Deal with the Dead

by Les Standiford

  “Let him go,” Sams said mildly. His expression made it clear that he would not be disobeyed.

  Deal relaxed his grip, and Tasker pulled his hand away. He cradled it against his chest, still grimacing in pain as Sams waved the pistol at Deal.

  “Sit down, Mr. Deal. We’re all too old and civilized for this.”

  Deal hesitated, feeling the blood pulse at his temples. There was a roaring in his ears that made him want to block out Sams’ words. Take his chance against that pistol, get in underneath the man’s aim, take out a few decades’ worth of anger. But something told him that there would be no getting under Talbot Sams’ aim. He took a breath finally and sat back down.

  “You’re telling me you blackmailed my father all his life…”

  “That’s hardly the way to describe it,” Sams said.

  “I’ll fucking bust your ass,” Tasker hissed, coming up off his knees at last, his fist drawn back.

  “Shut up or I’ll put a bullet in you,” Sams said.

  Tasker hesitated, then saw the look in Sams’ eyes. He backed off, still flexing the fingers in one hand.

  “You fed him jobs, and in return, he was your snitch.”

  “Your father provided a valuable service to his community,” Sams said. He made a motion with his free hand that indicated the world outside the flimsy building where they sat. “The fact is, there wouldn’t be a Miami as we know it if it weren’t for the business of money-laundering. Dirty money is the lifeblood of the economy, it always has been. Pirates lived here first, and then in the twenties and thirties came the binder boys selling worthless paper and underwater lots. In the fifties and sixties, it was the mob. In the seventies and eighties, it was the South American cartels. This is one of those special places where a tremendous amount of dirty money enters the system, Mr. Deal. It’s where the sharks come to feed…and it’s where I come to hunt.”

  “You killed him,” Deal said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sams said.

  “You killed my father,” Deal said. “You killed him as surely as if you put that pistol to his head and pulled the trigger.”

  “Your father’s health was failing, his business a ruin—”

  “Sick and tired is what he was. No wonder, all those years, playing ball with scumbags so you could pick off the easy targets.”

  “I saved your father from prison,” Sams said.

  “You set him up!” Deal said. “You turned him into a snitch…”

  Deal shook his head, still trying to come to terms with the enormity of it. His father living with such a burden all those years. Could his mother have known? But if she had, wouldn’t she have told him before she followed her husband to the grave? There’d been none of that, however, no tender last words about his noble father. Instead, she had sighed, “We hoped for better, didn’t we, John,” and breathed her last.

  “Give us five minutes,” Tasker was saying to Sams. “I get finished with him, he’ll tell you he’s sorry out the other side of his head.”

  Sams stared at him dryly. “Give it a rest, Tasker. Someday you’ll thank me.” He turned back to Deal. “I think I’ve held you up long enough, Mr. Deal…it’s about time we concluded our business.”

  “You’re here because you want to do the same thing to me that you did to my father?” Deal shook his head. “You can forget it. I was doing fine before you came along. Take your rigged bid and your office terminal and cram it up the Justice Department’s ass.”

  Sams held up a hand as if to staunch Deal’s outrage. “Your father could hardly have shared the details of our arrangements for any number of reasons, not the least being your own protection,” Sams said. “He collected plenty from the clients we steered his way and no one ever asked for a penny of it back. I can tell you that your father was comfortable with our agreement. He came to enjoy it, in fact—taking the money of a criminal, then seeing him brought to justice in the end. Mobsters and the leaders of drug cartels are not men to whom the concept of betrayal applies, Mr. Deal. Murderers lose their rights to loyalty, it’s as simple as that.”

  “If my father was proud of what he’d done, I would have heard about it,” Deal said. “Somehow, some way, he would have let me know.”

  “He was very proud of you,” Sams said. “He wanted only the best for you. He was confident that you’d succeed.”

  Deal shook his head, stunned at the man’s effrontery. “What made you think I’d listen to this? How could you possibly imagine that I’d work for you?”

  “Because you’re the man I need,” Sams said.

  “You’ve been too long in the harness,” Deal said.

  Sams managed a patient smile. “Do you know who’s behind the international free trade project?”

  Deal stared at him. “Swiss investment bankers. Oil sheiks.”

  “It’s a convenient story,” Sams said, dismissing the notion.

  “You’ve got all the answers,” Deal said. “You tell me.”

  “The principal investor was a man named Ferol Babescu. He had a number of interests in the Middle East, including a significant trade in Egyptian cotton. He made the lion’s share of his fortune in hashish and opium, however.”

  “Sounds like a DEA matter to me,” Deal said.

  “They’ve been involved,” Sams said. “That’s how certain information came to me. Babescu died in August, murdered by a man who subsequently assumed a role in the development of the Miami Free Trade Zone.”

  “And I’m supposed to care about this?”

  Sams shrugged. “A few hours ago, you were delighted to learn you’d be profiting handsomely from your part in the project, Mr. Deal. Does it mean anything to you that the entire undertaking is the work of criminals?”

  Deal paused, trying to remember that euphoria he’d allowed himself to flirt with when Eddie Barrios’ call had come. It seemed a lifetime ago. Now he was being told that the bid had been rigged, that the job was dirty. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said. “If what you say is true, then my part in this is history. Go find someone else to play games with.”

  Sams lifted an eyebrow. “So you say, Mr. Deal.” He lifted a manila folder from the desk and showed it to Deal. “We’ve compiled a substantial body of evidence that suggests otherwise, including an affidavit signed by one Edwin Barrios—”

  “Eddie Barrios?”

  “—admitting his complicity in a kickback scheme involving the former director of the Port of Miami and two members of the county commission.” Sams dropped the folder on the desk between them. “Mr. Barrios names you as his co-conspirator.”

  Deal stared back, his disbelief quickly being replaced with outrage. And some other feeling creeping in there as well. Something he recognized as helplessness. He saw there was a grin on Tasker’s face.

  “This is total bullshit.”

  “We have taped telephone conversations between you and Mr. Barrios, in which you offer certain inducements in return for his influence—”

  “I never offered Eddie Barrios anything.”

  Sams nodded to Tasker, who had produced a pocket recorder. Tasker pressed a button and Deal heard first Eddie’s voice—“You know I can help, right?”—then his own, “Sure, Eddie, I appreciate it. We’ll talk.”

  “That’s out of context,” Deal said. “You’ve pieced things together—”

  “Juries love to hear a tape,” Sams said. “They hear the voice of the accused, all the doubts just disappear.”

  “Fuck you,” Deal said. “File charges. Play your tapes. We’ll see what goes down in the end.”

  “Ah, the lone and noble warrior,” Sams said, lifting another file. “But in this case, the warrior is not so lonely.” Sams moistened a finger, flipped a page inside the folder. “He has a wife who requires a rather costly regimen of medical and psychiatric treatment. He has a young daughter enrolled in a private school where her own anxieties can be more closely monitored—�
��

  “You sonofabitch,” Deal said. He’d meant to convey loathing but his voice sounded defeated, even to himself.

  Sams laid the folder back on the desk. “It doesn’t have to be this way, John. We can work together.”

  There was silence in the room for several moments. Deal stared at the pistol that Sams had placed on a corner of the desk, willing the weapon to reconstitute itself in his hand. He’d killed before, in defense of his own life and that of Janice. In many ways, this seemed to him a similar circumstance.

  And yet he knew that even if he could manage the feat, it would lead nowhere. These were the “good guys” staring him down. The defenders of honor and decency. Upholders of the law.

  “Who is this person?” Deal asked. “The one who killed Babescu. Why does he matter so much?”

  Sams gave Tasker a look that betrayed satisfaction. The quarry weakening at last. Sams took a glossy photograph from the stack of papers on the desk and slid it toward Deal.

  Deal picked it up, saw a close-up image of a tall man with slicked-back hair and an engaging smile stepping off a cabin cruiser onto a dock somewhere—it was a telephoto shot, which rendered the background vague, but the man’s tanned face seemed somehow familiar—maybe a minor film star, or a PBS talk-show host.

  “He uses the name of Rhodes,” Sams said. “He claims to be a Canadian citizen and to have made a fortune in Great Lakes shipping.”

  “But that’s not true?” Deal glanced up from the photograph.

  “I don’t think so.” Sams seemed to be watching him closely, as if he were wondering if the name rang any bells.

  Deal shrugged. “Then who is he?”

  “Someone I want,” Sams said. “That’s all you need to know.”

  Deal stared at him. “If you want this guy so badly, then why not go pick him up?”

  Sams smiled. “It’s not as simple as that,” he said. “There are certain laws.”

  “That hasn’t stopped you so far,” Deal said.

  It brought a dry laugh from Sams. “I need to be absolutely sure, Mr. Deal. That’s where you come in.”

  “Why not plant one of your own men somewhere in his organization?” Deal said. “I’m no cop.”

  “Precisely,” Sams said. “You are exactly who you appear to be. That is your strength in the matter. I can use you—” He broke off and began again, his tone softer this time. “You will be able to ingratiate yourself with Rhodes,” he said. “From that position, you will have access to certain information, which will tell us what we need to know.”

  “Ingratiate myself how? If this guy is really who you think he is, he’s not going to come anywhere close to Miami.”

  Sams shrugged. “One thing at a time, Mr. Deal. All I need from you at this juncture is your assurance that you’re willing to cooperate.”

  Deal stared at the folders spread across the desk before him. His father a government informant, himself about to be conscripted into the same service?

  A part of him wanted to deny everything he’d heard, dismiss it all as nonsense, part of some scheme of Eddie Barrios’ meant to somehow pry a few dollars loose from a fat contract. But he couldn’t make it wash. Eddie Barrios was a flea next to the man who sat across the desk from him.

  “Why is this so important to you, Sams? You need another big score to get your retirement pay up a notch?”

  Sams gave him a neutral look. “I have my reasons and they don’t concern you. All I’m interested in is your cooperation.”

  “Cooperation,” Deal repeated, shaking his head wearily. He took another look at the files lying on the desk. “What choice do I have?”

  Sams smiled then, and for a moment the gesture seemed genuine. “I’m pleased to have you on the team,” he said. He stood up from behind the desk, gathering his papers. He picked up his pistol and replaced it under his coat.

  “That’s it?” Deal asked.

  “Oh, that’s hardly it,” Sams said, “but that’s enough for now.”

  He stepped from behind the desk and moved briskly toward the door. “You’ll be hearing from me, Mr. Deal. In the meantime, enjoy your good fortune.” He flashed his self-satisfied smile. “You have a brand-new life ahead.”

  Then he was gone, followed closely by Tasker, who held Deal’s eye briefly before following out the door. After a moment, Deal stood from the chair and walked out onto the porch.

  It was dark now, the moon not yet risen above the screen of the surrounding mangroves. He scanned the dim roadway that led out through the trees, but saw no sign of movement. He leaned with his hands on the rough wooden railing, listening for the sounds of receding footsteps, for a motor starting up, but there was only the distant hum of traffic out on the highway and the screech of tree frogs in the mangroves, a sound much diminished at this time of year.

  Maybe they were ghosts, Deal told himself. Maybe he’d dreamed it all. But how to explain the lingering ache at the base of his skull, and the knot of rage that lingered in his gut?

  He thought he heard something then, the far-distant sound of a car’s engine grinding to life, the spurt of sand as wheels chewed away in the night. But he couldn’t be sure. He turned from the railing and walked back into the office. He picked up the telephone. He wasn’t surprised to hear the purr of the dial tone restored. He tapped out the only number that mattered to him and stood wondering what he was going to say to Janice.

  Chapter Seven

  “This is the tunnel, isn’t it?” Kaia Jesperson said, glancing out her window as the speeding Mercedes ducked down beneath Parisian street level. “The Alma tunnel?”

  Richard Rhodes gave her a look. She looked no less lovely to him than the moment he’d first laid eyes on her weeks before in Turkey. He thought of his father suddenly, and knew it was because of her. Yes, how he wished Grant Rhodes were still alive to meet this woman.

  “We made love in the same bed, ate at the same table,” he said, turning back to Kaia. “…now we’re taking the same route to the airport.”

  “Made love,” said Kaia. “Is that what you’d call it?”

  “I would,” said Rhodes.

  “Hmmm.” She was turned away, seemed to be studying the tunnel walls, where graffitists proclaimed their undying devotion to the victims of the famous crash.

  He glanced toward the front of the limousine, but Frank and Basil Wheatley sat stoically in the front seat, the glass partition raised.

  “Did you have this thing for the princess?” she asked.

  Rhodes looked over. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  She turned to face him. “I bear a certain resemblance, you know. People say this sometimes.”

  “Is that so?”

  She twisted her hair in her hand, pulled it back on her head, gave him a smile meant to be winsome. “I thought perhaps you had a fetish of some sort.”

  He watched her skeptically. “I don’t think the princess ever appeared quite so salacious.”

  She lifted her brows and let her long hair tumble free. “Salacious,” she repeated. “Now there is a word.”

  “It suits,” Rhodes said, and thought to himself that it did. Not only did flames surround Kaia Jesperson, he had discovered, they boiled up within. There had been times when he’d had sex as frequently in the past, but never had it been a single person who’d ignited those desires. Flames, he thought. Acrobatics. Spectacles of violence.

  “Can we stop?” she said, bringing Rhodes back.

  “Here?”

  “I want to see,” she said, shaking her head. “I missed the place where it happened.”

  It took Rhodes a moment to get his mind off the sex. When he’d finally understood, he glanced at his watch. “We’re a bit late,” he said.

  “For what?” she insisted. “You own the plane.”

  He sighed and nodded. He pressed a button on the armrest console. “We need to turn around,” he said.

  Basil glanced back at the still-close
d partition. It was reflective glass. The big man would be staring at his own reflection. His lips moved, but the sound came from speakers hidden somewhere in the plush upholstery. “What’d you forget?”

  “Miss Jesperson would like to see the spot where the accident took place.”

  Basil digested this, nodding without comment. He turned and said something to Frank, who raised one hand from the wheel in response. Basil turned back to the partition. “Okay. We’ll swing around just the other side—”

  The words were hardly out of his mouth when something slammed into the side of the Mercedes, sending it veering toward the tunnel wall. Kaia gave a nearly inaudible cry, jerking away from the window as the heavy car rode up over the curbing. There was a grinding sound that shook Rhodes in his seat, and a shower of sparks as metal sheared on stone.

  The rear of the Mercedes caught something and rebounded back into the traffic lane. Rhodes felt another thud, then hurtled forward off his seat. As he went down, sprawling across the carpeted floor, he caught sight of a pale blue van beside them, its side door sliding back.

  “Look out,” Kaia cried in his ear as she flung herself on top of him.

  A man in a fatigue jacket and a wool cap jammed on his head appeared in the open doorway of the careening van beside them. The man had an automatic rifle in one hand and was trying to hold himself upright with the other.

  But the Mercedes had steadied itself now. Rhodes felt the surge of the big engine as Frank Wheatley jammed the pedal down.

  “Tell me you staged this,” Kaia cried. “Say it’s for my benefit.”

  Rhodes heard chuffing noises beside them, felt a lurch as the tires of the Mercedes blew. The car sagged to one side, but kept going.

  The van flashed past, then hit them again, this time near the front. The two vehicles were locked together now, engines at redline, each straining to drive the other to oblivion. In the end, it was the Mercedes that lost the battle, its tires chewed down to the rims, furrowing the pavement, costing them too much speed. The right fender crunched into the wall and the two vehicles swung about, broadsiding to a halt across the traffic lanes.