The Death Box (Carson Ryder, Book 10)

by J. A. Kerley

  “Will they be as fast to solve it as they were to claim it?” I asked, trying to keep my anger in check.

  Roy didn’t seem to hear, instead giving me a fast background as we approached the stairway to the pit. “The senior guy is Sherman Rayles, a former US Army major and West Pointer.”

  “What was Rayles’s last military assignment?”

  A pause. “He worked at Gitmo.”

  Guantanamo. Where his assignment could have involved anything from grilling suspected terrorists to managing the purchase of salad forks. Roy saw my uncertainty.

  “He’s spit’n’polish, Carson. Dedicated to the mission, y’know?”

  “But will his mission including solving the case?”

  “Well, of course. But maybe he’ll come at it from a different angle.”

  We descended the steps and the two men turned to inspect us. The older man was Rayles, a bit under average height with a face that would look at home on a recruiting poster: rectangular head, aquiline nose, square jaw with a pinch of dimple, salt-and-pepper hair buzzed short on the sides. He stood as straight as if a bolt of lightning had fused his spine into a plumb line drawn from earth to sky, and his chin jutted like it was his primary sensory organ.

  “Carson, this is Sherman Rayles, Deputy Director of Homeland Security, South Florida Division. And this is Robert Pinker, his assistant.”

  I shook hands with the pair. Rayles leaned back with his knuckles beneath his chin and studied me. Chances were that Homeland Security agents – fingers-in-every-pot types – had noted my move from Mobile and vetted me before I arrived. Depending on who they talked to I would be a free-rolling problem solver or a loose cannon. Unfortunately, HS was a bureaucratic hyperhive, and folks admiring of hive structure didn’t generally admire mine.

  “Carson Ryder,” Rayles recited as if reading from a bullet-point presentation. “Eight-year homicide investigator with the Mobile Police Department. Three years as a street cop before that. Youngest patrol officer to ever make detective. You’ve earned a reputation for apprehending deranged criminals.” He paused. “Among other things.”

  “Best man with psychos in our business, Sherm,” Roy beamed, his hand slamming my back like I was choking. “Nails ’em like nailing boards to a barn.”

  “Um-hmm,” Rayles said, the eyes narrowing.

  “Seems like human trafficking gone bad.” I nodded toward the diminishing obelisk to give Rayles’s eyes something different to study while I returned the once-over. Rayles’s black shoes were polished to an icy luster. His charcoal-gray suit, like his crisp white shirt and blue tie, was pressed so board-hard I knew the combination was his work uniform. He would wear a specific and unvarying uniform for gardening, another for golfing. When he wore pajamas he would think of them as his sleep uniform.

  “I read the background,” Rayles said, the sturdy chin bobbing. “All the ID’d bodies are Honduran and I expect the pattern will hold.”

  “How deep is Home Sec’s interest in trafficking?” I asked. “After no threat to the Homeland is detected.”

  Rayles cleared his throat. “We’re interested in the routes used by the traffickers. This time it’s a bunch of peasants trying to slip in, next time it’s a team of bin Ladenites with a tank of ricin.”

  Robert Pinker, Rayles’s adjutant – a thirtyish guy with solid neck and shoulders and green eyes that followed his boss’s every move – nodded like a good employee, then bent to study the column. I figured Pinker’d heard all this before.

  “Really think you’ll find a route?” I asked.

  “We’ll rattle cages in Honduras. After time goes by people down there will wonder where family members are and break their silence.”

  I shot a glance at Morningstar. She was leaning back, but her full attention was on Rayles.

  “Time goes by?” I said.

  “Right now all these bodies –” Rayles nodded to the column – “are no-names. If the traffickers discover we’re on the case, they’ll change whatever happened here. A lot of times they know we’re coming, so by the time we get there, they’ve moved on. It’s frustrating.”

  Pinker’s phone buzzed and he jogged to the pit wall to take the call. I watched as he made quick notes on a pad before slipping the phone back into his jacket and making subtle eye contact with Rayles, who excused himself. The pair went to the edge of the pit to discuss the notes. I realized Pinker carried Rayles’s phone for him, the Major obviously too important to answer his own messages.

  As Rayles huddled with Pinker, I considered what he’d said about staying ahead of illegal activities. Few enterprises are as Darwinian as a profitable criminal one. If one lineage to profit is impeded, the organization evolves to circumvent the impediment. If a tunnel beneath the border is discovered via sensitive microphones that detect the sound of shovels, the next tunnel is burrowed near a building site, the construction noise masking the shoveling.

  But it bothered me that Rayles’s first instinct was providing reasons why he might not succeed, and not the ways he would. Back in Mobile, Harry and I started with the idea that we would prevail, and when reality got in the way, we ignored it or beat it into a means more amenable to our ends.

  But I was no longer in Mobile. And Harry Nautilus was no longer by my side.

  Rayles rejoined us with Pinker a perfect two steps behind. “I guess that’s it for you folks,” Rayles said, checking his watch. “I’ll pass the files over to a team of our people and they can get started.”

  I handed him my new business card, the first I’d handed out. “Call me anytime, Major Rayles. Day or night.”

  He looked at me like I’d started speaking Abyssinian. “Whatever for?”

  “I can spare time to sit in on meetings. Toss out an idea or—”

  His hand rose to cut me off. “You worked this case when it was thought the work of a deranged mind, which put it in your jurisdiction. What I see are illegals who slipped in under the radar, which puts it in mine. I thank you for your concern, Detective Ryder, but I doubt we’ll need your help.”

  19

  Madame Cho straightened her silk sheath – bright orange, embroidered with Chinese dragons, one side slit to mid-thigh – and crossed her legs as she sat on the tall stool in the anteroom of the Taste of Heaven Massage Parlor. It was her newest parlor and best location yet, just off Interstate 95, where men could see the tall sign from the highway and exit at the next interchange for some special relaxation. The room was dimly lit, perfumed with jasmine incense, and decorated with sedate paintings of pagodas and framed Chinese calligraphy, all bought on sale at Pier One. The man who supplied the towels once asked what the symbols said.

  “How I fucking supposed to know?” Madame Cho had yawned. “You think maybe I’m Confucius or something?”

  Cho pulled her calculator and began tallying the previous day’s receipts. A national gathering of appliance dealers was in town, men mostly, with money to burn on food and drink and pleasures of the flesh. Madame Cho had several of her girls passing out handbills near the convention center and hotels. She also paid hotel employees to recommend her establishments, and nighttime business had been good.

  She heard the swinging doors to the rear of the parlor, looking up to see Leroy Hotchkins, the bouncer. Hotchkins was nearing fifty, an ex-Arena Football player in earnest recovery from crack addiction. He was big and black and when a customer was too drunk or didn’t finish in the allotted time and got riled about paying more, his appearance usually chilled the situation.

  “Where the hell you think you going?” Cho said.

  “To the Seven-Eleven. I wanna Big Gulp and the Herald. There’s only one customer back there.”

  “Hurry your sorry ass up. I don’t pay you to … shit, I’ve got no idea what I pay you for.”

  “I’ll take off the next Saturday night you got a car-dealer convention in town and you’ll find out quick.”

  Hotchkins left and the door swung slowly back to the frame. “Close goddamn door!�
�� Cho screeched. “I’m not paying to air condition the outside.”

  Cho muttered and went back to her calculating. A minute later the rear doors swung open and Cho saw a balding, fortyish man, tucking his blue shirt into gray slacks.

  “I want my money back, lady. The girl. She won’t … massage. She just stands there with tears dripping down her cheeks. Jesus.”

  “I’m very sorry, sir. She’s new. I get you another girl right now.”

  “I don’t feel like a massage any more. I want my money back.”

  “Another girl treat you right. You get massage just like you want. Refresh you all over.”

  The man’s hand was out, fingers scratching the air. “Money, dammit. Now.”

  Cho paid and the man stomped out the door just as a trio of smiling customers were entering. The look on the departing man’s face made the newcomers turn away. Cho picked up a bamboo backscratcher and went to a room in the back, opening the door to see a head-down Leala Rosales beside a massage table.

  “What you doing to my business?” Cho demanded.

  “Please, I want to go home,” Leala said. “This is a terrible place.”

  “Little bitch!” Cho brought the backscratcher across the girl’s arm like a riding crop. “I give you good room, oil, solid table, towels. I pay for everything. All I ask is for you to give the handjob!”

  Cho whipped at Leala with the backscratcher. Leala screeched and batted at the whipping backscratcher as welts rose red and angry on her raised arms and hands. Cho began flailing at Leala’s face and driving her into a corner.

  “I’ll beat your eyes out. Try to make the money blind!”

  Leala cowered, the bamboo stinging across the skin of her face. Cho drove in harder, screaming curses as the stick blurred in the air. Then, from seemingly nowhere, Leala screamed and lunged at Cho, knocking her fully across the room. Cho’s scrambling legs tangled and she tumbled to the floor.

  Absolute silence. The pair stared at one another for a split-second, Leala as if absorbing new information, Cho in unbridled fury. Cho stumbled to the door, calling down the long hall. Within seconds four other young women were in the room, their eyes expressionless. They were heavily made up and wore plastic Chinese shoes and thin Oriental robes that stopped at mid-thigh.

  “Beat her,” Cho demanded, pointing at Leala. The four women’s eyes were dull and perplexed. They looked at one another.

  “Wha’ for?” one asked.

  “I’m ordering you to beat her,” Cho repeated. “I see blood and everyone gets a half-day off next week.”

  One of the masseuses, a heavier, Asian-inflected girl with dead eyes beneath baby-doll bangs punched Leala in the face.

  “Harder!” Cho yelled.

  The large girl punched Leala again, knocking her to the floor. Tentatively, the other girls stepped up and started kicking.

  “More,” Cho yelled. “Kill the bitch!”

  Leala tucked into a fetal position as kicks rained in and Cho whipped at the girl’s flailing arms with the backscratcher. Then, as if levitating, Cho was lifted straight into the air.

  “That’s it,” Hotchkins yelled to the girls, a struggling Cho locked in his arms. “It’s over. Back to your rooms NOW!”

  As if a switch had been flicked, the girls stopped kicking Leala. They padded away like robots as Cho wriggled furiously in Hotchkins’s grip. “Let go me, ape-man. I kill little whore!”

  “That’s just it, madam,” Hotchkins said. “You pay me to protect them.”

  “Not from me, stupid man.”

  “If you tear her up, how you gonna get your money back?”

  Cho stopped fighting. “Put me down, big fool.”

  Hotchkins set Cho on terra firma. She glared at Leala but seemed afraid to approach her. “YOU! Get your ass out to lobby. You going back to store for refund.”

  I followed Roy outside, leaving Rayles and Pinker to confer with Morningstar. “So that’s it for the investigation?” I asked when the doors closed behind us and we crossed the parking area. The air was hot and purple-bottomed thunderheads boiled in from the west, their rumpled crowns lit white as cotton by the sun. The squall would cross us momentarily.

  “You can go back into relaxation mode, Carson. One nice thing is you’re all signed up and ready to go.”

  “There’s still some bodies in the concrete, Roy. What if—”

  My words were cut off by a lightning blast and the first hard drops from the clouds. We hunched and sprinted to our vehicles. Roy pulled beside me in his big black Yukon, yelling over the pounding rain and beating of his wipers.

  “How are things out there on Matecumbe? Everything working out all right?”

  “It’s a helluva place, Roy. The house and land.”

  “Any other places nearby catch your eye?”

  “Haven’t had time to look. Why?”

  “The legal types want to put the place on the block soon, part of a large auction of confiscated property. Guess you’ll have to find other digs, bud.”

  “Shit. How soon?”

  “A couple weeks. Uh, that’s max.”

  “Any idea what the place will sell for?”

  “It’s appraised at a million-six. I told you not to get too attached.”

  I smiled and nodded, but felt like I’d been kicked in the sternum. “See you later, Roy. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  I drove out to Matecumbe in a funk. I had gotten attached to the view. The open living area. Having my own private jungle. Plus I enjoyed having Burnside as a neighbor.

  I arrived without recalling the drive, fixed a Myers’s and tonic and slunk to the deck. The chlorophyll-laced air from the surrounding tropical forest smelled rich and fecund and primordial. I looked over my green and private cove as an elegant white schooner crossed the far blue waters. The thought of moving elsewhere was depressing, but there was nothing to do but bite the bullet and go.

  A half-hour and a second rum passed. My funk deepened as the sun bent to the west and the breeze freshened, adding a salt scent to the colors of Paradise already filling my head.

  My message alert went off and I checked the screen.

  SKYPE ME.

  Jeremy, probably making sure I hadn’t moved to yet another state. I sighed, went upstairs to the computer, and made the connection. My brother wore a T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a food co-op in Lexington, his neck thicker than I recalled. He sat in an expensive ergonomic chair in his second-story office, the window wide behind him and offering a verdant glimpse of the eastern Kentucky forest, pines and maples, oaks and poplars. His sensitive microphone picked up a woodpecker tapping in the woods at his back.

  I watched him take in my surroundings via my camera, so I slow-turned the computer to give him a quick scan of the living area and kitchen.

  “Spiffy-looking place,” he said. “Have you filled the new Taj with a harem yet?” His eyes sparkling with mischief, he stuck a finger in one nostril and twanged out a cartoon-Arabian melody on the other. I responded by blowing out a breath and taking a drink. He leaned nearer the camera, concern in his eyes.

  “You look tired, brother. Having a hard day?”

  “I’m being booted from the Taj. Seems the place is going on the market earlier than figured.”

  A frown. “Oh? Where will you go?”

  “Miami, maybe.”

  “I prefer you in the Keys, Carson. You’re more stable on the water.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a delicate little flower, brother. When you’re not sufficiently watered, you wilt into crankiness.”

  “You get a D for metaphor.”

  “You know I’m right. How long do you have?”

  “I’m still half-packed. I’ll look for a place next week.”

  “Hello?” called a voice from my gate intercom. “You in there, Alabama?”

  Jeremy frowned and canted an ear. “Is someone with you?”

  “Yo! Detective Ryder. You back there in that jungle?”

&nbs
p; “It’s a guy I’m working with here,” I said. “Gershwin. He’s at the front gate.”

  “Tell him to get lost. Is it George or Ira?”

  “HEY, BIG RYDE! CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

  “Gotta go, brother,” I said. “He’s a persistent sort.”

  “Wait! How long does it take you to drive to Key West?”

  “Under two hours. Why?”

  “I’M GONNA TRY CLIMBING THE GATE.”

  “Just curious,” Jeremy said, disappearing from my screen.

  I ran to the intercom. “Hang on, Gershwin, for crying out loud. I’m opening the damn gate.”

  Seconds later I saw him roaring up the drive on a battered motorcycle and looking from side to side in confusion. He stopped and pulled off a blue helmet, still mystified as he climbed the steps. I waved him up the steps and inside.

  “Oy caramba, Alaba— I mean, Detective Ryder. You really live here?”

  “Temporary. I’ll be gone in an eyeblink.”

  “What, you trading it for a mud hut in the veldt?”

  “Anything particular bring you here, Gershwin?”

  “Did I hear the news right? Are we losing the case?”

  I grunted. “Not our jurisdiction. There is no serial killer, just some horrible accident in transport. Or so I keep hearing.”

  He scowled. “Where does the case go now?”

  “To Homeland Security for starters. Probably get passed between a half-dozen agencies until it gets buried under a blizzard of cold-case paperwork.”

  I sprawled the couch’s length, laced my fingers behind my head, and glared at the ceiling. An idea formed and I jumped up, frantically dialing my phone. Morningstar answered.

  “I haven’t got to the Carosso corpse yet, Ryder. Hold your horsies and I’ll look at it as soon as—”

  “What kind of person would smuggle young men and women – almost children – into the country as sex slaves?”

  “Sick, twisted, greedy.”

  “Amoral?” I said.

  “Totally.”

  “Congratulations, Dr Morningstar, you’ve just described a sociopath. My specific field of inquiry.”

  A pause as she considered my potential ploy. Then dashed my hopes.