Dangerous Friends (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 4)

by Dallas Gorham

  The Corvette was parked too close to the valets for me to place the GPS tracker.

  I told the restaurant host that I was the first to arrive of a party of four. No, we didn’t have a reservation. Yes, I realized it was Saturday night. Yes, we were willing to wait an hour-and-a-half for a table. The host took the fictitious name I gave her. “When your table is ready, Mr. Washington, this pager vibrates and flashes little red lights like this.” She tested the pager and handed it to me. “You’re welcome to wait in the bar for the rest of your party.”

  Even with a reservation, I knew from experience that the Rusty Pelican sticks customers in the bar long enough for them to order a drink before showing them to a table. Sure enough, Diplobrat slouched over a barstool at one end of the Tiki Bar, sitting smack under a ceiling fan. His hair was longer than I had seen on his social media page. He was fatter in person than he looked on the Internet, too, and that was saying a lot. I was surprised he even fit into a Corvette. His XXXL Hawaiian shirt made a vain attempt to disguise his bulk. He left three buttons open in the tropical heat. Three gold chains hung halfway down a chest that looked like a bearskin rug. He wore two rings on each hand. Unlike many of our generation, he had no visible tattoos. Not surprising, since his arms and chest were so hairy that a tattoo wouldn’t show through the fur. He sipped a Coco Loco with a paper umbrella and a bougainvillea flower stuck in the top. South Florida chic. The flower swayed in the breeze.

  Diplobrat glanced at his heavyweight gold watch and scanned the crowded bar. He must’ve made an 8:30 reservation and his date was late.

  I grabbed a corner table in the back and ordered a club soda with a twist. Whoopee, it’s party time for the hard-working private eye. I always loved the Rusty Pelican. Too bad I was on duty or I would have had a banana daiquiri.

  As I sampled my first yummy club soda, a tall blonde in tropical sandals and a gold dress that would look perfect in a red Corvette convertible walked into the bar. She parted the crowd proudly with her chest. The neckline of her dress plunged to her waist and revealed the best cleavage that money could buy. Miss Cleavage strutted over to Diplobrat and presented her cheek to be kissed. She whispered in his ear as she rubbed her assets on his arm. He grinned and squeezed her behind as she sat on the next barstool. Miss Cleavage ordered a drink—white wine, of course. Ten minutes later, they took a bayside table overlooking the Port City skyline.

  I watched them for an hour from the bar. The ceiling fan stirred the humid night air without conviction. I could work up a sweat just lifting my drink.

  My pager buzzed and flashed. I leaned over toward a party of four sitting at the table next to me. “Excuse me, the rest of my party of four hasn’t arrived yet. Would you like a table right now?”

  They would.

  I handed the pager to the nearest surprised member of their foursome. “Tell them you’re the George Washington party. Enjoy.”

  I watched for another hour, then followed Diplobrat and Miss Cleavage to an expensive nightclub, whose parking lot was not as well-guarded as the Rusty Pelican’s. I attached the GPS tracker to the Corvette and waited in my minivan across the street. At 1:30 a.m., I followed the couple back to Crucero’s apartment.

  Tomorrow I would make my first incursion.

  Chapter 5

  My Port City Beach condo was a mile from Diplobrat’s. I hired an off-duty cop, Willy Gorski, to watch Crucero’s parking garage in case he used the BMW, but I figured he would use the Corvette again. Miss Cleavage seemed more Corvette than BMW. I monitored the GPS tracker from home. Sure enough, the Corvette began to move shortly after noon on Sunday. I dismissed Willy and headed down to my white minivan.

  Miss Cleavage must have arrived at the Rusty Pelican in a taxi because Crucero didn’t take her back to retrieve her car. I caught up with the Corvette and had it in sight as Diplobrat and Miss Cleavage crossed the Beachline Causeway, top down in the sunny South Florida sunshine. Fortunately, Diplobrat didn’t speed. Probably Miss Cleavage didn’t want to mess up her hair with the top down. Diplobrat needn’t worry about the wind because he had pulled his long hair into a ponytail. I followed from a safe distance all the way to Coconut Grove. I noted Miss Cleavage’s address and left Diplobrat and his arm candy to enjoy their afternoon delight.

  I headed back to Crucero’s apartment. He would be occupied for at least an hour as he climbed the Twin Peaks in Miss Cleavage State Park. I would monitor the Corvette’s movements with the tracker app on my smartphone. The miracles of modern technology make a private investigator’s life much easier if you don’t mind breaking a few inconvenient privacy laws.

  Diplobrat’s apartment was in a rental high-rise, not a condo. The security was pretty rudimentary. I parked my minivan in the loading zone and took out a large flower arrangement I had purchased on the way over, along with a few items to disguise my appearance. Fortunately, Walmart is open 24/7. I carried the flowers to the reception desk. I held them where they obscured my face, but I could see the house phone. “Flowers for Tony Crucero.”

  “Just a moment.” The receptionist grabbed a house phone and punched Crucero’s apartment number.

  Bingo. Now I knew which apartment was his.

  He hung up. “Mr. Crucero doesn’t answer. You wanna leave them here? I’ll see that he gets them when he comes back.”

  “Sure.” I set the flowers on the counter. “How about my tip?”

  The guy shrugged. “What can I say? You can come back later and deliver them yourself, or you can leave them here. Your choice.”

  I left the flowers. Let the poor schlub collect the tip when he delivers the flowers. He needs it more than I do.

  I drove the minivan back home and switched to the sedan I had rented at the airport the previous day. Returning to Diplobrat’s high-rise, I piggy-backed under the gate and into the parking garage on the bumper of a resident’s car. I spiraled my way to the garage’s top floor where I found an unassigned parking space.

  I walked the garage ramps down three floors until I found Diplobrat’s other car. I attached another tracking device to the BMW and hid behind a pillar where I could watch the garage door keypad lock. Another resident’s car squealed its way up the ramp and parked. A woman exited, grabbed a shopping bag from the back seat, and walked to the garage door. I was too far away to read the numbers, but I watched her hand movements as she punched four digits on the pad. Top left, lower right, lower left, ending with a tap on the right.

  Three combinations to try. The second one worked. The World’s Greatest Private Eye is on the job. I stored the number in my phone for future use. Most of these places wait a year or more before they change the codes. I never know when another case might bring me back to these apartments.

  The elevators would have security cameras. I took the fire stairs to Diplobrat’s floor. My mouth was dry as I checked the Corvette’s GPS tracker again. A little pre-action jitters, routine before a mission, even one as simple as a B & E. Crucero was still in Coconut Grove knocking boots with Miss Cleavage. He was having a lot more fun than I was. I opened the door to the elevator lobby.

  There were five apartments on the floor. His was on the water side, the unit in the southeast corner. A discreet brass plaque bearing the coat of arms of the Republic of San Cristobal was mounted on the door. I guess if a college student can tack a pennant on his dorm door, an ambassador’s son can tack his country’s coat of arms on his door.

  His apartment lock took two minutes to pick. My heart rate climbed a little higher. The last tumbler clicked and I opened the door.

  As I stepped inside, the alarm system beeped. Damn. I knew this was going too well. I turned to the alarm keypad beside the entrance. I had about 45 seconds before the alarm went off. I flipped open the plastic door and punched the disarm button. Enter code flashed on the screen. It’s amazing how many people use 1-2-3-4 as their alarm code. If that failed I would try Diplobrat’s birth year, then his birthday, both of which I got gotten from his social media accounts. />
  If those failed, I would run like hell.

  “Who the hell are you?” The heavily-muscled man in a gray suit and striped tie had come from further inside the apartment. He had bodyguard written all over him as plain as if it had been tattooed on his forehead—not unusual for diplomatic families. Dark skin, black eyes, and beaked nose. Long black hair parted in the middle and pulled tight over his ears. He probably had a ponytail at the base of his neck, but I couldn’t see it. He looked like he might be a Mayan or other Indian from southern Mexico or Central America. The gun he leveled at me had a barrel that was .45 inches in diameter. Pointed between my eyes, it looked as black as a cavern and as big as a cannon. If the balloon went up, at that range I was a dead man.

  In the blink of an eye, I assessed my options. If I went for my gun, I’d be dead before I touched the handle where it was clipped behind my back. If I didn’t, I might be dead anyway. I chose Plan C.

  I raised my hands to waist height and answered in rapid Spanish. “I’m just the maintenance man. Mr. Crucero reported his ice maker was broken.”

  Striped Tie responded in Spanish. “Where’s your tool box?” He lowered the .45 slightly; nobody fears the maintenance man.

  “In the hall,” I answered in Spanish. “I’ll get it.” As I turned toward the doorway, I grabbed a brass sculpture from the ornamental table beside the door, hurled it at his head, and dived out the door. He fired two shots that slammed into the wall and echoed deafeningly in the marble-floored elevator lobby. The brass statuette must have hit him, because he didn’t chase after me as I sprinted to the fire stairs. Either that or he paused to enter the alarm code. I raced down five flights of stairs to where I had left the rent car.

  I caught my breath and felt my heart slow to normal as I drove back to my own parking garage. I switched out the fake license plates for the real ones. On the way to the airport to return the car, I tossed the baseball hat, surgical gloves, and fake eyeglasses I had worn in Diplobrat’s building into a dumpster behind a shopping center. The security cameras in the parking garage, elevators, and building lobby would be of no help if Crucero reported the break-in. I was willing to bet that he wouldn’t want to involve the cops anyway.

  How many solid citizens post an armed guard in their apartment? What was Striped Tie guarding that was so valuable? Jorge had mentioned that some diplomats smuggled drugs. One thing for sure, the Diplobrat was involved in something dangerous.