"Yes."
"Whoever it is that pulled Leon Contreras's records, it brought him to my attention, even though he was your email contact, not the Lewises'. I got worried, so I pulled his records, as well."
"And what did you find?" Connie asked.
"You first; I don't want to violate his privacy without knowing how you're connected."
"He's a long-lost cousin," Connie said. "My mother's sister's son. We've never met, as far as either of us can remember, but he found my trail when he was going through his mother's papers after she died recently. He tracked me down through the internet and gave me a call, maybe a week ago. That's all we know."
"Are you sure about the relationship?"
"No, but he knew all the right stuff -- family lore, and so forth."
"Did he mention his personal history?"
"A little. He told me he'd been in trouble when he was younger, and expected to spend the rest of his life proving that he'd changed. You're starting to worry me."
"I'm sorry. Based on what you've told me, I don't think you should worry. He had a drug conviction when he was in his late teens and paid his debt to society. He runs a gym supported by a charitable organization with the goal of helping gang kids go straight. He looks like a good guy. I really wanted to make sure that he was your connection, and that the Lewises hadn't somehow high-jacked your email."
"You should have been able to see what was going on from the emails between us," Connie said.
"But I didn't want to read them, in case they really were yours. So I asked you."
"Read them if you want. I don't have anything to hide, but I don't know much about him."
"That's fine. Knowing that, I'll go find out why somebody's looking into Mr. Contreras."
"Do you think he's connected to the Lewises, somehow? Could he have made up this family connection?" Paul asked.
"Connie's in the best position to judge that right now. I'll let you know what I discover, but if he struck you as the real thing, he's probably exactly what he says he is. In the meantime, I'll ask you not to mention this to him. Just consider it an unfortunate accidental intrusion. Again, I'm sorry to have upset you, Connie."
"Apology accepted. I'm a little over the edge on privacy. Sorry I jumped down your throat."
"You said you needed our help on figuring out who the Lewises really are," Paul said.
"Yes. A few latent prints would go a long way; we're completely stymied. Is there any way you could do that?"
"I think so. I obviously don't have a standard fingerprint kit, but I'll improvise something -- talcum powder or graphite, and masking tape, maybe. I'll email you photos of what I can find. We haven't done the breakfast dishes yet, so we should have something with prints on it."
"That would be a big help. Call if anything comes up. Are you staying around Antigua, or sailing off somewhere?"
"Don't know," Paul said. "I'll shoot you an email if we move."
"Good enough. Thanks, folks."
****
Leon Contreras studied the two men who sat in the folding chairs on the other side of the scarred wooden table that served as his desk. FBI Special Agents, they had claimed to be. He knew better; he'd spent enough time on the other side to know how to tell the difference. The badges and cards looked real enough, but the suits and shoes were a little too expensive, the haircuts a little too stylish.
He'd declined their offer to call their office to verify their identity. That was another tip-off, as far as he was concerned. No doubt, someone on the other end would vouch for them, and he knew how easy it was to intercept and reroute phone calls. A man learned a lot doing ten years of hard time, and he'd been a good student, a careful listener.
He was listening now, as they recited his criminal history. The one who had called himself Joe Willis was doing the talking. The other one, the one who said his name was George Overton, was pretending to take notes, since Contreras had declined their request to record the meeting. He had no doubt they were recording it anyway, but he didn't plan to say much.
Willis had stopped talking. After years of training and experience as a counselor, Contreras owned the pregnant pause. He sat still, a pleasant look on his battered face, gazing at Willis, watching him grow progressively more impatient. Willis hooked his right index finger in his collar, adjusting his tie. He shifted in his seat.
"Well, Mr. Contreras, why do you think we're here?"
Contreras shrugged and shook his head.
"We could do this downtown, you know," Overton said, hostility creeping into his carefully modulated voice.
Contreras thought, "Bad cop," but just smiled at the man.
"We said we wanted to ask you some questions," Willis said.
Contreras looked at him and nodded, still smiling.
Overton shifted in his seat again, his jacket falling open, showing off the Glock on his hip. He reached into the side pocket of his jacket and took out handcuffs, running his fingers over the shiny metal.
"What's your relationship to Connie Barrera?" Willis asked.
For the first time since they showed up, Contreras had to work to keep his poker face intact. He rounded his shoulders, extended his arms, and rolled his hands so his fingers pointed down and his palms were toward Willis.
"Don't know him," Contreras said, watching as Willis flicked a glance at Overton, who raised his eyebrows.
Willis nodded, and Overton laid the handcuffs on the table. "Her," Overton said, his pale blue eyes boring into Contreras's. "But you do. You sent her an email, and she answered you. You know her."
Contreras smiled. He'd just learned something. These men, whoever they were, were monitoring his email. Or Connie's. "I send email to a lot of people, strangers, mostly, to ask for contributions. Maybe you gentlemen would like to support the gym. We're a 501(c) corporation; it's tax deductible, and it would be good community policing. You could even come around and volunteer to -- "
"You're lying, Contreras," Overton said. "She's your cousin. You signed your email 'Cousin Leon.'"
Contreras smiled again; he'd gleaned another piece of information. They weren't just looking at metadata. They had read the email exchange. That's okay. It was innocuous. He'd thanked her for taking the time to talk to him on the telephone the other day and asked her to respond so he'd have her email address confirmed. "It's a cultural thing," he said. "Like saying 'brothers with different parents,' or 'mi casa es su casa.' It's a way of bonding."
"I think you're full of shit," Overton said. "What's the name of this new cartel you two are working for?"
"Mister Overton, -- "
"Special Agent," Overton interrupted.
"I'm sorry. Special Agent Overton," Contreras said, "I find that question offensive. Excuse me for a moment while I call my lawyer. I believe you're -- "
"We don't have time for this," Willis said. "We're leaving, for now." He stood and gestured to Overton.
"But we'll be back, asshole. And you'll answer our questions, or we'll put you back in the pen with all your greaser buddies. Bonding, my ass."
Contreras kept an impassive look on his face until he heard the outside door open and bang shut. Then he picked up his cellphone and speed-dialed a number. "Follow them," he said, when the other party answered.
****
"Are you worried about Leon Contreras?" Paul asked, as he watched Connie picking at the salad he'd fixed for their lunch.
"Maybe. I'm anxious about something; that's for sure. Why do you ask about Leon?"
"Because you haven't been yourself since we got off the phone with Johnson."
"I'm pissed off about the email," she said. "Nosey bastards."
"Come on, Connie. He's right. They gave us a heads-up, just like he said. You should have known there was a good chance they'd see that exchange. You could have answered Leon's email over cellular data if you wanted to keep them out of it. It wasn't anything private anyway, was it?"
"No. It's just the idea." She shook her head, grima
cing. "You may be right."
"About Leon worrying you?" Paul asked.
She nodded. "I hadn't really focused on that, until you reminded me, but yeah. It upset me that he's an ex-con and didn't tell me."
"But he didn't hide it; he gave you an opening when he mentioned having been in trouble when he was younger. You didn't pursue it."
"That's true. He did. I felt like he deserved to be taken at face value; I didn't want to pry into his past. It's not like I was a candidate for sainthood when I was young. I cut him the slack that I like to be given."
"And it sounds like he's deserving. Don't -- "
Paul was interrupted by the pinging of an incoming text message on Connie's phone. She picked it up and studied the screen, swiping it and entering her passcode.
"Text from Leon," she said. "Do you suppose he's telepathic?"
Paul grinned and shook his head. "What's he say?"
"He asked if I'm using an iPhone." Her thumbs tapped the screen. "I asked him why." She put the phone on the table between them so that they could both read it.
"End-to-end encryption." His response blinked onto the screen.
"Yes, iPhone," she typed.
"You may be in trouble. Just now had a visit from two fake FBI agents asking about you. They hacked my email."
"Why do you say fake?" Paul typed.
"Not important. Trust me. Spent enough time on the wrong side to spot real from phony."
"What did they want?" Paul typed.
"About our relationship and which cartel we work for."
"You and I?" Connie typed, frowning.
"Yes. Stonewalled them. Told them I resented their questions and wanted my lawyer."
"Then what?" Connie typed.
"They left. Pissed off. Said they'd come back and make me answer."
"You call the cops?" Paul typed.
"You kidding, right? Me? An ex-con?"
"What next?" Connie typed.
"Had them followed. Let you know when I hear back. Be careful. Best, Leon."
"Wait, " Paul typed, "Names of agents?"
"George Overton and Joe Willis. Badges & ID looked real. Gotta run. Boys waiting."
"Now what?" Connie asked.
"We call Johnson and pass this along. But first, did you catch that he thinks it's his email that's being monitored?"
"Yes. Why would he assume that, do you think?"
"He told you. He's an ex-con."
"You're right. He just came right out and said it, didn't he?"
"Yes, but that's not what I meant."
"What, Paul. I don't get it."
Paul pointed at the text on the screen, where it said, "You kidding, right? Me? An ex-con?" He tapped it with his nail and said, "Unfortunately, he's right. Shit happens to ex-cons. That's why he thinks it's his fault."
"I wonder who he had follow them," Connie said.
"Yeah, I wonder. He'll tell us more, I expect, but in his own time. He's a little different, your cousin Leon. That's not a typical reaction for anybody, let alone an ex-con."
Chapter 20
O'Toole stood, his hands on the railing, gazing at the people on the beach. Jansen was next to him, speaking in a soft voice. They'd just finished lunch at O'Toole's favorite seafood restaurant in South Beach; he'd sensed Jansen's impatience all through lunch, but O'Toole didn't talk business if there was the slightest possibility of being overheard.
"Barrera's got some kind of tag on her file at the Bureau," Jansen said.
O'Toole shrugged, watching as two shapely, tanned women wearing nothing but thong bikini bottoms took turns oiling one another. "So? What's that mean?"
"Her file gets special handling; my guy doesn't know who's watching her, but somebody's got an eye on her records. He said there were like 'trip wires,' or some kind of intrusion alarms tied to the files."
"I told you she was connected. Think she's got somebody protecting her?" O'Toole asked.
"That, or somebody way up the organization's running an investigation with her as the target."
"Interesting. Can your source find out for sure whether or not she's working for the Bureau? Or the DEA?"
"He's already pretty sure she's not. The Bureau's got a warrant to monitor all her internet traffic from the boat. She's got some kind of satellite communications system on it."
"So?" O'Toole asked.
"He says if she was working for them, they probably wouldn't have the warrant. The court records increase the chance of a leak, according to him, and if she were on their side, they wouldn't need it anyway, because they'd have her permission."
"Can he get access to her internet traffic?"
"Done." Jansen said, and outlined what he'd learned so far as well as his follow-up plans.
"Who're you using to do the legwork in Antigua and California?"
"SpecCorp."
"Good," O'Toole said. "Let me know if they need any encouragement. They've got a big contract pending with the Pentagon right now. Their C.E.O, Jim Delaney, is calling me every day, pushing for my support."
"They told me," Jansen said.
O'Toole tore his eyes away from the women and turned to face Jansen. "They what? Who're you dealing with?"
"My regular contact. Relax; he doesn't know about your interest. He didn't mention your name. He just said -- "
"He fucking well better not. I'll have Delaney's ass if he's told any of his people. You let me know if you even suspect anybody but Delaney knows."
"Sure, but this guy's way down the food chain from Delaney. He was doing a sales job on me. He was just dropping hints about how they handle black ops for certain three letter organizations inside the beltway, and that they have a big contract pending. That's all."
O'Toole held Jansen's gaze for several seconds, finally nodding. "Okay, but let me know if I need to jerk Delaney's chain. He'd disappear that bastard in a nanosecond if he knew he was saying things like that."
"I understand, Senator."
"I know you do, Art. What's your plan from here?"
"I've given them the okay to pick up this Contreras character and engage in what they call 'enhanced interrogation techniques.' He was holding something back, for sure. My gut says he's a key part of this west coast cartel that she's fronting for."
"Uh-huh," O'Toole said, studying the two women again. One was standing with her back to him, bending down to straighten her blanket. "Man, South Beach has some amazing sightseeing." He shook his head. "Sorry, Art. You were saying, about Contreras?"
"That's all for now on Contreras, but I've also authorized them to send a couple of agents to Antigua."
"To check on the bank?" O'Toole asked.
"Not the bank. Those people who're moving all the money around have been using that bank before. There's too much chance of blowback if we start asking questions. All it would take is one of the bankers to mention it to the Lewises."
"The Lewises? Those the money people?"
"Right, Senator. No, I'm sending them in to talk to the people at the resort. I want to know what kind of meeting they're planning."
"Makes sense, Art. Back closer to home, what's Schultz going to do? He's running short of management talent with Miami and Tampa both open."
"I think he's got somebody for Miami, but I don't know about Tampa, yet."
"Miami's key. Put the right guy there, and he could run Tampa for a while. Easier to manage both, if you ask me. Who's he got in mind?"
"Kid named Dick Kilgore. He's been with Schultz forever. Tough as nails, but I'm not sure how bright he is."
"Sounds perfect. Brains are less important than balls, at least until you sort out the interloper. Give him a shot at Tampa, too. See how he does."
"That may be what we have to do for a little while, until we figure out who we're dealing with," Jansen said.
"Good. Well, keep me posted. I need to get back to work."
****
"What's up?" Noah Johnson asked. "I got the prints a little while ago. Thanks, but I
don't have anything on them yet."
"You're welcome, but that's not why we're calling."
"I didn't expect to hear from you again until you'd left Antigua," Johnson said.
"Breaking news," Paul said. "Tell him, Connie."
"I just got a text from Leon Contreras," Connie said. "Okay if I just read it to you?"
"Sure. Go ahead."
When Connie finished, there was no response from Johnson. "Noah? Did we lose you?"
"Sorry. No, I was just thinking. Joe Willis and George Overton, right?"
"Right."
"He didn't happen to say if they were from the local office out there, did he?"
"No," Paul said. "I figured you'd have a directory in your computer or something."
"Yes, I do. But I'm not matching those names. The SAC in Sacramento's a friend; I'll give her a call and see if she knows anything. This isn't making any sense."
"Have you had time to backtrack whoever pulled his records the other day?"
"Yes, but it doesn't seem to shed any light on this. It was an analyst who was following trails from three big drug busts over the last few years. It's really weird. They were all tied to south Florida, with a Caribbean connection."
"That doesn't sound so odd," Paul said. "The Caribbean connection, that is."
"That's not the weird part. They were all DEA busts, but the records have all kinds of gaps. There was apparently a confidential informant involved, but there's no record of who she was."
"She?" Connie asked.
"Right. The C.I. was definitely a woman, and it looks like somebody in the MPD was involved, but again, that's no big surprise."
"So how did the analyst get to Contreras?" Paul asked.
"He somehow made the connection to the warrant that covers your satcom, but it's not clear how. I'm waiting for a request to work its way through channels. I need clearance to talk to him about whatever he's working on."
"Tell me about the busts," Paul said. "If you can. Miami's home; I might think of something."
Sails Job - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 6th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers) Page 14
