Echoes

by Laura K. Curtis

  Falcone didn’t own any properties like the ones he was looking for, but Cauca Café, a boutique coffee roaster with five shops in the New York area, owned a small roasting and packaging plant on Long Island in a building behind the original café. HSE had flagged Cauca because the owner, one Paul Rivers, bought the entire output of Falcone’s coffee plantation every year. Rivers also picked up coffee from other small plantations in Brazil, Colombia, and Africa, just like other boutique roasters.

  Nash’s files revealed nothing unusual about Rivers’s business or his personal life. He traveled extensively in all the countries from which he bought coffee and lived well off the profits from his enterprise, which included packaging specialty coffees for several high-end hotels as well as his shops. Mac clicked over to a list of the hotels serving Cauca coffee, hoping to find the Paradis. No such luck. All the hotels were in the United States, in New York, Florida, Massachusetts, and Washington, DC.

  “Cauca Café?” Callie came up and peered over his shoulder, her body too close for his comfort. “There was one of those near my father’s house in Montauk. What do they have to do with anything?”

  “Small world. The owner is connected to the coffee plantation Falcone owns. The business ties could be legitimate, though.”

  “I thought people used coffee to smuggle drugs, not guns.”

  “People still try that, though it’s never hidden the scent of the drugs from dogs. But I doubt Falcone is actually shipping arms with the coffee. More likely, the coffee business serves as a money laundry. Falcone claims to grow and sell more coffee than he actually does; Rivers—the guy who owns Cauca Café—claims to buy and sell more coffee than he does, and everyone shows a nice, healthy profit. The government gets their chunk in sales tax and income tax, and no one looks too closely at the business.”

  “But what would that have to do with us?”

  “Maybe nothing.” He explained his search for a building where Juarez could hold Erin, then pointed at the address of the Cauca roasting building. “Do you know where that is?”

  “Atlantic Beach. No, I don’t.” She glanced at the aerial map he had opened, then leaned over his shoulder and pressed the keys to zoom out. “Okay, that’s Nassau County. An hour or so from here, maybe more depending on traffic.”

  “I wonder how soon Nash could have people there.”

  Callie laughed, surprising him. “Nash may be a miracle worker, but you’re talking New York traffic. If they leave now, right this instant, they have a chance. But all those people you were complaining about on the street? Come four o’clock, they all start heading out of the city, and most of them in the direction of Atlantic Beach. The non-beachfront towns in Nassau County are primarily bedroom communities, places where people live when they work in the city. The Long Island Expressway, the main artery out of the city and down the whole length of the island, isn’t called ‘the longest parking lot in the world’ for nothing, and the other highways clog just as badly. And during the summer, traffic is at its worst because people want to squeeze in every second they can get at the shore, and it looks as if Cauca Café’s building is right on the beach.”

  “Damn. If the area’s that crowded, maybe he wouldn’t keep Erin there.”

  “He might.” Callie tapped an area of the screen near the thumbtack icon that represented the Cauca Café. “I’ve been to this town. Point Lookout. It’s not low rent, but it’s not the Hamptons, either. People mind their own business, and when the beach day is over, it’s over. Cauca seems to be on a boardwalk. I bet half an hour after sunset, it’s deserted.

  “But why use a place connected to him at all? Why not rent a moving van or panel truck and keep Erin in the back of that?”

  “Because it’s not secure. If he’s driving, he could be pulled over if his taillight goes out, his turn signal malfunctions, a rock breaks someone’s windshield behind him. He could get a flat, and a helpful officer could stop to help him. If he’s parked, Erin could attract attention by banging on the walls. If these guys had more time to set up the op, I wouldn’t even bother with the property search because they’d have found something untraceable. But the way this went down, the schedule will have forced them to use the best thing they had at hand.”

  “Which you think is Atlantic Beach.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Let’s assume for a minute you’re right. What happens next?”

  “Nash’s men pull Erin out of that building before Juarez calls you back. Let me talk to him, see what he’s got on the location and who’s available to check it out.” Without waiting for her reply, he called HSE.

  “He’s on the way to you,” Lexie explained.

  “Then how about while we wait for him, you tell me what’s not in the file on Paul Rivers and Cauca Café?”

  Lexie hesitated. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yeah, you do. The file’s just facts; it has to be, so current speculation doesn’t taint future investigations or send them in the wrong direction. But I’ve read the facts. Now I want the dirt, even if it can’t be proved.”

  “Ask Nash.”

  “We can’t afford to wait. You came from DEA with him, and you run HSE. What he knows, you know.”

  Another long pause, and Mac clamped down on his tension. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to beg someone to trust him. Had his steady decline since the knife fight stole his peripheral vision and his career had taken such a visible toll? Could Lexie tell he wasn’t as powerful, as trustworthy as he’d once been? Could Callie?

  “Paul Rivers started Cauca Café in 1990,” Lexie said, and Mac let out his breath as quietly as possible. “The first couple years, it was your average local coffee boutique. Rivers had a thirty-year mortgage on the property, which he paid regularly, and a substantial ten-year small-business loan, which he couldn’t keep up with. In 1996, he suddenly switched from buying exchange-grade coffee through the New York Coffee Exchange to buying premium grade coffee, single-origin stuff he purchased directly from plantation owners, primarily in Colombia. This track he found considerably more profitable. Enough so that in 1998 he paid off his entire small-business loan, which brought him to our attention.”

  “‘Our’ meaning the DEA?”

  “We tracked his shipments, set dogs on his containers when they came into port, put people in his shops to watch sales volume—but he always came up clean.”

  “Still, you suspected him.”

  “Yes. The best coffee grows from soil seeded with coca plants, often soaked with blood and tilled with scythes of political unrest. None of the plantation owners Rivers buys from care much for human or civil rights. At some point, he may get dinged by the fair-trade movement among folks willing to pay his ridiculous prices for a cup of coffee, but at the moment he’s doing very well. His contract with Falcone kept us on him after we might have given up.”

  “What’s their history?”

  “Rivers is a second-generation American, but he has strong familial ties to Colombia. His second cousin, Diego Rivera, manages Alegría Verde, Falcone’s plantation, has since before Arturo Rodriguez, the previous owner, died. The connection could be as simple, as legitimate as that.”

  “Or Diego could hold a more integral position in the organization.”

  “Yes.”

  Everything Lexie said reinforced his belief that Falcone’s men would stash Erin at the Cauca building. Even if Rivers wasn’t dirty, he might cooperate because of his family’s financial dependence on Falcone.

  “There’s a good chance Juarez is holding Erin at Rivers’s building in Atlantic Beach. Do you have anyone who can check?”

  “I’ll look into it, but you don’t give the orders here, Mr. Brody. Have Nash call me when he gets there.”

  “Of course.” He rang off, then relayed what he’d learned to Callie.

  “So when Juarez calls, he’ll tell
me to rent a car and drive to Atlantic Beach?”

  “No. Whatever you mean to Lewis, Cauca Café is far more important to Falcone than either you or Erin. He won’t let Juarez risk such a valuable asset by revealing its location just in case you manage to survive the meeting. They’ll take her some place else for the meet, which gives us even less time to get eyes on that building.”

  A sharp rap at the door signaled Nash’s arrival. Once again, Mac went over his analysis. Before he finished, Nash pulled out his cell and called Lexie.

  “Get Dylan and Nick out to Atlantic Beach. Do we have anyone else uncommitted? Do we know anyone out there?” Lexie spoke for some time, Nash commenting only occasionally, while Mac rubbed at his scar, which itched as badly as it had the first few weeks of healing. Twice, when Nash ordered Lexie to leave men where they were, Mac swallowed protests. What could take precedence over a woman’s life? But as Lexie had reminded him, he wasn’t in charge.

  “Dylan, who drove us home the other night, has family in Valley Stream,” Nash said when he hung up. “He’ll find someone to watch the building until he and Nick can get to the place.”

  “I take it that’s close by?”

  Nash shrugged. “Closer than we are, assuming usual amounts of traffic.”

  “So what do we do in the meantime?” Callie asked.

  “Script,” replied Mac. “His questions, your responses.”

  “How do you know what he’ll ask?”

  “We don’t. So we decide what you need to say, then figure out how to maneuver the conversation to allow you to get your point across regardless of what direction he chooses.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  By the time Nash’s phone rang at four thirty, Callie felt as if they’d devised a strategy for every possible scenario, though Mac assured her more rehearsing remained yet to do.

  “It’s Dylan,” said Nash once he’d checked the display. “I’ll put him on speaker.”

  “Smart money says she’s here,” Dylan informed them, “but we can’t get into the building. It looks like a renovated warehouse, with the ground floor as a garage or loading bay. First set of windows is maybe fifteen feet up.”

  “Is the shop open?”

  “Nope. According to a sign in the window, they’re closed due to a leak they are trying to fix. It thanks customers for their patience.”

  “Imagine that. Vehicles around?”

  “According to Lexie, the business owns a panel van. We didn’t see it in the neighborhood, but it could be parked inside the building. In Juarez’s position, I’d bring her out in that, then find a nice, quiet spot to switch over to a rental, give the van to a partner, and have him bring it back to the shop and clean it.”

  “Agreed. How many exits from the roasting plant itself?”

  “There’s the garage entrance on one side, and a regular pedestrian door on the other. Nick and I will stay on the garage side. My brother-in-law and his partner are keeping an eye on the front.”

  “Dylan’s sister is married to a Nassau County sheriff’s deputy,” Nash explained. “They’re off duty, so nothing they do is official, but they’ve got the skills and experience to help watch and tail.”

  “So you’re not going to do anything?” Callie wanted to scream; her words came out hoarse from the effort she expended to keep her tone even. “You know he has Erin there, now, but you’re going to leave him be?”

  “We have no proof. And, unfortunately, while we do, occasionally, bend the rules, it’s best not to do so in broad daylight. The best possible outcome is that Juarez continues to stall until true dark. At that point, we can send in a team and get her, and you won’t have to leave the hotel. But until then, yes, we wait. My guess is that they will move her out, bring her to meet you, which will make picking her up a hell of a lot safer and easier. I’ve already lost a friend today and so have you. I’d prefer to keep the numbers down.”

  ***

  Mac could feel Callie’s anger, taste his own frustration. And he wanted to slug Nash for reminding her of Tommy’s death, though he doubted she’d forgotten for even a minute. But he did understand Nash’s position. It was the eternal law-enforcement dilemma: the good guys had to play by the rules; the bad guys made it up as they went along. If Dylan and Nick broke into the warehouse, they’d be the ones who ended up in jail. And if Juarez had the place booby-trapped, which in all likelihood he did, they could end up dead. Without a warrant, Dylan’s sheriff’s department connections couldn’t help him, and the loose tangle of associations, enough to satisfy Mac, Nash, and Dylan, wouldn’t satisfy a judge.

  To her credit, though, after her single outburst, Callie stifled her anger, though her fingers clenched together so hard her knuckles turned white. She listened to the conversation, let them plan. And when Dylan hung up, she went back to running scenarios without complaint.

  At five thirty, Dylan called back.

  “They’re moving,” he said. You want us to follow, or cause a little accident?”

  “Follow. I don’t want to take him out of the game yet.”

  Mac felt Callie tense beside him. Obviously, Nash saw it, too, because he explained his reasoning. “If Dylan wrecks Juarez’s van, and Erin’s not in it, we’ve tipped our hand too soon, and we may lose them forever. If she is inside, maybe we save her. Or maybe Juarez panics and starts shooting and everybody dies. Either way, we haven’t eliminated the threat, just postponed it. We have to take Juarez alive if at all possible, and get him to turn on Falcone. Better yet, we wait until Falcone himself, or at the very least Lewis, is on hand.”

  A satisfied grunt came from the phone. “Got him. We tagged the truck with a transmitter. Lonnie, my brother-in-law, has a receiver. We have another, and I am setting up the feed to go back to HQ as we speak so you can access it. We can hang back a little this way.”

  “You tagged a moving vehicle? Without the driver noticing?” Impressive.

  “The RC heli?” Nash asked.

  “I told you it would come in handy.”

  “Dylan has a thing for radio-controlled planes.” Nash sighed. “He’s always telling me they’re not just toys, and I guess he’s proved his point.”

  “Had it hovering at the corner, since the street’s one way. When Juarez passed underneath the streetlight, we planted the tracker on the roof. The trackers only a couple inches square, and the chopper’s not much bigger, so the only people who might have noticed would be kids, who would just think it was cool to see a tiny helicopter land on a car. Of course, I lost the chopper. No way to bring it back unobtrusively while we’re on the move. You owe me for it, Nash. It was a good one.”

  “I’ll buy you a dozen. Can you tell where they’re headed?”

  “At the moment, they’re getting on the Nassau Expressway, but that could take them anywhere.”

  “Yeah. Keep in touch.”

  “Will do.”

  No sooner had Dylan signed off than the other cell rang. Callie’s face went white, and she looked at it with fear and hatred before lifting it from the coffee table.

  ***

  “Have you rid yourself of your companions?” The sound of Juarez’s smooth, almost oily voice caused Callie’s stomach muscles to clench, but she forced her own tone to mirror his.

  “I have. Let me speak to Erin.”

  “That’s not possible at the moment.”

  Mac had warned her that Juarez would test her limits, try to withhold proof of Erin’s welfare, and he’d given her instructions. She followed them, though it was the hardest thing she’d ever done. “Call me back when it is,” she replied, and hung up.

  Minutes passed. A cold, clammy sweat broke out all over her body. She brought her knees up and ducked her head to rest her forehead against them, wrapping her arms around her calves, the phone still clenched in her fist. Mac stroked her back, then hauled her onto his lap, surrounding h
er with his strength.

  “Hang in there, sweetheart,” he murmured. Although acutely aware of Nash’s presence, Callie couldn’t bring herself to pull away.

  The phone buzzed. With a deep breath, she flipped it open and held it to her ear. Erin’s voice brought tears to her eyes.

  “Callie?”

  “It’s almost over, Erin. I’m coming to get you. I swear. But first, you know the drill, I have three questions.”

  “Of course you do, nosy.” The spark of humor lifted Callie’s spirits—doubtless Erin’s intention. God, she would kill Juarez, Falcone, and John Lewis herself if they injured Erin.

  “Who’s the most overrated celebrity chef?”

  “Trick question: they’re all overrated.”

  The speed of the reply reassured Callie even more than Erin’s earlier bravado. She wouldn’t be up to such a snappy comeback if they’d hurt her.

  “What area of the world would you most like to visit?”

  “Tuscany.” They’d often talked about taking a trip to Italy. I promise, Erin, we’ll go. Just as soon as this is over, I’ll make it happen.

  “What country makes the best beer?”

  “Belgium. And one day you’ll acknowledge it.”

  Callie heard a scuffle of some sort, then Juarez came back on the line. “As you can see, your friend is fine. Follow directions and she will remain so.”

  “I have a message for your employers.” Callie could see the script in her head. “I’ll come to you, trade myself for Erin, but I am not stupid. The information you asked for won’t be with me. When I see Erin walk away, I’ll take you to it.”

  “That will do.” As both Mac and Nash had predicted, Juarez sounded almost amused. The requirement that she bring any information she’d gathered had been a ruse; he’d agreed to her terms because he planned to kill her on sight.