by A. C. Fuller
Cole dropped her phone on the bed.
Warren’s mouth was open, his eyes wide. “Can we now agree that journalists are the worst?”
“These aren’t journalists. There are two other similar articles, also on insignificant blogs. They read like all three came from one or two sources, calling around and trying to get the story out there.”
“Why?”
The stories were pathetic attempts to smear them. Truly amateur. She doubted they’d gain much traction. The stories themselves didn’t worry her, but the fact that someone was out there planting them did.
She lay back in bed. “Tell me again everything SG told you about Lady Chicharrón. There’s gotta be something we missed.”
Warren laced his hands behind his head. “I told you everything.”
“Tell me again.”
He sighed. “Said she runs the coke in and out of Miami. Said if a hit was going down—something organized like we’re tracking—she’d know about it. Might have given the okay for it. But no one really knows who she is, or how to find her.”
“And her wiki?”
“Like I said, it’s got some background stuff that could be true. But not a real name. And, can we pause for a second and notice how crazy it is that she has a Wikipedia page? Probably has a publicist updating it to build her myth without giving up anything that could get her busted. Probably helps her street cred. Soon there’ll be a Pitbull song for her, ‘Old Money Bags Chicharrón.’” Warren yawned. “I need sleep. At least a few hours.” He tucked his leg under the pillow.
“My mind won’t shut up,” Cole said.
“That’s ‘cause you keep feeding it sugar.” His eyes were closed and his voice was slow and sleepy. A minute later, gentle snores came from his side of the room.
* * *
She was out of Ambien, so after an hour of tossing and turning, Cole took a bathrobe from the closet and left the room. The hotel was still and silent. She turned down a long hallway, following signs to the outdoor pool.
The night was balmy, the courtyard deserted. It was silent except for the sound of the occasional car passing on the far side of the hotel. She tried her keycard on the pool’s metal gate, but it blinked red. The pool closed at ten. Using the gate’s handle as a step, she climbed the fence, dropping easily into the pool area. After a quick scan, she stripped to her bra and underwear and eased herself into the pool.
She swam a quiet lap, then floated on her back, staring at the starless black sky. She became still, feeling only her long, slow breaths and the cool water. Closing her eyes, she compared the blackness in her mind to the blackness of the sky. Eyes open, she was pulled into the seemingly infinite darkness, as though leaving her body to go to a quieter, more peaceful place. Eyes closed, her mind folded in on itself, her history and identity collapsing to a point of infinite pain and darkness. Warren had said, “Whatever’s in you—one way or another—it’s coming out.” It hit her hard. She closed her eyes again. Whatever was there, she didn’t want it to come out. What she’d told Warren about Matt was bullshit. She wasn’t driven to get the story to please some idea of Matt. It was to keep herself busy. To keep the darkness at bay.
Another aspect of their conversation pushed her musings to the side, and she replayed it in her mind. Something didn’t sit right. Lady Chicharrón never would have allowed a hit on Ana Diaz just out of kindness. It had to serve her interests as well. More than that, would the men behind the murders of Ambani and Meyers have sought permission to murder Ana Diaz from Lady Chicharrón? She didn’t think so. Whatever they were doing was bigger than a coke kingpin from Miami.
She wondered about Lady Chicharrón’s Wikipedia page. She should have read it herself. Warren wasn’t the researcher she was, and she—
Her eyes popped open. “Money Bags.”
* * *
Cole let the door slam as she entered the room and flipped on the lights.
Warren shot up in bed, fists clenched. “What?”
“You called her ‘Money Bags.’”
“Why are you in a robe? What happened to your clothes?”
“You called Lady Chicharrón ‘Money Bags.’”
He rubbed his eyes. “SG called her that. I guess it’s another nickname. Any drug kingpin has to have at least a couple. And a Chicharrón is a damn fried pork rind, so who wouldn’t want a different nickname. I mean—”
“Rob, listen!” She sat next to him. “Ana Diaz is Lady Chicharrón. Pipo, the guy who took me to her estate, called Ana Diaz ‘Money Bags.’ Ana Diaz, the reclusive financier, is Lady Chicharrón, the notorious drug kingpin.”
Warren took his leg from under the pillow and passed it from hand to hand. “Holy hell. It’s so damn obvious now that you say it. She uses the bank for legit business and to funnel coke money. She’s the most powerful person in Miami. And if Ana Diaz is connected to Ambani and Meyers, it means they may have had their toes in the drug game, too.”
“Connections to it, at least. Whether they were aware of those connections is...well, it’s something I wouldn’t be comfortable speculating about. Yet.”
“What SG told you, he was close, but a little off. Lady Chicharrón didn’t sanction the next hit, she is the next hit.”
An orange-pink light crept through a crack in the curtains. Dawn.
Cole stood. “We need to get back to the Diaz estate.”
“Fine, but what do we do when we get there?”
This stopped Cole in her tracks. Truth was, she had no idea.
14
A sliver of sun appeared over the ocean, bathing the beach in salmon-colored light and backlighting the palm trees that led down the street to the Diaz estate. Marco De Santis had pushed the mattress onto the balcony and now studied the property through the rifle scope, making incremental adjustments from his belly.
He’d never failed to deliver a job on time, but Ana Diaz had the best security he’d ever seen. Better than Antonio Greco, the mob boss who was his first sanctioned hit back home, and better than Alvin Meyers. An interesting commentary on America, he thought, that a financier and drug kingpin should have better security than a former Vice President. Made him wonder who runs the country after all.
Despite her security, Ana Diaz had one weakness: the sun. As it set the night before, she’d stood for a moment on a west-facing balcony to admire it as it dipped behind a hotel, disappearing for the last time. He’d made the mistake of taking a bathroom break at the wrong moment. Her head had disappeared from view the moment he’d put hand to weapon.
Now, two men appeared in front of the estate, pacing the street. He studied their linen suits through the rifle scope. No bulges for weapons. Just patrolling. He moved his sight back to the upper floor, where he suspected the bedrooms were.
He’d never been one to brood on the past, but only hours from retirement, he allowed his mind to wander. He’d grown up on a little farm near the French border in Northern Italy. As a boy, he’d hunted rabbits and deer, which his father had taught him to skin and his mother—bucking tradition—had taught him to cook. His mother, he believed, was the best cook in the world. And since she had no daughters, she’d been insistent that little Marco learn how to properly sear venison loin, and braise rabbit in wine and herbs from their kitchen garden.
At twelve, his father had allowed him to enter his first shooting contest, a local event where his biggest competition had been an old man who’d fought in World War II. He’d won easily. The next year, at thirteen, he’d won the competition for the state of Aosta. He dreamed of representing Italy in the Olympics, and had been saving up for a competition rifle when his mother died. What happened next was his sharpest memory, his worst memory, but it was as though the memory had been chopped apart, the pieces tossed into the air. It came to him in fragments. Two men had come to his father’s farm. He’d overheard them shouting at his father about money. Something about his mother owing them. Something about an uncle he didn’t know.
A few days later, he wa
s lying on his back in the barn, staring through a crack in the slatted wooden roof when he’d heard a gunshot. Running out, he crashed straight into the arms of one of the men. Before he knew it, he was in the back of a car. He never saw the farm again.
He still wasn’t entirely sure what happened. He’d been able to piece together that his parents owed money to the men who’d taken him. Or, more likely, to the boss of the men who’d taken him. They’d killed his parents and taken little Marco to pay the debt.
Between the age of thirteen and his escape at age thirty, he killed sixty-five men and two women for the Fidanzati family in Northern Italy. For most of that time, he’d been treated like a member of the family. He’d become a legend. But he’d always known he was a captive.
On the second floor of the sprawling beachfront home, a door opened. A woman appeared on a balcony that faced the ocean. Eye in the scope, he moved his finger to the trigger.
He exhaled.
Not Ana Diaz.
The woman’s pale white skin and red hair gave this away immediately. He took his eye from the scope to get a wider view. She was young and wore a brown uniform. A maid or servant of some kind. Moving around a potted lemon tree, she set orange juice and a plate of fruit on a small metal table. Next she set out an iPad, a napkin, silverware. Setting out breakfast for the queen.
From his vantage point, he saw the tip of a metal chair facing the ocean and the rising sun. He trained the rifle about six inches above the spot where the chair back ended. Assuming this breakfast was for her, Ana Diaz’s head would appear soon.
15
Cole spotted the two security guards as she hopped out of the taxi. They wore different linen suits today—the smaller one in pale green and the larger in salmon orange—but their bald heads and sunglasses made them unmistakeable.
Warren hung back as she rushed up to them.
The one in the green suit recognized her. “We told you to stay away, lady.”
“Ana Diaz is in trouble.”
The other approached and she put a hand on his shoulder. “Lady Chicharrón. Money Bags. Your boss. Someone is trying to kill her.”
They exchanged looks. She had their attention now. “Who the hell are you, lady?”
“That doesn’t matter right now. Raj Ambani, Alvin Meyers, the assassinations. Your boss is next.”
“Our boss is safe inside these gates. Ain’t no one getting by us.”
Cole turned on her heels, waving wildly at the row of hotels lining Ocean Drive. “Sniper killed Ambani and Meyers. Could be up there right now.”
Warren wasn’t behind her. He was half a block away, wandering toward the hotels. She followed him, pausing only long enough to say to the guards, “Just make sure she’s safe in there.”
* * *
Given the security at the estate, Warren knew that a shot from distance was Maiale al Tartufo’s only option. His eyes had landed on the hotels immediately. He was no sniper himself, but he knew how they thought: height and angle. What spot would get the best view of the estate from above and give a shooter the most possible angles?
He settled on a section of three hotels a couple blocks up and took off at a jog, leaving Cole behind. The hotel in the center was off-white, and each room facing the beach had a balcony. Five stories up, he saw it.
He almost missed it at first because the mattress was only barely visible on the balcony. But on the mattress was a man. And the man had a rifle trained on the estate.
* * *
De Santis saw her black hair first.
He had the shot as she emerged onto the balcony, but opted to wait until she sat. She was short and a little younger than he’d expected. And she walked with the confidence of the most powerful person in Miami, moving around the table and sipping her orange juice as though the beach and the sun and the cool breeze had been created just for her. Next, she reached her hands to the sky and stood on her tiptoes. Some kind of yoga pose, maybe.
It was rare, he thought, for a woman to amass so much power so young. Never would have happened back home.
She sat and began reading something on the iPad. She leaned forward slightly so, from his angle, the front of her head disappeared behind a gutter. Only the back portion of her head was visible, but it was enough.
Legs spread to help absorb the shock from the fifty-cal's recoil, De Santis clicked off the safety, took a last breath, and let it out slowly. Time was, he had to consciously settle himself down before a shot. Not anymore. Just a deep breath in, a long breath out, and stillness filled his body.
He pulled the trigger once, heard the click of the striker like his senses were on fire. A fraction of a second later, Ana Diaz’s brains splattered onto the lemon tree behind her.
He’d taken off the back of her head.
* * *
Cole heard screams from the direction of the estate.
She turned. The security guards raced through the gate.
More screams. She hadn’t heard a gunshot, but Warren’s head was aimed up. Up at the balcony. He was a block ahead of her, sprinting toward the hotel, and she followed.
* * *
De Santis set the rifle on the mattress and pulled it back inside the hotel room. Next he stowed the weapon in his duffel bag, closed the sliding glass door, and walked out.
Riding the elevator to the ground floor, he pulled a flip phone out of the bag and sent a text to the only number programmed into it: It’s done.
He broke the phone in half as he stepped out of the elevator. Avoiding the main lobby, he ducked out a side door next to the bathrooms. Screams came from the direction of the estate a few blocks away, but they made little impression on him.
He dropped the phone in a storm drain and unlocked the door of a red Toyota Camry.
* * *
Warren raced through the lobby of the hotel. The shot had taken place less than two minutes earlier, and he had a choice. Take the stairs, ride the elevator, or hang in the lobby. De Santis would be out of the room by now, probably executing a planned escape.
A red Camry passed by a glass door that led to the parking lot. There was something about the man driving it.
Warren dashed through the door, then slowed and walked casually. The Camry was stuck behind a couple with kids dragging suitcases across the parking lot. The man driving it was alone. He was tanned, with short black hair and a couple days worth of stubble. It was the man from the balcony.
“Rob!”
He turned, startled. Cole was beside him.
An airport shuttle van was parked across the lot, idling, doors open. A uniformed man strolled across the lot toward the hotel, whistling and staring into a styrofoam coffee cup.
The Camry turned onto Ocean Drive.
Warren nodded toward the van. “Let’s go.”
16
In the stolen airport shuttle van, they followed Maiale Da Tartufo across the Biscayne Bay Causeway into Wynwood. It was early still, but traffic was beginning to pick up.
Warren said, “Call the police. 9-1-1. Next we’ll call the FBI.” He shook his head. “I never should have let you talk me into keeping what we knew private. That ends now.”
Cole opened her mouth to object, but nothing came out. He was right. They had to release the map and tell the FBI everything they knew.
While Warren navigated the Christmas shopping traffic, careful to stay two to three cars behind the Camry, Cole dialed 9-1-1. When a voice came on the line—“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”—she didn’t know where to begin.
“Ana Diaz was just shot at her estate on Ocean Drive. My colleague and I were nearby at the time and we believe we’re on the tail of the man who killed her. He’s driving a red Toyota Camry and, hold on…” She turned to Warren. “Did you get a plate number?” He shook his head and Cole continued. “We don’t have a plate number, but we’re on Northwest Twelfth street, heading north.” After a minute on hold, Cole gave the dispatcher her phone number.
“My guess,” Warren said, “is
that they’ll already have a bunch of units heading to the estate. May take a minute for them to get here.”
“Call the FBI?” Cole asked.
Warren maneuvered around a double parked delivery truck. “Yeah, but not Bakari Smith.”
“Goes without saying. I’d rather not just call the tip line, though.”
“Don’t you have any contacts there?” he asked
“Don’t you?”
“Bakari was my contact there.” He considered for a minute. “What about Bacon and Ubwe? The JTTF guys. They’re NYPD but they’ll know how to get someone fast.” He held his phone up to his face to unlock it, and handed it to her.
She found Ubwe’s number and dialed, but it went to voicemail. “This is Jane Cole. I met you with Robert Warren at The High Line in New York. We need an FBI contact ASAP. Someone who can actually make things happen. Call back.”
“He’s probably avoiding us,” Warren said. “I wonder if he knows Bacon gave us the tip that took us to Miami.”
