Sails Job - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 6th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers)

by Charles Dougherty

  Satisfied that he'd thought his way through this, he picked up the prepaid cellphone he'd bought in one of the stalls in the mall and keyed in Jansen's number.

  "Yeah," Jansen barked in his ear.

  "Jansen, you know who this is?"

  "Yeah. Where've you been? I've tried to call you; you were supposed to be in touch yesterday."

  "Uh-huh," Norris said. "I was tied up with some unexpected stuff, but I got everything you could want. I can give you the lowdown on Contreras and Barrera -- who they're working for, everything."

  "How did you -- "

  "Never mind that. We need to meet. I'm not doing this over the phone."

  "The usual place?" Jansen asked.

  "No. I'll text you a place. You got some work to do first, though."

  "How's that?"

  "The price is going up. Once I give you this, I'll be burned but good, as far as my job's concerned. You follow?"

  "What are you -- "

  "This one's going to cost you extra; I need walkin'-away money."

  "What? How much?"

  "Enough so I can disappear; believe me, you don't want them to find me. You know what I could tell them if my ass was on the line."

  "Don't forget the video, asshole."

  "Oh, you can keep that to watch when you're horny. It can't do me any harm, at this point. I got bigger problems. So do you."

  "How much?" Jansen asked.

  "One," Norris said.

  "One?"

  "Yeah, one. Nice, round number. You can give me big bills; it won't matter, where I'm going. Make it easy on yourself."

  "You got any idea how big a package that'll be? A million bucks? Assuming I decide to do it, that is."

  "Oh, you'll do it, baby. Don't try to play me. I got you by the balls. Big bills. Small package. I see you with anything bigger than an overnight bag, and you're fucked. I'll cut a deal and hang your ass, baby."

  "Okay, okay. Don't get carried away. It'll take me a couple of hours to put it together."

  "I'll decide how long you've got to put it together. You just get your ass working on it, pronto. And watch for that text. If you're late, my former employers will be waiting for you."

  Norris, pleased with himself, pressed the disconnect button and slipped the phone in his pocket.

  Chapter 24

  Kilgore followed the bouncer toward the back exit of the Pink Pussycat, checking to be sure his pistol had a round in the chamber. This didn't feel right to him, but the handwritten note brought by the bouncer was compelling.

  "We need to talk, Mr. Kilgore. Right now. I know what happened to Nicholson and Horton. Before I tell Schultz, join me in my limo for a drink in the alley behind your club. We can leave the door open so your man can keep an eye on us; I'm not going to do you any harm -- yet."

  Kilgore had quizzed the bouncer as soon as he read the note. "Who gave this to you?"

  "One of the hookers that works the street out front."

  "You know her?"

  "Nah. I just seen her out there the last few weeks. She's new. Not too bad -- "

  "She say anything?"

  "Yeah. She said, 'This is for Mr. Kilgore. Life or death.' No shit, man. That's what she said."

  "You ask her who gave it to her?"

  The bouncer shook his head. "She stuck it in my hand and hauled ass."

  "You read it before you gave it to me?"

  The bouncer hesitated for a beat, then said. "Yeah. Sorry, I thought -- "

  Kilgore interrupted. "It's okay. Just forget what it said."

  The bouncer nodded, a worried frown on his face.

  At the back door, the heavily muscled man put his hand on the crash bar. He put his eye to the peephole for a second and then turned toward Kilgore. "Big black limo out there; the windows are blacked out and the lights ain't on. You want me to watch like he said in the note?"

  "Fuckin' A right, I do," Kilgore said. "Anything goes wrong, make sure none of the people in that limo get away."

  "Okay, boss."

  "Let's go," Kilgore said. "Open the door."

  The bouncer hit the crash bar and charged into the alley, gun in hand. He went into a shooter's crouch and leveled his pistol at the driver's side window. The interior lights of the limo came on. Through the heavily tinted windows, Kilgore could see the driver in front and someone in the back seat. Both figures had their hands raised, palms out. Kilgore noticed that the passenger-side back window had been lowered a couple of inches.

  "It's all right, Mr. Kilgore," he heard, through the opening. "We'll keep our hands in view while your man covers us, and you open the back door. You'll recognize me, then."

  Kilgore glanced at the bouncer, who nodded. Kilgore took a deep breath and reached for the door handle with his left hand, his pistol trained on the figure in the back seat. He lifted the handle and swung the door open, stepping to the side as he did. He kept the door between himself and the man in the back seat. Leaning so that he could peer into the car, he saw that the man had a horribly scarred face.

  "You know who I am?" the man asked.

  Kilgore nodded. "What do you want?"

  "Just to talk. We are both businessmen, I think. All this violence, it doesn't make money for anybody. Why don't you have a seat and I'll pour you a drink? We can get acquainted."

  "Tell your driver to get out of the car with his hands up," Kilgore said.

  "Do it," The scar-faced man said.

  The driver got out, his motions awkward as he kept his hands raised.

  "Pat him down," Kilgore said. "I'll cover you."

  The bouncer stuck his pistol in his waistband and frisked the driver.

  "He's clean."

  "Good. Take him inside and buy him a drink. I'll call you on the cell if I need you." He waited until the door closed behind the two men.

  Still holding his pistol, he slid into the back seat. "You got a name?" he asked.

  "Of course I do, Mr. Kilgore, but it doesn't matter. My face is all that matters. Everyone who has seen me once remembers it. You have no need for my name. Can I offer you a drink?"

  "No, thanks."

  "Do you mind if I have one?"

  "Knock yourself out. What do you want?"

  "I want to pick up where the unfortunate Mr. Horton and I left off."

  Kilgore squinted at the man, looking him in the eye. "Horton's dead," he said.

  "Yes." The man crossed himself, a fluid, instinctive gesture. "God rest his soul. And Nicholson." He shook his head. "That was so unnecessary. From the recording, I think the old man is to blame."

  "Recording?" Kilgore asked.

  "Nicholson recorded it. My people recovered it afterward, when I couldn't get in touch with Horton or Nicholson." The man shook his head. "This old man, Sam?"

  "What about him?" Kilgore asked.

  "I think he is a friend of Schultz, yes?"

  Kilgore nodded, tentatively.

  "He told my people he had known Mr. Schultz for a long time."

  "He told your -- wait. When did you ... "

  "Earlier today. I don't know the details. Only what Sam told them. They said he was stubborn. A fool, like Schultz, probably."

  Kilgore scowled and touched his gun with his free hand.

  "The time for people like them in our business is past, Mr. Kilgore. The future belongs to more progressive men, like you and Horton."

  "Me and Horton," Kilgore mumbled.

  "He trusted you, Mr. Kilgore. He told me you and he would be equal partners in our venture, once the old men were out of the way."

  "Uh-huh," Kilgore said. "Equal partners, huh? That was me and Horton, yeah. But what about now?"

  "Now, with Horton gone, it will just be the two of us, I think."

  "What about Pinkie?"

  "Such an unfortunate nickname. Disgusting. Where he will fit in is yet to be determined."

  "Who's gonna decide?"

  "Oh, you and I, mostly, but I need to discuss it with Mr. Schultz's boss. And perhaps this
woman; she keeps coming up."

  "What is it that you want from me?"

  "Perhaps an introduction?" The scar-faced man said.

  "An introduction? To who?"

  "The woman, and Schultz's boss."

  "I'm not sure I can do that."

  "Equal partners, Mr. Kilgore. Of course you can. You need some reassurance from me, or something?"

  "N-no," Kilgore said, hearing a sudden chill in the man's voice. "That's not it. I'll have to pin down exactly who they are, that's all."

  "Ah, I see. Yes, Horton said much the same thing. He thought he could find a cellphone number; he said that Schultz had a 'burner' cellphone in his desk that he used to get in touch with his boss. Is that helpful?"

  "Yeah. I'll need a distraction for Schultz."

  "What kind of distraction?"

  "Your people still got Sam?"

  "Perhaps. Why?"

  "He and Schultz are tight. If Sam called Schultz for help, he'd drop everything and go lookin' for him. That'd give me a clear shot at Schultz's desk."

  "That might work. I'll put something together and let you know when Sam will call Schultz."

  "Good. I'll wait to hear."

  Kilgore shook the man's hand. As he got out of the limo, he speed-dialed the bouncer.

  ****

  "What do you have, Norris," Jansen asked, hunched over the table in the dark, corner booth. He had one hand on the black nylon carry-on suitcase that was wedged between his feet.

  Norris took a microSD card from his shirt pocket and slid it across the table. "You got the money?"

  "Yeah. Tell me what's on this -- "

  "No time for bullshit," Norris said, looking over his shoulder at the entrance. "It's there, like I said. Gimme the case."

  "You can tell me what's on the card while you check the cash. I -- "

  "Shut the fuck up, Jansen. Slide that case to me under the table. I don't have time to count it. If it's short, you're fucked. So's your boss. Simple."

  "Wait a minute!" Jansen said. "How do I -- " he gasped at the pain in his knee. Releasing his grip on the case, he shifted his hand to the site of the pain and felt the handle of an icepick protruding from his leg. He felt faint, barely registering that Norris had snatched the case from under the table and was making his way out of the bar.

  Forcing himself to focus, he took out his phone and pressed a speed-dial icon. "He just left," he said, when the call was answered.

  "Yeah. We got eyes on him. No problem."

  "Wait," Jansen said. "Change of plans. I want that little shit to suffer."

  "Sorry. Too late. You said you wanted a suicide; that's what we got queued up. I can change it, but it'll take time, and if we do that, chances are good we'll fuck him up enough so suicide won't fly with the cops. What do you want?"

  "Just go ahead, then."

  "With the suicide?"

  "Yeah, but be sure to recover the money."

  "No sweat," Jansen heard as he disconnected the call and returned the phone to his pocket.

  He considered whether to pull the icepick from his leg. He wondered if he'd be able to get out of the bar under his own power. The initial flash of pain had subsided; he felt a dull ache, now, but he knew that was shock. He scooped up the microSD card and put it in his jacket pocket.

  Taking a napkin from the table in his left hand, he folded it on itself a couple of times, making a square about four inches on a side. He made a compress of it and held it loosely in place over the spot where the icepick entered his leg just above his knee. He bent over the table and gripped the icepick's handle in his right hand. Taking a deep breath and clenching his teeth, he pulled the ice pick out slowly, surprised that he didn't feel much difference.

  He put the icepick on the seat beside him and extended his leg, raising the foot. There was pain, but it was tolerable. He put his foot back on the floor. Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, he took out his wallet. His left hand still holding the napkin in place at his knee, he laid the wallet on the table and flipped it open, extracting a twenty and tucking it under his untouched beer.

  He put the wallet back in his pocket and brought the napkin up where he could see it. There was very little blood. That was good; with a puncture wound, he should be okay as long as he got some antibiotics to ward off infection. He levered himself out of the booth and rose to a standing position, testing his wounded leg. Satisfied, he headed for the door, glad he'd opted for valet parking. The less walking he did, the better, until he got some medical attention.

  ****

  Kilgore answered his phone with a grunted, "Yeah?"

  "Kilgore?"

  "Yeah."

  "You'd recognize my face if you could see me."

  "Yeah, sure. I know who you are."

  "Good. Where are you?"

  "Outside Pinkie's place. He just went tearing ass outta here."

  "That's why I'm calling. Schultz just heard from Sam. You probably have an hour or so. Can you get into his office while he's not there?"

  "Yeah, no problem. I'm deliverin' some money; I normally take it in there and put it in the safe. The guys watchin', they're used to that. I'm good."

  "You have the combination to his safe?" There was surprise in the scar-faced man's voice."

  "Nah. It's got this, like, night-deposit thing I dump the cash in."

  "Okay. Call me when you get that cellphone from his desk."

  "Just stay on the line. I'll only be a minute, and I got somethin' to ask you."

  "Okay. Ask."

  "How come you don't just snatch Pinkie and beat the answers out of him, like you did Sam?"

  "A fair question, but we have our reasons. I don't think this is the time to discuss -- "

  "Equal partners. You ain't makin' sense right now. Like you said, it's a reasonable question, and my ass is on the line."

  "Okay, okay. Assuming that we can make a deal with Schultz's boss, we want to keep Schultz clean so that he can take the fall with law enforcement. That will keep them occupied for a while. Of course, he'll eventually tell them who his boss is, but by then, we will have moved higher up, and his boss will have time to get away."

  "That's complicated as shit," Kilgore said. "I'm in his office now, going through his desk drawers."

  "Complicated, yes. But the fewer dead bodies we leave around, the better for business."

  "I got it. Only got one number in it. Somebody named Art Jansen. You want the phone?"

  "I'd prefer it if you can just get the name and number from it and leave the phone where you found it."

  "No problem. Uh-oh. I gotta go. One of the guys came in, needs to talk to me. I'll call you when I get back to the Pussycat, sweetheart." Kilgore made a kissing sound and disconnected the call. "What's up?"

  The man who stood framed in the office door said, "We was just wonderin' if you knew where the hell Pinkie went."

  "No. Why?" Kilgore said, still standing behind Pinkie's desk.

  "Curious. He hauled ass like his britches was on fire. We was worried maybe it was a raid comin' or somethin'."

  "No idea where he went," Kilgore said. "But I don't think it's no raid. He say when he'd be back?"

  "Uh-uh."

  "All right, then. Just lemme write him a note, and I'll join y'all for a beer, okay?"

  "Yeah, sure." The man left, closing the door behind him.

  Kilgore jotted the number for Art Jansen on a scrap of paper and stuck it in his pocket. He put the phone back in the center drawer where he'd found it and made sure there was no evidence of his search. Satisfied, he opened the office door and walked down the hall to the bar.

  Chapter 25

  Noah Johnson was at his desk before sunrise, going through his emails. He skimmed the three line summaries until one from the Internal Investigation Section caught his eye. He opened it and read that Harold Norris, the corrupt analyst, had been traced to a hotel where he was registered under an assumed name.

  Agents had moved in to arrest him, only to
discover his body in the bathtub, wrists slit. A brief suicide note expressed his remorse for betraying the Bureau and made reference to an incriminating video on his personal computer. The video was an explicit record of him engaged in a sexual act with a male who appeared to be a minor. There would be updates as the investigation continued.

  The other email that he opened right away was one confirming that the Bureau would provide $1,000,000 to support the further investigation of the Lewises. Johnson studied the email and prepared a response, providing the requested information about Connie and Paul, including their social security numbers and mailing address, which would be used to open an account in their name. The account would be ready and the money available within one hour after receipt of their information. Warrants were in place to track the money once Connie and Paul initiated the first transfer.

  Johnson began clicking through his remaining emails, stopping when the computer chimed advising him of receipt of new mail. He closed the one he was reading and scrolled back to the top of his inbox. The new email confirmed that the joint account in the name of Connie Barrera and Paul Russo was active.

  As he had previously agreed with Connie and Paul, he composed a text message containing the particulars of the account and sent it to their encrypted satellite phone. He wasn't sure where they were, or whether the Lewises were with them, so he restrained his impulse to call them. Taking another quick look at his inbox, he decided to go out for coffee and breakfast.

  ****

  Art Jansen was alarmed when he heard the distinctive ring that came from the cellphone that was his direct link to O'Toole. O'Toole had insisted that it was for emergency use only, and it was to be destroyed immediately after use. Wondering what could warrant such a call from O'Toole, he extracted the phone from his briefcase and hit the green button, accepting the call.

  "Hello," he said, remembering that they had agreed not to use names on telephone calls.

  "Yeah. Hello. There's all kinds of shit goin' down on this Barrera thing."