by Paul Coggins
Without slowing to knock, Cash entered the house and rushed to the living room, where Bettina and Eva sat on opposite ends of a couch. They were drinking tea and sharing a laugh, like old friends. Clearly, Bettina hadn’t followed his advice.
Of the two women, Bettina seemed more rattled by his arrival. Her hand shook as she put down the clattering cup and saucer.
In contrast, Eva calmly sipped away. Cash chalked up their different reactions to experience. While Eva had a long history of flouting his orders, Bettina was just getting started.
“What are you doing here?” Cash said to Eva.
He had expected to find a Latina in the house. Just not this one. Regina Delgado of the Justice Department had been his prime suspect. She always found an opponent’s pressure point, and Cash had a fresh one: the grieving widow, single mother, and pro bono client, all rolled into the small frame on the couch.
The prosecutor had a ton of leverage over Bettina, who had paid down but not paid off her husband’s debt to the government. That gave Gina a leg up on Cash as well.
Eva placed her empty cup on the coffee table. “I’m enjoying a drink and conversation with my new friend, who doesn’t need your protection from me. Whether she needs my protection from you, well, that’s a different story.”
Cash turned to Bettina. “Eva worked for the law firm that set up your husband to take the fall.”
Bettina went ashen-faced. “Is that true?”
“I quit two weeks ago,” Eva said, “and he knows that.”
“What I don’t know is whether you quit for good or whether you’ll crawl back to the firm and your girlfriend there,” Cash said. “Either way, you haven’t explained what you’re doing here.”
Color flooded Bettina’s face. “There’s obviously a lot of history between you two. What I need to know is whether you’re on the same side and, more important, whether you’re both on my side.”
Not sure where he and Eva stood, Cash struggled to answer without bogging down in the backstory.
Eva showed no such hesitation. “We were on the same side, until he fired me for doing my job.”
Cash steered clear of the past. Bettina didn’t know the whole truth about her husband’s hell in prison. If Cash had his way, she never would. He resorted to as much truth as the widow could bear. “I don’t believe Marty killed himself, and I’m all in to prove it.”
Eva said, “I’m the one who pushed Cash to take you on as a client.”
Bettina leaned back on the couch. “Then we’re all on the same page about Marty. That being the case, can you two work together?”
***
The business portion of the meeting done, Cash hung around Bettina’s house, hoping to wind up alone with her. Never happened. Eva ignored the hundred or so hints he dropped and stayed.
Bettina showed both of them the door when her daughters returned from school. Cash made it to the Porsche before extending an olive branch. Well, more like a twig. “Hungry?”
“Famished,” Eva said.
“I’ll buy.”
“The least you can do.”
Same old Eva. Had to get in the last word.
He took her to Fernando’s in northwest Dallas, his favorite place to order breakfast for dinner. That meant migas, refried beans, corn tortillas, and the second best frozen margaritas in the city.
They were two top-shelfs into the meal before she brought up business. “So what’s the deal? Are we together again?”
“With cartels circling me like sharks, it’s still too dangerous for you to come back as my secretary.”
“Assistant,” she said.
“That’s what you took from my warning? Not the part about the clear and present danger of torture and death, but my use of a title that offends your eggshell ego?”
“Your warning comes a little late.” She raised the decibel level of the debate. “We’re already working together on Freddy the Forger’s defense.”
He lowered it. “First, let’s stop calling our innocent-until-proven-guilty client Freddy the Forger. Second, the court ordered me to work with Goldberg on Foster’s defense, not with you.”
“Which means we both wind up working for Goldy. Just like old times. As for Freddy, he’s already been convicted twice for forgery, so I think he’s earned the nickname.”
She had him there, on both counts. “I suppose we can collaborate on Bettina’s behalf,” he said, “as long as we’re not too open about it.”
“You’ve certainly had lots of practice carrying on relationships with women on the down low.” She made it sound like a bad thing.
He ordered a third round of drinks, which would be one past his limit and two over hers. “You never told me what you were doing at Bettina’s house.”
“What you should’ve already done.” Tequila turned her into an attack Chihuahua, high-pitched, yapping, and almost comically combative for her size. “I was looking for documents related to her husband’s trial.”
“Did she have any?”
Eva shook her head. “After the trial, Rocket took everything. Claimed he needed it for the appeal.”
“Since Rhoden got himself killed, it looks like we’re at a dead end.”
“Not exactly,” she said. “I did a little sleuthing at Paula’s law firm before being fired. Well, technically I resigned, but—”
He cut her off. “You did what?”
“I stayed late one night to search the computer archives for the files on Longhorn Investments.”
“Are you insane?” He caught himself mid-sentence and lowered the volume. “You took a helluva risk.”
She leaned in, drawing Cash closer. “Turns out that Powell, Ingram & Gardner handled the internal investigation of Longhorn that led to Biddle’s indictment and conviction.”
Suddenly three drinks didn’t seem like enough. “Right off the bat, I see two big problems with that,” Cash said. “First, if the Powell firm served as general corporate counsel to Longhorn Investments—”
Her turn to cut him off. “Which they did and still do.”
He continued. “Then the internal investigation of the company should’ve been handled by truly independent counsel, not its go-to law firm. Second, U.S. Attorney Jenna Powell should’ve recused herself from any involvement in Biddle’s case. Her father’s law firm gave the feds a road map of who to indict.”
“And who not to,” Eva said. “Jenna didn’t recuse herself. She’s neck-deep in the swamp.”
“So the law firm protected its gold chip client by offering the feds a sacrificial lamb named Martin Biddle, and the U.S. Attorney played along with it.”
She nodded. “And that leads to another question. Why would a white-shoe firm like Powell, Ingram & Gardner get in bed with a bottom feeder like Rocket?”
Cash had a ready answer for that. “The firm hired Rhoden to protect Longhorn, not Biddle. His job was to make sure the lamb went silently to slaughter.”
“Which is the same reason cartels hired him to represent mules,” she said. “No matter how fat a carrot a prosecutor dangled in return for cooperation, Rocket made sure the mule didn’t bite.”
“Did you get a copy of the firm’s files on the investigation?”
“I had just gotten into the archives when IT cut off my computer access. Before I could flee the building, security grabbed me and locked me in a conference room. An hour later, the HR lady showed up. She gave me a choice: resign on the spot or be fired for cause and prosecuted for hacking.”
“Probably a good thing you got busted before seeing the files,” he said.
“Why?”
“Up to this point, I assumed a cartel killed Rhoden. Now I’m not so sure.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Cash left the office late and counted only three cars on level two of the underground lot, including his Porsche. The flickering lights on P2 were hit or miss, with about every third bulb a burnout. Leakage from vehicles and pipes made the garage a slip-and-fall case waiting to ha
ppen.
As soon as Cash slid into the driver’s seat, an alarm sounded in his head. Someone had tilted the steering wheel toward his crotch, too close for comfort. A steady ticking shattered the silence of the enclosed space.
His first instinct was to bolt from the car, but he checked that. Clicks to the right and left made him jump. A remote control had locked the doors. He was a sinner in the hands of an angry goddess.
He froze, fearful the slightest twitch would trigger an explosion. His breaths were short, shallow. His mood darkened by the tick.
Fuck this shit.
Done with inaction, he patted down the seats, console, floor, and dashboard. A wire dangled from the underbelly of the dashboard. It hadn’t been there this morning, or so he thought.
Attached to the wire was a post-it note. He peeled it loose and read:
Turn on the car, and you die.
Open the glove compartment, and you might live.
He reached for the glove compartment but stopped short. The ticking grew louder, either in fact or in his imagination.
He fought through fear and removed a burner phone and another post-it from the compartment. The note read:
Hit the callback number.
If no one answers, I am already dead.
And so are you.
A shaky finger pressed the callback button. The ring tone went on and on. Cash braced for a blast.
“You had better not bill me for this call.” La Tigra’s tone was playful, almost flirtatious.
He smelled a reprieve and kept the conversation light. “A deal’s a deal. No charge, period.”
“Good. You won’t have time to spend what you already have.”
The reprieve might prove short-lived. “How much time have I got?”
“That depends on this conversation.”
He threw his whole energy into keeping her talking. “Where are you?”
“That is not a topic for discussion. What I want to hear from you is where I will be tomorrow and the day after. Have you found a haven for my daughter and me?”
The conversation had turned tricky. The short answer was no. A cell in a minimum-security prison in West Virginia for her and a new identity for the kid was still the best deal on the table.
He pulled a country from the air. “How does Cuba sound?”
In the silence that followed, he whipsawed between hope and despair. He went into full sales mode. “Cuba has beautiful beaches, politicians with greasy palms, and no extradition treaty with the U.S.”
He stayed mum on the negatives. Only ninety miles separated Cuba from Florida, which might prove too close for her comfort. A bigger problem, corruptible leaders cut both ways. Just as La Tigra could bribe them to provide safe harbor, Los Lobos might pony up a dollar more to turn her over.
The silence finally broke Cash. “How do I get out of this jam in one piece?”
“By convincing me that you have a real offer in hand. How close are you to making Cuba happen and how much will it cost to stay there?”
She had asked the right questions. That was bad news, because the straight skinny was not close at all and every peso she had. He tap-danced around the truth. “All I needed was the green light from you.”
During a longer silence, sweat beads raced down his forehead and stung his eyes. “It’s stuffy in here,” he said. “Is it safe to open the door?”
No response.
“Or crack a window?”
Still no response.
Maybe he had lost her with the choice of Cuba as a landing spot. He racked his brain for runner-up sanctuaries.
The beaches and climate would’ve made Panama a perfect paradise, but the release of the Panama Papers had trained an international spotlight on the tax haven. In the circumstances, too much heat for La Tigra to fade.
Australia boasted great beaches, but the drawbacks included close ties with the U.S. and a tight-as-a-tick extradition treaty between the countries. Russia had no extradition treaty but rocky beaches and chilly weather. Maybe Cyprus or one of the Greek Islands would fit the bill.
“Pursue the Cuba option,” she said. “Nail down how much it will cost us to live there.”
“The Cuban authorities will want proof it’s worth their while to take you in.” Spoken as if he knew what he was talking about.
“A down payment?” she said.
“A big one, and it had better come from accounts that can’t be seized by the U.S. or Mexican governments. Where is your money parked?”
“Also not a topic for discussion. My money is safe. That is all you need to know.”
“In addition to an up-front sum,” he said, “you will need to make payments from time to time, as leaders come and go. If the flow of funds were to stop, so would your protection.”
“I understand.” She sounded resigned to life as a fugitive, dependent not on the kindness of strangers, but on the avarice of officeholders. “It is not so different in my country and the way I live now.”
He couldn’t contain any longer the pressing issue of his personal safety. “Any chance you can disarm the device in my car, or at least tell me how to get out of this death trap alive?”
“Your car is clear.” She reverted to a lighter tone. “The wire was planted to demonstrate how easy it would be to get to you.”
“And the ticking?”
“An alarm clock under your seat,” she said.
He breathed easier. “A simple verbal warning would’ve done the trick.”
“I will be the judge of that.”
He pressed his luck, asking a question that had been eating at him for weeks. “Did you order the hit on Rhoden?”
La Tigra tortured him with an extended silence. “No.”
Decades of experience had conditioned him to doubt a client’s denial of wrongdoing, but he bought hers. Partly because there were other suspects for the murder, but mostly because she didn’t give a damn whether he believed her.
A double click spooked him again. This time it unlocked his cage.
Out of the frying pan….
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Cash killed the afternoon setting up tomorrow’s showdown at his office. It took an hour to browbeat DEA agent Duane Leroy Lee, a zombie from the graveyard shift, into agreeing to an 8:00 a.m. meeting and even longer to lure Regina Delgado of the DOJ onto enemy turf.
FBI agent Maggie Burns, the final member of the foursome, proved the hardest to corral. Cash finally wrangled her promise to participate by phone from Bismarck.
Cash baited the hook differently for each fish. A chance to parlay the meeting into a place at the heavy hitters’ table in D.C. netted Gina the barracuda. He tempted Maggie the goldfish with a shot to come in from the cold. Good ole Leroy the flounder drooled at the prospect of chocolate croissants and fresh coffee.
Ever the hard bargainer, Leroy held out for Irish coffee.
The next morning Gina arrived late at Cash’s office. The prosecutor on a perpetual power trip wore a dark blue suit. One look at Leroy, unshaven and disheveled, and she said, “What’s the help doing here?” Her way of starting conversations had a tendency to end them.
“Look, lady, don’t give me any shit.” Leroy mumbled through a mouthful of dough. “I’ve been on my feet for eight hours, and this circle jerk sure as hell ain’t my idea of a fun morning.”
“Nor mine,” Maggie said over the phone. “Whatever scam McCahill has in mind, the mess will not land in my lap. Not my case, not my jurisdiction, not my problem.” She sounded resigned to her exile.
Cash already regretted his damn fool decision to bring the three together in a summit that marked the end of his efforts at shuttle diplomacy. The strategy to spark a bidding war between the DEA and FBI for La Tigra’s services as a snitch, though sound in theory, had dragged on too long.
It might take weeks, even months to wheedle a decent offer, and he didn’t have the luxury of time. Los Lobos had laid down an ultimatum: turn over La Tigra or turn up dead, with four d
ays to the deadline.
For all Cash knew, La Tigra could’ve shortened his fuse. As her clock wound down, so did his.
In danger of losing the audience, Cash rushed the pitch. “With the appropriate safeguards in place and adequate assurances from all three governments with a dog in this fight, my client is willing to lay down her arms, retire from the business, and relocate herself and her daughter to Cuba.”
The silence that followed meant one of two things. Either the feds were mulling it over, or they were in shock.
“Cuba!” Leroy exploded with laughter. “Why don’t you ask for two tickets to the moon? That’d be an easier sale.”
“Make it three tickets,” Delgado said to Cash, “and we’ll send you into space with them.”
“While you’re booking your client’s getaway, arrange a dream vacation in Havana for me.” Maggie sounded amused by the offer. “My tan’s fading up here, and I have a wicked thirst for Cuba Libres.”
Roger that. In the not-so-distant past, Cash had witnessed Maggie’s weakness for rum—even counted on it to loosen her up.
He kicked himself for thinking the trio could work together on anything, much less on a high-risk gamble that threatened their careers. Good chance that come fish-or-cut-bait time, no one would want his or her fingerprints on this folly.
“Hail Mary” time.
“This is a win-win-win,” Cash said. “The U.S. and Mexico avoid an all-out war that will leave rivers of blood and red ink on both sides of the border, and the Cubans benefit from the company of a very generous visitor, with the deepest of pockets and the strongest of incentives to keep her hosts fat, dumb, and happy.”
“And how exactly does this help me?” Maggie said. “Or any of us?”
“You three take credit for a strategy that saves thousands of lives and billions of dollars.”
Gina scoffed. “Even if your crazy plan had a snowball’s chance of success, you’ve shot way too low by bringing it to us. This would have to be approved at the highest levels in D.C., Havana, and Mexico City.”
Cash had anticipated the pushback. “I’m starting with you three, but I sure as hell hope it doesn’t end here.”
