by Sam Hawken
“What if Uncle Matt finds you?”
“Uncle Matt has bigger problems right now. Besides which, he doesn’t know where I live. The worst he can do is go back to my boat, but I’m not going to be there. Not until this is all taken care of.”
“When will that be?”
Camaro paused in the gloom. “I don’t know.”
“Take me with you.”
“No. I want to be on my own for this. I’ll move faster, and the fewer people who see us together, the better. By now the cops are going to be looking for you. We don’t want to get tangled up in that.”
“Why not just go to the police?”
Camaro sat on the bed and looked at Lauren’s shadow in the dark. “I don’t think the cops are going to be too happy with what happened last night with your dad. A lot of people died. I’d have to answer questions I don’t want to answer. I don’t know what they’d do with you.”
Lauren was quiet. “They’d put me back in the system.”
“The foster system?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to go there.”
“You won’t have to. I already know what to do. But first I have to go.”
She stood and Lauren made no move to stop her. Camaro went to the door, used the peephole first, and then cracked it open slowly to check the passage outside. There was no one. She looked back at Lauren, illuminated by the light coming in the doorway. Then she slipped out.
The truck waited. She got behind the wheel and turned up the air conditioner. The drive home from here was less than half an hour. She would be in and out before anyone knew she had been there at all.
Not a single police unit crossed her path on the way home. She parked in the carport and let herself in through the side door. The house was warm and quiet. She went to her bedroom, found a bag, and put it on the bed.
The first thing in was two changes of clothes. There was a photograph of her and her sister, taken when they were teenagers, next to the Dumbo ride at Disneyland. She took that and put it in. Next she went to the gun safe and dialed her way in.
The safe had a compartment for ammo. It was half-filled with boxes of .45 and .308 rounds. The other half was taken up with stacks of cash. She took these out.
There was not much left of what she’d come to Florida with. Together with the money Parker paid her and some she’d put aside, she had a little over thirty thousand. There was more, but it was locked away in a savings account, and she didn’t want to touch that while there was a chance someone might be looking. For the most part, she lived her life paying for everything with cash or money orders. It had worked so far.
She stuffed the money into the bag and zipped it up. She left the bedroom and headed out to the carport. She had just pulled the side door shut when she saw the cop coming up the driveway.
He was not in uniform, but he wore a badge on a chain around his neck. Sunglasses hid his eyes, and he had a neat mustache. When he saw her, he lifted the badge up for her to see. “Hey, there,” he said.
Camaro dropped the bag behind her bike. It had not been seen. “Hello,” she said.
“This your truck?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re Camaro Espinoza?”
“Yes.”
The cop stepped into the shade of the carport. “I’m Detective Ignacio Montellano. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Chapter Forty
THE DETECTIVE LOOKED very tired, and his clothes were wilted. As they faced each other, Ignacio removed the hat he wore and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. He was going to fat and clearly got the sweats when temperatures rose.
“Is this a good time?” Ignacio asked her.
“Sure,” Camaro said.
“Okay. You don’t think we could go inside, do you? The heat is killing me.”
“Come in,” Camaro said, and she opened the side door.
He passed her bike and the bag without glancing at them, and Camaro hoped he’d paid at least the bag no notice. They went into the warm stillness of the kitchen, but when they came through into the living room, Camaro put on the air conditioner and cool air began to circulate.
“Thanks,” Ignacio said. “It’s this jacket. They say we have to wear one to look our best, but they’re murder when it gets like this. Mind if I sit?”
“Go ahead.”
Ignacio took a place on the couch. Camaro hesitated where she stood before taking a chair. She breathed and let calm spread through her.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” Ignacio said.
“It crossed my mind.”
“Let me ask you this: where were you between three and four o’clock this morning?”
“I was here,” Camaro said.
Ignacio nodded and brought a small notebook out of his jacket. He used a pen to scribble something down. “I kind of figured you’d say that. There didn’t happen to be anyone around who could vouch for you, was there? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”
“No,” Camaro said. “I was alone.”
“Alone,” Ignacio said as if to himself, and he made another notation. “That’s too bad. Did you lend your truck to anybody last night? Somebody who might have driven it around after last call?”
“No.”
“Right.” Another note.
“Why are you asking me so many questions about my truck?” Camaro asked.
Ignacio studied her before answering. “I guess I can tell you. There was this shoot-out last night, and a fourteen-year-old girl disappeared from her house. A few witnesses said they saw a truck matching the description of yours at the scene.”
“I’m sure a lot of trucks look like mine.”
“Ah,” Ignacio said, “that’s true. But this truck also had three of the letters from your license plate on its license plate. Turns out there aren’t any trucks in the whole state that look like yours and have those letters on their plates. So I have to ask: where were you really this morning?”
Camaro looked him in the face. “I was here.”
He smiled a little and crossed his legs, leaning back into the couch. “Okay, that’s fine. I’m going to go ahead and pretend that what you’re telling me is true because I don’t want us to get off on the wrong foot. It’s not like anyone got killed in that shoot-out or anything. There’s just the whole kidnapping angle if the girl didn’t go willingly. That’s pretty serious.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Camaro said.
The smile did not go away. “Then tell me this: do you know a guy named Parker Story? And this time tell it to me straight. It’s not a crime to know somebody.”
She thought and then she decided. “I know him.”
“Did you know he was killed last night?”
“I thought you said no one died.”
“Oh, I meant there was a whole other shoot-out across the way in Liberty City where a whole bunch of people died. Parker was one of them. And the coincidental thing is that it was Parker’s house and Parker’s daughter I’m here about.”
“I didn’t know he was dead,” Camaro said.
“Well, he is. Shot to death, along with six others. Looks like some kind of deal gone sideways, but I don’t know what it could be. You don’t have any ideas, do you?”
“None.”
“How did you know Parker?”
“He came to me wanting to hire a boat for some night fishing.”
“Oh, so you run charters?”
“Yes.”
“Got a nice boat?”
“It’s pretty good.”
“Go on.”
“There’s not a whole lot to tell. He paid, but we never went out.”
“Why’s that?”
Ignacio was watching her, and Camaro knew he was gauging everything about her. If she moved, he would know why. If she lied, he would suspect. If she turned him away with nothing, he would only come back again and again.
“I asked you why that was,” Ignacio said.
“You want the
truth?”
“That would be a good start.”
“Okay, here’s the truth: Parker was fronting for a man named Matt. Parker told me he wanted a fishing charter, but Matt offered me ten thousand dollars to take him and his crew to Cuba and back overnight. I said no, and that was the end of it.”
“I see. What did he want to do in Cuba that he couldn’t do out in the open?”
“I didn’t want to know, and I didn’t ask,” Camaro said. “I run a clean operation. I don’t look for trouble.”
“Is that why you have that gun in your boot?”
She resisted the urge to reach for the weapon and kept herself perfectly still. If there was something in her face, Ignacio did not react to it. She was stone.
“Do you have a concealed carry permit?” Ignacio asked.
“No,” Camaro said.
“So I could arrest you right now for unlawfully carrying a concealed weapon,” Ignacio said.
“Are you going to?”
He paused a long moment. “What kind of gun is it?”
“A Glock 38.”
“I know that gun. Fires a special kind of .45 round, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I’m not going to run you in for it,” Ignacio said. “My shooters used 9 mm’s. Of course, if I catch you some other time carrying that thing, I’m gonna have to do what I have to do. You can consider this a friendly warning.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. If you knew how many people carried without a permit…it’s a lot. We’d be busy all day long, and I’m more interested in finding out other things, like who killed Parker Story and why. And finding his daughter. Lauren’s her name. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t, would you? You plan on seeing Matt Clifford again?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Good idea. You might end up having to use that gun on him. He’s not a good guy. But I think you figured that out already. Maybe that’s why you didn’t take him to Cuba.”
“I just want to fish,” Camaro said.
“Don’t we all?” Ignacio said, and he got up. The notebook went into his jacket with the pen. “Listen, Ms. Espinoza, I know we agreed that you weren’t at Parker Story’s house last night and that you weren’t the woman people saw running out of the place with his daughter, but I have a couple of requests.”
Camaro stood. “What are they?”
“First of all, I don’t want you leaving the Miami area. And the second thing is this: eventually, you need to tell me where Lauren Story is because the longer she’s missing, the more the heat’s gonna build. People are going to get involved that aren’t as understanding as I am.”
“If I see her, I’ll tell you,” Camaro said.
“I’m serious about staying close. If I think you’ve left town, I’ll call the state police, and they’ll track you down. If that happens, I can’t be such a nice guy.”
“I understand.”
“Great. I’ll let myself out. Thanks for the air conditioning.”
Camaro stayed in the living room and listened to him leave. He went out by the side door, and a few moments later she saw him through the window, walking down the driveway in his withered jacket and slacks. She wondered how long he’d been awake and how much longer he would push.
She shut off the air conditioning and waited for him to drive away. It was time to go.
Chapter Forty-One
GALDARRES ARRIVED IN Miami in another of his white linen suits. At baggage claim he took a single suitcase and a garment bag with him. He removed his Panama hat like a supplicant when he reached the front of the customs line and smiled amiably at the woman in her uniform. “Where are you coming from?”
“My last stop was in Havana, but I come from Caracas.”
“What’s the purpose of your visit?”
“I’ve come to see relations.”
“Will you put your luggage on the table, please?”
A black man with a stout chest barely contained by his uniform shirt went through Galdarres’ things without a flicker of emotion on his face. He did not make a mess of the suitcase and made short work of the garment bag. When he was done, he nodded to the woman in the booth.
She stamped Galdarres’ Venezuelan passport. “Welcome to the United States.”
“Thank you so very much,” Galdarres said. He put on his hat, took his things, and walked away.
A man in a short-sleeved shirt and slacks intercepted him near a small newsstand. The man was neat and clean and could have been anyone, but he approached Galdarres directly. “The men’s room is closed,” he said.
“I’ll have to find another,” Galdarres replied.
The man made to offer his hand before realizing that Galdarres’ were full. He put his arms down straight at his sides. He had once been military, Galdarres noted. “I am Davíd Ocampo,” he said.
“I am pleased to meet you, Davíd. I am Alejandro.”
“I brought a car, sir,” Davíd said.
“Very good. Let’s go.”
They walked through the terminal together, weaving through crowds of people that thronged like schools of eager fish. The airport was much newer and larger than José Martí International Airport in Havana, a triumph of American success. Galdarres guessed that more people traveled through this airport in a month than went through Havana in a year.
Davíd took them to short-term parking, where a bright yellow Volvo sedan awaited them. Galdarres put his things in the trunk and got in the passenger seat as Davíd started the engine and set the air to maximum. Even with the vents blowing full force it took a few minutes before the baking heat of the interior receded. They backed out of the space and went on their way.
“What can you tell me?” Galdarres asked.
“There has been a great deal of activity in the last twenty-four hours,” Davíd replied.
“Begin at the beginning.”
“You are aware that Echave and his people paid an outside man to retrieve Chapado from Cuba?”
“I had heard something of the kind. I don’t understand why they didn’t do it themselves.”
“Echave insists on everything being very clean. That’s what our informant tells us. Chapado could not leave Cuba legally, and smuggling aliens into the United States is still a federal crime, no matter who they are. He did not want to be caught violating federal law. He agreed to pay one hundred thousand dollars for someone else to take all the risks.”
“So Chapado is here now?”
“Yes, but things have gone wrong. The man they hired demanded more money for Chapado’s safe return. There was a terrible scramble to raise the funds before Echave gave the order to retrieve Chapado by any means necessary.”
“Violence?” Galdarres asked.
They stopped at the ticket booth, and Davíd paid for parking. Once they were away from the lot and merged with traffic, Davíd continued. “He commanded that the man they hired be eliminated. No more money for him. Only, something has gone wrong. All of Echave’s men were killed, and Chapado is still in the hands of this other man. Echave and his people are in a panic.”
Galdarres turned over what he had been told. After his meeting with Director Celades, the outlines of the mission had seemed quite clear: isolate Chapado among Echave’s people and eliminate him. But if Echave himself had no contact with Chapado, all else became impossible. “How secure is our informant?” he asked.
“He is very well placed.”
“So any developments among Echave’s people will be relayed to us immediately?”
“Yes. We have constantly monitored Echave and his inner circle for over a year now. If Echave or anyone around him suspects our man, they have given no indication of it.”
“Where are we going now?”
“There is an office,” Davíd said. “It’s where I carry out my cover occupation. I’ve arranged for a meeting this afternoon with everyone.”
“What is your cover?
” Galdarres asked.
“I sell car insurance,” Davíd answered. “We give excellent rates. Two of our people work under me, but the others have cover occupations of their own.”
“How many do we have in the city?”
“Four, including myself.”
“So few?”
“Times have changed, señor. There isn’t the funding to support a large unit, and the number of people we’re called upon to monitor grows smaller every year. Echave is not replacing his older membership with young people fast enough. In ten or twenty years there will be nothing left but a skeleton. Or a ghost.”
Galdarres rapped the closed window beside him and chewed his lip. “Do we at least have access to weapons and gear? Are our men capable of handling an armed confrontation?”
“Yes, sir. Three of us have served in the United States military. I was a marine myself.”
The irony of it did not escape Galdarres, but he made no comment on it. Galdarres had himself served in the Cuban Revolutionary Armed Forces as a young man.
“Would you care for something to eat? There is an excellent place near my office.”
“I’m not interested in eating,” Galdarres said. “I’m interested in moving forward.”
“Of course. Of course.”
Galdarres watched the city go by. So many cars and so many people. He hated it all.
Chapter Forty-Two
MATT STOPPED AT a food stand. It was a small, cheap place built into the side of a stucco structure painted brilliant pink. The shaded dining area consisted entirely of old wooden picnic tables, most of which were crowded with Cubans, light and dark, feasting on sandwiches and other things.
He ordered a frita and sat down on the end of a picnic table’s bench to wait. It was only a few minutes, and then he had the sandwich in his hands. The Coke they gave him was the size of a bucket.
The frita, a Cuban hamburger with a patty of beef and chorizo sausage, was smothered with onion, tomato, lettuce, and shoestring potato sticks. Matt attacked it, not realizing until now how hungry he’d allowed himself to become, and took great, long swallows of the Coke between bites.
