Steve grinned. “Look here,” he said, pointing to a box in the middle of the arrangement of boxes on the paper.
J.D. frowned. “Caleb Picket?”
“Think about it,” said Steve. “You arrested him, humiliated him in front of all his friends, the people he was fleecing, and ruined his life. Or at least he might see it that way.”
“Okay,” said J.D., “but he wasn’t involved in the whale—” She stopped mid-sentence, her face going blank. I could see the idea starting to percolate in her brain. It was coming together for her, the pieces of the puzzle starting to fall into place. Except for one.
“But he’s dead,” she said. “Even if he was the whale tail killer and wanted his revenge on me, he’s dead.”
“Maybe he’s reaching out from the grave,” I said.
“Don’t be silly,” J.D. said.
“Figuratively speaking,” I said. “Maybe revenge is his legacy. He could have arranged for these guys to take care of you after he died.”
“And what’s in it for them?” J.D. asked. I could tell her skepticism was wavering a bit. She was trying to get her head around it.
“Picket stole a lot of money from his friends,” I said, “and none of it was ever recovered. Maybe he’s paying these ex-cons somehow.”
“There’s more,” Steve said. “Our boy Worthington shared a cell with Picket for the last few years that Worthington was at Glades. Qualman and the others spent a great deal of time with Picket in the exercise yard as well. Maybe Picket was the high priest and the others were the acolytes.”
Jock had been sitting quietly, listening. “Steve,” he said, “any idea on how the Guatemalans fit into this?”
“That’s the wild card,” Steve said. “They don’t make sense.”
“What about Gene Alexander?” Jock asked.
“He doesn’t fit either,” said Steve. “Maybe the two things aren’t connected.”
“Then why were the gangbangers after J.D.? Or me?” I asked.
“Good question,” said Jock. “Maybe my people will have some answers later today.”
Just then, Jock’s laptop pinged, and pages started dropping from the attached printer.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Jeff Worthington was in big trouble. He’d panicked when Royal showed up at his door, and he’d run. The controller would see this as a failure, and Jeff didn’t want to think about what the consequences of that would be.
He’d stashed the bike behind his condo in case he ever needed to make a quick escape. Maybe he shouldn’t have spooked so easily when Royal knocked on his door. The only concern he’d had about playing lawyer was that someday a real attorney would question him on some point of law. He hadn’t really expected that to happen and certainly not this soon.
Damn Royal. If he’d only come into the apartment, he would have died there on the floor. Jeff would have used his knife and carved him up right there in the living room. No noise, no nosey neighbors wondering about a gunshot. But Royal had balked. How had he given Royal any reason not to trust him? Well, it couldn’t be undone. He needed to call the controller, get out in front of the storm that he knew was coming. Maybe he could convince the controller that it wasn’t his fault.
Worthington reached in his pocket for his cell phone. It was gone. He checked the other pocket, his mind sending signals of panic to his adrenal glands, flooding his system with hormones triggering his flight instincts. If he’d lost the phone, he was dead. He didn’t know how to contact the controller. The number was in his phone, and he’d never bothered to memorize it.
Oh, shit, he thought. The phone. If the cops found it, they’d be able to track his calls, maybe even find the controller. God, he was a dead man.
Worthington had left the condo and run east on Fruitville Road. He had followed it blindly for twenty miles. He seemed to have ridden right out of civilization, the road running straight through flat open space. He’d pulled to the side of the road to think, to figure out what he could do to salvage his situation.
Worthington knew he was a resourceful guy, but there were limits on what he could do. He only had the money that the controller deposited in his bank account when he needed it. He couldn’t even get to that account without alerting the controller and, probably now, the cops. He checked his wallet. He had a couple of hundred dollars in cash and three credit cards, two in the name of Ben Flagler and another that he’d set up right after he’d gotten out of prison. It was in the name of an inmate he’d befriended at Glades named James Barber. He’d used the card on a regular basis, paid the bills on time and developed a credit line of five thousand dollars. He could survive for a couple of months if he was careful, but after that he’d be broke.
He had no place to go. Glades Correctional Institution had been his home for the past fifteen years. Before that, he’d lived on the streets of Tampa. He knew nobody there anymore. Maybe Orlando. He’d heard that the city had a pretty large underground economy, lots of illegal aliens working construction and in the groves that had so far escaped the bulldozer. The fifty million tourists that visited every year would help him disappear into the crowds.
His heart rate was slowing as he brought his fear under control. He had to think, figure a way out of this. The name, Geoff Woodsley, skittered across his brain, almost too fast for him to catch it. He thought some more, bringing Woodsley back into focus. That was the name he’d used in Tampa before he killed the bouncer and went to jail under his own name. That was the alias he’d so painstakingly set up so that he could get into the real estate business. He laughed out loud. What a stupid idea. But it might have worked, and there would have been no prison, no deaths, no need for him to kill middle-aged women. He had never thought much about why that held such allure to him. Perhaps it was a mommy fixation. Maybe since she’d never given him any love or guidance or even a little bit of her time, maybe, just maybe, it was his sense of control that he had over the dead women that gave him such a warm feeling. The dead were at his command. They couldn’t do anything, and they never complained about what he did to them.
He sat, pondering how he might reactivate the Woodsley persona. Was it possible? It had been foolproof when he set it up. Would it still work? He knew that most of the documents, like the passport and the driver’s license, would be outdated, expired. But he had a valid birth certificate in Woodsley’s name. He could use a cash advance on the credit card in James Barber’s name to rent an apartment and get the utilities’ deposit paid. He’d then have a utility bill in Woodsley’s name to back up his claim of residence. The big question now was whether he could find the documents. He knew where he’d hidden them, but he didn’t know if the place was still there.
If he could find the original forged documents, it might work, but how would he explain his absence since the expiration of the license and passport? He’d need the driver’s license as an ID before he tried to rent an apartment. Once he had that, he could use the expired passport for a second ID. If he needed to leave the country, he would be able to renew the passport with a copy of his birth certificate and the old passport. He’d work on that, but right now he needed money. And the controller had a lot of it. The problem was, he didn’t know who the controller was or where to find him. He’d think on that while he rode to Tampa, where he hoped to find the Woodsley documents.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Jock read the pages as they spewed from the printer. There were twelve of them, double-spaced. He brought them back to the table, still reading, absorbing the information. “Our guys hit the jackpot in New Orleans,” he said. “They got the letters that the hit man Cantreras had saved, the ones from the man who paid him for the murders. There was one fingerprint on the inside of one of the flaps that didn’t belong to Cantreras. They got a hit. It belongs to one of the big guys in a drug cartel that has been on the DEA’s radar for the past year. They’ve found his prints at a couple of murder scenes that were definitely the result of drug deals gone bad. The prints belong to a dead
guy named Raul Escondido, who was killed in a drug deal in Miami twenty years ago. He’s obviously not dead, but they don’t know what name he’s using now. DEA thinks the guy’s pretty high up in the chain of command.”
“What about the bartender where Cantreras gets his messages?” I asked.
“His name’s Stout,” said Jock. “He was a big help. He said that he didn’t know the name of the guy who hired Cantreras, but he knew he pulled a lot of weight in one of the smaller cartels that seems to be gaining ground on the big ones. Escondido and Stout had gone to high school together in Miami.”
“How can Stout be sure it’s the same guy?” Steve asked.
“He said Escondido came to see him about two years ago. There was no question that it was Raul. He had a scar on his neck that was pretty unusual, and he and the bartender spent a lot of time remembering old times.”
“Why now?” asked J.D. “I mean, why Escondido come out of the woodwork a couple of years ago? How did he explain to the bartender that he was still alive?”
“Raul wanted something,” said Jock. “He told Stout that he needed a place to drop messages and money with somebody he could trust. Stout was paid well for what he did, but he also understood that Raul would kill him if he didn’t do what he was supposed to do. Raul told Stout that one of his buddies was killed in the drug deal in Miami twenty years ago, and the cops had made a mistake and identified the body as his. He thought that would be a good time to drop out of sight. Acquire a new identity.”
“Anything on the phone your guys found at Flagler’s condo?” I asked.
“Yeah. The phone was a burner, one of those disposable prepaid things. The only number he called was in Miami and it belongs to another burner. We followed up on the Miami end, and found the cell towers that the signals from that phone bounced off of. We can’t pinpoint the phone, but if it’s used again, we’ll have it. The National Security Agency has its ears on it.”
“You got the NSA involved?” asked Steve, his voice carrying a hint of incredulity.
“My boss did, actually, or the deputy director,” said Jock. “The director’s been in London for the past couple of days on some big emergency, but they’re pulling in everything they can to find whoever killed Nell Alexander.”
“What do you think the chances are of intercepting that phone call?” asked Steve. “It seems pretty far-fetched, if you ask me.”
“Not for the NSA,” Jock said. “They can track any phone call in the world if they set their minds to it. In this case, there were daily calls made between the phone in Miami and the one we found at Flagler’s place. Usually late in the afternoon. Our people are thinking that the Miami connection will call this afternoon. If NSA can home in on that number, we’ll have the guy on the other end.”
“Then what?” I asked.
“DEA has a team standing by near the cell towers that we know were used for the calls. If NSA can pinpoint the phone’s location, the team will move in.”
“What is going to happen to Cantreras and the bartender?” asked J.D.
“They didn’t say,” said Jock, “and I didn’t ask. My guess is that Stout will spend a few years in jail. Cantreras won’t be so lucky. You don’t kill one of ours and keep breathing.”
“The law of the jungle,” said J.D., a look of disgust on her face.
Jock looked at her, coldly, held her eyes for a moment and said, “That’s where I live, J.D. In the jungle.”
The call came in just before five. Jock moved out to the patio and talked for a few moments. He came back into the living room. “They got him.”
There was a collective sigh in the room. “Who is he?” J.D. asked.
“I don’t have all the details yet,” said Jock, “but he’s some kind of financial advisor. Has an office in one of those high-rise buildings overlooking Biscayne Bay. His name is George Perez.”
“Did they find the burner phone?” I asked.
“In his pants pocket,” said Jock.
“Did he have anything to say for himself?” asked J.D.
“Yeah,” said Jock. “He said, ‘I want a lawyer.’”
“I don’t guess that’s going to happen,” I said.
Jock frowned. “Unfortunately, it’s a DEA bust, and he’ll get his lawyer. If we’d taken him down, it’d be a different story.”
“His arrest may not do us any good then,” I said.
“The DEA’s going for a warrant. They’ll take his office apart, and we’ll see what they find. We should know something by morning.”
“I think we need a drink,” I said. “It’s been a long day.”
“I’ll pass,” said Steve. “I need to stop by the physical therapist’s office before I go home. He’s got some new exercises for me to start on.”
I looked at J.D. She nodded. “Haye Loft?” I asked. She nodded again.
Jock said, “Why don’t I leave you to it? I’ve got some calls to make. Call me later, and I’ll meet you for dinner.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Eric Bell was behind the bar at the Haye Loft, right where he’d been for the last twenty years. He’d just opened the place and was alone, getting things ready for the crush that would come with the evening. “Hey, guys,” he said. “Miller Lite and a Chardonnay?”
“That’ll do,” I said. “How’re you doing, Eric?”
“Couldn’t be better. I hear somebody’s hunting you two. You okay?”
“So far,” said J.D. “I’ve got my protector with me.”
Eric laughed. “Everybody on the island thinks it’s the other way around, that you’re protecting Matt.”
“Well,” she said, “he’s still breathing.”
We took a table in the corner, and Eric brought our drinks over. J.D. took the first sip of her wine and sighed. “I think it’s more the thought of the booze than the actual stuff. Just one sip and I’m feeling better. What do you make of all this?”
I shrugged. “Beats me. Why would a money manager be talking to a phony lawyer in Sarasota every day? I don’t think it had to do with financial advice.”
“This guy Perez is tied into the whale tail murders somehow. Maybe he’s the one who killed those women in Miami. What I don’t get, is where he’s been for the past twelve years. Serial killers don’t just stop for no reason.”
“Good question. Maybe we’ll have some answers tomorrow after the DEA goes through all his stuff.”
“You know, Matt,” she said, “I’m not comfortable with Jock’s methods. I understand the need for agencies like his and I understand that there’re times when the law stands in the way of getting information, like now. I don’t always like that, but I think it’s those laws that separate us from the barbarians that rule large parts of the world. The rule of law is important, and it makes us who we are as Americans. But sometimes, like now, I think Jock’s way is better. If his people had taken Perez down, we’d probably be getting lots of information already.”
I smiled. “You don’t really believe that,” I said.
She was quiet for a couple of beats, pensive. “No, I guess not, but sometimes that approach appeals to me. I get so tired of the restrictions, the way the law gets in the way of law enforcement.”
“Maybe the law just keeps the cops honest,” I said.
“It does. Without question. But it is cumbersome.”
“So is democracy.”
J.D. nodded. “We’re a strange people. The whole human race is deluded. A large number of us are killers and thieves and even many of the good people are always just one step removed from doing something awful. Our politicians cater to those who get them elected and don’t seem to have much regard for what is best for all of us. Some of them are outright crooks and a lot of them aren’t very bright. We’ve got crooked cops, crooked lawyers, crooked everything, and we don’t seem to get better as a species. The ancient Greeks and Romans and Egyptians faced the same problems we have today. Nothing ever really changes. What the hell is wrong with us?”
&
nbsp; “If anybody ever figures out how to fix that situation,” I said, “both you and I will be out of jobs.”
“You’re already out of a job,” she said.
“Well, there’s that.”
She laughed. “Maybe I could just become a beach bum. Like you.”
“Hey, don’t joke. It’s not a bad life.”
We ordered another round of drinks and watched the bar begin to fill up. Jock called and suggested we meet for dinner at Mar Vista. It would be pleasant under the trees. We finished our drinks and I left some bills on the table. We waved to Eric, and J.D. and I trooped down the steep outside stairs to the parking lot and into her Camry.
As we pulled out onto Gulf of Mexico Drive, her phone rang. She pressed the Bluetooth button on the steering wheel and answered.
“J.D., it’s Deanna Bichler. You got a minute?”
“Sure, but you’re on my hands-free phone and I’m not alone.”
“No problem. I need a favor.”
“If I can help, you know I will.”
“I’ve been retained to represent a man in Miami who’s accused of trying to kill you.”
“Perez?”
“Yes. You know about him?”
“Yeah. Long story. You’ve got to know I’m not in much of a mood to do any favors for him.”
“I don’t blame you, but listen to my proposition.”
“Okay,” said J.D. “Shoot.”
“Perez is willing to make a deal. He’ll tell the feds anything they want to know, including the part about trying to have you killed. I can’t get to the U.S. Attorney down here until tomorrow. He’s out of town or some such crap. Anyway, nobody in his office will touch this one. Apparently, it’s a real hot potato.”
“What can I do?” asked J.D.
“All I want is to get him into isolation tonight. He’s afraid he’ll be killed if he’s in general population. He’s on a federal hold at the Miami-Dade County jail. I was hoping you might be able to call in a favor with somebody in the jail and get Perez isolated for the night. Since you were the intended victim, I think you’d carry some weight. I’ll talk to the U.S. Attorney tomorrow, and I’m sure he’ll buy the deal.”
Fatal Decree Page 25
