by Erik Carter
This investigation was so similar to the New Orleans case from his detective days that it was damn near an echo. And there was something about the old case that would help him figure out what the hell was going on in the present.
But what was it?
What’s the connection, C.C.?
His mind returned to the memory that had resurfaced earlier. The sand. The hot sun.
Distant whispers. That’s all Jake heard of the waves now. Far off, somewhere unimportant. His skin wasn’t burning in the sun; it only existed. He sensed no one, not even C.C., just the presence of her, her being, somewhere before him.
His head tilted back. Slowly. A change in the glow of what was, something that in another reality could be sunlight seeping through his eyelids.
She’d done it. She knew how to mollify the torrent, to coax lucidity, to fortify disorder into an asset.
Echoes of waves, gulls, laughter.
Her voice.
“Well? Have you found your answer?”
“Yes. Yes, I have.”
Silence looked at his notepad again, the violent scribbling under the CONNECTION? bubble.
He knew what he had to do, what C.C. would tell him to do.
She would tell him the same thing that she had on the beach.
She would tell him to meditate.
He frequently meditated during his assignments, when he needed an extra boost of clarity, when mind mapping wasn’t cutting it.
Mind maps typically did the trick, but they were kerosene—fuel for the slow burn of problem-solving. Meditating was more like gasoline—something to power an explosion of insight like the one he needed now.
Also frequently, however, Silence found himself in situations where meditating was less than ideal.
Like being concealed in the landscaping of a city commissioner’s mansion after spying on an impromptu meeting said commissioner had held with the city’s most notorious criminal leader and the woman who had been the intended target of the latest arson attack earlier that evening.
Silence looked at the Beretta in his hand. Took a deep breath, held it, sighed it out.
And then put the gun in its shoulder holster and the notebook in his pocket.
He crossed his legs before him, yoga style, the easy pose, sukhasana.
Put his hands on his knees.
Closed his eyes.
Drifted away.
To another state of being, another time and place.
He was back in New Orleans. He was Jake Rowe again, about to face a stunning series of revelations.
Chapter Sixteen
“Glover?” Jake said, staring slack-jawed at the man below him.
Glover grimaced as he pulled himself from the mangled table.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Jake said.
With his eyes on Jake, Glover brushed safety glass from his shirt. It clattered on the floor. His chest heaved, eyes narrowed.
“I told you, Hudson,” he said, grimacing again, eyes squinting, as he arched his shoulders back, realigning himself. He took the baseball cap from his head, tossed it away. It landed with a soft thud somewhere in the debris. “Burton’s making moves. This job with the Bowmans was a chance for him to make an impression on Moretti.”
“But you purposefully sabotaged the job. You pissed Moretti off.”
The faintest suggestion of a smirk materialized on Glover’s sweaty face. “Burton proudly played up to Moretti the fact that his right-hand man was heading the trio sent to help him. I could have gotten here with you and Charlie and immediately shaken the money out of the Bowmans. Or … I could face more resistance from the Bowmans, and eventually get an even bigger payment from them, multiple rounds of twenty percent interest, giving Moretti a hint of the strength of Burton’s contingent.”
Jake narrowed his eyes. “No. No, that can’t be it. Burton’s up to something.”
Glover stepped closer. “Of course he’s up to something. Think about it, Hudson. The money. We’ve intercepted three of the Bowmans’ payments, one with interest, thirty-two grand already plus another fourteen tomorrow. And Burton’s had Hodges and McBride here for two weeks before we even got here, and they’ve been picking up some cash where they could.”
Jake pictured Hodges and McBride, two of the thugs in the Farone organization, two who had been siding with Burton, real scumbags, one of them a mouse-faced, smirking twit and the other a tattooed, red-bearded slob.
“Burton and Hodges were the other two who were with you in the panel vans,” Jake said. “Intercepting the Bowmans every time they withdrew a payment for Moretti. You always knew exactly where to find the Bowmans after you fooled their son into thinking he was going to be a made man in a local gang.”
“That’s right. And in their free time Hodges and McBride have been doing some petty shit, hitting ATMs, rigging some races. Another fifty thou. With all the cash from the Bowmans, that’s about a hundred grand, a nice little nest egg, some extra startup capital.”
“Startup?”
“Don’t you get it, man? Burton’s not just getting people on his side of the divide within the Farone family. He’s taking the family over.”
The revelation struck Jake so hard it came through physically. One foot staggered back. His lips parted. And his mind immediately launched the missiles of a hundred thoughts, all of them colliding in his headspace, an eruption of chaotic confusion.
His undercover assignment had just amplified in intensity a hundred-fold. The long-term implications for the city of Pensacola, the police department and how they would respond. He thought of Lieutenant Tanner, and an immediate, nagging feeling pulled him toward the man.
And, of course, there was C.C. Already caught in the crossfire. Now caught in the middle of a full-out war.
Glover acknowledged the look of revelation on Jake’s face with a sneer. He pointed toward the entrance, the glow of light coming in from the parking lot. “That was Wesley Bowman you were with. You tracked them down. On your own.”
“That’s right. I knew something was up. I knew Kip Bowman wasn’t lying.”
“That gut instinct of yours…” A dark smile played on Glover’s lips. “You know, Loudmouth, you can be a real douche, but I’m impressed you could figure this out. That took initiative. Burton will be impressed too. That said … how about you get in on the ground floor? What do you say? Join us?”
Jake didn’t respond. His mind was still exploding.
The ramifications. How soon could he contact Tanner? What were the next moves?
How safe was C.C.?
Glover raised his eyebrows. “Well?” he said with a smirk. “Want to be a made man in Burton’s gang?”
“Hell no.”
Glover scoffed. “That’s both ballsy and spineless at the same time. How do you think Burton’s gonna respond to the news that you investigated what he was doing here in New Orleans and then didn’t join up when given the opportunity?”
“I don’t give a damn what he thinks.”
“Then we’ve reached an impasse.” Glover clicked his tongue. “And there’s a problem. A big one. You know what Burton’s done here.”
“I’m not a rat!”
No, Jake wasn’t a rat. He was a cop. The bizarre quasi-lie he’d just spouted with such conviction almost made him chuckle in spite of himself, in spite of the deadly serious situation he was in.
“How do I know you’re not? You seem awfully concerned about the poor little Bowman family. There’s only one way to make sure you keep your mouth shut.”
Glover reached toward his back, his holster.
Jake leapt upon him, not giving him a fraction of a second to retrieve the weapon. He grabbed the arm below the shoulder, forcing it back.
Glover threw a punch with his free hand, and the sneer of satisfaction on his face said that he’d wanted to do that for a long time.
The blow landed on Jake’s jaw. A wave of cold, electric pain, his teeth cracking against each other. He stumbled back
.
This brief moment of separation was all the time Glover needed. He now had a small pistol pulled and aimed at Jake.
“It’s a damn shame, Loudmouth. I really thought you were coming around.”
There was no hesitation. Glover simply began to pull the trigger.
Jake’s nostrils flared, big breaths, preparing.
And, just like that, he was facing the end. He never had before. He’d been a cop for only a year, and while he’d seen more than a few scuffles, he’d never been in mortal danger. Before that, he’d been a teacher. He’d never been in any significant car accidents. He’d never had any severe illnesses.
This was unfamiliar territory for him.
And yet, there was no fear. Only a quick flash of C.C. Her smooth face. Blameless eyes, dark with long lashes. Black hair shining in the Florida sun.
Glover’s trigger finger tightened.
A sound behind them.
From the front of the store. A metallic click.
Another gun.
And a voice.
“That’s far enough, Glover.”
A familiar face took shape as a figure emerged from the shadows.
Charlie.
He had a pistol aimed at Glover.
Jake’s mind flashed on the mystery figure that had been trailing him that evening. Outside the Bowmans’ house. Here to the abandoned strip mall.
Charlie, dammit.
Jake had told the kid to get lost, that he was putting himself in danger continuing with this life. Jake’s paternal instincts chattered once more. But he could chastise Charlie later; for now he was just happy he’d saved his life.
Glover looked back and forth between Charlie and Jake. Trapped. Beaten. He slowly crouched down, put the gun on the floor, stood back up with his hands in the air.
Jake considered saying something to Charlie. Didn’t. Instead, to Glover he said, “All right. Let’s go.”
“Go where?” Glover spat.
“To the Vortex.” Jake took his cellular phone from his pocket, held it up, displaying it. “See, I’m about to make a call. Nick Moretti’s gonna be so happy to hear that you got the fourteen thousand from the Bowmans a night earlier than promised. I mean, you and Burton were so concerned about impressing him, that’s gotta make you happy, right?” He gave Glover a smartass grin with very dark undertones. “Come on, before we head to the Vortex we need to stop by the hotel and have a look at that cash you’ve been hoarding.”
For the second time that hour, Jake sat on a vehicle’s bench seat. The one in the backside of Charlie’s ’85 Ford Taurus was just as grimy as the one in Wesley Bowman’s pickup, but it had a stronger odor, dust and rotten foam padding and pungent pine from the air freshener dancing from the rearview mirror.
Jake had his gun pointed at Glover, whose hands were on his knees, as directed.
Charlie was in the driver’s seat, and in the seat beside him was the briefcase they’d retrieved from Glover’s motel room.
Glover gave another look to the gun then he shook his head and turned to the window. “You dumbasses,” he said, eyes following the buildings zipping by outside. “Do you honestly think you can steal fifty grand from Burton?”
“I’m not stealing anything from him,” Jake said. “Fourteen thousand will get Moretti off the Bowmans’ backs, and thirty-two goes back to the family, pays back what you stole from them. You can keep the rest, what your two thugs yanked out of ATMs. Moretti will be satisfied, the Bowmans get their money, and you and Burton still end up cash positive. Gotta love a happy ending, am I right?”
Glover finally turned away from the window, looked right at him. “You stole from Burton. His startup funds. Just wait till we get back to Pensacola, wait till you see Burton again. This isn’t gonna be a happy ending for you, Hudson.”
Jake didn’t respond. Instead, he called out to Charlie. “I thought you said you were going to take my advice, Charlie.”
Charlie’s eyes appeared in the rearview, a bit of mischief dancing off the light blue centers. “You didn’t think I was gonna let you take all the credit for doing the right thing, did you?”
The techno music was louder than it had been earlier in the night, vying for dominance with the din of the Vortex’s crowd, which had grown considerably, shoulder to shoulder. The air was warm with humanity and tinged with the earthy tang of alcohol.
Jake, Charlie, and Glover stood beside Moretti’s private booth. Moretti was seated, once again flanked by suited muscle, a behemoth at each opening of the half-circle.
Moretti cracked open the briefcase, looked inside, closed it, blindly handed it over his shoulder to one of the hulks, keeping his eyes on Glover.
“A little longer than I would have hoped, Mr. Glover, but I’m impressed you could turn it around again in one night.”
He waved Jake’s trio away.
As the three of them shouldered their way through the crowd toward the gleaming brass elevator doors in the back, Jake looked down upon Glover with as smug of a smile as he could muster without pressing his luck too much.
“See?” he said. “I told you Moretti would still be impressed. All’s well that ends well.”
Glover scowled at him, flicked his eyes away. And suddenly his scowl morphed into a wicked grin. He’d spotted something across the room.
He turned back to Jake, the smile not leaving his lips.
“Well, look who it is.”
Jake looked to where Glover had glanced.
One of the two elevators was open, and a small group bustled out. Three chatting women in minidresses and thick makeup. A smiling, possibly tipsy couple feeling each other up. Two twenty-something guys, upwardly mobile types, flashy shirts unbuttoned way too far down their chests.
And in the center, strolling out as the others parted around him, moving with a much slower energy, an assured presence, was a man in a black suit, white shirt, dark hair parted and combed back.
Jake said the man’s name.
“Burton…”
Chapter Seventeen
As the elevator doors closed behind him, Burton took a few steps into the lounge and spotted Jake, Glover, and Charlie. He gave them a nod.
Glover bolted away from Jake and Charlie, pushing his way through the crowd, toward Burton.
Jake and Charlie stayed put.
Glover and Burton struck up a conversation, swallowed by distance and thumping base, synthesized notes, drunken laughter, clinking glasses. Glover did all the talking, lips rapidly contorting, hands swinging in accordance, eyebrows knitted.
“Oh, this is not good,” Charlie said.
Glover was still talking rapid-fire to Burton, whose eyes suddenly opened wide. They turned in Jake’s direction.
“This is not good at all…” Charlie said.
Jake thought of what Glover had just told him in the car, about Jake’s actions here in New Orleans earning him a less than happy ending the next time he saw Burton.
And here Burton was. Inexplicably. Materialized in the Big Easy.
Jake’s stomach grew heavy. A cold sweat raced over his forehead. But to Charlie he said, “Don’t panic.”
Glover finished talking. Burton clamped a hand on his shoulder, said a few words, and then his eyes returned to Jake, a smile on his face, as he and Glover mobilized, twisting through the crowd in the direction of Jake and Charlie. Burton’s eyes never averted, his grin never dropped.
“Gentlemen,” Burton said as he and Glover stopped within feet of Jake and Charlie. “Interesting day today, I hear.”
Charlie opened his lips. Nothing came out.
“Very interesting indeed,” Jake said.
Burton grinned wider. Smile bright. Eyes twinkling with some undetermined desire, eyes that never left Jake. He motioned toward the bar. “Buy you a drink, Hudson?”
Jake nodded.
A drink. A moment alone. Would Burton make a move here?
Through the crowd. Shouts and laughter. Sweaty shoulders. Beer breath. A woman
grabbed at Jake’s arm, said something flirtatious. To the bar. Burton and Jake stood at adjacent stools, right next to each other, inches apart. Jake could smell his cologne. The neon lights over the bar played off the shine in his dark hair.
Burton flagged the bartender, a thirty-something in rolled shirtsleeves, black tie.
“Gin, rocks, twist.” Burton gave his head a small jerk in Jake’s direction. “And something for my friend.”
The bartender turned to him.
“Heineken,” Jake said.
Jake eyed Burton’s jacket, looked for the bulge of a shoulder holster, the ridge of a sheathed knife.
The people around them. So many. How many would be struck if bullets started flying?
As the bartender stepped away, Burton leaned an elbow on the bar, pivoting his weight off his hip, ultra casual, ultra relaxed, ultra cool and with a smile that would seem genuine to most, the smile of a buddy, a bro. But Jake was good at reading people. There was rage behind that smile, boiling, begging to explode.
“Glover tells me you got the Bowman payment to Moretti. Congrats.” His friendly tone matched the spurious smile.
“Thanks.”
“He also tells me that you gave a third of my nest egg back to the Bowmans.”
“I did.”
Burton gave a vigorous nod, the flashing white teeth of his smile streaking. “A man of morals. I can respect that. But I have to say, I think you’ve chosen the wrong business.”
“This line of work can have a modicum of scruples,” Jake said. “That’s why Joey Farone was sent down here from New York way back when. He couldn’t run with the big boys when it came time to break arms and cut off fingers.”
The bartender returned with the drinks. Both Jake and Burton gave their thanks.
Jake wrapped his hand around the base of his Heineken bottle, absorbing the cold, anything that could help him fight off the physical symptoms, the nagging sense that something could go horribly wrong, right here in the lounge. He couldn’t give Burton the satisfaction. He quite literally wouldn’t let Burton see him sweat.
