J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 02 - No Time to Die

by J. D. Trafford

  NO TIME TO DIE

  A Legal Thriller

  Featuring Michael Collins

  J.D. TRAFFORD

  Books By J.D. Trafford

  No Time To Run

  No Time To Die

  No Time To Hide (coming soon)

  J.D. TRAFFORD IS THE WINNER OF

  THE NATIONAL LEGAL FICTION WRITING AWARD FOR LAWYERS

  Amazon Edition Copyright Notes and License Notes

  Copyright © 2012 by J.D. Trafford

  This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook cannot be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  To my wife (every writer knows why)

  —J.D.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The big man hated the trailers. His employer owned these six as well as another two dozen scattered throughout Collier County. Located on the edge of the fields, the trailers were always dirty. They were always crowded, and they smelled raw.

  He knocked on the cheap metal door. It rattled, but there were no other sounds.

  “Time for work.” He knocked on the door, again, but louder this time. “You’re 300 in the hole, and causing problems for the boss.”

  No response.

  The big man looked behind him. A driver waited, his pickup truck full of workers. The workers needed to be in the fields and picking by seven. He checked his watch.

  “Go.” The big man directed the truck to leave.

  After the truck disappeared – dust clouding behind it – the big man noticed an aluminum baseball bat on the ground, underneath a couple of wild shrubs.

  A random aluminum bat would be better than his own nightstick or his gun. Less traceable, he thought.

  The big man pulled a pair of thin, disposable rubber gloves out of his pocket. He slipped them on, and then knelt beside the shrubs. He pushed aside a few rusting Tecate beer cans and an empty fast-food container and picked up the bat.

  He walked back to the door, got out his master key, and opened the door.

  Inside, there was only one person still in the trailer, although there were a dozen other empty mattresses on the crowded floor.

  He walked across the room.

  The big man stood over a lump inside a thin sleeping bag. He nudged it with the toe of his boot.

  No movement.

  “Get up.” He nudged harder.

  A little groan.

  “I’m sick.” The voice coming from the sleeping bag was soft.

  “You owe us too much money to be sick.”

  “Can’t work today.” The lump in the sleeping bag didn’t move.

  “We been over this.”

  “No work today.” The lump still didn’t move.

  “I’m telling you to work.” The big man adjusted his grip on the bat. “You gotta work or you gotta go.”

  The big man took a step back. He thought for a moment, but the call had already been made. It was a simple cost-benefit analysis. There were lots of workers who wanted to find wealth in America. Sick days and paid vacations weren’t part of the deal. And this one, well, this one was a pain in the ass. He was giving the other migrants ideas. Ideas were never good.

  It was time to solve a problem.

  He raised the bat over his head and brought it down hard. The lump coiled and tried to roll, but the bat came down again.

  The lump in the sleeping bag tried to get up.

  Then once more, the bat came down. This time it came down square, cracking the skull. Everything stopped. Then he hit it again, just to be sure.

  The big man stepped back. He was breathing hard. A bead of sweat rolled down from beneath his hat as his heart rate kept going. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, even though it had all taken less than a minute.

  The trailer’s air was too thick.

  The big man took another couple steps back. He leaned over and put his head between his knees, a breath in and an exhale, then another, and then another. His heart rate slowed, and he finally calmed down.

  He needed to finish the job.

  The big man stood up. He looked around the tiny trailer.

  His employer charged workers $250 per month to live there. He looked at the floor strewn with mattresses, dirty clothes and garbage. He looked at the plastic bucket in the corner that served as the unit’s only toilet, which his employer charged each worker $10 per month to use. Then he looked at the lifeless lump in the sleeping bag.

  Some blood began to seep out. It pooled on the floor.

  There would be more questions about this one. He supposedly had a lawyer. Lawyers were never good. The big man hated lawyers even more than he hated the trailers.

  “What a mess.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kermit Guillardo was too close when he spoke.

  “You gotta go, mi amigo.” His ratty beard tickled Michael’s cheek.

  Michael felt it. He turned and opened his eyes. He brought Kermit’s face into focus, but didn’t want to. It was an involuntary act.

  Michael’s preference would have been for the world to remain dark and blurred.

  His mouth was dry, and his body ached. The night before came back to him in pieces. It was an evening of tequila and dancing with the other misfits who resided at the Sunset Resort & Hostel, a series of rundown huts about a mile down the road from the mega-resorts of Playa del Carmen and Cancun. Michael could complain, but he wouldn’t. The pain was self-inflicted.

  He looked at Kermit, just a few inches away from him. Michael cycled through his memories.

  No matter how hard he tried, those memories did not explain the present.

  “What are you doing in my bed?” Michael moved away. “And I hope you have some clothes on.”

  Kermit’s eyes got wide, and then narrowed.

  “I love ya’, but I ain’t lovin’ ya, man.” Kermit nodded, agreeing with himself. “The airplane shoots to the sky in just a few ticks of the clock, mi amigo.”

  Kermit sat up, pulled the sheet off of Michael, and sprung out of the bed.

  “You gotta pack.” Kermit clapped his hands a few times. The sound rang in Michael’s head. “A whole bunch of kiddos and their momma are depending on us to find their daddy.”

  Michael didn’t respond. A dozen tiny screws inched their way into the deeper portions of his brain. It was a feeling that was all too familiar.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You promised.” Kermit put his hands on his hips. “We were all there and heard you promise.”

  “When?”

  “Last night.” Kermit’s head bobbled back and forth; his graying dreadlocks dangled on either side. “A promise is a promise, especially when we’re talking about our little Pace.” Pace was a local boy who was also the star of Michael’s soccer team. He hung around the resort so much that Michael had started giving him odd jobs and paying him a little money.

  “I don’t know anything about that.” Michael put his feet on the floor, and then stood. Easy does it.

  He walked over to his dresser, opened a sticky drawer, and removed some clothes.

  Michael put on a pair of shorts and a fresh shirt. He slid the drawer shut.

  “Why would I get on a plane to find Pace’s dad?”

  “For two reasons.” Kermit tapped his foot, getting agitated. “Numero uno is that you promised –”

  “And a promise is a promise,” Michael said. “I heard that before.”

  “And, numero dos,” Kermit continued, “is that you’v
e been driving everybody around here crazy for the past few months. You need to get outta here.”

  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” Michael walked into the tiny bathroom in Hut No.7. He turned on the faucet. Pipes rattled, and then water sputtered out of the faucet and into the sink.

  Michael cupped his hands beneath it, and then he splashed a handful of cold water on his face.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Kermit wandered around the bedroom, looking. “Here, use this.” Kermit found a duffel bag and picked it up. He threw it onto the bed, and then walked back toward the bathroom doorway. “Andie dumped your ass and took off, and ever since then you’ve mostly been a surly, self-absorbed pinhead.” Kermit clicked his head to the side, evaluating his last statement. “And I mean that in the nicest sort of way.”

  Michael brushed his teeth as Kermit continued.

  “I get dumped all the time and you don’t see me being all surly-whirly.” Kermit’s latest dalliance with Lowell Moore’s ex-wife, Valerie, ended when she had found somebody with more money and a nicer car. Nobody was surprised, especially after Kermit lost most of his money in a Nigerian lottery scheme.

  Kermit had found his “numeric equilibrium” based upon the teachings of Dr. Moo Yung Song. His knowledge was gleaned from a back-page advertisement in an in-flight magazine as well as a random assortment of psychotropic and recreational drugs. But even Kermit’s cosmic balance was no match for the Nigerian scammers.

  “If you want her back,” Kermit paused for drama, “which I know you do,” Kermit paused for even more drama, “then you have to fight for her.”

  Michael looked at the reflection in the mirror. He saw Kermit standing behind him. Kermit was striking an exaggerated boxer’s pose while he spoke.

  Michael did want Andie back. Kermit and the rest of the gang at the Sunset Resort, however, didn’t know the full story.

  Everybody knew that he had asked Andie Larone to marry him. That was true. Kermit and the others also knew that she had said no. But, they didn’t know that she had initially said yes.

  It was only after Michael had told her everything about his past that she packed up and left. She blamed him for what had happened in New York, and hated the fact that he now owned her cash-strapped resort. Andie had been about to lose the resort when Michael had set up a shell company to buy half the Sunset from her. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but Andie didn’t agree.

  Michael rinsed his toothbrush under the faucet and he ran his finger across the bristles to get it clean.

  “I don’t even know what I said, where I agreed to go, or what I told people that I’d do.” Michael put the toothbrush down on the side of the sink, splashed another handful of water on his face, and then wiped his face dry with a towel.

  Out of habit, Michael touched the small scar on his cheek. He looked at it in the mirror. The scar was something that he never got used to seeing; a daily reminder that he was still on the run.

  Michael turned away from the sink, and then squeezed past Kermit to get back into Hut No. 7’s main room. He saw the duffel bag that Kermit had thrown on the bed.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s your bag, dude.”

  Michael kept walking toward his dresser to get his paperback and sunglasses for the beach, but Kermit took a quick step behind him. He extended his long arm and grabbed Michael’s shoulder.

  “I toy with you not, bro.” Kermit let go of Michael’s shoulder and lowered his voice. He pointed at the duffel bag. “You need to pack up and go help Pace’s dad. I can explain on the way.”

  “Where? On the way where?” Michael asked.

  “To Florida, of course.” Kermit smiled.

  Michael began to protest yet again, when there was quick knock at the door. Michael turned.

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Pace.”

  Michael looked at Kermit. He was trapped.

  “Come on in,” he said.

  The front door opened, and Pace stepped inside Hut No. 7.

  “Senor Collins, I wanted to come and say thank you before you left.”

  “Well, there’s no need, I’m sorry but I’m –”

  Kermit cut Michael off.

  “There’s no need for thanks, little buddy, because it makes Senor Collins here sort of embarrassed. He knows that you’re grateful.”

  Pace smiled and nodded his head, as if this made sense.

  Michael raised his hand, halting the conversation.

  “No, it’s not necessary because …” He looked at Pace. Then he looked at Kermit. Kermit’s eyes were wide, pleading.

  Michael turned away from Kermit and looked back at Pace. He started again, but stopped himself. Michael took a deep breath, and then resigned himself to keeping a drunken promise that he didn’t remember making.

  “Thanks aren’t necessary,” Michael said. “It’s just a quick trip, only a few days.” Michael looked over at Kermit, who beamed. “We’ll figure out what’s going on and then let you and your mom know.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kermit decided that he would drive Michael from the Sunset Resort to the Cancun airport.

  “We gotta make good time, and that’s only possible in this classic piece of Detroit’s mechanized glory.” Kermit ran his hand along the dashboard of his El Camino. Then he punched the gas. The triple-carb, V8 engine roared, and the El Camino shot onto Highway 307.

  The sudden motion jerked Michael’s head back. He tried to keep himself from getting sick as the half-car, half-truck barreled north.

  Kermit weaved from one side of the road to the other, avoiding the frequent potholes. The Mexican economy had been battered by a combination of bad weather, violent turf battles among the country’s various drug-runners, and a global recession. None of it was good for the tourism industry. And when tourists stopped spending their money in Mexico, a major source of revenue went away. Infrastructure was the first to be cut.

  “You think you can slow down?” Michael grabbed the side of his seat as Kermit cut left, and then back to the right.

  “Not possible, mi amigo.” Kermit shook his head. “We’ve got a schedule.” Kermit smiled, and then he fiddled with the radio. He found a classic rock station, bobbed his head to a few Led Zeppelin power chords, and then began to tell Michael more about Tommy Estrada, the man they were going to Florida to find.

  “You were awesome last night,” Kermit said. “You gave this big speech about justice and truth, and I was, like, blown away by your passion for helping Pace and his family. Everybody in the bar was going crazy.”

  Michael shook his head.

  “I was drunk.”

  Kermit reached out and squeezed Michael’s shoulder.

  “I know,” he laughed. “Drunken bravado is, like, the best kind of bravado.”

  Kermit jerked the wheel, dodging a dead animal of some sort. The El Camino groaned.

  “Pace says that his dad was a crew leader, like, out in the fields.” The Zeppelin song finished, and so Kermit stopped talking and fiddled with the dial again. He found a station playing some alternative Mexican music by a band from Tijuana. It was a fusion of classic mariachi and punk ska.

  Kermit listened for a minute, making sure it was acceptable, and then he continued.

  “Name of the company is Jolly Boy.” Kermit avoided another pothole. “They’ve got a lot of farms up there. They hire a lot of illegals to pick the crops.”

  Michael listened, but didn’t say much as Kermit continued relaying what Pace had told him. Between bumps, swerves, and waves of nausea, Michael simultaneously tried to comprehend what Kermit was telling him and not to pass out.

  According to Kermit, Tommy Estrada had been staying at a furnished townhome paid for by Jolly Boy. The townhome was part of a larger complex. It wasn’t a mansion, but Pace told Kermit that the housing complex had a pool and a gym.

  Pace and his dad had talked every week, but about a month-and-a-half ago, the
phone calls stopped. Before the calls ended, Pace’s dad told him that he was a little sick, but his dad hadn’t gone into too much detail.

  “We got an address for his dad, but not a whole lot else to go on. We gotta be, like, super-sleuths, yo.” Kermit honked the El Camino’s horn, and then pressed the gas pedal down even further as he turned the radio up louder. “Watch out world, the boys are back in town. A little adventure.”

  Kermit looked at Michael and laughed, but Michael didn’t laugh. Michael just shut his eyes and said a few prayers.

  ###

  From Cancun it was a two-hour plane ride to the Southwest Florida International Airport in Fort Myers. At each step along the way, Michael had paid with his credit card. He felt uncomfortable every time his card had been swiped.

  It wasn’t because he didn’t have the money. Michael had plenty of money. Last time he checked, his balance was still close to $500 million.

  Spending money made him feel uncomfortable for other reasons.

  His actions were leaving an electronic trail. He knew that the trail would eventually be found and the money would lead to him. It was only a matter of time.

  Bank secrecy wasn’t what it used to be. When the secrecy broke down and his banks started responding to the government’s subpoenas, he would be revealed as a thief. It didn’t matter that he stole the money from a crook. As a matter of policy, the government didn’t like attorneys taking client funds and moving to Mexico – even if that client was a horrible human being.

  As the plane descended and the seat belt lights turned on, Michael’s concern grew. Everything that morning had happened fast. Living at the Sunset, it was easy to forget the reality of what he left behind in the United States. Although the initial grand jury had decided not to indict him, questions still remained. The money was still missing. Some FBI agents believed that Lowell Moore and his assistant, Patty Bernice, had simply laundered it through Michael’s old law firm and the money was gone, but Agent Frank Vatch hadn’t given up.