The Extraditionist (A Benn Bluestone Thriller Book 1)

by Todd Merer

  “Believe it. Far as I’m concerned? You spoke, and I listened. Afterward, I communicated with the government, and then informed you I will not represent you.”

  “You won’t?”

  “End of story. Got it?”

  “No. At least spell it out.”

  He sighed. Glanced around. Sighed again. Nodded. “What I’m about to say violates professional ethics and could get me disbarred. So for once in your life, shut up and listen, and consider yourself lucky that, despite the fact that you were a prick to work with, for no good reason, I loved you like a brother. An abusive brother, but . . .”

  He glanced around again, continued.

  “I’m retained in a case in which I’m privy to proffered information about Evgeny Kursk. Billions of dollars are in play, a lot of it earmarked as legal fees. Kursk is the subject of a joint DEA-FBI investigation. Other agencies are involved, too, but all you need to know is that the case is heavy, with international implications. As in, his country and ours. Bottom line? Kursk’s red hot. And anyone near him risks getting burned. Get the picture?”

  I nodded. Thinking that my only contact with Kursk was in a steam bath designed to thwart spying eyes and ears . . . actually, twice, counting the time I’d seen him with Jilly, in Foto’s place in PC.

  “Another thing,” he said. “I want your word that, no matter what, you won’t reveal that we had this second conversation. Do I have it?”

  It took a moment before I could bring myself to reply. Josh’s reticence wasn’t prudent; it was fucking cowardly. Lawyers were supposed to stand tall for even the lowest of dirtbag clients. But I wanted to know what Josh knew. So I nodded.

  “I’ve seen you do things that left me shaking my head, but going back on your word isn’t one of them. So at the risk of ruining my life, and my family’s lives, here it is . . .”

  He drew a breath, as if steeling himself. I did, too.

  “Kandi really wants to nail you,” he said.

  All things considered, I was relieved. Kandi’s ambition wasn’t exactly a news flash. “That’s it?”

  “Don’t blow this off. Kandi’s investigation goes much deeper than you think. Beyond the escape attempt into some very heavy things. Very.”

  “What things?”

  “That’s all. You don’t owe me a dime. One more thing. A word to the wise. It’s all connected.”

  “What is?” I asked.

  “Everything.”

  CHAPTER 64

  Val was elsewhere, and I couldn’t find a cab and was in no mood to take the subway, so I decided to walk back to the office. I’d just begun when Billy called me. In the background, the usual cacophony of jail: cries and shouts and metal clanging.

  “When you coming to see me, Benn?”

  Oh jeez. Going to state court was bad enough, but a trip to Rikers was hellish. I recalled Billy’s fear on the phone, and in person when I saw him after the arraignment. Rikers was a horror show. Homicide cases could take years, during which defendants themselves were sometimes murdered. I recalled the kindnesses Billy had done for Bea. I wasn’t a cold fish like Josh Waldman, who repped the rich and famous and their corporations. I owed Billy a face-to-face.

  “Don’t worry, Billy. I’ll be there. Give me a couple days. Meantime, get your public defender to call me.”

  “I knew I could count on you.”

  I kept on walking through the concrete jungle. The city looked particularly grim today. White sky. Grimy wind. Too much traffic. Too many people. Thirty-plus blocks uptown, then six long avenue blocks east. The pavement was hell on my knee, and after a while my hip acted up, and soon my back joined the act.

  In a strange way, I welcomed the pain, each stab a reminder to keep on keeping on until I found a way to turn off the people bent on hurting me. I thought and rethought things from every angle, but by the time I reached my office, I was still lost at sea.

  What kept me afloat was my anger. As if my blood were bubbling oil, ready to be poured upon my enemies. I wasn’t even sure who they were, except for one: AUSA Kandi Kauffman. A prevaricator who wielded the power of the government, a monster who planned on crushing me at trial, then scattering my pieces.

  As I was about to get on the elevator, a neighbor exited. Took me a moment to recognize him, because I’d only seen him a few times. Like me, he traveled more often than not. Difference was, Prince Boris de la Bourdaine was dealing with the legitimate world, while I consorted with the underbelly of society.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said. “I was just knocking at your door.”

  Thinking he was about to relate his experience with Agents Scally and Cano, I put on my best who-cares smile, which probably came out closer to a fragile, shit-eating grin.

  “I was away,” Boris said. “When I returned, I found this.”

  This was an envelope he handed me: folded, slightly scuffed, with a name scrawled on it. A large B, followed by illegible lettering.

  “Apparently, it was left at the front desk,” he said. “Seems our mailman is unable to differentiate between B. Bluestone and B. Bourdaine.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course.”

  Up in my office, when I opened the envelope, a thumb drive fell out. Same brand as the thumb with the video of Rigo bribing General Uvalde, the video Rigo claimed Sombra was on.

  I sat at my computer and watched it.

  The same scene as the first video came on: an obviously hidden camera shooting in black and white, Rigo bribing General Uvalde. It played for several minutes, then the screen went black. End of scene.

  It was a duplicate of Mondragon’s video.

  A waste of time . . . or was it?

  Josh said Kursk was the subject of a joint DEA and FBI investigation. A rarity because the two agencies were highly competitive. Fart, Barf, and Itch disdained the Drunk Every Afternoons, and vice versa. Other unnamed agencies were also interested, Josh had said, which I took to mean CIA types.

  Josh said there were serious international repercussions.

  But what were they? Then I heard another voice.

  Where do you keep your private files, Benn?

  A woman’s voice. The UF who’d doped me.

  I’d told her where: in PARANOID.FLOYD.

  What about the video of Rigo and Uvalde?

  I’d told her it was in my computer.

  That’s all there is?

  I’d told her it was copied from the thumb Mondragon had given me. I recall her being disappointed. Asking me if I was sure. I’d said I was sure . . .

  But this new thumb had come from Prince Boris, who’d mistakenly received it while he was away—during which time Stefania had been murdered . . . Suddenly, it fell into place: the new thumb drive had come from Stefania—who had not been on her way to my office when she was murdered; she had been on her way from my office, after delivering the thumb to Prince Boris’s office before being murdered.

  I replayed the new video. Rigo and Uvalde came on, two turds doing business in a cesspool. The same shadowed hint of another presence.

  The video ended; the screen went to black.

  Only this time I went on watching.

  The screen flickered, and an image appeared . . . the same room, but as seen from another camera at a different angle, the shot now including another person:

  My first instinct was right after all:

  Joaquin Bolivar was Sombra!

  The screen flickered again . . . still another camera from another angle . . . including a fourth person in the room:

  Laura Astorquiza.

  CHAPTER 65

  That night I didn’t leave the office. I sat at my computer, replaying the video over and over, as if trying to see something new in it. But I saw nothing that changed the naked facts.

  Rigo, for all his duplicity, had been telling the truth: Bolivar was Sombra. Not important how he knew, only that he did. It explained why Rigo had been marked for death—to stop him from sitting on Sombra . . . and why Kandi
was so fixated on pressuring Bolivar to cooperate:

  So the indomitable AUSA Kauffman became the prosecutor who took down the legendary Sombra. Her screen test for stardom after years of bit parts of run-of-the-mill criminality. Probably she’d busted some Russian who’d cooperated up to Natty Grable and then Evgeny Kursk, and then the ultimate prize: Sombra.

  And why Barnett Robinson wanted the case in the Southern District of New York, the jurisdiction that prosecuted the worst big, bad guys. Probably Robinson’s initial information came down from Main Justice, via a deep-cover informant.

  It also exposed Laura Astorquiza, antidrug crusader, as a fraud. A narco-trafficker. Perhaps a partner of Bolivar, perhaps his lover, perhaps both. Laura. She sure had fooled me.

  My phone rang, startling me. The caller was a woman who introduced herself as Billy’s court-appointed public defender. “Billy mentioned you’d be coming in for me, so I wanted to fill you in on some things.”

  “Sure. I’m all ears.”

  Public defenders too frequently buy into their clients’ stories. This woman was no exception. According to her, the real scenario was that a guy named Haunty had murdered his girlfriend. Foolishly, Billy and his Shkillas had incorporated that deed into their act. That, together with the gun-waving and mocking the cops—and Haunty’s “confession,” in which he made Billy as the shooter—had convinced the cops that Billy was their man.

  “Why are they holding the others?”

  “Same old story. Pressuring them to crack and back up Haunty’s story.”

  “Will they?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Thanks for letting me know.”

  Sometime during the night, I fell asleep. I awoke at first light still at my desk, grainy-eyed and stiff. My screen was blinking; I had a CORRLINKS message:

  Fercho had been transferred from Miami to MDC, the Manhattan federal lockup. I wasn’t surprised because he was due to meet with SDNY prosecutors regarding his cooperation in his New York federal indictment. I showered and changed, then headed downtown to the MDC.

  Fercho greeted me with his sphinxlike smile. “What’s happening, Benn?”

  “You tell me. You’re the fucking answer man.”

  “You’re limping. You limp when you’re stressed.”

  “No more games. If you don’t start talking straight, you’re on your own.”

  Fercho turned his face from the glass wall of the visit room so no one outside might read his lips, and spoke in a whisper.

  “Forget my cooperating against General Uvalde. Far as DEA is concerned, he’s no longer a person of interest.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but he raised a finger.

  “Just listen,” he said. “You’re afraid to return to Colombia because you think General Uvalde killed Paz and he’ll kill you if you return. But the general doesn’t care about you, just as he didn’t care about Paz. He didn’t kill Paz. Sombra did.”

  Fercho paused. I sat still, waiting.

  “Paz was killed because he knew who Sombra was. Paz wasn’t the first and won’t be the last. I’m telling you because I don’t want the same fate for you.”

  “What about you? If you know all this, you must know Sombra.”

  He chuckled. “Never did, and never will. Don’t worry about me. It’s you who must be careful. Sombra can make you rich beyond your wildest dreams. But that’s when things get really dangerous. They say the Indians Sombra lives with kill anyone who photographs them because they believe photographs steal their souls. Sombra takes it a step further. Just to see him is to die. Clear?”

  “Clear.”

  “What about you, Benn?”

  “What about me?”

  “Do you know who Sombra is?”

  I nodded. “Sure. You.”

  Fercho laughed long and hard. “From what I understand, you suddenly find yourself in need of cash, yes?”

  Again, I was amazed by his knowledge of my privacies. I nodded.

  “Then go see Helmer again. After I proffer tomorrow, go.”

  Despite Fercho’s unwillingness to answer a straight question, I’d learned something of importance: Sombra’s proclivity for silencing those who knew him.

  Problem was, I knew him. Thankfully, Bolivar didn’t know I had the complete video incriminating him. I couldn’t give it to the government because it would incriminate my client. Nor could I allow anyone to know I possessed it, as it was a guaranteed ticket to the boneyard.

  It had to be destroyed.

  When I got to the office, I locked the door. Then set the thumb drive atop my acrylic-covered golden horseshoe and ground it to bits beneath my heel. I took the fragments to the restroom and watched them swirl down the toilet.

  I’d had it with everything and everyone, on both sides of the law.

  Kandi was evil. Bolivar was a serial killer. Josh Waldman was a fair-weather friend. Fercho, for whom I’d walked the line, was just a two-faced criminal after all. And Laura was a liar. The only person I trusted was Mady, but she wanted no part of me—

  Bzzzz!

  I was startled. Pleasantly, for it was a familiar Mr. Green. Fercho’s nephew. He handed me money for my trip to visit Helmer and left without a word. Turned out the number was one hundred large, rather than the usual seventy-five Fercho paid, which got me to thinking he expected something more of me than the usual. Scary thought . . .

  I felt like the character in Li’l Abner who walks around with a perpetual rain cloud over his head. Now that my old hidey-holes had been discovered, I needed to find places to stash the money until I returned from Helmer. I stretched behind my armoire—

  And twisted my bum knee. Just a twinge, but soon enough my knee and then my hip and back would . . . An old tune came to mind: the one about the leg bone being connected to the thigh bone—and, just like that, I saw things clearly.

  Josh Waldman had it right: everything was connected. All I needed to do was find a string, pull, and watch the Gordian knot unravel.

  The following day, Fercho proffered.

  I walked into the debriefing room, expecting to see a couple of agents and the INB chief, but another person was also present. A rangy guy, outdoorsy face, late thirties, slightly rumpled suit. I made him as an agent, but the INB chief introduced him by another title.

  “Richard’s an analyst,” the chief said.

  Most so-called analysts are really just shorthand transcribers, as opposed to those few who stare at charts until dots connect and they yell, “Eureka!” Agents refer to these latter as “Brains,” although they’re the same pay grade as shorthand transcribers. Neither had any power, and I paid the analyst no mind.

  The INB chief led off grilling Fercho.

  “You’ve successfully accomplished quite a bit of cooperation, sir. We may have some questions as to how you did so from a cell in the SHU, but that is not our concern at the moment. Right now, we are interested in another topic. You are aware that your attorney represented a man commonly known as Don Rigo?”

  “It’s known in the jail.”

  “You are aware Rigo was attempting to cooperate against General Uvalde?”

  “I heard a rumor.”

  “Where?”

  “In jail.”

  “What about you? Are you intending to cooperate against General Uvalde?”

  “I have my suspicions, yes. I’m working on obtaining real proof.”

  The chief paused a beat. “Who’s Sombra?”

  Fercho shrugged. “How would I know?”

  Fercho’s initial reticence wouldn’t be held against him; it was the norm for guys in his seat to reluctantly advance to truthfulness. That the SDNY target was Sombra confirmed what I’d thought about Barnett Robinson’s interest. Big players often are indicted in several districts before they’re extradited. After the defendant is extradited, the districts hash out who has the honor to prosecute. This SDNY interest seemed odd, given that the Southern and Eastern districts try not to step on each other’s toes.
r />   For a moment, no one spoke.

  Then Richard said, “Let’s get down to it, Fercho. Give us Sombra, and you walk.”

  I’d been wrong. The analyst was a heavyweight. Line prosecutors don’t have the authority to promise specific sentence reductions. But obviously Richard did. “Think about it,” he said. “When you’re ready, tell your lawyer.”

  The INB chief stood. “End of meeting.”

  CHAPTER 66

  For the second time in six months, Fercho was paying me for an errand in Panama during which I could attend to other business. And, like the first time, I suspected Fercho knew my other business. Worrisome. Even if Fercho was merely a messenger, I knew the messages originated with Sombra.

  Despite having the same destination, this trip felt completely different from my prior run to Panama City. The first time I’d been flush, horny, and aggressive. This time I was flat broke, chaste, and chastened.

  Once past customs, I texted Helmer Quezada.

  Immediately he replied:

  WAIT.

  Good. I needed some time to accomplish my other business. Instead of checking in to my regular posh suite, I took an economy room in a ubiquitous hotel. The better to see and not be seen.

  Then I set about finding Foto.

  I called him but got no answer. I texted and e-mailed him. Nothing. After dark I went to Foto’s building. His penthouse appeared unlit. I pressed the street buzzer. No answer.

  I took a taxi to a corner below El Tornillo, The Screw. The sidewalk was crowded. Money people with bodyguards, South American vacationers, hustlers, pimps.

  I left the boulevard and went down a leafy side street. Hushed here, where private homes were set behind gates.

  I walked on the other side of the street from the house I was looking for.

  In a second-floor room, a television flickered dimly. I’d been in that room before. It was a bedroom with a big bed atop which, one long day into night, Foto and I had smoked weed and drunk beer while counting the equivalent of $2 million in Colombian pesos. To make matters worse, the AC had been out, and even with the windows open, we were sweltering. He had started to say, “An ugly job—”