The Night Charter

by Sam Hawken

  She took the steps down to the parking lot two at a time and crossed to her Harley, which stood shining under the glare of the parking lot lights. Starting it probably woke anyone nearby, but she hoped the noise would not reach Lauren’s ears.

  She raised the kickstand and curved out of the lot onto the street, heading east toward the coast. As she’d hoped, the traffic was almost nonexistent. She ate up the miles hungrily with few cars on the road to keep her company.

  She didn’t stop at the marina right away. First she rode past and then returned at a slower clip. The lot was mostly empty. Though the piers and some of the boats were lit, it was dark and undisturbed. Only when she was certain no one was set up to watch the place did she ride in and park.

  The cops did not have to have someone stationed there permanently. The units that patrolled through here could have been set to check out the marina on a regular basis, watching for her truck or her bike when they put in an appearance. She could not stay very long.

  Camaro jogged down the pier to the Annabel and climbed aboard. She unlocked the door with her key and entered the dark cabin. Without switching on the lights, she went to the panel over the medical kit and popped it open to reveal the shotgun inside. She brought it out.

  The shotgun was black and ugly, but it was not meant for beauty. Camaro put the panel back in place and went to one of the galley seats. She lifted it and uncovered the two boxes of shotgun shells and the three boxes of .45 GAP ammo. She opened one box of shotgun shells and pulled five free. These she stuffed into her pocket. The rest she left alone and concealed again when she lowered the seat.

  She went out of the cabin and locked the door behind her. A scan around the marina revealed no movement. Her phone began to buzz as she climbed out of the boat onto the pier. The ringer was alarmingly loud in the quiet.

  “Hello?” Camaro answered.

  “Camaro,” Lauren said, “where are you?”

  “How did you get my number?”

  “You sent it to the blogger, remember? I remembered it.”

  “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

  “I was, but then you were gone. Where did you go?”

  “I had to pick up a couple of things,” Camaro said. She walked up the pier quickly with the shotgun and kept her voice low. “You need to go back to sleep.”

  “Are you coming back?”

  “Yes. Soon.”

  “When?”

  “Before dawn.”

  “What did you have to get?” Lauren asked.

  “You’re too nosy for your own good,” Camaro said. “I have to do something, and I have to do it alone. And that means alone. If I tell you what I’m doing, you’re going to worry.”

  “I’m already worried.”

  “Don’t be. I’m going to be all right.”

  “You don’t have to lie to me.”

  Camaro stopped. “I’m not lying,” she said. “I’ll be okay. And I’ll be back.”

  “I’ll wait up.”

  “Sleep,” Camaro said. “Remember what I told you. You need to be fresh so we can move. We’re not staying at that hotel another day.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “You’ll find out when we get there. Now put down the phone, and let me do what I need to do.”

  “Okay,” Lauren said reluctantly. “Be careful.”

  The parking lot was still deserted except for a scattering of cars and trucks. Camaro put her phone away and went to her bike. The shotgun was not long, especially since it had no stock, just the pistol grip. She was able to jam the whole length of it behind one of the saddlebags, in such a way that only the grip was exposed. A close eye would not miss it, but someone simply passing by would never notice it was there.

  She left the marina quickly and vacated the neighborhood entirely in as little time as possible, the Harley’s engine roaring into the night. After the oppressive heat of the day, it was maybe twenty degrees cooler. Not enough to raise goose bumps, but refreshing enough that it felt good in her face and on her body.

  It took her twenty minutes to find the next place. She had not paid much attention to it when she saw it before. The building was set on its own lot, with a concrete parking area surprisingly populated given the hour and the area. Bright pink neon striped the front and sides of the building. The walls were painted a strange, blushing color that looked unappetizing in the daylight but seemed to glow under the lights now that night had fallen.

  Camaro parked between a truck and a minivan to hide the bike from the street, then went to the entrance. The door was heavily grated with steel and was locked. She had to press a buzzer to alert the worker inside, who released the electric locks from where he sat behind the counter a yard or two beyond the way in.

  The man was in his twenties, skinny, and wearing a Hawaiian Punch T-shirt. The thin rudiments of what was meant to be a goatee sprouted from his chin and upper lip. Random hairs poked out along his jawline and on his cheeks. He looked at Camaro as she came in, his eyes settling on her chest. “Evening,” he said.

  Every wall was lined with porn magazines. They were inches thick on the shelves, all wrapped in plastic envelopes and sorted into sections by kink. Bins occupied most of the floor space, these also packed with magazines. There were security cameras everywhere.

  “Help you with anything?” the attendant asked her. “Mags up front, DVDs in the back. We have live booths and video peeps. Whatever you want.”

  “Sex toys,” Camaro said.

  The man’s eyebrows went up. “Sure. Right down here.”

  He led her down the counter to where it transformed into a glass display case like the sort used to show off jewelry. There were no diamonds but many dildos and vibrators and rubber plugs and beads, all in different colors and made of different materials. Camaro ignored those things and traveled farther down until the selection gave way to kinkier fare. She pointed. “Those,” she said.

  “Okay. Popular item. Special man or special lady?”

  “Just get them out.”

  The attendant unlocked the case and took the flat box out. “Thirty bucks,” he said.

  “Thirty bucks?” Camaro asked.

  “They’re double locking.”

  “Whatever,” Camaro said, and she put a fifty on the counter. The attendant took her money to the register and made the sale. He brought a plastic bag from beneath the counter.

  “Forget the bag,” Camaro said.

  He handed them over. “Enjoy,” he said.

  Camaro ignored him. She went out of the porn shop and into the night.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  IGNACIO HARDLY FELT as though he’d slept at all. His phone was ringing, and he was awake abruptly, switching on the bedside lamp and blinding himself. He answered. “Go away and die,” he said.

  “Detective Montellano?” asked a woman.

  “Yes, this is Detective Montellano. Who is this?”

  “I’m Sergeant Kathryn Stinson. I work out of Coral Way.”

  “Hello, Sergeant. What can I do for you at two o’clock in the morning?”

  “I’m at a crime scene, sir, and a Detective Kirby from the Homicide Unit has instructed me to call you down here.”

  Ignacio sat up. “What’s going on?”

  “I think it’s probably better if you come and see for yourself, sir. Let me give you the address.”

  “Wait a minute. I need to find something to write on.”

  He struggled with the sheets before escaping the bed and raided the jacket from the day before to find his notebook and pen. Sergeant Stinson repeated the address twice to make sure Ignacio had it. He thanked her and hung up.

  There was no time for showering or shaving. Fresh clothes would have to do. He pulled himself together before making a cup of instant coffee and taking it with him in the car. He felt the caffeine picking him up by the time he arrived on the perfect little street in Coral Way, now marred by the presence of police units and a meat wagon from the medical examiner. Th
e CSI van was already there, too.

  Yellow crime-scene tape circled one of the lovely, restored houses. Uniforms kept back the curious, who even here managed to collect on the sidelines, hoping for a peek at the worst thing they’d ever seen. Ignacio showed his badge and let himself under the tape, advancing across the yard. A woman with sergeant’s stripes waited on the darkened porch. “Stinson?” Ignacio asked.

  She came to him and they shook hands. “Detective,” she said. “Everybody’s inside. It’s pretty bad, sir.”

  He went up the steps and through the open front door. Plastic sheeting had been put down in the foyer. A couple of uniformed officers stood idly by the entrance to the living room as camera flashes burst inside. Ignacio entered.

  The first and most striking thing in the room was the blood that seemed to have pooled and splattered everywhere. The couch was thick with it, dark with saturated gore. The coffee table and its magazines were splashed with gobbets of red. The walls were sprayed, and even the ceiling had managed to catch droplets. The dead man and the dead woman were soaked in their own vital fluids. And then there was the writing.

  Nolan Kirby stood in one corner while the CSIs took pictures. He was an older man, graying into his sixties and ripe for retirement. When he spotted Ignacio, he waved him over to stand by the front window. “Nacho,” he said. “Come on.”

  They clasped hands briefly, and then Kirby looked back to the mess. “Sorry to call you in like this, but I heard from Brady Pool that you were working an angle on another case with some Cuban group. It just so happens that I know this guy, and he’s a big Cuban activist. Pablo Marquez. That’s his wife, Carolina.”

  Ignacio read the writing again. A thought was dawning. “How did it go down?”

  “No sign of forced entry, so either Pablo or Carolina let the killer or killers into the house. I already have uniforms canvassing the neighbors, but I haven’t heard anything about strangers in the neighborhood or anything like that. We’ll see how it pans out. In the meanwhile, I’m still waiting on Children’s Services to send somebody out to talk to our witness.”

  “You have a witness?”

  “Yeah: Pablo Marquez’s daughter, Renata. She’s three years old. We’re not getting a whole lot from her. The kid barely knows how to talk, so asking for a statement is a little much.”

  “Where is she?” Ignacio asked.

  “Upstairs with an officer.”

  “I’ll want to talk to her.”

  “Give it time. Let Children’s Services try to bring her down first. She saw it all happen, and she’s not in any shape for an interrogation.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ignacio said. “I know who did it.”

  Kirby looked at him sharply. “Who?”

  “Matt Clifford and Sandro Soto. Two tweakers I’m after. They have some kind of bad blood with a bunch of activist Cubans. Cutting throats isn’t exactly Matt’s style, but one of his crew killed a guy by caving his skull in with a baseball bat, so it’s not like he’s not capable of doing it. I’m surprised he let the kid live.”

  “We’ve got to get these guys’ names out there,” Kirby said.

  “Already done. I’ve been looking for Clifford and Soto for days. They dropped off the map, but they’re still doing business. A night ago, two of his boys got shot to death over in Liberty City, but they managed to take out five Cubans in the process. This is war we’re talking about here.”

  “I guess that explains the writing,” Kirby said.

  “Yeah,” Ignacio replied. He looked at the living room wall and the words painted in blood in foot-high letters.

  I WANT THE MONEY.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  CAMARO WAS HALFWAY there when she spotted a 7-Eleven and pulled in for something to eat. She bought a burrito and a Big Gulp and sucked on Coke while she waited for the microwave. Afterward, she took a prepaid phone from a display and put that with the rest of her purchases.

  It took a couple of minutes for the burrito to cool down. Camaro ate it sitting on her bike, drinking Coke between bites. She balanced her cup on the tank when her phone rang. This number she knew. “Detective,” she answered. “It’s late.”

  “Does it matter? You’re awake.”

  “I was just going to bed.”

  “Busy night?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’m standing in a house in Coral Way. You ever been to Coral Way?”

  “I’ve gone through it a few times. Why?”

  “Because there are two dead bodies here. A man and a woman with their throats cut. And the killer left a message about some money that’s owed. I want you to tell me the truth: what do you know about it?”

  Camaro took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. “I don’t know anything about it,” she said.

  “You ever heard the name Pablo Marquez?”

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  “I said no.”

  Ignacio exhaled. “There’s a part of me that wants to take you in right now,” he said. “Tell me why I shouldn’t.”

  “Because I don’t have anything to do with that.”

  “Both you and I know that’s a crock of shit, pardon my language. You’re tied up with Clifford in some way, and now he’s gone and killed two more people. In front of their kid. I can’t afford to play any more games. You have to be honest with me, otherwise I will find you, and I will arrest you.”

  Camaro balled up the burrito’s wrapper and made a shot toward the trash can twenty feet away. It bounced off the rim and fell to the concrete. “You want me to be honest?” she asked.

  “You have no idea. And listen, if you agree to spill on Matt, I will make sure that you get immunity. Anything you’ve done to help him, you’ll be safe. I give you my word.”

  “I’m not working with Matt Clifford,” Camaro said. “I’m not helping him.”

  “Camaro, listen—”

  “No, you listen. When I told you I didn’t have anything to do with whatever he’s pulled, that’s the truth. He’s getting people killed. He’s killing people himself. The man is rabid. He needs to go down.”

  “Who are you, anyway?” Ignacio asked quietly.

  “You know who I am.”

  “Lady, you’re a mystery to me. What did you do up in New York? Who did you kill?”

  “I told you before: I didn’t kill anybody. But I know some people died. They were bad guys, just like Matt Clifford, and I’m not sorry they’re gone.”

  “That is cold. What did they do to you?”

  “They didn’t do anything to me,” Camaro said. “But they did something. And if you want to know anything about me, then you should know I wouldn’t kill anybody who didn’t have it coming.”

  “So you’re gonna kill Matt Clifford now?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t have to. I think maybe I know you better already.”

  “Are you going to stop me?” Camaro asked.

  “I should. Because killing Matt’s not going to resolve whatever crazy shit is going on between him and these Cubans. It might slow things down a little, but people are dying left and right, and that doesn’t clean up so easy. You sure you still want to be stuck in the middle of all that?”

  Camaro drained the last of her Coke. “When I’m in the middle, I can see everything,” she said.

  “Except what’s coming up behind you. I’m telling you sincerely, don’t go down for this. Tell me where to find Parker Story’s daughter. Tell me how I can get my hands on Matt. Tell me anything. Tell me something I can use, because right now I’m confused as hell.”

  “When it’s all over, it’ll make sense,” Camaro said. “I promise I’ll tell you everything. But I have to do this my way.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t trust anybody else as much as I trust myself,” Camaro said.

  “That’s no way to live.”

  “It’s what I know.”

  “And what’s your plan? You do wh
atever it is you’re going to do, and then you just walk away from all of this?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “That’s a pretty lousy plan, if you don’t mind my saying so. This kind of thing has a tendency to stick to people. Especially people with secrets.”

  “I don’t have any secrets,” Camaro said.

  “Now you’re lying again.”

  “Maybe. Good-bye, Detective.”

  “Good-bye, Camaro. And whatever you’re doing…good luck.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  THE QUIET WAS getting to him. Soto had at least brought some reading material, but there wasn’t much to an issue of Maxim, and the pictures were not enough for Matt to get excited about. He wasn’t even sure what a magazine like that was for. Without naked women, it seemed pointless.

  Chapado was sleeping again. He made tinny whistling noises as he breathed. Matt thought he’d rather hear the man scream. But the time for that kind of thing was past. Soon Chapado would be transformed into a bag of money, and then the Cubans could do whatever they wanted with him.

  “I’m going,” Matt announced. He stood up and his back creaked. The chairs were terrible.

  “Where?”

  “I’m gonna get something to eat, and then I’m gonna bed down somewhere. I’ll be back by noon.”

  Soto’s voice pitched up. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Watch him!” Matt said. “Make sure he doesn’t run off or nothing.”

  “He’s stuck to a chair.”

  “Then make sure he doesn’t get unstuck,” Matt returned. “I’m going. You better be here when I get back.”

  “Goddamn it! This isn’t fair!”

  “You can talk about fair when you have your half of the money. Until then, you do what I say and shut the hell up.”

  He went out before Soto could say anything more. The night was alive with the sounds of frogs and night creatures. They were right on the edge of the Everglades here, well away from everything. Why anyone would build in this spot was a mystery. The land must have been cheap as hell.

  The stolen Kia started with no problem with the pliers, and he made his way out, taking special care to lock up the gates behind him. He drove for half an hour until he saw a Waffle House and pulled into the parking lot. He made sure to put the Kia away from the few other cars waiting there because if someone happened to glance inside, they would see the stripped steering column and know the car was hot.