Shark's Instinct (Shark Santoyo Crime Series Book 1)

by Bethany Maines

  Peri looked amused. “And were you?”

  “No. It was her older cousin Rosa,” he admitted. “But she didn’t know that when she stabbed me with the scissors.” Peri chuckled. Yanking up his shirt, he twisted in the seat. Her eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth.

  “Holy shit, she like, stab, stabbed you with scissors.” She ran her hand over the jagged scar. Her fingers were cold against his skin, but he knew that wasn’t what was giving him goosebumps.

  “Green light,” he said, pulling his shirt down. “Go another few blocks then pull into that Dunkin’ Donuts.”

  She rolled forward at a more reasonable speed. “What’s the deal with that biker?”

  “He’s with the Vagos—a Mexican biker gang. I knew him in the joint. He had a tendency to snitch. Not because he was in a pinch or anything, just to fuck people up. And then he’d move in on whatever their action was. I knew he spotted me when I walked in, but I wasn’t going to push it—it’s not like we went to the same summer camp or anything. But the question is, did he see you take Abernathy? How much does he know?”

  They bumped into the Dunkin’ Donuts lot. “I’m a hundred-percent sure they weren’t there when I came in. Abernathy was sitting behind me. He sold his stuff, they went out to the parking lot. He came back in and asked Luciana where was the men’s room. I grabbed him in the hallway and stashed him in the storeroom. That took me a few minutes. And… they were ordering at the bar when I came back out. So no, I don’t think they ever saw Abernathy.”

  Shark breathed out a sigh of relief. “OK, good. That means he was just fishing. Now he’s pissed off, but he’s got nothing.”

  “Back-burner him, and deal with that shit later?”

  “Exactly. OK, next up. Cerise. Can you call her?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” She shut off the engine and handed him the keys, while simultaneously dialing. He put the parking brake on as she slowly worked her way through unbuckling and exiting. He was already around to her side, by the time Cerise picked up. He opened her door, helping her out of the seat. “Hey Cerise, it’s me. Can we chat about the other night?” She drifted away.

  He popped the trunk and peeled back the duct tape. “How ya doin’?”

  “I’m in the trunk of a car,” gasped Abernathy. “How do you think I’m doing?”

  “You’re looking at it all wrong,” Shark advised him. “You helped rip off The Organization and you’re only in the trunk of a car. That’s really doing pretty good. Hang in there, we have a few more stops to make.”

  Peri was attempting to button the rest of her plaid shirt with one hand while she talked. She walked closer; her breath was frosting his jacket and she fumbled at the same buttonhole for the third time. He batted her hand away and finished buttoning her shirt for her. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s a reasonable question. I’ll ask,” she was saying.

  She muted the phone. “She wants to know how much money you’re offering.”

  “Ten K.”

  “Jesus H. Christ! Are you robbing a bank?”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re right. I don’t want to know,” she said. “That is none of my business. OK, I’ll tell her. But for the record, I’m just saying…”

  “Jesus H. Christ?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m saying.” She walked away again, pacing out the length of the Dunkin’ Donuts and then to the end of the building and back to the door. He knew he was OK when she started back to him, her pace picking up. He got in the car and started the heater blasting.

  “Brr,” she said, climbing in. “OK, meet her at Wendy’s in thirty minutes.” She held her hands up to the vent as he pulled back onto the road. “She’s not guaranteeing anything, but if she likes the job, she’s in. What a night not to wear a coat.”

  “But it ruins the outfit and you’re just going to be up in the club, so who needs it?”

  “You know, I was just going to say that I actually thought your car was cool, and that maybe I had been wrong. But remarks like that will make me compare it to a Chevette.”

  He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “You googled least cool cars, didn’t you?”

  “Just so I could remind myself of what you were driving.”

  He laughed again. “I think there’s a sweatshirt in the back seat. Although, Abernathy might be lying on it in the trunk.”

  “No thanks. I have a no foreign clothing at home policy. It keeps Mom from discovering anything unfortunate in the laundry.”

  “Is there a company handbook somewhere? I feel like I should know what all the policies are.”

  “Trade you for your rap sheet,” she offered.

  “You don’t want the rap sheet. I only ever get arrested for the boring stuff. You want the first mug shot. Now that is blackmail material.”

  She chuckled. He wished he didn’t like her laugh so much. Her phone beeped and she checked it. Without thinking, he switched on the radio. His hand froze over the dial as he realized his mistake.

  “You listen to NPR?” she asked looking up from her phone. This would be a maximum social violation for everyone else he’d ever had in the car. He took a gamble. Show no fear.

  “Like you don’t?”

  She laughed. “Yes, but don’t tell anyone. In high school if you listen to NPR, you might as well show up in a Harry Potter robe and Nerd tattooed on your forehead. I try and balance it out, though, by listening to nothing else but trash pop-100 shit.”

  “Sure, keep your IQ at equilibrium. Personally I go for disco and reggaetón to kill brain cells.”

  She laughed. Like a full-on laugh with her head back and her shoulders shaking. It was infectious and he found himself chuckling too. He flipped the channel to some trash pop-100 shit because NPR did nothing for anyone’s mood, but a good 808 beat made everyone happier.

  “You know what I love about NPR?” he asked. “It’s how they preface every story about sports like the listener has never heard of it before. Baseball, a game played with a ball and bat over nine innings, or ‘rounds of play.’”

  His NPR imitation was unpracticed, but it had the desired of effect of making her laugh harder.

  “Although, considering that I’ve heard them cover Cheese Rolling, maybe it is necessary.”

  “You’re making that up.” She leaned back in her seat, slouching. “That’s not a thing.” Outside, the strip malls gave away to row houses with tiny patches of grass. Half the houses had jack-o-lanterns on the porch. The fact that the pumpkins were still intact was just one more signifier that he was definitely not in the city.

  “No, there’s some town in the UK where they chase giant wheels of cheese down a hill for sport. Apparently, it’s incredibly violent.”

  She laughed again and Shark took another look at her. Her current clothes and make up made her look years older, which was clearly her intention, but that was making him question her previous outfit choices. He had thought she was about 15 or 16, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  “I thought you weren’t wearing make up the day you came into the bowling alley, but you were, weren’t you? Only it was to make you look younger?”

  She looked startled and then held her finger up to her lips. “Shhhh. You’re not supposed to notice.”

  “But why?”

  “I told you. Look like a kid and you can go almost anywhere. I’m aging out though. I’m going to have to retire the look—people won’t buy it for too much longer.”

  “No, you looked young,” he said. “The make-up was working.”

  “It’s not the face,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s the body.”

  Her tits, like her ass, were worth further review, but that wasn’t really what she was talking about. What was it?

  “Shark, are you staring at my body?” She looked amused.

  Shark pulled his attention to the road
and cleared his throat. “Sorry. It’s too much muscle, right?”

  “And lack of coordination,” she agreed. “Although, I’ve been faking that for years. Nothing says clueless teenager like floppy feet.”

  “Huh.”

  “Haven’t you ever done it?” Shark shook his head. “Oh, come on. You never tried to get into a club when you were underage?”

  “Who hasn’t? That’s just a fake ID and some cash. Get the right bouncer and you don’t even need the ID. But that’s not what you’re doing. You’re asking people to instinctively believe what you’re presenting to them.”

  “I’m asking them to do what they want to do already—stereotype. I don’t really look Latina. I don’t really look fourteen. But if I hit the right notes and I move quick people assume what I want them to. You really never do that?” She seemed perplexed.

  Shark thought about it. “I’ve lied about stuff, maybe shade my personality. But no, I don’t usually try to be someone I’m not.”

  Until now.

  “So you tell everyone that you listen to NPR?”

  “Yeah, well, not everything I like fits in with who I’m supposed to be.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed quietly, looking out the window. “Tell me about it.” There was a spatter of rain against the windshield and she sighed. “I wish it was summer.”

  She would look good in shorts.

  “We could drive out to the lake and do nothing but swim and get tan,” she said.

  He could easily picture that and he’d never even been to a lake.

  “What are we, an American Eagle ad? When was the last time you did nothing all summer long?”

  “When I was twelve.” Nostalgia tinged her voice. “What about you?”

  “About the same, I guess. Before my abuela died.” He had a brief flash of his grandmother , yelling at him from the apartment window to come inside, summer sunset tinting everything hot orange. “You’d think doing time should count, but between watching my back and trying to get my degree it wasn’t very relaxing.”

  “What’d you graduate in?”

  “Nothing fancy,” he told her. “Just a BS in political science.”

  “That’s cool.” She looked impressed.

  They pulled up at her house and she sighed again, looking at the dark building. He squelched the impulse to ask her to come with him. He was only so stupid.

  “Thanks for the ride,” she said. “Good luck with Cerise and everything.”

  “See you tomorrow night.”

  She waved and slammed the door, but he followed her out a few seconds later. “Hey,” he whispered as loudly as possible. He jogged to catch up, pulling her on her wrist. She turned and looked up at him with those big hazel eyes.

  His inner monologue went into full corrections officer mode: this is not a date. “I forgot. Tomorrow night, don’t wear this outfit. Blue Street’s an open gang, but everyone knows it’s pretty heavily Latino. Go for ghetto white girl.”

  “OK.”

  She was too close to him. He could smell flowers and cherry Chapstick. This is not a date. Do not kiss her. “And wear something with an actual waistband. Elastic won’t hold up a piece.”

  This is not a date. Seriously, don’t kiss her. Just because you went to a bar, got drinks and you drove her home doesn’t mean you’re on a date. And if she laughs at your jokes and thinks your car is cool, it still does not make it a date. It just means you need to get laid. It means that you were in prison too long.

  “Mmm. OK, I’ll see what I can do.” She looked thoughtful.

  Message delivered. Walk away now.

  “Maybe I’ve got something in the black jeans department?”

  Closet talk. There was a mood killer.“I will leave that to you,” he said, backing away and she laughed.

  16

  Shark: 7201 Fordway Drive

  He pulled into the garage at Abernathy’s house and killed the engine. The windows were dark, the porch light off.

  Cerise stepped out of the car, hefting her bag of equipment. “This is the accountant’s house? He doesn’t look home.”

  “He’s not,” said Shark, popping the trunk.

  She looked horrified as she saw Abernathy peeking out. “You put him in the trunk?”

  “Seats are for people who don’t steal from The Organization.” He lifted Abernathy out of the trunk and set him on his feet. “Say hi, Fred.” Fred didn’t move, and Shark cuffed him on the back of the head.

  Abernathy, swaying slightly, greeted Cerise with a floppy wave of tape-bound hands. He looked on the point of collapse. Shark wasn’t sure how much further he could push him.

  “Let’s go inside, shall we?” Shark suggested.

  The back-door lock had been broken and the interior trashed. It was a Mid-Century Ranch house with the requisite orange galley kitchen and massive brick fireplace. Shark pulled the duct tape off of Abernathy’s face and then his hands. The older man whimpered as the adhesive pulled his arm hair.

  “Stop complaining,” said Shark. Abernathy hunched in on himself. “Now Fred, look at me.” Abernathy tried to look everywhere, but at him. “You said you picked Utah. What are you willing to do to get there?”

  Abernathy gulped, finally making eye contact. “Whatever you need me to do?”

  “That’s what I thought. Now first show me where you’ve been hiding.”

  Abernathy led the way into the living room. In the hallway was a small closet that housed the water heater. He stepped inside, grabbed one of the valves on the wall, twisted and pushed in.

  “A secret door. Badass,” said Cerise.

  “Bomb shelter. The house was built during the McCarthy era,” said Abernathy. “It’s why I bought it.”

  He led them in. Shark guessed that it ran the entire length of the brick wall behind the fireplace, about twenty by six. At one end was a cot, table and desk with a lamp and a computer. The rest of it was lined with shelves full of canned goods.

  Abernathy sat on the cot and looked expectantly at Shark. Cerise was inspecting the computer with disdain.

  “It’s cute,” Shark decided, “but a little bit too cozy for three. Fred, get blankets; we’ll tape them over the windows and work in the living room.”

  “But you’re the boss,” complained Abernathy, rising with reluctance. “What do you care if anyone knows we’re here?”

  “Paper and Two Tone, remember?”

  “Oh. Right.” He stumbled, but moved more quickly.

  By the time they had the windows taped, Cerise had brought the computer into the living room and had it hooked up to her own laptop.

  “OK, I’m set,” she told Shark. “What’s the plan?”

  “Abernathy has depositing access to two offshore accounts. Two people have withdrawal access, but we don’t have either of their passwords.”

  “But I do have some of their info,” Abernathy supplied, sipping a bottle of water from the bomb shelters supplies. “I did help set up the accounts.”

  “We need to withdraw the money from those accounts and put them into a different account.”

  “So we’re dealing with a standard online banking access, with multiple layers of password or passkey security?” Cerise pondered this. “Log in,” she commanded Abernathy. “I want to look at it.”

  Once he’d done so, Cerise took over, switching the screen to an indecipherable mess of code and then back again. “Did you ever have withdrawal privileges?” she asked, rummaging through her bag and coming out with an apple.

  “Well, yes, I suppose so,” said Abernathy. “I flew to the Caymans to set up the accounts and then went back to help Big Paulie set up his account. Once I made him an admin, he removed me. Presumably when I was an admin I could withdraw funds. But I never did it.”

  Cerise bit into her apple, contemplating Abernathy. Shark got
the feeling that she was not seeing him. He wondered if everything looked like binary code to her. Abernathy fidgeted uncomfortably under her gaze.

  “This may seem overly obvious, but I how much do you know about Big Paulie?” she asked.

  “Uh.” Abernathy looked wildly to Shark, the ordeal seemed to have sapped his ability to make connections. Or it was possible that he was just stupid.

  “I mean, do you know his birthdate, mother’s maiden name, that kind of thing?”

  “Secret questions,” said Shark.

  “Exactly,” said Cerise.

  “Oh, no,” said Abernathy. “On my advice, Big Paulie never used his real information for this kind of thing. He had all the answers written down, in his office somewhere.”

  “Presumably in the same place he kept his cash?” asked Shark.

  Abernathy shrugged.

  “OK,” said Cerise. “If we had that info, then it’d probably be a matter of just resetting the password, but it sounds like we don’t, so we’re back to actual hacking. Banks expect the black hats to go straight for the passwords, so they put most of their security around that area.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Probably. But I’ll leave traces. Depending on how Big Paulie set it up, that might not get us into the second account. I think the easiest thing to do is to reset Fred’s profile to admin. Once he has admin status, he should be able to transfer the money wherever you want it to go. Minus my commission, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Shark. “How long will it take?”

  “Four, five hours?”

  “Great.” That would give Shark plenty of time to look up his account number at the Euro Pacific Bank.

  An hour later Cerise was taking a smoke break. Abernathy was dithering over what to pack. Shark could tell he still didn’t believe that Shark was letting him go. Shark wasn’t sure if that was a wise plan either, but he didn’t have the crew to clean up after him on this one, and racking up too many bodies in one week would attract too much attention. Attention that he couldn’t afford.