If the Devil Had a Dog

by T. K. Lukas

  Following the path of his gaze, Markus said. “Glenmorangie. The best. Care to join me?”

  “Wish I could, but I’ll have to pass. I’ve been calling your cellphone but no answer. I just wanted to let you know that we’ve loaded the cargo and we’re off again to El Paso.”

  “Cellphone coverage is iffy out here. Where’s Moose?”

  “He and Cannibal stayed in El Paso with the two witnesses. It’s just me, Cooper, and Rocky on this trip to pick up the cargo.”

  “All right—have a safe flight.” Markus followed him onto the porch. “Do me a favor, Master. When you get back, tell Moose to call me when he can talk in private. It’s important. And tell him to keep Sidney away from televisions and newspapers.”

  After locking the door behind him, Markus stumbled back to the sofa. He plopped down. Stared at the bottle of scotch. Noted the height of the stairs. He didn’t want to do either one, drink anymore, or climb stairs. He stretched out on the couch, punching a pillow into shape and stuffing it under his head. Tomorrow would be a long day of driving, long enough for him to clear his mind and come up with a plan. Within minutes, he was snoring softly, Rex lying on the floor close by.

  *****

  After handing Rex over to Otto and briefing him on the situation, Markus met with Victor at the barn for last minute instructions. By eight o’clock, he was in his Jeep driving east. He arrived in Fort Worth early in the afternoon; the pre-holiday traffic was light, with most downtown offices already closed for Thanksgiving. As soon as he checked into his hotel room, he called using his secured line to confer with his contact.

  He asked for an update on Sidney and Trevor and was relieved to hear that they landed midday at Langley and were already safely sequestered at the Farm. “Great. Now, what do you have for me on Knight?”

  “He didn’t go to his office today but stayed at his ranch, and his office will be closed Friday. However, he’s attending a black-tie affair at the Fort Worth Club Friday evening. Something called the Celebrity Cutting Horse Charity Fundraiser. The cutting horse competition is Saturday, but all the celebrities riding in the event and all the big movers and shakers have this exclusive party the night before.”

  “Can you get me an invitation or a ticket?”

  “Already have—along with a tux. They’ll be delivered to your hotel Friday morning. The invitation will be for a Mr. Jürgen Walker. Thought I’d mash together some of your former ID’s.”

  “What would I do without you?”

  “Let’s not find out, shall we?”

  “Let’s not. And, one more thing before I let you go. Contact the local FBI and bring them onboard. Have them come to the hotel to wire me before I leave. I want this sting to go down without any errors or anything that son of a bitch can use to cry foul.”

  “You got it.”

  “And while you’re at it, you might want to give Deputy Director O’Connor a heads-up,” Markus added reluctantly. “He’ll have to give this his blessing.”

  *****

  Friday evening at six o’clock, Markus strode into the ballroom of the Fort Worth Club. The tuxedo he wore was not as tailored as he would have liked, but the roomy coat made concealing the wire easier. He handed his invitation to the pink lipsticked young woman at the checkin table.

  She studied the invitation, then compared it to the names on her list. “Nice to have you with us this evening, Mr. Walker.” She pointed to the seating chart displayed on the easel next to her. “You’re at table number thirteen. Your nametag is on the chart at the place you’ll be seated. The tables for the silent auction are along the rear wall, and the items for the live auction are on the table near the bandstand. Feel free to bid often and bid high.”

  He stepped closer to the easel to retrieve his nametag and to inspect the seating chart, scanning the table arrangements for the other guest’s names. “How propitious,” he smiled. “Thirteen is my lucky number.”

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky tonight.”

  He chuckled. “I’m hoping so.” Table four—C. Winston Knight in the chair at the nine o’clock position. Markus removed his name badge from the board and tucked it into his pocket.

  Strolling past the tables bearing the items donated for auction, Markus surreptitiously kept one eye on table four. When the maître d’ announced dinner would be served at six thirty, guests began making their way to their seats.

  The chair at the nine o’clock position at table four remained vacant throughout the first course of barbecued quail. Second course salad plates were brought and removed. Most of the third course plates of beef tenderloin tamales with jalapeno and cheddar grits were served to all twenty tables before that chair was finally filled.

  Winston’s grand entrance turned heads as he apologized loudly to his table companions for running late. “At least I made it in time for the auction. That’s what this is all about, right, raising money for the children’s hospital?” He picked up the glass of wine in front of his plate, raising it in a toast. “Here’s to sick kids everywhere.”

  Two rows behind and one table over, Markus watched the obnoxious spectacle, his jaw tightening with every minute that ticked past. He scooted his plate away, downing the rest of the cabernet in his glass. Clichéd chitter chatter took its toll on his patience. He was ready to get this started—ready for that asshole to get what was coming to him.

  Excusing himself from the table, Winston stood and made a theatrical show of placing his napkin on the seat of his chair, telling the blond in the micro-mini next to him not to let anyone take his place. He strolled past table thirteen, smiling politely and greeting someone he recognized. Several seconds passed. Markus excused himself, too.

  Winston sauntered out to the lobby, stopping momentarily to flirt with the young woman still attending the checkin table. When it became obvious his flirtations were unwelcomed, he put his hands in his pockets and casually made his way to the private restroom at the end of the hall, never paying attention to the other tuxedoed gentleman trailing him several steps behind.

  Markus inserted a pick into the lock, easily opening the door. He slipped into the restroom behind Winston and relocked it. He gripped the knife that had been concealed in his pants pocket. It was now open and ready for business.

  “This one’s taken.” Winston stood at the urinal, his back to Markus. “There’s another bathroom next door.”

  Markus slammed his shoulder against Winston’s back, sending him face first into the tile wall. He gripped Winston by the hair and smashed his face again into the cool, white marble while shoving his other hand that gripped the knife between Winston’s legs.

  “What the hell… You broke my nose! What’s going on?” Winston struggled against Markus’s weight, but Markus pushed harder.

  “Keep your hands on the wall or I’ll cut your balls off.” Markus pressed upward with the knife.

  Winston squirmed. “Easy—my hands are on the wall. If you’re after money, my wallet’s in my back left pocket.”

  “I’m not after money, I’m after answers.”

  “Answers about what?”

  “About why you torched Trevor’s mother’s house. Why you killed Aleck Stavros. Why you murdered Jessica Cordoba. Start talking or I’ll start cutting” He moved the knife a fraction, the cold blade drawing a thin red line of blood.

  “I didn’t burn anything or kill anybody.” Winston’s vehement denial echoed in the small room.

  “Did you give the orders?”

  “No!”

  “Who did?”

  “Take the blade off my balls and I’ll tell you.”

  “It’s the other way around, dick head. You talk, then I’ll take away the blade.”

  “All right—all right. I ordered the arson. That asshole was having an affair with my wife.”

  “You dumb fuck—Trevor’s gay.” Markus increased the pressure on the knife. “Who ordered the killings?”

  “I don’t know anything about the killings. El Cuchillo gives the or
ders.” Winston pounded his fists against the wall. “I’m talking, goddammit. Remove the fucking knife.”

  “Not yet. Who is El Cuchillo?”

  Winston paused, shaking his head.

  Markus pressed the knife harder, drawing more blood. “I’ll castrate you right here, you son of a bitch. Who’s El Cuchillo?”

  “Rafael Cordoba,” Winston shouted in a hot gush of words.

  Jessica’s husband? Holy fuck.

  As if gut-punched, Markus tried to suck in a deep breath, but his body rejected the attempt. Backing away, he commanded Winston to keep his hands pressed high on the wall. He wiped the bloody blade on a paper towel and then closed his knife and pocketed it.

  Unlocking the bathroom door, he motioned for the four FBI agents to enter. He heard one of them say that they’d recorded it all, good job, excellent confession. He saw people’s surprised and curious expressions as they watched Winston being led away in handcuffs, blood trickling from his nose and dripping down his white tuxedo shirt.

  The voices, the faces, the words, registered in a place somewhere deep in Markus’s mind. He told himself he would review it all later—after he’d had time to dig through the contents of the cellphone he had borrowed from Winston’s pocket.

  CHAPTER 28

  Fort Worth

  Sitting at the desk in his hotel suite, minus his tuxedo jacket and bowtie, Markus connected his cellphone to Winston’s through the power port. Opening an application on his phone that he nicknamed “Carnac, the Magnificent,” he waited for the app to read, decipher, and bypass the security codes, thereby allowing access into all of the phone’s personal data.

  Within seconds, his cellphone’s screen flashed Winston’s security code.

  1970? Really? No one uses their birth date.

  He scrolled through the list of contacts, looking for Rafael Cordoba’s number. Oddly, Rafael’s name was not listed, although Jessica’s was. Going back through the list, Markus noticed that one entry stood out—the initials, “EC.”

  El Cuchillo?

  Markus opened the contact. Three numbers were listed for EC, a home, an office, and a cell number. He pressed the office number, but a recording picked up. A pleasant female voice thanked the caller for contacting Cordoba Imports, cheerily saying, “Please leave a message.” He disconnected the call.

  Bingo. EC, aka El Cuchillo, equals Cordoba.

  Using his secure phone, he dialed his contact. “Sting was successful. Knight is now in FBI custody.”

  “Congratulations. We’ve already received word here. Good news travels fast.”

  “Since Knight’s taped confession implicates Rafael Cordoba, I’m assuming he’s been picked up for questioning.”

  A long pause without an answer, only breathing, came across the line.

  “Don’t fucking tell me he’s fled.” Markus shook his head in disbelief.

  “He’s fled.”

  “How in the hell… Never mind how in the hell. Any leads?”

  “We’re working on a few, but his cellphone number was tracked back to his home address via a GPS signal. Officers found the phone sitting on the kitchen counter. He’d made one phone call to his airplane hangar at Meacham Field earlier this morning, then left the cellphone behind.”

  “An obvious cat-and-mouse tactic. Do you have that number?”

  His contact rattled it off. “Why’d you ask?”

  Markus compared the number to the listing on Winston’s phone. “Because that one is not his private number, I’m guessing. I have a different one.” He shared the number listed for EC’s cellphone.

  “I’ll turn it over to the agent in charge. But, how did you get that?”

  “Insider information.” A vague answer, he knew, but the more left unsaid, the better.

  “Let me guess. You appropriated Winston’s cellphone during your friendly chat with him in the bathroom but didn’t turn the evidence over to the FBI.”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny any such accusations. Anything else for me?”

  “Yes. We retrieved a copy of an email Jessica had sent to Sidney, which Sidney probably never got. It was printed out on Cordoba Imports letterhead, crumpled and thrown in the trash. One bloody fingerprint was pretty clear. It’s being dusted now.”

  “What did the email say?” Markus bounced his knee up and down and tapped his pencil against the notebook.

  “It said that Jessica had met with Sidney’s attorney, Aleck Stavros, on several occasions. He was guiding her through the necessary steps of protecting her financial assets in case her misgivings panned out. She had become suspicious of Rafael when large sums of money started showing up in her personal account, money she couldn’t explain. Aleck had advised her to have the bank begin an investigation into the mysterious deposits. Jessica apologized for not telling Sidney sooner, given the difficult situation she, herself, was going through.”

  “So, the Stavros murder probably had nothing to do with Sidney.”

  “Probably not. It appears more like the act of an enraged husband-slash-criminal on the verge of being busted for using his wife to launder money.”

  Markus mulled this over. “I bet if you dig deeper, Cordoba’s alibi for the time of his wife’s murder won’t be as airtight as you thought.”

  “We’ve got agents on that, too, interviewing the clients who corroborated his alibi.”

  “Good. I’ll check in hourly for updates, more often if something changes here.”

  After ending the call and pouring a scotch, Markus walked to the picture window overlooking downtown Fort Worth. From his view, he saw Christmas lights shimmering on buildings and draped on trees lining the sidewalks. For miles, lights glowed from houses already decorated for the holidays.

  And all is merry and bright.

  *****

  Markus emerged from the steamy bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. After making coffee, he flipped open his laptop to check his email.

  I’m beginning to dread these “Call ASAP” messages.

  He dialed his contact. “Tell me it’s good news this time.”

  “I’ll let you decide. First, we’ve located Cordoba, thanks to the cellphone number you provided. He left Meacham Field on one of his company jets and flew to Acapulco, Mexico. We tracked him to a compound in Rio Negro—probably the cartel’s headquarters.”

  “I’d say that’s great news.”

  “And, it’s been confirmed it was his bloody print on the letterhead. More blood was found on his desk and on a blue file labeled S. A. D. Its contents matched what you scanned and attached to me in an email.”

  “That file was taken from her attorney’s office, I’m guessing at the time Stavros was murdered. But, the police report said a file was found next to the body. Any revelations about that?”

  “The prisoner you interrogated, Anton, has turned state’s evidence. He’s confessed to the arson and to the Stavros murder. The file left next to Alek’s body had Jessica Cordoba’s name on it—miscellaneous notes detailing their meetings, along with photocopies of her bank statements. Anton said he didn’t take that file because his boss already knew about it—the hit on Jessica had already been ordered. Anton also said his boss, El Cuchillo, had ordered the hit on Stavros as revenge for helping his wife who’d betrayed him.”

  “What a sick bastard.” Markus paced the room before stopping in front of the picture window.

  “We’ve known for a long time El Cuchillo was responsible for tons of black tar heroin making its way into the U.S. and Europe. We’ve intercepted other drugs, and more than enough weapons and ammunition to arm a small country. The Rio Negro cartel is also responsible for the majority of the human trafficking in and out of Mexico. We’ve just not been able, until now, to confirm the identity of the elusive El Cuchillo.”

  Looking out over the twinkling city lights, Markus gnawed on the inside of his cheek, letting his contact’s words sink in. He closed his eyes, imagining the S. A. D. file being read by this animal who was as
equally deranged as the animal who created the file in the first place.

  “Is Whiskey Charlie still active?” Markus moved to the closet, dragging out his duffle bag.

  “He’s still active, but problematic to get hold of. Why? What are you planning?”

  “I need someone to handle some specific logistics for me—logistics that’ll require someone with his specialty.”

  “I know what he specializes in. Why are you even contemplating this?”

  “Time is of the essence. Just do your best to find him. Have W. C. contact me right away on this secure line. I’ll be in touch.” Markus hung up the phone.

  Well that was fast. He reached for his other phone as it buzzed on the nightstand. Ah, Moose.

  “Hello, Moose. What’s up?”

  “Just checking in. I thought you might want a report on what’s happening here.”

  “Absolutely. How’s Sidney?”

  “Last time I saw her, she was doing okay. The FBI’s taken over the case and has moved her and Trevor to a safe house outside the state of Virginia. I’m not privy to where. There’s been a lot of noise from the investigators about wanting to talk to you, too, whenever you finally decide to show up.”

  “That’ll have to wait. How did she take the news about Jessi?”

  “She was devastated. But she’s a strong lady. She seems more concerned about Trevor than about her own situation.”

  “That sounds like her,” said Markus, wanting to smile but aching inside. “I wish I’d been the one to tell her, but I appreciate you handling it. How is Trevor?”

  “The surgeon was able to reattach his bicep to his elbow. He’s expected to make a full recovery.”

  “Fantastic. Hey, before I hang up, I need to ask you to do me a favor.”

  “Sure thing. But, quickly, I wanted you to hear it from me that I talked to Sidney about you behind your back. Nothing confidential. She came to me with lots of questions about you, about what you do and who you are—about your past. I told her a mostly sanitized version of the details I could share with her. She listened quietly, had a few pointed questions, and then that was the end of it.”