“Absolutely not. I’ve never seen this man before. Actually—although I’m not supposed to reveal my clients—I will tell you that Blue Diamond Studios sent a representative to consult with me. It’s my understanding they intended to make a film about the real Blue Diamond.”
Marty choked. “Blue Diamond Studios—I’ve never heard of them.”
Klein shrugged. “Rather telling, isn’t it? I don’t know the movie business. I do believe they’re headquartered in the Cayman Islands.” He regarded Marty with a mixture of sympathy and contempt. Again, he prodded, “What did you say you paid for the necklace?”
“I paid more than ten thousand dollars.”
“Well then, it would appear you have been swindled. This is a matter for the police, not me. But then … you would have to admit to purchasing what you believed was a stolen necklace from a man who has since been murdered. It could be problematic, to say the least.”
Klein was convincing enough, but Marty was skeptical, believing him to be involved. He got up quickly and left, muttering that he’d let Klein know what course of action he decided to take. “I’ll need to consult with my attorney,” he said.
It was a temperate afternoon but Marty was sweating profusely when he walked out onto Worth Avenue. He felt nauseous, as though he might be having a heart attack. He was pale and shaking, his stomach burning as though he’d swallowed acid. Climbing into his shiny Prius—as much a status symbol as his Gulfstream—he drove north, merging onto I-95.
Marty exited at Indiantown Road, heading toward Jupiter Beach when his i-Phone rang. The caller i.d. flashed anonymous, and Marty answered warily. A man’s voice, with some faint regional accent he couldn’t place, said, “Marty Morgan?”
Sensing this was connected to the necklace, Marty said, “Yes, this is he.”
The man said, “I’m going to give you a phone number. I want you to get to the nearest payphone and call me back at this number.” He relayed the number, making Marty repeat it, and then he said, “The call will be monitored for tracers or recording devices. It’s imperative that you use a payphone.”
“I understand,” said Marty, but his caller had already hung up.
It took him twenty minutes to find a payphone, and when he did it was in the parking lot of a gas station. Then he had to get change, dropping quarters into the ancient machine. The man answered on the first ring. “Marty,” he said, with laughter in his voice, “how nice of you to call back.”
“What do you want?”
“I thought I’d put your mind at ease. You were involved in some … unpleasant … business—”
“Who are you?”
“If I wanted a face to face, I would have arranged one. I think its best I remain anonymous, at least for now. Now, about the little business you were a part of—well, your name and the name of your unfortunate associate don’t appear together anywhere. The entire transaction, including the transfer of money from your account, was quite legitimate, and you’ll be given additional documentation to support your unusual purchase. It’s all on the up-and-up for Uncle Sam, so you’re quite safe there. And, in case you are wondering, not one dime of that money entered your friend’s bank account. There may have been a little computer glitch that made him believe otherwise, but it was a mere fabrication.”
Marty’s heart was racing, his voice strained. “What do you want from me?”
“Your cooperation in this matter. It’s best to let sleeping dogs lie, don’t you think?” When Marty did not reply, he said, “I have a courier delivering a package to your Jupiter Island home. I suggest you view the contents without the company of your lovely wife, unless, of course, she is as twisted as you.”
* * *
The package was waiting for Marty when he arrived home. He took it into his study, locking the door behind him. Even before he opened it, Marty knew what it was: the silver disc confirmed it. Unbelievably, as distressed as he was, the sight of Miguel’s naked body aroused him. But this was no time to indulge his fantasies; he put the DVD in his safe, along with the fake necklace.
Enclosed documents showed that Marty had purchased film rights from Blue Diamond Studios for the sum of ten million dollars. Contrary to what he had originally believed, the money had transferred to a bank in the Caymans. As an afterthought, Blue Diamond Studios had included a sales slip documenting various props, one of which listed the felonious Blue Diamond necklace.
They’d stolen from him and made it legal. In the process of doing so, one man had been killed. Marty shuddered. He could very well be next.
Marty retired to his bedroom. Cindy came in to check on him, and seeing as how he was agitated, she blamed his illness on his carnivorous habits. Marty could have skipped the lecture, but he was grateful when she bought him a cold compress. He was lying there with the lights dimmed and his head throbbing, when his phone rang. He picked it up, shocked to see the phone number from the payphone he had used.
He recognized his caller’s voice instantly. “Marty,” the man said, “I just want to make sure you received your package?”
“I … I got it.”
“Good. What I’d like for you to do now is to shut your mouth and quit making inquiries about things that don’t concern you. Stop bothering my friends at their places of business.”
So Klein was in on it: The bastard. Bile rose in the back of his throat. He thought of Manny, killed in cold blood, obviously by this man’s hands. “Am I in danger?”
The man laughed. “You are certainly in no danger from me. I am merely requesting that you forget the unfortunate business you were involved in. You have a good life, Marty, a pretty wife, a handsome stepson”—slight emphasis on handsome—“so why fuck it up?”
Marty’s stomach was cramping. He had shit out his guts, and now, unbelievably, he felt like he had to go. He said meekly, “I understand.”
“You’re a smart man, you should. Incidentally, I have several copies of your … performance. It’s rather enlightening, but really not to my taste. I like to think of it as an insurance policy.”
Marty gagged. He was on his feet, heading toward the bathroom. He said, “I won’t do anything.”
“Then we understand one another. I knew you’d be reasonable—after all, you’re the goose that laid the golden egg.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
The dumb puta that Emilio had had the poor judgment to get involved with was making Pedro Morales’ life miserable. Pedro was Emilio’s brother-in-law, married to his sister Teresa. Pedro and Teresa had three kids of their own, but they’d never refused to watch Rosa or Joey, caring for them better than their whore of a mother ever had.
They’d never liked Natalie, had never approved of her. Knowing only part of what happened, they blamed Natalie for Rosa’s disappearance. As for her son—well, it was unfortunate Emilio had lost his temper: He had a crazy temper, exacerbated by alcohol, but the puta had driven him mad.
Since that unfortunate evening when Emilio and Natalie’s Lake Worth neighbors spotted her trying to revive Joey, Pedro’s life had been turned upside-down. Despair over what had happened to the children was only a part of it because the whole Hispanic community was in turmoil, what with cops and federales coming and going at all hours. Media people were camped out in front of Emilio’s house, even showing up at the Laundromat on Federal Highway Pedro managed for an absentee owner.
The puta’s meddlesome parents, most especially the hippie stepmother, had gone on CNN and told the whole world that Pedro’s lavanderia automatic was a hotbed of illegal activity with dice-games and lotteries, “Mexican numbers”, she’d told Nancy Grace. Cops descended in droves, tearing apart the laundry and scaring off customers. The other customers—the bettors—were lying low. It was costing Pedro money.
For days the cops showed up with impunity, sweeping the laundry and questioning Pedro an
d Teresa. They denied any knowledge of what had happened, denied knowing Emilio’s whereabouts. Pedro and Teresa were American citizens, but many of their friends and relatives were not, and the scrutiny from law enforcement made everybody nervous. But this didn’t stop them from safeguarding Emilio; he’d been in hiding for weeks.
Finally, this week, the week before Christmas, the policia quit bothering Pedro. Some of his regular customers had begun to return, at least to wash their clothes. The other stuff, Pedro’s bread-and-butter, could wait. Things would never be normal, but a semblance of normality was adopted, with everybody going about their business as usual.
Nothing could be further from the truth: This night of all nights was crucial because Emilio’s connections had arranged transportation to Nuevo Laredo. He was scheduled to be picked up in the alley behind the Laundromat at three a.m. and was spending his last evening in Florida in Pedro’s laundry.
The whole thing was making Pedro nervous. To top it off, it was a cold, dark night, with temperatures already in the low-fifties—one of those rare wintry nights, black and misty, perfect for a rendezvous but depressing, nonetheless. Relieved at being in the final hours of his cover-up, Pedro kept watch on the wall clock above the door. It was only a quarter of seven, but it had been dark for two hours.
Few customers had ventured in since the sun went down. Currently, Pedro was alone in the shop, with Emilio taking refuge in the back room. Two of the big dryers were humming, clothes flopping; the gringo couple they belonged to had headed down to the Chinese buffet at the opposite end of the strip mall. In between was a defunct farmacia, a beauty salon, which was already closed for the day, and an insurance company. At the far end of the plaza was a liquor store, where the day workers gathered in the mornings.
Willing time to pass, Pedro again glanced at the clock. Looking out the front window, plate glass fogged with steam, he realized the street lamps at his end of the mall were out. This made him uneasy, the dark December night pressing in.
He shivered, turning his attention to the old nineteen-inch Sony angled on a drop shelf in the corner. It was tuned to Telemundo, a comic performing, although Pedro was too preoccupied to watch. His mind flashed to his brother-in-law. Stretched out on the cot in the back room, Emilio had already finished the supper Teresa had brought hot from her oven. When Pedro last checked, Emilio had his headphones on, giving the thumbs up.
When the big SUV jumped the curb and came to an abrupt halt outside the Laundromat, everything in Pedro went still. He knew it wasn’t Emilio’s ride—they would come stealthily, through the alley. The absence of identification on the SUV discounted the policia, and Pedro automatically reached for the handgun he kept beneath the counter. He stopped short of gripping it when two men in flak vests sprinted from the SUV. Although their military vests were devoid of lettering, Pedro spotted the familiar FBI badges and quickly shoved the gun to the back of the drawer, slamming it just as they burst in, Glocks drawn. Pedro instinctively raised his hands above his head.
Pedro was not fearful as much as dejected. It was certain he would be charged with harboring a fugitive, and he thought bitterly of the life he lived, knowing he would be trading it for prison. Moving swiftly, the agents rushed toward him. The lead agent was a muscular, olive-skinned man with eyes like black ice. He kept his weapon trained on Pedro while his partner did a quick perusal of the laundry, making sure there were no surprised patrons ducking between rows of washers. The second agent was older, with silver showing in his coarse black hair. Adding to their sinister appearance were their military boots, black leather gloves, and drop-leg holsters with sheaths for commando knives. Pedro noticed a third agent remaining outside with the vehicle.
The lead agent stepped around the counter and put his gun to the back of Pedro’s head. For the first time Pedro felt real fear. Something wasn’t right, and his panicked brain began a process of hyper speculation. The agent said calmly, and in perfect Spanish, “Pedro, we know Emilio is here. You won’t be in trouble if you do as I say.” He inclined his head toward the back room. “Walk over there and open the door.”
Pedro moved quickly toward the closed door, the agent saying “Relaje,” in a voice that was chilling for its lack of warmth. At the door, he said, “Easy, Pedro. No surprises.”
Pedro almost tiptoed into the room. It was lit by a single bulb, bare of any comfort save for the folding cot where Emilio was reclining. On the concrete floor beside the cot Emilio’s duffel bag was packed and ready. Laying there with his earphones on, the damned fool had his eyes closed and missed the imploring and apologetic glances Pedro threw his way. By the time Emilio realized what was happening, the lead agent was charging him, his partner holding Pedro at gunpoint.
Emilio jerked upright, ear buds dangling from a cord around his neck. He started to rise, but the swiftness of the assaulting agent made him put up his hands. Despite this act of surrender, the agent tasered him. Emilio crumpled; nevertheless, the agent slapped on a pair of handcuffs while the federal guarding Pedro raised his Glock and shot him between the eyes. Pedro toppled backward, hitting the concrete floor with a thud. The agent bent down and delivered a second shot to the side of his head.
Even with a silencer the gun’s two successive bangs were loud in the enclosed space. The second shot hadn’t been necessary—Pedro was dead before he hit the floor. Witnessing his brother-in-law’s brutal murder brought a surge of terror to Emilio. It dawned on him that these were not federales. Rogue cops, perhaps, or vigilantes. They’d come for Emilio, killing Pedro in cold-blood so he could not identify them.
Handcuffed and helpless, Emilio struggled wildly, only to find himself tasered a second time. The lead agent dragged him toward the door while Pedro’s killer picked up Emilio’s duffel bag. Stepping cautiously around the splatter of blood and brain seeping from Pedro’s gaping head wounds, the man yanked the key ring from his belt loop. He saw the circuit breaker on the wall to his left, and he immediately tripped the circuits. The store was plunged into blackness, and the driers stopped mid-cycle.
Emilio’s captor dragged him outside where the third accomplice forced him into the back of the SUV. This third man went around to the driver’s side while Emilio’s captor climbed in beside him. Pedro’s killer was the last to exit the store, and after flipping the Open sign to Closed, he calmly stuck the key in the door and locked it. His partners and his prisoner were in the SUV, and he quickly hopped in.
* * *
Victor breathed a sigh of relief when he merged with the southbound traffic on Federal Highway. Minutes later, he turned east on Lantana, crossing the Intracoastal to A1A and heading south, speed-dialing Gasper on his prepaid mobile. He kept to the speed limit, frequently checking the rearview mirror. Just south of the small coastal community of Manalapan the big house loomed on his left.
The seaside castle looked like a carpetbagger’s wet dream, with turrets and lead-paned glass. Newly constructed, the gaudy edifice had sat unfinished for months. It was pitch black beyond its windows, with a haphazard For Sale sign planted in the weed-choked yard. Bank-owned and devalued, the house had a side-facing four-car garage. Victor turned onto the cobbled drive and pulled to one of the bays. Louie hopped out and lifted the door. It rolled up easily, noiselessly, unencumbered by electricity, and Victor drove inside and cut the engine.
A moment later Gasper turned onto the property and backed a black Chrysler 300 into the bay and popped the trunk. Gasper had prepped the vehicle; a vinyl blanket covered the floor of the trunk, a blue tarp on top of it. He removed the tarp, setting it on the garage floor. Seconds later Nathan and Victor laid Emilio on the tarp. He was stirring, and Nathan slapped duct tape over his mouth, shackling his arms and legs. Drawing a dark hood over Emilio’s head, he checked to make sure he could breathe. Then the three of them rolled the terrified gangbanger into the tarp and lifted him into the trunk. Nathan slammed it shut.
Vict
or removed his phony plate from the SUV and rolled down the garage door. He got in the front passenger seat, with Louie and Nathan sliding into the rear. Headlights off, Gasper crept down the drive, swung onto A1A, traveling a good hundred feet before he flicked on the lights. In Boynton Beach he crossed the Ocean Avenue Bridge and connected to the mainland.
The Chrysler had been rented two days ago from Royal Rent-A-Car in Lauderdale. The rental was in the name of the New Orleans call girl who had accompanied Gasper on a cruise after he made the hit on Manny. In fact, Gasper had used this same car to drop her at the airport earlier. Gasper was tanned from his cruise. He drove left-handed, looking relaxed and comfortable in his seat. Louie asked him about his cruise, if he’d had a nice time, and Gasper said, “Yeah, it was great.”
They chatted a few minutes, catching up, and then Gasper merged with the traffic flowing south on I-95. They settled in for a long ride. Final destination: Key Largo.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Louie stood starboard, gazing into the dark void enveloping the thirty-eight-foot Chris-Craft, the sea churning behind them. The Chris-Craft belonged to the head of the Carpenters Union in St. Louis. The man was a snowbird and wouldn’t be down until January. Louie had made the guy easy money in a pension scam, so he had use of the boat whenever he wanted. The guy’s Key Largo location was perfect, with an isolated lot and a boathouse.
The Chris-Craft was outfitted with rods and reels, but this was not a fishing trip, nor was it a night for cruising. The shore temperature was fifty-eight degrees; on the open water it was ten degrees cooler. Louie felt the dampness pressing in, swells rocking the boat beneath him. His hair was wind-ruffled and sticky with spray; he had removed his flak vest, his only protection from the elements his T-shirt and cargo pants. Despite the plunging temperatures Louie was not cold. He was in a state of elevated alertness, with the blood rushing hot in his veins.
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 24
