Tonton

by Billy Kring

  Bustamante asked, “But she didn’t give his name, the Captain’s name? None of them did?”

  “No,” Andre said.

  John said, “There aren’t any papers in the pilot house or anyplace else we looked.”

  Randall said, “The ship has no current registration, either. Not even a name on it. The only thing found was part of a four-year old paper in the hold that showed a bill of lading for a business in Miami. ”

  “One more jurisdiction issue, then.” Bustamante said.

  John said, “We know some of those folks, since Randall and I both started down there. If you want, and since this is a big-ass case, we could see if we could help. Either officially or unofficially.”

  Rahinsky said, “At least for introductions.”

  Randall said, “How about an off-duty intro, so we can all be at ease.”

  “Sure.”

  Randall said, “I know the perfect place.”

  Bustamante said, “Where are you thinking?”

  “Lo-Deen’s Bar, on South Beach. The Hawaiian Tropic ladies are down there for the next two days shooting calendar layouts.”

  Rahinsky said, “You are one crackerjack detective, Ishtee. Set it up.”

  ~*~

  They sat so everyone could look across Ocean Drive at the models on the beach. Hunter was between Randall and John, sipping Maker’s Mark on the rocks. The Hawaiian Tropic models were having a fine time, and the shoot was energetic, with some good music drifting all the way to Lo-Deen’s. A little Katy Perry, a little Rihanna. Bustamante said, “Hunter, you could be over there. You look as good as they do.”

  “Thanks, but I like carrying a gun and shooting people.”

  The youngest of the two Miami homicide detectives, Jason Hale, said, “They’re thin, you’re not. You’ve got that lean, strong thing going on.”

  Hunter said, “I attribute it to steady alcohol intake.”

  Hale peered at her a moment, “Aren’t you from Texas, somewhere out near El Paso? That place where the drug smugglers gunned down the sheriff?”

  Hunter took a sip, “Yeah.”

  “I thought so. Were you at the murder scene? I heard they shot something like a thousand rounds at him.”

  Hunter took a long swallow and signaled the server for another, “No, I wasn’t at the scene.”

  “That Sheriff Rockman, he must have been something. The way they described him in Time, he was like Walker, Texas Ranger on steroids. The description of his shootout in Mexico and facing down a whole mob of killers was incredible. You knew him, right?”

  “I did.” The new Maker’s arrived and Hunter took a drink, “He wasn’t the same man after his wife died.”

  Jason’s eyes grew wide, “And there was a recent terrorist attack out there, too, right? Chlorine gas? It was all over the news.” He looked at Hunter and continued, “You sure live in a dangerous place. Have you had to shoot anyone?”

  The other Miami detective, a handsome, silver-haired man named Jesse Coda, said, “You’ll have to forgive Jason. He’s dying to get in a shootout. Thinks it will be exciting and fun.”

  The other detectives said, almost in unison, “It’s not.”

  Hunter said, “I think I’ll take a short walk. Be back in a minute.”

  She left the unfinished Maker’s and started to pay when Jason said, “We’ve got the table. Our treat.”

  “Thanks.” Hunter crossed Ocean Drive to the beach, skirting the photo shoot and going to the water line. She walked beside the foot-high surf lapping the sand. The salt air smelled fresh, with a hint of fish and seaweed, and the clear green water made soothing sounds as the small waves broke and hissed on the sand. Not many people were around once she moved beyond the models. While she walked, Hunter thought about the ISIS terrorist, Asadullah, and the terrible, roaring flash flood in Auras Canyon that cost the life of Miguel Luna and almost her life as well. Her mind drifted back as she walked, and the memories stretched to a year ago, and Sheriff Wayne Rockman, of him saving her and the others, and later, of having to shoot him to death near Outlaw Road. She scuffed wet sand with her shoe and sighed, feeling like an invisible weight was driving her to her knees as it sucked the vitality out of her.

  A voice came from Ocean Drive, “Hey, are you ready to put that ling on a grill?”

  She looked at Randall’s grinning face as he slow-drove in his pickup, keeping pace with her. John was in the passenger seat and yelled, “Come on, I’m hungry!” She trotted to the street and got in behind John. Randall said, “We figured we introduced them, now they can continue their date.”

  John said over his shoulder, “You okay?”

  She put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Yeah, no worries.”

  John said, “I talked to a psychologist for a good while after our Conan thing. It helped, Hunter. It didn’t fix everything, but I was better after it. I’m not saying you should or you shouldn’t, just don’t dismiss it out of hand.”

  She patted his shoulder twice and withdrew her hand, “I’m fine, really.”

  Randall said, “Good, because I’m tired of you white-eyes whining all the time because your chi-chi is out of whack.”

  “It’s chi, you goof,” Hunter said. Randall turned his head and winked at her. She said, “Dang, let’s eat before I pass out from hunger.”

  “On our way.” Randall said.

  They sat in Randall’s back yard by the small pool and ate the grilled ling fillets with sides of black beans, salad, fried plantains, and Dos Equis beer. Randall picked ripe mangoes off his trees and served them as dessert. Hunter said, “One of these days I’m going to buy a bar and have Dos Equis on draft at my disposal.”

  “I’m ready to move in with you, soon as you do. I won’t take up much space in that mansion you have.” Randall said. “I’m surprised the Ewings in Dallas haven’t moved to another state in shame since your house is bigger and nicer.”

  “Har-har.”

  The good friends relaxed as they faced east and watched distant storm clouds pulse with heat lightning. Hunter said, “Andre told me the Haitians are landing more often. What’s changed in their country?”

  John said, “The big earthquake is part of it. They still have areas that haven’t recovered.”

  Randall said, “And the normal things: poverty, deforestation, government oppression, criminal activity, too many children being born to poor families. That right there sort of crowds people out of the house.”

  Hunter said, “But landing here?”

  “That’s odd, but not rare,” John said. “If their ship has power, they can put ashore anywhere, but if they use sails, then it is usually farther north. West Palm Beach is a regular landing place, for both Haitians and Cubans, but sometimes they land further north than there, too. The Gulf Stream current is strong and pushes ships up the coastline.”

  “They never land in Miami or the Keys?”

  “Sure, smugglers love going up the Miami River because there’s so may places to dock and offload. They also use Haulover, and have since the cocaine smugglers used that place in the early eighties. Really, though, it depends on the ship. If it has a good engine, then it can fight the current. They like to land in those locations, plus the people can disappear very fast if the boat gets into Miami.”

  “Andre said this was the fourth in the last month for here and Miami.”

  Randall said, “And all four were smuggling vessels, if I remember right.”

  Hunter nodded, “Something to think about.”

  “You need to think about it, since you’ll be working down here.”

  “Bright and early tomorrow morning.”

  John said, “Who did they pair you with?”

  “Andre. We’re working plain clothes, so I don’t need my uniform.”

  Randall said, “You’ve got something besides that little bikini, right? We can’t have you causing the entire male population of South Florida to walk around open-mouthed like they did in Lauderdale.” Hunter felt her cheeks
flush. She bent her plastic fork and snapped it on his bicep. She said, “Quit making me blush, you buttnut.”

  Randall rubbed the spot, grinning, “I’m just sayin’.”

  ~*~

  Andre picked up Hunter at her hotel the next morning and drove south toward Miami, saying, “We’re going to Krome to talk to some of the survivors and see what we can find out.”

  “I thought ICE would be doing that.”

  “They are, but the U.S. Attorney thought it would be a good idea if we ran at witnesses from two sides, then share information. Because of the deaths involved, he is going hard on this one.”

  Hunter said, “How long have you been in the Border Patrol?”

  “Eight years.”

  “What do you think about what happened?”

  “This case?”

  “The smugglers and crew. Especially that guy with bullet holes for eyes.”

  “I didn’t see him, only heard your description. But he’s the first one I want to ask these people about.”

  “They’re scared of him.”

  “With good reason. And we may not have an ID this minute, but we’re going to find out who he is and bring him in.”

  Hunter said, “That’s the kind of talk I like to hear.” She leaned back in the seat and let her partner drive.

  Andre passed through the gated Krome entrance an hour later and parked. He led the way into the facility where they were met by a Detention Officer who ushered them through the halls to a room with one table and three chairs.

  The Detention Officer handed Andre the brown case file and said, “Her name is Molita Issone. The detainees just finished breakfast, so the officers are bringing her up now.”

  “Thanks,” Andre said, and sat in one of the chairs. Hunter did the same as they both perused the file contents. Molita was the woman they initially talked to yesterday in Lauderdale, the one who spoke English.

  The detention officer opened the door and let Molita enter the room. Andre pulled out the chair for her to sit, then walked around the table and sat beside Hunter so they both faced the Haitian woman. Molita looked scared.

  Hunter said, “Its all right. No one can hurt you in here. You’re safe with us.”

  Molita’s dark face and thin arms were shiny with perspiration. She said, “You don’t know them, what they can do. Let me go back with the others. Please.”

  Andre said, “We only have a few questions to ask you, then you can go.”

  Molita wiped beads of sweat from her forehead and said, “Ask.”

  Andre said, “What is the boat captain’s name?”

  The Haitian woman began shaking. “I heard one crewman call him Jean Claude.”

  “Do you know his last name?”

  “No.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “O-only rumors. He s-smuggles people and drugs for m-money.”

  Hunter leaned across the table and touched her arm. “Are you sick? You’re burning up.” She looked at Andre. “She needs a doctor.”

  Andre stood just as Molita’s eyes rolled up, showing the whites, and she convulsed. The chair fell to the side and the Haitian woman hit the floor hard, her head jerking back and forth and her legs and arms flailing and drumming on the concrete.

  Hunter said, “Is she epileptic?”

  Andre said, “I don’t know.”

  They moved the chair and table so the woman wouldn’t hurt herself, then Andre went out the door for help.

  Hunter knelt by the woman, “Molita, you’re safe. Can you hear me? You’re safe. Don’t be afraid.” She wasn’t sure if the woman heard her or not, but she felt she had to do something. She moved closer and touched Molita’s shoulder, and the Haitian woman’s head turned toward her. Her eyes rolled down into focus and locked with Hunter, like a drowning person’s eyes when they look at a rescuer before they go under the last time, just out of reach. Her mouth opened and she tried to talk. Hunter turned her ear to the woman and leaned closer.

  A gout of red vomit hit Hunter on the side of the head, going in her ear, hair, down her neck and under the shirt collar. Hunter jerked away and threw up. She dry-heaved a few times, then gained control.

  Molita was dead that quick, lying in the filth, looking deflated somehow, smaller than she was just moments before.

  Andre came in with the center physician and two nurses. All three stopped in their tracks. Andre went to Hunter, “What happened?”

  Hunter was still trying to clean her face of the foul-smelling substance on her skin. “Her eyes came into focus and she wanted to say something to me, so I leaned down. She threw up. She only vomited once, then died. No labored breathing, nothing. Just died.”

  Andre said, “You didn’t get any in your eyes or mouth, did you?”

  “No, why?”

  The physician, a Haitian, handed her several sterile pads to wipe off her face and said, “I believe she was poisoned.” He motioned for a nurse and said, “Take Agent Kincaid to the clinic and make sure she is sanitized where the blood contacted her skin.” He turned to Hunter, “You will have to discard the contaminated clothing, too. We have some scrubs you can wear in the meantime.”

  Hunter said to Andre, “Did you guess she was poisoned, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of poison does that?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ve heard of it a few times, back when I lived in Port-Au-Prince.”

  “A few times?”

  “Vomiting bright red blood. That’s associated with Haitian black magic, Hunter.”

  The Doctor said, “He is right.”

  Andre said, “We’re dealing with some very bad people. Go with the nurse and get checked out. I’ll be down to the clinic in a few minutes.” Hunter nodded, looked again at Molita, and then left with the nurse. She glanced back once and saw the Doctor and Andre in an intense discussion.

  Hunter was dressed in green scrubs and held a white plastic bag with her pistol, gun belt, money and keys inside when Andre entered. He said, “They look comfortable. You ready to go?”

  “You bet.”

  Andre drove again, and he said, “Doctor Levant said he would call us with the preliminary results.”

  “He’s doing it?”

  “The basic tests. The FBI is going to run more complete tests. We’ll get those results, too, when they finish.” He glanced at Hunter, “Are you doing okay? I can take you to your hotel.”

  “Take me there so I can put on some different clothes, but I’m fine. Let’s find this sucker.”

  “You’re tough, I’ll give you that.”

  “Nah, but I am pissed.” She was silent for a moment. “Maybe outraged is a better word. I want this Jean-whoever-he-is and the people with him put behind bars, permanently.”

  “Then let’s get you into some new clothes and go to work.”

  Hunter dressed in jeans, a black tee shirt with a red nylon windbreaker jacket over it to hide her pistol, and running shoes. Her hair was pulled back tight in a short ponytail, keeping it out of her face. She slid into the car’s passenger seat as Andre said, “How about another trip to Miami and a visit to that business listed on the bill of lading we found?”

  “Put the spurs to it,” she said. Andre winked and chirped the tires leaving the parking lot.

  Hunter asked, “Where is it located?”

  “One of the buildings near Bayfront Park, by the Intercontinental.”

  “That’s some high dollar real estate.”

  “Yes indeed.”

  Hunter looked at her black tee shirt and jeans. “I’m glad I dressed for the occasion.”

  Andre said, “That badge on your belt is dressed up enough.”

  “Think so?”

  “Guaranteed.”

  ~*~

  Caribe International was on the fifth floor, and the large windows overlooked Biscayne Bay, Dodge Island and the Port of Miami. Hunter looked at the furnishings and decorations which all appeared to be of Caribbean origin, including a
great deal of primitive art. In a large glass case, gold and jewel encrusted treasures with authentication certificates for each piece saying they were from the treasure ship Atocha. The treasures were arranged around a human skull. Hunter said to Andre, “Business must be good, well, except for that one in the middle there.”

  Andre raised his eyebrows, “No kidding.”

  The receptionist looked at their identification, asked what this was in reference to, then made a call on her desk phone. She rose and said, “Mr. Dessaline will see you, please follow me.”

  The hallway was short, and led to an open office door. She motioned them inside and closed the door behind them. The walls were festooned with framed photographs of Dessaline with other men and women, and of various ships. A few showed tropical jungle with pale roads cutting through the green. The man standing to meet them was tall, distinguished looking, and in his sixties, Hunter guessed. He wore a lightweight gray suit and lavender shirt that complimented his skin. His eyes were golden, with the tiniest bit of brown in there, and Hunter thought they were beautiful.

  He said, “I am Marc Dessaline.” They shook hands and Dessaline motioned them to a plush sofa as he took the chair. “How may I help you?”

  Andre handed him the copy of the partial bill of lading. “This was in a freighter that ran ashore in Fort Lauderdale. It carried Haitians. Undocumented Haitians.”

  He looked at the paper and said; “I saw the incident on the news. There were some deaths, I believe. Terrible business.” He returned the paper to Andre, “I’m not sure how this concerns me. The bill is over four years old.”

  Hunter said, “We’re hoping that there may be information on the missing part of the bill. Even what was shipped to you from Haiti might help. Do you remember?”

  “I don’t, but give me a moment,” he called his receptionist and said, “Rosalie, would you come in here?” She was there in seconds. Dessaline motioned for Andre to give her the paper and he said, “Look this up and let me know, please.” She nodded and left.

  While they waited, Hunter said, “Do you know a ship’s captain named Jean?”

  “That is the last name?”

  “His first name.”