered his down-side risks. And Lobo was a good businessman.
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Bartolomeu made the call. A friend of a friend who had phone numbers he didn’t. From Ricky’s Cuban uncle to Diabla, his contact in Fort Lauderdale. Then a P.I. in Miami, and finally to Priss Maybry’s desk. It was her specialty. A missing girl. Thirteen years old, probably abducted. Mother deceased and father frantic.
Priss was a Detective, Second Grade, on the Miami P.D. This was her beat. Human Trafficking, sexual slavery, any type of crime that smacked of the trade in human flesh, and unfortunately, that flesh clung mostly to young girls and adolescent boys. Priss actually had two guys assigned to her. One was Dontravious Campbell, a handsome young black man, sharp and clever, destined, she thought, for quick advancement. The other was Pedro Ramirez. They called him Pete. He was older than Priss, but he did a commendable job of being respectful and cooperative. She liked both of them, and, more importantly, she trusted them. As far as she knew, neither was ‘bent” like some of the scum in the department. But it was a tough job. The pay was lousy and these people had families. There was constant danger, especially since all of the trouble in Ferguson, Chicago and multiple other cities. It was easy to be judgmental, if you didn’t walk in their shoes, and she concentrated on being part of the team. If the cops couldn’t stick together, the human predators would be running the city. Don and Pete at least pretended it didn’t matter that she was a woman, just as long as she was fearless and good at what she did. She was.
She looked at the note and shuddered. They’d been working on one particular case for months. It involved a figure who had no name, and for all practical purposes didn’t even exist. She had taken to calling him El Hombre Invisible, Spanish for the invisible man. Clues --- there were none. Trails, evidence, informants . . . none. It had been an exercise in futility, a dog chasing his own tail. The bastard was there. She knew that. But anyone who had even a hint of information was too frightened to breathe, much less speak. They’d had a call a few months back, but the tipster ended up hanging from a fire escape in an alley, his body suspended by a large meat hook that had entered his body through his back and exited through his heart. His family had refused to identify the corpse and no one ever claimed the body. The perfect definition of a dead end.
