The Death Box (Carson Ryder, Book 10)

by J. A. Kerley

  26

  Hattie Doyle was in her seventies, wore a pink housedress, fluffy matching mules, and too much lipstick. After apologizing for hair in curlers – “I gotta set it ev’ry day or it looks like I’m wearin’ a windstorm up there” – she invited us into her home, small and tidy and filled with inexpensive souvenirs from places like Rock City, Nashville and Branson. Ms Doyle was a transplant from the coal fields of West Virginia whose husband, Delbert, had died three years back from black lung.

  She held a cigarette in one hand, an ashtray in the other, and nodded toward the former Carosso household, eighty feet distant over a chain-link fence threaded with moon vines. A sickly twelve-foot palm tottered in Carosso’s side yard, held in place by two-by-fours.

  “Mr Paul had some ornery-looking critters over there at times, men mostly,” Ms Doyle remembered between sucks on the smoke. “A few ladies who didn’t really look much like ladies, if you gennelmen get my drift. They’d barbecue burgers out back and get drunked-up. I figured they was folks he worked with at the concrete plant.”

  “Did you speak to him very much, ma’am?” Delmara asked.

  “A little. Mr Paul, he weren’t a big talker.”

  “He have this crowd over much, the ornery critters?”

  “Purty regular, twict a month or so.’ She paused in thought, tapping the cigarette on the tray. “’Cept I never saw them there when he had his niece visitin’.”

  “Niece?”

  “A year or so back. He had his niece come and stay with him for a couple months. He was keepin’ the girl while her parents went through tough times. It was sad.”

  “Tell me about the niece, Ms Doyle.”

  She frowned through curling blue smoke. “Hardly ever saw her cuz she stayed inside. Sixteen or thereabouts. Pretty li’l thing, skinny as you git, though. Big sad eyes.”

  “Caucasian?”

  She shrugged. “Musta been a mix to be his blood niece, with Mesican or Cuban or whatever. I been livin’ in Floridy almost eight years an’ I sure cain’t tell. Them people seems able to, but I cain’t.”

  “The girl never came out? Went places?”

  “I only found out she was over there when she came busting out the door onct, cryin’ her eyes out. Mr Paul grabbed her up in his arms and carried her back inside. He looked over and saw me watching. That’s when he come and told me the story.”

  “About tough times?”

  She stubbed out the smoke and shook her head. “The father – he musta been the white one – had cancer in his backside, y’know, and was dying. But since he couldn’t be like a man to her no more, the mother had found herself a boyfriend and wanted the daddy to sign the papers so she could get married to the boyfriend. When Mr C told me, he ’bout near busted down crying and I understood the troubles that poor girl was going through. And now I understand about the parties being stopped whilst the girl was livin’ there.”

  “The barbecues?”

  “Makes sense, you think about it,” Miz Doyle said, lighting another smoke. “As young and pretty as that li’l girl was, Mr Paul didn’t want them rough types around her, bad influences and all. Musta been why he kep’ her in the house all the time: He was watchin’ out for her.”

  I shot a glance at Gershwin. His eyes crossed and his mouth dropped in mock amazement.

  “Did you get the niece’s name?” Vince asked.

  “He never brought her to the fence to be formerly innerduced, but I once or twict heard some yellin’ from over there. I think that poor child’s name was Zora.”

  I looked at Gershwin, rolling his eyes. Zorra was Spanish for slut.

  That seemed to be the extent of Miz Doyle’s recollection of Paul Carosso. Still, the trip added new knowledge to our scant portfolio.

  “What a fine humanitarian Paul Carosso is turning out to be,” Vince said as I headed back to the site and his vehicle. “Caring for a distraught young girl like that.”

  Gershwin was in the back seat and leaned close. “Funny, the only relatives we found didn’t want anything to do with Carosso. They lived in New Jersey and seemed real happy to have a lot of landscape between them and him. Right, Big Ryde?”

  Delmara turned the proboscis my way. “Big Ryde?”

  “Don’t bring it up,” I said. “A phase he’s going through. I find it interesting that the niece was visiting about the time the Hondurans were put in the cistern, given Morningstar’s estimates.”

  “What you thinking?” Delmara asked. “About the young lady and the timing?”

  “I dunno yet. You got anything, Zigs?” I shot a glance into the rearview. He leaned back, crossed his arms and looked out the window.

  “All I know is I’m coming back to Ms Doyle’s house tomorrow.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “I’m gonna sell that lady the Brooklyn Bridge. Twice.”

  Arriving at the site, we noted that Gershwin had been wrong about Rayles visiting. When we dropped Delmara at his cruiser the HS honcho and his pet poodle were just leaving the tent.

  “Is there a reason you’re here, Detective Ryder?” Rayles called while the shiny shoes flashed toward us.

  “Been out with our good buddy Vince here.” I didn’t mention we’d gone along on the interview and Delmara, an intuitive sort, didn’t mention it either.

  “Funny your using the excavation site as your meeting point,” Pinker said, giving me his standard hard eye.

  “Funny ha-ha, or otherwise?” I asked, head canted in innocent curiosity.

  “Not funny at all,” Rayles said, stepping up. “I expect you’ve got a lot on your new plate at FCLE, Detective. I’m not planning on seeing you here again, correct?”

  27

  Hands on her ample hips, Consuelo Amardara stared at the food between Gershwin and me as if it were too Spartan for her liking. “If that’s not enough I can bring a nice slice of cake.”

  “I think we’re fine, Miz Amardara,” I said, reaching for my Consuelo’s Delight. I had planned to order a beer, but she had the drink in my hands before we’d settled into the back booth. After the bushwhacking by Rayles, we’d retreated to Tiki Tiki to review our only road into the case: Carosso. Amardara had already loaded the table with tortillas, matzo balls, carnitas, chunks of baked salami, garlic dills, guacamole and chips, ceviche, sliced limes, pickled herring and three kinds of salsa. It seemed the kitchen at Tiki Tiki was also used for Ms Amardara’s sideline businesses: catering for Jewish or Latino events, presumably even Polynesian.

  Carosso was now Miami-Dade’s case and Delmara seemed happy for any input we could supply. To me it seemed a tremendous oversight by Rayles’s people, but I was happy to have a road into the trafficking case, no matter how slender. We revisited Carosso’s financial records, still intrigued by the anomalous two grand deposited in Carosso’s account thirteen months back.

  Gershwin drizzled a matzo ball with lime and salsa picante and popped it in his mouth. “Maybe Carosso got a big payoff and spent it on something, had two grand left.”

  “I don’t think the guy owned anything that cost more than fifty bucks.”

  “Maybe he has stuff elsewhere. An offshore account.”

  “I doubt Carosso had that kind of fiscal sophistication. But then, I don’t know how much he made helping ditch a batch of dead bodies. Maybe he owed someone a favor.”

  Gershwin’s turn to think. “Reverse it,” he said, flipping his hands over one another. “Maybe he got a favor instead of money. Or a favor with a little sugar added to the pot.”

  His point dawned as I was sipping my drink, slowing today’s rum intake by using a pink straw. “Like his own personal slave, maybe? A young toy to play with for a couple months?”

  “Maybe it was enough to make Carosso fill his truck with dead bodies and drive to the cistern. That’s a huge chance for an ex-con. If caught, he’d have spent twenty years in the iron-bar Hilton.”

  I couldn’t think well, sitting and jamming food into my mouth. I stood and began
pacing, but Ms Amardara zeroed in on my motion like a hawk on a mouse. “Sit, Detective!” she called, patting a hand in the down motion. “Don’t strain your legs. I’ll bring you a fresh drink.”

  I glanced at the drink in my hand; she thought I was looking for a refill. “It’s fine, Miz Amard—”

  “Connie!” she shrieked. “It’s Connie.”

  “It’s fine, Connie. I’m just stretching.”

  “Then stretch, stretch. You need something, anything, wave. An eyeblink and I’ll be there.”

  I smiled and retreated to the restroom, thinking in the quiet for a couple minutes before coming back to the booth, careful not to blink or do anything that might be construed as a wave. “It’s pure speculation …” I said as I sat, “but if the girl was a gift, it could mean someone knew Carosso well enough to pull his secret strings. And that person was either one of the traffickers or tight with them.”

  “Someone Carosso worked with?” Gershwin said. “A buddy at the plant?”

  I looked at my watch. “Redi-flow will be closed by the time we get there. I think we kick off tomorrow with another talk with Mr Kazankis. Could you pass the tortillas?”

  Leala knew her escape would have been noticed by now and every eye turned her way held potential danger. The day’s project had been finding a hiding place. She’d noticed empty houses fronted with signs saying POR SALE, or POR SALE – FORECLOSURE. Her first thought was to break a window and slip inside, but that was the work of a thief and Leala was not a thief.

  She had been passing such a house – which, like many, had a yard where the plants and lawn were untended and the house seemed to be sinking into the mouth of a green monster – and saw the roof tip of a building in the rear. There was an alley behind the house and the gate opened with a nervous creak.

  The building was a tiny shed with no lock. It smelled of petrol and in the corner was a lawnmower with a missing wheel. A rake and shovel hung from pegs on the wall alongside a bicycle wheel with a flat tire. There were two oily cases of Corona beer bottles, empty, and a rotting cardboard box filled with mechanical parts from the inside of a car.

  But there was soft light through one dusty window and room on the concrete floor to stretch out. The backyard was overgrown with palms and palmettos and the ground was covered with fallen fronds. Staying low, Leala gathered the fronds and used them to make a pallet on the hard floor. It was crunchy, but softer than the concreto.

  Leala took a siesta through the heat of the day then wandered down a tight dirt alley between fenced backyards and tiny garages, some with doors open. The cars inside were older, some with their hoods up, as if gasping for air.

  The alley emptied into a wide avenue with a bright building on the corner, its faded sign saying Lavandería, laundromat. The long window was filled with signs taped on the inside. Leala pulled her scarf tight to her face and ran to see if the signs en español had anything she could use.

  A lost dog, nothing. Cars for sale, nothing. A festival at a local church, nothing now, but Leala noted the nearing date and time as a potential for food. There were signs for appearances by bands, nothing. Homes for sale, nothing. A man who did the quiropráctico, nothing. Leala’s wary eyes shot from the signage to the street and back again. At the very bottom edge of the window, four words caught Leala’s eye:

  ARE YOU IN TROUBLE?

  Leala crouched to the text mostly hidden beneath another sign that had been in place earlier.

  Have you been brought here illegally? Are you …

  That was all she could read. Leala stepped inside the lavandería. Two men in their mid twenties were leaning against the wall smoking cigarettes and talking to an older woman folding clothes. When the men’s eyes riveted to her, Leala’s heart froze, but she made herself move to the window.

  Pretending she was looking outside, her thumbnail severed the clear tape holding the sign in the window. It was paper and she dropped it in her bag. She turned to find one of the men blocking her way. He stunk of tobacco and even at his young age his teeth were brown.

  “You bring no laundry?” he smirked. “Nothing to clean?”

  “I am awaiting the bus,” Leala said.

  The man started laughing. The second man walked over, a grin on his flat face. “Why would a bus stop here, pretty one?”

  Leala gave the man her most assertive stare. “I am new. In my country the buses stop at the lavandería.”

  “And do the planes land at the taquerias?” he asked. More laughter from the men, one now angling to study her rump.

  “Paulo! Barzano!”

  The voice of the woman folding clothes filled the room, like glass breaking. The men snapped to her, eyes wide.

  “Qué, Mama?”

  They sounded like children.

  “Leave the señorita alone,” the woman ordered, shooting a glance at Leala. “Come help me fold, do some work for a change.”

  Leala bolted out the door. Her feet carried her quickly back into the alley, where she continued reading in the bright sunlight.

  … being held against your will? Made to do things against your will? Have you been told of a debt you must pay or a service you must fulfill?

  If you are in these kinds of trouble, there is a place for help. No policía, no Federales, no Inmigración … just an organization that knows your troubles and how to help you escape them. Call the number below. You do not have to leave your name. Even if you are scared, call … we want to keep you safe.

  There was a big telephone number, below it a drawing of a chain being smashed by a fist. The words beneath that said, The Human Anti-Trafficking Project, Victoree Johnson, director.

  Leala refolded the paper and retreated to her hiding place to kneel in the light from the window and read it again and again.

  It had to be a trap.

  “Sh-she was in here today, sir, the girl you seek. A fellow came in and showed me a ph-photo.”

  The old man’s hands shook as he spoke. A woman entered the grocery with a shopping bag over her arm. When she saw the men at the counter she quickly retreated, crossing herself as she hustled down the pavement.

  “When?”

  “Not two hours ago, señor.”

  “She made a call, did she not?”

  “Si, señor. To Honduras. I sold her a card for five dollars.”

  Orzibel spun to Chaku Morales. “Where could she get money?”

  Chaku shrugged, Orzibel turned to the elderly clerk. “Did she buy anything?”

  “A dress, a scarf. Sandals. Sunglasses. Some fruit and tortillas and a bag to put them in.”

  “Which way did she go when she left the store?”

  “That way, I think. Toward Flagler.”

  “Describe her new clothes, old man. Every detail. What was she wearing?”

  “W-will I get the money?”

  “Did you not hear my question?” Orzibel said, the knife suddenly in his hand.

  28

  Morning came. I called Kazankis at Redi-flow, the man answering the phone telling me he wasn’t in but he’d tell the boss I called. Trucks rumbled in the background. Kazankis phoned back twelve minutes later, apologizing.

  “I’m out of the office until noon. Got to inspect a pour. Then I’m dealing with some business I hope might interest you, Detective.”

  “What might that be, sir?”

  “A wise man never promises until he can deliver. Might I expect you at half-past twelve?”

  “We’ll be there.”

  I called Gershwin. He was having breakfast at Tiki Tiki and would meet me downtown. Next I dialed the number that replayed messages on my office phone and had but one, from Roy.

  “Hey buddy, how’s the house-hunting going? Good, I hope. Don’t want my favorite psycho-hunting dick sleeping beneath an underpass.”

  I hadn’t done anything about a new place. I called Gershwin and told him I’d be delayed a bit. On my way to Miami I pulled into several homes with For Sale signs visible. Most of the signs had att
ached boxes holding hand-out sheets of the properties’ prices and particulars. A pattern emerged: anything vaguely resembling a decent place to live cost twice what I’d figured I could pay. It seemed that, in the Keys at least, my simple taste far exceeded my wallet. Or maybe I was spoiled by living on Dauphin Island and at my current jungle-equipped address.

  The fruitlessness of my pursuit depressed me and I blew it from my head with high-decibel Jimmy Buffet on the drive in. I wasn’t particularly a Buffet fan, but suspected driving without at least one Buffet CD in your vehicle was grounds for a ticket in the Keys.

  When I arrived the office was empty, the crew out on various cases and Roy somewhere else. He’d left a stack of real-estate publications on my chair. Gershwin breezed in ten minutes later peeling a banana. He jammed most of it in his mouth, tossed the peel over his shoulder into the trash bin, shot me a thumbs up.

  “Whass op, Big Rybe?” he said around a mouthful of banana.

  I started to say something, realized the futility, shifted to business. “We have a meeting with Kazankis at twelve-thirty. He said he might have something interesting. We’ll see.”

  “What until then?” Gershwin asked, sucking his fingertips.

  I tossed him a few of the real-estate mags, kept several for myself. “Go through these and circle anything under three hundred thou that’s not a rathole.”

  “The sand about to run out on your tropical paradise?”

  “I think I’m down to three grains. Get circling.”

  29

  Victoree Johnson was clearing her desk, trying to stay abreast of files and alerts from similar organizations across the globe. The phone rang and she noted it wasn’t her university line.

  “Human Anti-Trafficking Project, this is Victoree.”

  Nothing. Victoree Johnson knew the silence of fear. “Are you in trouble, my friend?” she whispered. Still nothing. She tried again in Spanish.

  Silence for several seconds. Then a tiny shaking voice. “I think I am in trouble big.”

  “Can you talk? Is it safe?”