Payoff

by Douglas Corleone

  I swallowed the remainder of my coffee. “I suppose that’s true.”

  Aubrey turned serious again. “If this guy Kellen is what his roommate in Grand Cayman suggests he is, then he’s connected to some very dangerous people.”

  “I’ve dealt with a few of those in my life.”

  “Well, be ready to deal with a few more.”

  “So, then, you have an idea where to start?”

  Aubrey ran her hand through her short dirty-blond hair.

  “Sure,” she said. “In San José, when you need to buy fruit, you go to el mercado. When you need to buy information, you go to los tugurios.”

  Chapter 27

  La Carpio is the type of slum you imagine exists only in the worst war-torn regions of Africa, like Sudan. To say I’ve seen worse would be an injustice to the residents of La Carpio barrio because there comes a point when a place is simply unlivable, and it can’t be said to be a “better” place to exist than anywhere else.

  The air here was thick with the smell of rotting garbage. In front of us stood a city constructed of corrugated tin and old automobile tires, surrounded on two sides by filthy rivers and another by an active landfill comprising thousands of tons of waste. Adobe shacks and wooden huts leaned on one another for support while tendrils of brown-green grass clung to the sides of rudimentary structures, reaching in through boarded windows as though seeking a shelter in which to break off and die.

  The only signs of human life in La Carpio hung from laundry lines—hopelessly stained shirts and torn denim jeans long dried in the equatorial heat.

  Then the sound of children at play. A glimpse of a soccer ball as it bounced off one of the tin walls with a clang that I felt in my chest.

  “They’ll always have soccer,” Aubrey said. “Come on. We’ll start with the kids.”

  There were six of them, all in their early teens or almost there, all dressed in shorts and T-shirts depicting Major League Baseball teams. The boys stopped their game and eyed us suspiciously as we approached. Two dipped their hands in their pockets, undoubtedly to feel the security provided by their weapons. Switchblades, I guessed. Another two pivoted to the right, readying themselves to run if need be.

  “Hola,” Aubrey called out to them.

  The nearest of them recognized her voice instantly and smiled. He began to run toward her, then slowed himself, apparently not wishing to appear too eager in front of his friends. When they met, Aubrey wrapped her arms around him and he hugged her back. He had dark skin, blemished by the beginnings of acne. He was tall and dangerously skinny; his eyes came up to Aubrey’s chin.

  She turned him ninety degrees and spoke softly in his ear. He then motioned to his friends, indicating that he would be back in a few minutes.

  The other five children continued their game.

  “Simon, this is Fernando.”

  I shook the boy’s hand.

  Aubrey asked me whether I spoke Spanish.

  “Some,” I conceded.

  “Fernando doesn’t speak English, so I’ll interpret.”

  “Thanks, Aubrey.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out Kellen’s picture, though I didn’t show it to the boy just yet. First, I said, “I’m looking for bad men.”

  The kid grinned, motioned to the barrio behind him, and said something in Spanish.

  Aubrey translated. “He said, ‘Then you came to the right place.’”

  According to Aubrey, there were roughly forty thousand residents in La Carpio. About half those people were immigrants from Nicaragua, Costa Rica’s neighbor to the north. Recent migration to the capital city of San José in search of jobs had led to the explosion of shantytowns such as La Carpio. Although the sentiment was not entirely unfamiliar, Costa Ricans—or Ticos as they predominantly called themselves—were quick to place the blame at the feet of the Nicaraguans (or Nicas) who continued to cross the border in record numbers in search of a better future for their children.

  Fernando was a Nica. His family had been drawn to San José by the city’s growing economy and Costa Rica’s superior education and health-care systems. Due to decades of civil war and a five-year U.S. embargo imposed by Ronald Reagan, Nicaragua was presently one of the poorest countries in the western hemisphere, second only to Haiti. Unfortunately, despite the fact that Ticos and Nicas shared much in common—including language and culture and history and tradition—the two peoples despised each other, and children like Fernando were the ones who most suffered from the prejudice and hatred.

  “The criminals I’m searching for prey on women and children,” I said, pausing to allow Aubrey to translate. “They kidnap mothers, sisters, and daughters, and force them to sell their bodies to men who visit from other countries.”

  Fernando spoke at length and Aubrey translated.

  “He said, ‘I know these men you speak of. When I lived in Nicaragua, these men came to our village and stole one of my cousins. I have never seen her again. Maybe she is dead.’”

  I said, “Do you know where to find these men?”

  The child shrugged, spoke softly.

  Aubrey translated. “He’s saying, ‘What good does it do to find them? You are one man. They are many, and they are dangerous. They carry guns and they are protected by police because of money.’”

  I unfolded the picture of Kellen and showed it to him.

  “Then let’s start with one man,” I said. “This man, do you know him?”

  The boy stared at the photograph for nearly a minute before he spoke.

  Aubrey said, “He doesn’t know him, but he’s seen him in San José. At night this man talks to the visitors you spoke of, the ones who come here to pay for women’s bodies.”

  “Where can I find him?” I said.

  Aubrey listened to Fernando as he spoke animatedly, apparently giving directions.

  Finally, she cut him off, turned to me, said, “He mentioned a bar in the university district. I know where it is.”

  Chapter 28

  Aubrey and I spent that evening in Los Yoses and San Pedro, in the vicinity of Vyrus, the popular rock-and-roll bar that Fernando had once seen Kellen standing in front of. There were numerous bars in the area and we checked them all to no avail. When it became clear that we wouldn’t spot Kellen ourselves, we began asking around, showing some university students and other partygoers his picture. We told them he was my nephew and I was supposed to meet up with him but had lost his mobile number. Everyone was friendly enough, but no one could tell us where to find him. My heart raced; my neck tensed. My thoughts continually returned to the fact that the more time passed, the more likely the trail would go cold, the more likely Olivia would be gone for good.

  At two in the morning, I conceded that we’d hit a dead end.

  “There’s no such thing as a dead end,” Aubrey said.

  Before I could reply, she smacked her own forehead with the palm of her hand.

  “How could I be so goddamn stupid?” she said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  She grabbed me by the wrist and pulled so hard, I thought my arm might rip out of its socket. She didn’t speak again until we were in the Land Cruiser.

  “He’s an American,” she said.

  “So?”

  “So if he’s ever had so much as a stubborn head cold in the past decade and a half, he’s been to CIMA. Take us to my hospital. Now.”

  I started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

  “We don’t have his last name,” I said. “You’ll be able to find him in your database?”

  “How many Kellens you think live in Costa Rica?” she said.

  End of discussion.

  When we reached the hospital, I again parked in front of the main wing.

  “Wait here,” Aubrey said. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  While I waited, I dialed the cell phone number I’d found in Jason Gutiérrez’s e-mail account.

  “The subscriber you have called is not able to receive calls
at this time.”

  I considered calling Edgar, but if on the off chance he and Emma had been able to fall asleep, it’d be monstrous for me to wake them. I knew just how valuable those few hours of sleep were. When Tasha and I were waiting on news about Hailey, only once had we fallen asleep at the same time. And we were both woken by a well-meaning caller forty-five minutes later. As it happened, we never got the chance to sleep in the same bed at the same time again.

  Tasha. Seeing Aubrey again after all these years made my wife’s death feel fresh, made her absence sting like an open wound. After Tasha was gone, I was assured again and again that time heals all. Sure, time might eventually dull some of the pain. But those who tell you that time actually heals are feeding you a crock of shit.

  Several minutes later, Aubrey Lang returned to the Land Cruiser with a beautiful and genuine smile. Without a word, she handed me a small piece of stationery with the Viagra logo at the top. Scribbled below was an apartment address in San José.

  “He’s listed under the name Kellen Adams,” she said. “But there’s a note in his chart that says he had no identification on him either time he showed up in the ER.”

  “You’re wonderful, Aubrey.”

  Before I could enter the address into the Land Cruiser’s nav system, she slapped my hand away and said, “Just drive, Simon. I know where it is.”

  * * *

  Escazú, Aubrey told me, was an elite residential neighborhood known for attracting expatriates, from not only the United States but countries in South America and Europe as well.

  We parked across the street from Kellen’s condominium complex and gazed up at the dark windows on the sixth floor, where our subject apparently maintained a flat. I turned off my BlackBerry and started toward the building with Aubrey Lang at my heels. I’d tried to drop her off at her own apartment before coming here, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She insisted I should have a lookout, which was technically true. But if anything were to happen to her, I’d never forgive myself. Aubrey was too extraordinary a person, too good.

  No one was entering or exiting the building at two thirty in the morning, so we’d have to find another way in. Blocking the artificial outside light with my hands, I pressed my face up against the glass door, which led into a dark vestibule.

  “No alarm,” I said.

  I pulled hard on the handle, and the door shook in its frame. I considered the diamond in my pocket but I didn’t particularly care to look like a fool in front of Aubrey. So I took a step back, lowered my shoulder, and threw my weight at the area nearest the lock.

  I was in, and not entirely able to suppress my smile.

  I held the door open for Aubrey.

  As she passed through, she said, “Don’t they make tools for things like this?”

  “I’m saving up for a set.”

  We took the stairwell, which was lit with flickering fluorescent lights that were hell on the eyes. Our feet were fast and light as we took two steps at a time up six flights.

  At the entrance to the sixth floor, I asked Aubrey to wait at the door, to keep her eye on the hallway, and to alert me if anyone approached Kellen’s apartment while I was inside.

  “What’s the signal?” she said.

  “Just yell, ‘Simon, someone is approaching the apartment you broke into. I think you should get out of there right now.’”

  She grinned despite herself. “You’ve gotten a little funnier in the past several years.”

  “Just a little?”

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny silver tube.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “It’s a lady whistle. San José can be … not safe for single women at night.”

  “All right,” I said, “you see someone coming, you blow that whistle until he goes deaf. Then give me the signal.”

  I took her smile with me as I crept down the length of the hall. When I reached Kellen’s door, I gave a smile of my own. No dead bolt. Which meant a simple credit card would do.

  I reached into my back pocket, pulled out my wallet, and swiped the lock with my AmEx Blue. Quietly I turned the knob and opened the door, very aware of the fact that I wasn’t armed. I’d have to rectify that problem very soon.

  I stepped inside the apartment and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Nicer than my studio in D.C. Bigger, too. No wonder the kid spent more time here than with Jon Krusas in their rinky-dink flat in Grand Cayman.

  The furniture represented every color of the spectrum, but the sofas looked soft and comfortable. Even with the adrenaline pulsing through my veins, I was tempted to have a seat, maybe even take a brief nap. Each year, this job was wearing me down a bit more. Not just the traveling, but also the constant worry I’d screw something up, cost someone their child. Emotionally, these past eleven years had taken a hell of a toll.

  I crossed the room, pressed my back up against the wall, and stole a glimpse down the foyer. Three more doors, two were open. Of the two, one led to a bathroom, the other a closet. Which meant Kellen had to be behind Door Number 3.

  I took two strides, turned and backed myself into the opposite wall, feeling along the Sheetrock with my fingers for the door. When I reached the door, I took a deep breath and twisted the knob.

  I entered the room cautiously, crouched low in case Kellen had a weapon.

  And he did.

  A lightweight Spyderco Manix with a blue handle.

  A blade of about three inches—thrust into his right eye up to the hilt.

  “Christ,” I said.

  Looks like my asking around had gotten the kid killed.

  Chapter 29

  I cleared the closet, checked under the bed, then turned on a small lamp. Saw that the blood on the bed was still fresh. Still flowing freely from the steel-filled eye socket. Meant that I didn’t just get Kellen killed; I’d arrived just in time for the frame.

  I clenched my ungloved hands into fists and made a decision. Olivia didn’t have time for me to get myself arrested. Hell, given the evidence—my presence in the room around the time of the murder, my prints all over the apartment, my asking around the university district for the victim’s whereabouts—if I got picked up on this, I might never go free again.

  So I ran.

  I bolted out of the apartment and down the hallway, grabbing Aubrey at the stairwell.

  “What’s going on?” she said urgently, just loud enough for me to hear.

  “Kellen’s dead,” I said between heavy breaths. “The blood’s fresh. Which means we’ve got to get out of here, fast.”

  Together we bounded down the steps without looking back. My right ankle screamed out in pain, and on the second landing, I thought I’d broken it. But I grimaced and cursed under my breath, and kept moving.

  Out of the stairwell and into the vestibule, I threw myself at the crash bar and Aubrey and I were outside running through the night in the direction of the Land Cruiser.

  Aubrey stopped at the door to the passenger side and I kept going toward the driver’s.

  But as I rounded the rear of the vehicle, I heard Aubrey let out a panicked yelp, followed by a hushed command uttered by a man in Spanish.

  I knew there was no time to freeze; I had to do something. So I threw my right foot onto the back bumper and heaved myself onto the roof of the Land Cruiser, making as little noise as possible. In my peripheral I spotted a second man, who’d been waiting for me on the driver’s side. This second assailant turned his head to sneak a peek around the rear of the vehicle to determine whether I’d spun in the other direction to help Aubrey.

  When he did, I turned and leapt from the roof of the SUV onto his back, dragging him down to the blacktop. A gun dropped from his hand and landed a few feet away. When he reached for it, I grabbed the fingers of his right hand and bent them all the way back till I heard them snap, and he screamed. I slammed his head hard against the pavement, saw the other man coming around the corner with Aubrey in front of him, so I twisted Broken Fingers
’ body on top of me to act as a shield, and sure enough, Broken Fingers took two bullets for me—one in the chest, one in the gut.

  The man who had Aubrey spun himself around to take cover as I rolled over Broken Fingers’ dead or dying body to get to the gun. When I saw Aubrey’s shadow coming around the corner again, I rolled Broken Fingers’ body back on top, and he took two more bullets for me—one in the leg and one in the head. The other guy was getting sloppy.

  And nervous. I could see his feet shuffling under the SUV as he decided whether to run, now that Broken Fingers was dead and I had the gun.

  Beneath the SUV, I had a clear shot at his legs, but he was still holding a gun to Aubrey’s head. So I tossed Broken Fingers’ broken body aside and leapt to my feet, crouching along the side of the Land Cruiser until I had the angle.

  When I reached the front of the vehicle, I stole a glance. The gunman wasn’t even facing in the right direction. I raised my weapon and sighted the back of his skull, but before I could squeeze the trigger, the screech of police sirens shattered the night silence.

  The gunman threw Aubrey hard to the ground, pivoted, and ran toward the front of the Land Cruiser—and me.

  Before he could pass the left front fender, I delivered a blow square to his jaw.

  He dropped as though he’d been hit in the head with a sledgehammer.

  I looked up, saw Aubrey getting to her feet.

  “Are you okay?” I shouted over the blare of the approaching sirens.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Open the rear door,” I said. “This one’s coming with us.”

  She didn’t hesitate.

  I tossed the unconscious gunman inside and got behind the wheel, while Aubrey took the passenger seat. I turned the key over in the ignition and the engine roared.

  I threw the transmission into drive and pressed down on the accelerator, the large tires spinning before gaining traction, then screeching as I peeled away from the curb.

  In the rearview, red and blue lights were now visible.

  To Aubrey, I said, “If they catch us, I took you as a hostage.”

  “They’re not going to catch us,” she said.