by Garry Ryan
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 16
chapter 14
Lane sat in the bow. The fishing boat settled into a trough before climbing the rising swell. He felt a tap on his shoulder. Arthur smiled and handed him a cup of coffee. “Thanks.” Lane gripped the ceramic cup and took a sip. The cook really knows how to make good coffee. He looked out over the Sea of Cortez and the hazy outline of mainland Mexico’s coastline on the horizon.
Arthur pointed at the round-faced man in the wheelhouse. “He tried to explain something to me, but it was all in Spanish. I think he was saying something about a boat coming to pick us up.”
“I need to go back.” Lane closed his eyes and felt the breeze on his face.
“Are you nuts?”
Lane opened his eyes. “Fuentes will have contacts on the mainland. We stand out.” He lifted his eyebrows as he looked at Arthur. “The last place they’ll expect me is back in San José.”
“‘Me’?” Arthur watched Lane with an ominous intensity evidenced by the deepening wrinkles across his forehead.
“You’ll go home and I’ll go back.” Lane felt the certainty of his decision fade before his partner opened his mouth.
Arthur pointed his finger at Lane’s chest. “You think I’m going to go home while you go back?”
Lane nodded.
Arthur shook his head. “Where you go, I go. End of discussion. This is not negotiable. We’re going back together.”
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 17
chapter 15
They landed at Los Cabos airport in the rain. The clouds were grey and the overcast was solid. The wait for their checked baggage was unusually long. Lane shifted the strap of his carry-on bag while Arthur stayed next to him, scanning the people around them. A woman with a sleeping child in a stroller stood beside a man holding a nodding toddler to his chest.
A pair of men were led away by a uniformed guard. One man wore a backpack; both wore ball caps. The guard pointed down a side hallway, and a tourist close to Lane and Arthur laughed loudly. “Those two are going to get the rubber glove treatment.”
Arthur didn’t move. “That isn’t funny at all.”
Finally a man in blue coveralls began unloading the baggage. A dog sniffed along the rows of bags and suitcases. It stopped and barked. A police officer stopped to wrap a piece of luggage in a large green bag with white tape, then followed the dog as it moved ahead and barked once more.
Arthur pointed as one of their bags came around the conveyer. He hauled it off the belt while Lane spotted and grabbed the other. They walked side by side through the blinding blue lights and white walls of the timeshare gauntlet, through the sliding glass doors and outside into the heat.
They picked their way through the crowd of travellers, suitcases, drivers and hotel reps. Arthur led the way to a waiting gold Ford van. The driver leaned away from the fender. “You need a taxi?”
Lane read the man’s nameplate. “Yes, please, Roberto.”
Roberto took their bags and piled them inside the rear doors of the van. Lane and Arthur climbed in and sat next to each other. Roberto drove through town past car repair shops, restaurants, homes and businesses. Some of the intersections were under a foot of water and the vehicles slowed to plow their way through. They drove past the La Luna Cortez resort’s barricade and up to the front door. They climbed out and were immediately recognized by a busboy named Gerardo. He had a round, smiling face and powerful shoulders. While Arthur paid Roberto, Gerardo took the bags. “Come with me, señor.”
Lane waited for Arthur before following Gerardo. He set their bags on a trolley and led them through the lobby and into a room lined with windows along one wall. There were desks along three walls. A bottle of champagne sat chilling near a pillar in the middle of the room. “Thank you.” Lane handed Gerardo a five-dollar bill.
The porter shook his head. “No gracias. Mr. Gonzalez told me to watch out for you, that I should take you here, close the doors and wait with you.” He walked over and closed the French doors. “Please sit.” He gestured at the couch. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Cappuccinos?”
Gerardo lifted a phone receiver and spoke in rapid Spanish.
Arthur remained standing. Lane studied approaching foot traffic through the French doors.
Lane spotted a beefy black-haired man in a blue shirt, black pants and shoes. A pair of security guards who were taller, heftier and wearing white shirts with blue shoulder flashes flanked him. When he stood outside the door, Gerardo announced, “Mr. Gonzalez.”
Gonzalez opened the doors. One of the security guards remained outside. The other came inside with Gonzalez, who extended his hand. “Mucho gusto, Señor Lane, Señor Merali.”
When Lane stepped aside for Arthur to shake hands with Gonzalez, he saw the pearl-handled .45 on the security guard’s hip. Gonzalez placed an open palm on his chest. “My name is Aldo and this is Mario.”
Lane nodded. Arthur inhaled and released the breath slowly.
Gonzalez continued. “We must wait for someone who speaks better English. His name is Emir.”
A moment later, a slender young man arrived. “Yes, you asked for me?” Emir wore glasses and sized up Lane as he stepped into the room before glancing at Gonzalez and the armed security guard. Lane could see half moons of sweat under Emir’s arms as his eyes checked passersby.
Gonzalez said something in Spanish and Emir turned to Lane and Arthur. “He says he is a friend of Alejandro Ramirez and Alejandro asked us to watch out for you. He lost track of you and thought you might come back. The people you work for are worried and are waiting to hear from you.”
Lane said, “I saw the woman Fuentes had killed. I know about the fire. One of Fuentes’s associates recognized me.” He pointed at the men in the room, then at his chest. “It’s very dangerous for all of us if too many people know we came back.”
Emir translated, and they waited for Gonzalez to speak. Lane studied the man’s face and saw his brown eyes express both anger and grief. “This resort is owned by my family,” Gonzalez said.
Emir raised his eyes as Gonzalez reverted to Spanish. Emir waited, then said, “Celia Sanchez was Señor Gonzalez’s niece. He fired Ruben at the front desk because Ruben tried to cover up her murder and helped Fuentes get rid of Celia’s body. He understands that you were able to identify her body from photos you took?”
Lane nodded.
Emir asked, “Señor Gonzalez asks if it is possible that she is still alive? His sister has hopes because the body was not recovered.”
Lane shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Gonzalez nodded, then held his hand to his chest. He tried to speak, could not, then tucked his chin. It took at least a minute and several attempts for him to be able to speak.
Emir looked at Lane and Arthur. “He says that Fuentes is a pinche narco and whatever we can do to help you we will do. He says that Fuentes and a man named Luis Bonner, who owns a big house in Palmilla, pay off some of the local police. Palmilla has its own security force and the police don’t go there. Mr. Gonzalez also knows that Fuentes is responsible for the fire at La Luna Cortez.” Emir pointed in the direction of the elevators for effect.
Lane looked at Arthur. “You are asking us to put our lives in his hands.”
Emir listened, then said, “You returned. You can still go home. We live here. We risk not only our lives but the lives of our families.”
The door opened, and Alejandro walked into the room. He looked at Lane and Arthur. “What the fuck are you two doing back here?”
Arthur smiled. “Mucho gusto, Alejandro.”
Even Gonzalez laughed.
Frederick Lee read the text message on his phone as he walked along the hallway on his way out the door. Priority contract.
Detective Paul Lane. Details to follow.
He looked at the time on his phone, then walked to the library. No computers were free, so he stood behind the chair of a boy who wore a football jacket and weighed more tha
n two hundred fifty pounds. The shoulder of his black-leather team jacket said Brett. The side of Brett’s head was one straight line to his neck. He spotted Frederick’s reflection in the monitor and looked over his shoulder. Frederick raised his eyebrows. Brett turned back to his computer, logged off, got up and walked away.
Frederick logged on with the password of another student; he’d paid fifty dollars for the ID. Then he began a search for Detective Paul Lane.
Lane and Arthur sat on the second floor of a French restaurant called Napoleon’s. It was across the street from a row of art stores and a glass factory. Arthur broke a piece from a chocolate croissant, then sipped his coffee. Lane sipped a mocaccino; Alejandro, an espresso. The shop windows and streetlights lit the cobblestone street below. Tourists walked from shop to shop and police stood at the intersections.
“The airport has become very difficult, so Fuentes and Bonner had to find a new way to transport their product,” Alejandro said.
Arthur wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. “How do these art galleries fit in with the plan?”
Alejandro pointed at a gallery across the street. There were silver letters in the window. “Culiacán Gallery sells African art and paintings by Mexican artists. The African pottery and sculptures are made in Culiacán. The Mexican artists are unknowns. Fuentes has the art made in his hometown and sells it here. Bonner pays millions of dollars for the art but none of it ends up in his Palmilla home. It just ends up in another gallery to be resold to the tourists. It is — how you say, money laundering?”
Arthur nodded. “What else are they into?”
Lane watched as a man and a woman walked into the gallery and began to work their way around. “Bonner has a yacht, a custom home in Palmilla and another in La Jolla near San Diego. Correct?”
Alejandro nodded. “That is right.”
Arthur sipped his coffee. “This gallery and the art must be only a small part of their business.” He turned to Alejandro. “Does the art business provide economic opportunity for the people in Culiacán?”
Alejandro smiled, holding up a millimetre gap between his thumb and forefinger. “Un poco.”
“So they are his slaves. Still, we must be missing a piece. A very big piece.” Arthur put his cup down.
Lane looked down to the street. Fuentes walked up the centre of the road. He wore a loose-fitting white shirt and was flanked by bodyguards in black business suits. He climbed the stairs to the gallery and walked inside. The bodyguards took up their positions on either side of the stairway before crossing their hands in front of them.
A few minutes later, Sean Pike and Manny Posadowski arrived. Pike wore a short-sleeved orange shirt. Manny wore his usual red muscle shirt showcasing the tattoos running from wrist to wrist.
“Maybe this will give us a hint,” Lane said,
Manny, Sean and Fuentes left about thirty-five minutes later. The bodyguards helped Manny down the stairs because he was listing to the right. Sean waited and accepted the help of the next bodyguard. Fuentes waved away any help, stumbled, righted himself and, with exaggerated care, took each step.
“That is interesting,” Arthur said. “What are they carrying?”
“Looks like wine bottles.” Alejandro looked at his watch. “I don’t think wine makes you drunk that fast.”
“Only tequila or scotch would do that to a person.” Lane watched Fuentes hand a bottle of wine to one of the bodyguards.
Pike and Manny stood with concentrated stillness at the curb. Each held a bottle of wine protectively cradled in the crook of his right arm.
Arthur asked, “What’s so special about that wine?”
A flat-black Ford Expedition pulled up in the intersection at the bottom of the hill. Fuentes climbed in the passenger seat. Manny, Pike and the two bodyguards climbed in the back.
Arthur took a bite of croissant and a sip of coffee. “We may have the solution to our money-laundering problem if we can figure out what just happened.”
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 18
chapter 16
Lane sat under the umbrella on the deck outside their room. They were now in a suite on the top floor of La Luna Cortez. Mr. Gonzalez told them, “You can enjoy the beach and the sun but no one else will know you are there. That way you will have the least possibility of being seen except by those we trust.”
Lane wore a shirt, shorts and sandals and sipped a cappuccino. He opened his laptop and checked his email. The first message was from Matt.
Uncle Lane,
Sam is moping around here missing you guys. He looks out the window every time a car goes by. He misses all of his walks.
Dan came over again last night. While he was here, his sister Linda phoned Christine on her cell. They had this long three-way conversation. Then she hung up, and Dan and Christine had another long conversation.
Apparently Lola phoned Linda and told her that Christine moved out, Dan is sad and you and Arthur are to blame. I know it’s bullshit! Lola’s playing the victim card. Anyway, Linda phoned to say that she was thinking of seeing more of her nephew and maybe moving back to Calgary. She wants to buy a place. Christine, Dan and Indiana will housesit for her until they get a place of their own. They’re upstairs right now looking over the real estate listings. Good news, I think.
School’s going well. Hard to believe that I’m graduating soon. Maybe you and Arthur will actually get your house back. It will be a little worse for wear, I’m afraid. Indiana has discovered what markers do to walls! Just joking!
You must be up to something important. Marked and unmarked vehicles cruise by here in a steady stream. No worries about kidnapping this time! (I know, that was a bad joke, but it was meant to put you at ease.)
Matt
Next Lane opened a message from Nigel.
Lane,
Anna has been working some magic up here. She tracked payments into an account accessed by Frederick Lee. Sums of fifty thousand dollars were deposited into the account before and after each of the last gang-related shootings in the last year. The only time he wasn’t paid was before and after the shootout and rollover last week.
After a meeting with some of the gang suppression unit officers, we’ve come to the following conclusions.
1) Frederick Lee is probably working for someone who would benefit from a war between the FOBs and FKs.
2) There have been similar shootings/assassinations in Vancouver.
3) As stated before from wiretap information, you may be one of his targets. Don’t worry. We’ve got Matt, Christine, Dan and Indiana covered.
4) There may be a Cayman connection to the payments made to Frederick Lee.
I hope this brings you up to speed. How are things at your end? You’ve kind of dropped off the radar and Harper is going nuts.
Nigel
Lane looked out at the ocean. A wave rolled in and dumped tonnes of water onto the beach. A couple ran away from the wave as it swept up the shoreline. He began to type.
Nigel and Cam,
Thank you for keeping an eye on our family.
I don’t want to reveal our location. This is a wireless connection and security may be a concern.
Thank you for the Lee information. If possible, please send a picture of him.
We’ve been working on tracking the finances of the local operation. Perhaps we could communicate through our mutual steampunk friend who may be able to offer more secure communications.
There is a walking, talking corpse down here who is the most likely candidate for the role of Keystone.
Lane
He logged off his laptop and plugged it in to keep the battery charged.
Arthur slid the patio door open. He wore a white housecoat and sandals. “What’s new?”
How much should I tell you?
Arthur waved as finger at Lane. “I want to hear it all.”
“All?” Do you really want to know?
“All of it. And while you’re at it, get rid of the beard. There are only one or two
other men at this resort with beards. It makes you stand out.”
Lane turned to his laptop and opened his email. “You probably need to read this one first.” He waited while Arthur read, then opened another message and waited again. He looked out at the ocean and the waves rolling in.
Arthur looked up from the computer. “What do you think?”
Lane thought for a moment. “Pike wants me dead and is looking to control a large chunk of the distribution of drugs in western Canada. He’s working with the Angels, who will also want a cut. If we do manage to do something to stop Pike, Posadowski, Bonner and Fuentes, then we leave a power vacuum, which will need to be filled. That’s one of the biggest problems. We can arrest one of the players, but someone always comes along to take his place. For instance, when Kevin Moreau and Stan Pike were killed, little brother Sean came along to fill the void. Now he sees an opportunity to become more successful than Moreau ever was. And he has detailed knowledge of how the police operate. That makes him a bigger threat to us and a major asset to people like Fuentes, Bonner and the Angels.”
“So why not change the target?” Arthur sat down at the table under the umbrella.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a business for these guys. They are motivated by profit. Take away the profit and they’re out of business.”
“How do we do that?”
Arthur looked down at the pool where children were not allowed. A group of adults doing water aerobics formed a rough circle in the water. Not one of them was under the age of fifty. “I think we should have this talk with Aldo, Karen and Alejandro. They have the perspectives we need to figure out the best possible option.”
“So you have an idea?”
Arthur closed the laptop and handed it back. “I do.”
They met in the suite just after lunch. Aldo Gonzalez was accompanied by his bodyguard. Emir sat next to them. All three wore the standard resort blue shirts and black pants. Alejandro arrived with Karen moments later. So she is the one in charge of the timeshare boys! Lane thought. Karen was dressed in a white blouse, black slacks and sandals. Alejandro made a fashion faux pas by wearing jeans and a red T-shirt.
