The Children of the Wolf
Page 12
Chapter Twelve
Lobo asked his secretary to send Mig in. The giant walked into the office and stood in front of the desk.
“Ah, hijo, you have not disappointed me. The girls were good and the prices were even better. The young one --- the one who asked for her mother --- she didn’t sell. It is a pity, and her little display put off my esteemed clients.”
“I am sorry, Patron. I did not know.”
“Surely, you are forgiven, but I think she is of little value to us. I make a gift of her --- a gift to a beloved son who is loyal and efficient.”
Mig bowed at the waist and promised fervently that he would not make that mistake again.
“Muchas gracias, Patron,” he growled through clenched teeth, “I will teach the child some manners.”
“Of course, you will. Just make sure she is not seen again . . . not here or anywhere else. You understand. The others . . . I trust all of the papers are in order, passports, ID’s. Make sure the mix of Flexeril and the other ingredients is properly combined. The ninas must be conscious and ambulatory, but compliant. When they arrive at their new habitats, they are no longer our worry. Their masters shall determine their fates. Oh . . . and the next time, I need some chicos . . . boys. You know the type. Fresh-faced and shy, but energetic and cooperative.”
“It will be done, Patron.”
Lobo turned in his chair and looked out over the Miami skyline. The sun was magnificent and the blue water of the Atlantic shimmered in the distance. Yes . . . life was good.
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Pete answered the phone, and pointed to Priss. It hadn’t been one of her better days. The paperwork was piling up on her desk, and the nausea had returned. The decision, and with it, all the hellish consequences, had to made soon.
“Miami Coast Guard,” he said.
“Detective Maybry, this is Captain James. Some fishermen hooked a rather unusual catch offshore yesterday. I think it is something you might be interested in.”
Priss picked up the Bic and positioned her notebook in front of her on the desk.
“Please go on, Captain.”
“Two garbage bags . . . nothing unusual about that, but each one held a body, a man and a woman. Neither had drowned. Our M.E. says that their injuries are consistent with falling from a great height. Both had broken necks. They were retrieved approximately fifty miles offshore in the Gulf Stream. The only thing of great height out there is an airplane. We don’t have solid IDs yet, but I don’t think it will be a problem. The bodies were somewhat bloated, but we should be able to get good prints. F.Y.I. I thought you’d want to know.”
Priss wrote down his name and number for future reference.
“Thanks, Captain. Please keep me informed. IDs . . . anything else you can come up with, give me a call.”
Priss had too much on her mind right now to worry about a couple of stiffs floating in the Gulf Stream. Probably drug casualties, not really her beat. Maybe another deal gone bad. She dismissed it and shoved the info into a file marked “Pending”. Then she placed it in her top right drawer.
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Pete was wary, but he’d decided to meet with Bart even if it might be a dead end. He’d come in to the station at six A.M. and figured he’d earned the right to leave by four. He’d sit at the out-of-the-way bar on the edge of Little Havana, have a cold Modelo Especial and listen. It wouldn’t take long to figure out if this guy was legit or just another psycho who liked to yank the cops’ chains. Then he’d go home to a nice, quiet, dinner with his wife and kids . . . the first one in a couple of weeks.
Not many people in the bar, but two guys he recognized at a table in the front. He spotted an unfamiliar face at a table in the back. He was cutting his eyes toward the door and fidgeting on a pock-marked vinyl stool. He figured it was Bart.
Pete approached slowly and gave the two fingered sign. Bart nodded three times and Pete settled on the stool across from him. He raised his hand and mouthed Modelo Especial to the bartender. It was on the table in an instant. Pete trained a casual, but thorough, eye on the man. He was sweating slightly despite the blast of the AC. His mouth was taut and his brow knit in a half scowl. He clutched a damp bottle of Carta Blanca a bit too tightly. He wore a loose fitting blue nylon jacket that didn’t quite hide the bulge at his hip.
“Thank you for meeting me,” Bart said quietly as he scanned the room one more time.
“It is because we have mutual friends.”
Bart measured his words carefully. “You know most of what I know. It’s my daughter, my Maria Elena. I have only two names . . . Lobo and Big Mig. I need to know who they are, where I can find them, and if, or how I can get my baby back.”
“I told you, Amigo. These people are very dangerous. The truth is that your daughter is probably already out of the country . . . or worse. These girls come and go so quickly that tracing them is often nearly impossible. This Lobo . . . his real name is Juan Carlos Perez. He runs his operations out of an office downtown. Hispanic Family Services . . . that is what he calls it. The irony is almost laughable. Drugs, prostitution, human trafficking, anything that makes a buck. Lobo is indeed a jack of all trades, and the master of most of them. We’ve had him on our radar for about three years, but he is very clever and very slippery. His lieutenants are loyal, tight-lipped, and quite frightened. The last one suspected of conveying information was found skinned alive in an alley. He was still breathing when we found him, but his last words were ‘protect my family’. He knew all too well what Lobo was capable of.”
Bart fingered the butt of the Sig and raised the beer to his lips. It had grown bitter.
“Slow down, Amigo. That hard thing on your hip will not protect you. There are too many of them. I tell you again. Go home. Have a service with a priest and many flowers. Let him speak the words of God, and bury her memory as best you can.”
“That can’t happen.” There was a long silence, then, “tell me about this Big Mig.”
“Better than that . . . you see for yourself.”
Pete nodded toward the table near the grimy window. There were two of them, but it was easy to know which was Mig. He leaned over the table and blocked out the rays of a setting sun that struggled to make it past the hulk of his presence. A sneer that might have been tattooed lay on his full lips. He and his companion talked quietly and laughed with looks that shared secrets. His hand completely engulfed the bottle and alternated between gulps of Dos Equis and a glass of white liquid, probably tequila.
Bart watched. “Let him drink,” he thought. Perhaps it would slow him down when they officially met. He hoped it would be soon.
“I know what you are thinking, Amigo. But let us handle it. It is police business. No vigilante justice will bring your girl home.”
Bart nodded and pretended to shudder. He wanted Pete to think he was afraid, but he was past that. He looked into Pete’s eyes and spoke with a hint of dejection in his voice.
“You are right, my friend. You have helped me greatly. I must accept the truth. I will take your advice. I must not leave my son to be raised without a father. It only compounds the sin . . . a sin that has already consigned me to hell. Leave me, and pray to the Madonna that I can carry on a life which might find redemption.”
Pete wanted to believe him. He wanted to go on home and have that quiet dinner with his family, then a peaceful night wrapped in the arms of a loving wife. He bit his lip and nodded. He raised his bottle and tipped it in the direction of the grieving man. A futile, but he hoped not final, salute. Then he got up and headed for the door.