Deep Six

by D P Lyle

  “Not really.” Morgan glanced at Starks and then back to Ray. “You know a couple guys, brothers actually, names Darrell and Darnell Wilbanks?”

  “Don’t sound familiar. Why?”

  “Friends of Raul’s. According to the lady next door about the only ones that ever visited him. She’d last seen them a couple of days ago.”

  “You have a sit-down with them?” Ray asked.

  “Not yet. Went to their apartment. No one there. I’ll check back later.”

  “You think they might be connected to this?” Jake asked.

  “Maybe, maybe not. We’ll run them down and see. At least that might connect a few dots. Raul’s business, habits, other friends, that kind of thing.”

  “Anything we can do to help?” Ray asked.

  “Yeah. Stay home. I don’t want to find any more bodies in your wake.”

  “Funny.”

  “That’s me. A funny guy.” Morgan didn’t laugh, or even smile. “But there might be something you can do.”

  “What?”

  “You know a guy named Victor Borkov?”

  “Vaguely. Heard the name.”

  “He’s some badass criminal type from down in Naples. Probably connected to the cartels. Don’t know that for sure, but that’s the scuttlebutt.”

  “What’s his connection here?”

  “Probably none. But he and Henry were locked in some bidding war over a piece or property. Down near Panama City. Both want to develop a resort there.”

  “I see,” Ray said.

  “And Walter was doing the legal work on the deal for Henry.”

  “Really?”

  “Seems they about had it done when Borkov threw a wrench in the deal. According to Henry he ran off a couple of Henry’s investors.”

  “I take it we’re talking adult money here?” Jake asked.

  “Eight figures.”

  Jake whistled. “A motive right there.”

  “Any connection between Raul and this Borkov character?” Ray asked.

  Morgan shook his head. “Not that we know. But, if he was anything like his brother Santiago, and if Victor Borkov is anything like the rumors about him, Raul would be the kind of dirtball Borkov might use for unpleasant work. Expendable. Foreign national. Able to slip back across the border when need be. Who knows, maybe Raul was tied to the cartels and through them to Borkov.”

  “Any evidence that Borkov’s hooked in with the cartels?” Jake asked.

  Morgan scratched an ear. “Nothing hard. Not yet, anyway. But such a connection wouldn’t be too far in the weeds.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” Ray asked.

  “Check him out. Off the radar.”

  “He that scary?”

  Morgan laughed. “So I hear. But mostly connected. All the way to Tallahassee from what I understand. An official inquiry might raise his hackles.”

  “Or tip him off?”

  “That, too. If he’s involved, I’d rather take a run at him after I know more. Catch him off-guard. I was hoping with all your underground contacts you might be able to find out a few things without him knowing.”

  “So he’s a suspect?” Ray asked.

  “Everybody’s a suspect. Including you two.”

  “Since you asked so nicely, how could I refuse?” Ray said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THE HOLMAN CORRECTIONAL Facility hung just off I-65 an hour north of Mobile near the town of Atmore, Alabama. It’s the home, some temporary, others permanent, of nearly a thousand bad guys, somewhere north of a hundred and fifty of them stacking time on death row. It’s not a pleasant place, violence being a staple among the inmates and the basic character flaw that led most of them through its gates, including one Santiago Gomez.

  The brilliant Santiago had set up a drug sale of considerable weight in the parking lot of a convenience store. Two kilos at five K per, Santiago paying the cook only two K per kilo. Driven by his entrepreneurial spirit and a healthy dose of greed, Santiago wasn’t content with the substantial profit he’d make, deciding he could easily walk away with both the cash and the drugs. Only needed to pump a couple of rounds in the buyer. In broad daylight. Not noticing the three witnesses and the strategically placed security cameras. Even Walter couldn’t save him from that degree of stupidity.

  I drove, Ray busying himself with phone calls during the trip. Mainly to his connections in the FBI, DEA, ATF, and the rest of the alphabet soup of governmental agencies. Pointing them in the direction of Victor Borkov, asking that they dig into his life. A couple were at least initially hesitant, not wanting to jeopardize their positions, others were “on board” immediately, but in the end all agreed to see what they could uncover.

  Ray had earlier reached out to the Holman warden, whom he knew from past cases, and arranged a sit-down with Santiago. A sergeant named Will Moffitt met us at the entrance and introductions were made beneath the watchful eye of a rifle-toting guard in a sturdy tower to our right. Moffitt then escorted us inside the stark facility. It was midafternoon and the yard was filled with gen-pop inmates, some pumping up their tattooed physiques, some tossing a baseball around, most sitting around in racially-segregated groups talking and smoking. Unfriendly eyes followed our every step.

  Once we made our way through the clanging doors and snapping locks, Moffitt led us to a windowless, gray-walled interrogation room, where Santiago sat cuffed to an anchored table. He wore loose white pants and shirt, hard sinewy arms covered with black prison tats protruding from the sleeves, which were rolled up to his shoulders. He looked up as we entered.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Santiago asked. His eyes were scary black and shifted rapidly between Ray and me.

  “These gentlemen have a few questions for you,” Moffitt said.

  Santiago never looked at Moffitt, as if acknowledging his existence was a sign of weakness. In Santiago’s world that was probably true. Instead, he kept his glare focused on Ray and me.

  “What if I don’t feel like talking?” Santiago said.

  “Then sit there and look stupid,” Moffitt said, playing his role in the power struggle between guard and inmate. Then to us, “I’ll be right outside. Just holler if you need anything.” He exited, locking the door behind him.

  We took the chairs opposite Santiago. Ray did the introductions.

  “So you got names. Don’t mean nothing to me.”

  “We want to chat about your brother,” Ray said.

  “You the ones that killed him?”

  “You know about that, huh?”

  “I got my sources.”

  Interesting. Raul’s body had barely reached ambient temperature and Santiago already knew about it. It crossed my mind that the criminal world might have its own Wi-Fi grid. More likely, one of the guards heard about it and used that bit of information to grind Santiago a little bit. Life in the Holman lockup.

  Ray nodded. “No, we didn’t have anything to do with that but we are trying to find his killer.”

  “You cops?”

  “Private,” I said.

  “Why’re you interested in Raul?”

  “We’re looking into something else. Something Raul might’ve known about.”

  “I don’t know anything about Raul’s business.”

  “Wasn’t Raul here about a week ago?” Ray asked.

  “So?”

  “So, maybe he mentioned something he was into. Something that got him killed.”

  Blank stare punctuated with a smirk. “What? You think I’d tell you anything, anyway?”

  “Depends on whether you want to know who killed your brother,” I said.

  “Don’t guess that matters much now.” He smiled. “Until I get out of here.”

  “I suspect that’s the kind of thinking that put you here in the first place,” Ray said.

  “We take care of our own. Don’t need no PI, and damn sure don’t need no cops to help with that.”

  I leaned my elbows on the table. “Just a few question
s, and we’ll be out of here and you can go back to doing whatever you do with your day.”

  “Not much. Not here, anyway.”

  “When Raul was here, did he mention any new gig he might have?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Nothing?”

  “We don’t talk much business in here. The guards listen in on everything.”

  “He didn’t mention any new deals?” Ray asked. “New associates? New suppliers? Anything like that?”

  “Suppliers of what?”

  Ray leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Look, Santiago, we can tap-dance if you want but a few answers might crack Raul’s murder wide open. Don’t you think he’d want that?”

  Santiago hesitated, his gaze moving to me and then back to Ray. “Yeah. He had a new gig as you say. But I don’t know nothing about it. Just that he expected to make a bunch of coin from it.”

  “Drugs?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “Maybe Darrell and Darnell Wilbanks?” I asked.

  Nothing.

  “You know them?”

  “Sure. They the ones that did Raul?”

  “Possible,” Ray said.

  Santiago shook his head. “Those two could’ve never got the best of Raul. Too stupid.”

  “Stupid people do stupid things,” Ray said.

  Santiago offered a half smile. “That’s true. This place is full of them.”

  “Tell us about the Wilbanks brothers,” I said.

  “They’re friends of Raul’s. Not mine. I told him so, too. Told him they would fuck up anything they touched.”

  “Did his new deal include them?”

  “Don’t know. All he said was that he’d roll in some cash and maybe get me a better lawyer. Maybe get a new trial.”

  “You had a good lawyer,” Ray said. “Maybe the best.”

  “Walter Horton? He’s a loser. Out for the money. Didn’t give a half a shit about me.”

  “Your case would’ve required a miracle.”

  “A good lawyer can do that.” His eyes narrowed. “You know Horton?”

  “Sure do,” Ray said.

  “Good. Tell him I won’t be in here forever.”

  “I suspect he knows that.”

  Santiago cocked his head to one side. “Horton the one that sent you here?”

  I ignored the question. Ray did, too. Be cool.

  “You know a guy named Victor Borkov?” Ray asked.

  “Everybody knows Borkov.”

  “How so?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “But Borkov dabbles in the drug business, doesn’t he?”

  Santiago shrugged.

  “Do you think he was part of Raul’s new deal?” I asked.

  “I told you, I don’t know nothing about it.”

  “Would it surprise you if he were?”

  He raised his eyebrows and one shoulder. “Nothing surprises me.”

  “He never used Borkov’s name when you two talked?”

  “Told you. We don’t say shit in here.” He leaned forward enough to scratch his nose, the cuff chains rattling before stretching taut. “All he said was it was some ‘big deal dude.’”

  “When did he say this new deal was going down?” Ray asked.

  “You don’t listen so well, do you? We don’t talk details. Might as well tell it to the guards.” He yawned. “I’m bored. And that’s all I got to say, anyway.”

  The next ten minutes were filled with questions but no answers, Santiago deciding to be tough-guy quiet.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “TELL ME ABOUT this real estate deal you think Borkov blew up,” Ray said.

  “Don’t think,” Henry said. “Know it for a fact.”

  “You got proof?”

  “Victor Borkov isn’t the kind to leave behind proof.”

  Ray had called Henry as I sped back down I-65 toward the coast. Told him to round up Walter for a chat. So now Ray, Henry, Walter, and I were huddled around a teak table on Henry’s deck. The afternoon sun hung out over the Gulf, peeking between two wads of puffy white clouds and laying down a bright reflective strip aimed in our direction. The breeze was soft and warm.

  I tugged my Texas Rangers cap down, shading my eyes from the sun. “Morgan said something about Borkov running off investors. Something like that happen?”

  Henry nodded. “Sure did. A couple of them backed out at the last minute.”

  “Because of Borkov?”

  Another nod. “Took a bit of pleading, but one of them told me that Borkov had sent by a couple of guys to scare him off.”

  “Scare off with money or threats?” Ray asked.

  “Borkov doesn’t waste money. Apparently these guys said my guy would be better off if he dropped out of the consortium I had working. Said his family, particularly his teenage daughter, would benefit from such a decision.”

  “These two guys?” I asked. “He say who they were?”

  “No. Said both were bad-looking pieces of work. One was tall and thin with shaggy blond hair, the other a muscle-bound, tattooed Hispanic. Both scary.”

  “So he backed out?”

  “Ran away as fast as he could.”

  “Killing the deal?” I asked.

  “Let’s say damaging the prospects. I had five guys lined up. Ten million each. With two dropping out, it set things back a bit. Until I can replace them, anyway.”

  “So Borkov hasn’t completely won yet?” I asked.

  “No. But he’s leading the race.” Henry massaged his neck. “This property is special. On the water near Panama City. Right next door to my current development. Perfect for a major resort hotel and a couple of golf courses. The owner prefers to work with me and not Borkov but mostly he wants to turn the property and get his investment back. Plus a healthy profit, of course. So, no, Borkov hasn’t won yet.”

  Walter said nothing, but nodded his agreement.

  Ray leaned his elbows on the table. “So, if Borkov could eliminate you, the owner would have to deal with him.”

  Henry looked out toward the beach, unfocused, before returning his gaze to Ray. “You think Borkov was behind Barbara’s murder?”

  Ray shrugged. “His name has popped up.”

  “Why kill Barbara? What would that do for him?”

  “Maybe he thought you were home. Or maybe he just wanted to deliver a message. Like he did with your two investors.”

  Henry’s eyes glistened. He stood, walked to the rail, and leaned on it, his gaze out over the water.

  I watched him for a minute, trying to think of something comforting to say but coming up empty. Then, to Walter, I said, “Morgan said you did the legal work on this project.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Any problems on your end?”

  “None. We had it all wrapped up when Borkov pulled his stunt.”

  “Did you ever meet him? Borkov?”

  “Couple of times.”

  “And?”

  “Tough character. One of those you just know isn’t going to follow the rules. Arrogant, confident. A ruthless negotiator. He did all the negotiations himself. Didn’t show up to either meeting with council.”

  “Was he ever threatening toward you?” Ray asked.

  “Not directly. But the way he looked at you, you just knew he wasn’t the type you messed with.”

  Henry sat down again. “If he did do this, how are you going to proceed?”

  “Carefully,” Ray said. “We’ll see what we can dig up on him and then see how it plays out.”

  “Anything we—Walter and I—can do?”

  Ray shrugged. “Sit tight. Stay low. If he contacts either of you, let me know.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  NICOLE AND I sat on the deck at Captain Rocky’s, corner table, nursing a second round of margaritas, Nicole demolishing the better part of a basket of chips and a bowl of salsa. The sun had set and a cool breeze lifted off the Gulf. A smattering of stars dotted the W
estern sky, now holding only a hint of Prussian blue. Nicole wore a yellow windbreaker over her black tank top, her hair pulled back into a ponytail.

  Ray and Pancake showed up and barely got seated before Carla Martinez approached.

  “What can I get you guys?” Carla asked.

  Ray rum and coke; Pancake a Corona.

  “I’m starving,” Nicole said. “How about some fish tacos?”

  “A basket of chips not enough?” I asked.

  She laughed. “Good sex will make you hungry.”

  “Must have been with someone other than Jake,” Pancake said.

  “Funny,” I said.

  “Poor baby.” Nicole reached over and massaged the back of my neck. “It was great. Stupendous even.”

  Carla appeared with the drinks. “Tacos’ll be out in a minute.”

  A group of alcohol-infused women, about a dozen, waved to her, raising empty glasses, and Carla headed that way. They sat at the other end of the deck around three four-tops they had pushed together. Some celebration for sure. From the empty margarita pitchers and glasses that littered the tables, it looked like they were going to make a sizable dent in my rent. God bless tequila.

  “To business,” Ray said. He nodded to Pancake. “Tell them what we have so far.”

  Pancake pulled a folder from his canvas bag and flipped it open. “Borkov’s a real multitasker. Into drugs, of course. Looks to have cartel connections. The Sinaloa group. And recently real estate. Seems to be new at that game. He’s bought up a bunch of property over the past five years or so.”

  “Trying to play legitimate?” I asked.

  “Or launder money,” Ray said.

  Pancake took several healthy gulps of beer. “You can pick up some fine property on the cheap—below market value—if you slip a million or two into the right pockets. Off the radar as it were.”

  “That’s what he does?” Nicole asked.

  Pancake nodded. “Slipped unscathed through a couple of Fed bribery and bank fraud investigations. One in Miami, the other in Naples. The talk was he paid off the presiding judges, but no one could ever prove it.” Another slug of beer. “Then there’s the hits he’s supposedly put together. Never got popped for any of that either. Worse, he’s apparently been involved in sex trafficking.”