Wood's Wall

by Steven Becker

  He was uncertain until the woman kicked open the passenger door. Once inside, she motioned for him to buckle up and pulled away from the curb. He sat motionless, staring straight forward as if awaiting an interrogation he expected to start any second.

  “Easy, son. The colonel told me you were alright, just in some trouble. I want to help you get your wife and the other woman back. We’re gonna head back up to Marathon, but I need to know what we’re looking at here. Take your time and start from the beginning. I want every detail you can think of.”

  She waited until they were off the island, heading north on US1 before she started asking questions. Jeff recounted the story for the second time that day. He tried to stay focused through her constant interruptions to clarify details. Finally satisfied she starred at the road ahead, leaving him to wonder what was going through her mind. Exhausted, he sank back in the seat, set his head against the headrest and closed his eyes.

  Not sure if she were determined to not let him rest, or if she were just processing everything he’d told her she cleared her throat.

  “What now, Sheriff?”

  “Call me Jules, everyone else does. Once we get back to Marathon, I’ll sit you down with some mug shots and see if you can identify either of the guys you saw. Don’t worry, it’s not like the big city police shows. We’ve got a much smaller collection here. Then we’ll see if the detectives or CSI came up with anything at the murder scene. Other than that, we wait ‘til he contacts you, then play it by ear.”

  “That’s it? Mug shots and sit and wait?”

  “If we can identify him, we can get the jump on him. We’ll be in a better position that way. Maybe send a SWAT team in. If we can’t ID him, we’re playing more on his turf. But be assured, he will open himself up at some point. He wants the money, not the hostages. Which means he’ll get in touch with you.”

  “If it’s a hostage situation, shouldn’t the FBI be called in?”

  “Technically, but the agent down here is a big time douche. I guarantee this will have a bad outcome if he’s involved.”

  “I’ll leave that up to you.”

  ***

  Heather walked into the room without knocking, urgency in her step. “Got something.”

  “Already? Good work.” Jules smiled at her. Jeff stood off to the side, studying her wall of plaques and awards

  “We know this guy. Cesar Vasquez. Drugs, all kinds of stuff. I got a partial print off the casing and ran it. Came back with his name. I’m still working on the slug.”

  “Good work, Heather, keep me posted.”

  Jules pushed her sunglasses back on her head and called in two deputies. She waited at her desk for them to arrive. Murder in Marathon was not typical. One side of her relished the challenge of solving the case; the other was pissed that it had happened on her turf. She promised herself, whoever had committed it would pay.

  The men entered. “This guy’s bad news. Not entirely stable. Can one of you contact his parole officer - he’s got to have one. Been in and out a bunch of times. See if you can get an address for him.” She turned to Jeff. “You want to hang out here, you’re welcome. If you want to call someone, you’re free to go.”

  “I’ll hang out, if you don’t mind. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

  “Why don’t you go through the mug shots and see if you can ID the other guy? Anything will help. I got a feeling our friend Cesar is in Key West. If he hung around anywhere from Islamorada to Big Pine Key, I’d know him by now. I’m going down there.”

  ***

  Heather set him up at a computer monitor. “Not your grandma’s mug shot book.” She showed him how to scroll through the pictures, then left him alone.

  Jeff sat down and went to work. He was distracted by the activity going on around him. For the first time in two days he felt a sense of order. Unfortunately this allowed his mind to wander. He hadn’t faced the reality yet that the girls might be dead. It felt like a start to have a name for the guy now. If this guy, Cesar, had killed Dan like that there was no telling what his wife was going through.

  He was still scanning mug shots a half hour later. Each picture had started to look like the one before. He scrolled to the next screen and suddenly sat up, fully alert. It was the teeth that set this one apart. He was the guy they’d dragged into the house with them. There was no mistaking him. He yelled for Heather.

  She came up behind him. “Got something?”

  “That guy. He was there. Not one of the bad guys, I don’t think. He was hurt too.”

  “Alan Trufante. I’ll tell the sheriff. Figures he’s mixed up in this.” She pulled out her cell phone and punched in a number, then put it to her ear. “You’re not going to believe this. He ID’d Trufante.” She listened to her instructions, then nodded and hung up. “I’m going to see if I can get a lead on him, find out where he is. Want to tag along?”

  “Sure. You know this guy?”

  “Everyone that’s been around here for a while knows him. Not a bad guy, but he’s got a knack for finding trouble. Looks like he stepped in it again.”

  Jeff sat back with a sense of accomplishment.

  She grabbed the keys for her cruiser from a peg by the door. They were out of the station now. It was cooler, the sun moving behind the buildings, casting long shadows. Heather got in an unmarked car, and Jeff went around and got in the passenger seat.

  “Where’re we going?” he asked.

  “Gonna start at this bar he frequents. Bartender there is a friend of mine. If he’s not there, she’ll know where to find him.”

  21

  Patel went straight from the plane to the airport restroom. He went to a stall, opened his carry-on and removed a mirror and fake beard. A quick change of clothes and he looked like a different man. Ibrahim was waiting for him at the baggage claim at Miami International as he had directed. They shook hands and smiled, knowing that their mission, after months of waiting, was about to happen. He’d already failed once and was committed to success this time.

  “Let’s get your bags and get out of here. There are cameras everywhere.” Ibrahim said to the bearded man

  “Allah willing, they do not have us on record.” He was sure he was not, taking precautions every time he travelled.

  The suitcases started around the carousel. The men waited patiently as the tourists reached over each other and scrambled for their bags. Before long, the stainless steel case they were waiting for came through the plastic strips and started moving around the belt.

  “Couldn’t you use something a little less conspicuous?” Ibrahim murmured.

  “It is exactly that. Making it conspicuous makes it work. A bag like that, you know they are going to x-ray. There is a lead casing half the size of the suitcase inside. Placed around the compartment is everything you would expect in a bag. They see that and let it go. Inside the lead chamber, they cannot see.”

  “Very good.” Ibrahim looked impressed. The glass doors to the parking area opened with a swoosh. They were assaulted by the steam rising off the baked concrete. It had just rained and now the sun was creating a steam bath. Bag in hand, they headed out the doors to the car Ibrahim had rented for the trip.

  Ibrahim pulled into the light traffic and then merged onto the 836 heading west. They sat in silence until he pulled off at the last exit before the Florida Turnpike. He stopped in a parking lot and reached for a roll of electric tape in the center console.

  “Why are we stopping. It is urgent that we evaluate the material as soon as possible.”

  “We need to change the numbers on the license plates.” The man seemed satisfied they were taking precautions and said nothing further. Ibrahim got out and removed the tape already in place. The eight returned to a three. He added two strips of tape to the one, turning it into a four. The procedure was repeated on the front plate. Before he got back in he checked the SunPass receptor on the roof, making sure the tape was still in place. It was no longer possible to pay cash at
the two tolls between Miami and Florida City. When the SunPass did not register a camera would photograph the license plates. Changing the plates would buy him some time, he thought, if the infidels were looking for him.

  The ride south was uneventful. Ibrahim kept to the speed limit after restoring the license plates to their original numbers in Key Largo. Three hours later they pulled into his driveway.

  In the living room, the man opened the case and removed the lead box, which contained the tools of his trade. Screwdrivers, wire cutters, voltage meter, and a geiger counter were visible, along with a pile of less-recognizable items. He took out the jeweler’s loupe and packed the rest away.

  Now he set his palms down on the table and leaned toward the box. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” He held the box with one hand and inspected each side with a magnifying glass. Suddenly he stopped. “Here. This should not be here.”

  Ibrahim looked over his shoulder. “What?”

  “That spot. The solder is new, and different.” He scraped the solder spot with his finger. “Definitely not original work.” He rotated the box carefully, inspecting it. “But nothing else is out of place. Do you have the gear I asked for?”

  “Upstairs.” The man followed Ibrahim to the bedroom. Ibrahim removed a plastic-wrapped exposure suit from the back of his closet. “Easier than I thought to get one of these. All the preppers think they need them, so they’re all over the internet. It’s not for long-term exposure, but it should do the job.”

  “Good, we will need that later. You have the room ready?”

  “I used the closet.” He pointed at the closed door. “I know you prefer a basement, but they don’t have them here.”

  They entered the room, and the bearded man looked around. The walls and ceiling were lined with lead sheets, twenty four inches wide, overlapped at each seam. The floor was covered in plywood; dull metal was visible at the seams. Even the back of the door was covered.“Very well done, my friend. Please bring my equipment up, and I will get to work.”

  Ibrahim went downstairs, gathered tools from the table and paused. He had not had a dose of his pain medication in hours. Quickly he moved to the kitchen and repeated his ritual: two pills followed by a shot from the brandy bottle.

  The man took the tools and placed them on the table. Next he carefully took the box and set it in the vise clamped to the table. He started the Dremil tool, its blade whizzing, and then whining as he carefully inserted it into the solder joint. The solder cut easily, and he moved around the box, reseting the clamp as necessary. Several minutes later, he removed the lid and inspected the contents. “This has been tampered with. How is that possible?”

  “I do not know, my friend. What do you mean, tampered?”

  “Look.” He held the geiger counter over the box. “It is barely showing anything. The correct material would have the needle all the way in the red.”

  “That is not possible. It was delivered last night by the contact we agreed on.”

  “Get him here. Now.”

  ***

  Cesar was cleaning his gun when the phone rang. He set the barrel down, picked up the phone and listened. Without saying a word in return he cursed under his breath and finished his work. Always problems. It was bad enough with just the drugs, but now these rag heads were involved. He again questioned his cousin’s judgement. The drug money was big, so why branch out? The gun reassembled, he placed it in his waistband. A shoulder holster was preferable, but jackets in Key West were saved for the three days a year when the temperature got below seventy.

  Parking would be a nightmare around the other house, so he decided to walk the dozen blocks. The time and exercise would do him good. Besides, Ibrahim was too upset when he called, and it would be better to let him cool down. Cesar didn’t react to emotion well. A more business-like approach was more to his liking. He crossed the street, ignoring the constant stream of bicycles and people. He didn’t blend in with the freak show, so why bother.

  Ibrahim opened the door just as he was about to knock. “Come in. Hurry. What took you so long?”

  “Easy, hombre. I’m here.” It seemed that the time lapse had not calmed Ibrahim down, and Cesar wondered briefly what had him so worked up. He was a terrorist, wasn’t he supposed to have nerves of steel or something? “What’s the problem?”

  “The box has been tampered with. The material is not the same.”

  “What do you want from me? I delivered the box to you - that was my job.”

  “Your job? Do you realize what you have done. How could you be so careless?”

  Cesar reached behind his back but thought better of it. Shooting the man would not help his standing with Diego. “Listen, sand monkey. I was told to bring the box to you and that is what I have done.” His temper had reached it’s boiling point.

  “This is in both of our interests to straighten this out. We both have men we have to report to. Working together might help us both.”

  Cesar stopped seething and evaluated what the man had said. “Alright. Things got a little out of hand in the recovery, and the package passed through some unexpected hands before I was able to get it to you. Maybe something happened.”

  “Allah will be merciful as long as we recover the correct material. Retribution will come to those that have stood in our way.”

  “Si, retribution - I like that. Now you’re talking my language. I got a good idea where they are.” He turned as if to leave

  “That’s all? You have an idea. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Don’t you worry your sandy head about that. I’ll be in touch.”

  “We do this together. You have proven to be inept.”

  22

  Mac pulled the boat up to the lone pile and looped a line around it while Mel went to the stern and tossed a small anchor as far as she could, pulling the line until it buried itself in the sand. The tide would be changing in an hour and without the two points of connection, the boat would swing around with the changing current and ground itself. She scanned the small Key her father had called home. Her brow furrowed, her only outward expression of the sorrow she felt. The island looked deserted, at least, and they jumped over the gunwale, landing in a foot of water.

  “This place needs a driveway,” Mel said.

  Mac laughed. “Well it’s yours now, remodel at will.”

  At that, she started tearing up. It was hard to see this place without thinking of her dad. This had been his home for close to twenty-five years, built on a hump of coral and sand, five miles from the rest of the world. She was in a bad place: tense from being shot at and sullen about seeing her dad’s place. Both of them had been anxious to get away from Mac’s house where the murders had apparently taken place. They’d agreed on the way back from the reef that this was the safest place. Taking only enough time at Mac’s to grab their phones, clothes and supplies, they’d locked up and headed under the Seven Mile Bridge toward the Gulf towards Wood’s island, where they hoped they’d be safe, at least for the time being.

  Mel watched as Mac removed the scrub covering the path and started for the house. One hundred feet in, a clearing opened up, mangroves creeping in at the edges, and they saw the house. It was boarded up, plywood covering the windows and doors. Mac went for the shed and plugged a new battery into the cordless drill. He checked the charge, hoping the solar system — the only source of power here — was still operating. Satisfied, he headed up the stairs to the porch, Mel behind him.

  “Thanks for boarding it up,” she murmured.

  “We got that hurricane warning last fall. Figured I better. Wood had all the plywood cut, drilled, and stacked. Was pretty easy.” He started removing the screws from the 3/4” thick plywood sheet covering the front door. The wood removed, they entered the house.

  Mel nearly choked on the smell of the place. “It’s a sauna in here.”

  “Give me a minute, I’ll get some of the windows opened up, get some air flow.”

  It cooled qui
ckly. The breeze hit the sweat on her body, instantly cooling her. The house breathed well. Wood had used a passive solar design to capture the consistent southerly breeze. The large eaves shielded the windows from the unrelenting sun.

  Mac had gone, she assumed, to stow the plywood sheets. She pulled out her phone and connected with the world again.

  ***

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she snapped. She’d been listening for a few minutes. Mac had come in and she’d given him the go away look.

  “No,” Bradley Davies said. “We have a source in the NSA. Looks like your boyfriend is involved in some strange stuff. I’m just putting the pieces together. Now I know why he won’t testify.”

  Mel snarled, seeing through the lie immediately. “That bastard Patel did this. What’s he after? I know he wants to use this case to get publicity for himself. This isn’t over. Just because the president comes out and says they won’t use drones on American soil doesn’t mean squat. If they exist, someone will use them. This needs to go in front of a court to get the word out. I want legislation to come out of this. Not some vague promise from a mealy-mouthed politician.”

  “Mel, calm down,” Davies said. “You’re just going to have to put your ego on the bench and play with the team here.”

  “It’s not my ego! It’s Patel. He’s been trying to push his own agenda since you opened the door and let him in.”

  “You want out anyway. Why not just testify, and we can part ways? Sometimes you’ve got to know when it’s over.”

  “After everything we’ve been through? Now you too! You’ve been like a father to me.”

  “And you’re turning into your father, and that doesn’t fit with us anymore.”

  “Do not call me my father. I’m not dropping this.” She hung up and started pacing.

  ***

  “The NSA has everything. Phone records, recorded calls, emails — all of it. What are you hiding from me?”