When You Can't Stop (Harper McDaniel Book 2)

by James W. Hall

“What? He’s in hiding? Won’t talk to me? I can get tough guys to open up. Made a pretty good career out of it.”

  “His name is Vaughn Morrison. But that won’t help you.”

  “Why? Is Mr. Morrison no longer with us?”

  Adrian nodded.

  Lavonne finished her drink, got the bartender’s attention, and pointed at both glasses.

  “What happened?”

  “Few days after he got home from his interview with Bixel, his body was found lying at the end of his boat dock. House he was renting down in Islamorada, in Florida.”

  “Natural causes?”

  “Strangulation.”

  “Unpleasant way to go.”

  “Vaughn was a SEAL. Average bad guy trying to take him out one-on-one . . . It’s hard to imagine.”

  “But it happened. Somebody strangled him.”

  “Used a flexible weapon, cloth of some kind, possibly silk. So said the autopsy.”

  “Silk garrote, that’s a method you don’t see every day.”

  Adrian looked down into the melting ice.

  “And now you feel guilty,” Lavonne said. “You steered this guy to a job, he hears the details, turns it down, bingo, somebody shows up at his front door and takes him out. All your fault.”

  The fresh drinks came. Adrian knocked back the rest of his first one, skimmed a sip off the second. The playful bartender had turned serious, concerned. Probably read the look on Adrian’s face.

  “You talk to Morrison before he died?”

  “No.”

  “So whatever it was, the job Bixel offered, it was too dirty for his taste. That’s how you read it?”

  “Or beneath his dignity. Doesn’t matter why he turned it down. It was hearing about it in the first place that may have gotten him killed.”

  Lavonne studied the bar mirror, the bustling room behind them.

  “Vaughn started out a straight-up kid, wanting to be a doctor, do something positive with his life, but after Iraq and a few years freelancing, he didn’t much care how he made his living anymore.”

  “So not many jobs he’d walk away from.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I expect whoever Bixel found to replace Morrison is in deep shit. If they killed a guy after just hearing about the job, not likely they’d let his replacement walk when the job was done.”

  “Thought the same thing.”

  “For god’s sake. This is a global food corporation, they’re a multibillion-dollar operation, and they’re out killing people to make more money?”

  “Guy like Albion, it’s not money. He’s got the morals of a spoiled twelve-year-old. He sees something he wants, he does whatever he has to do to get it. Maybe twelve is too old. More like seven or eight.”

  Lavonne turned on Adrian. “So your SEAL friend gets strangled, and you send Harper straight at ’em without a clue what she’s getting into?”

  “Back in May, when I told her about Puglia, I didn’t know Vaughn had been killed. Later, soon as I heard about it, I tried to get in touch with her. I’ve been trying ever since. She must’ve changed numbers. That’s the only reason I agreed to meet you.”

  Her face relaxed a fraction, but she was still pissed.

  “You should’ve called me the minute you found out.”

  “Yeah? And how would I do that? You’re not exactly in the book.”

  “Well, unfortunately I don’t have an active number for Harper.”

  “How do you stay in contact?”

  “Lately, she calls me. Tosses her phone afterwards.”

  “Then there’s nothing to do but wait for her to ring you up?”

  Lavonne was quiet, weighing something, eyes in the distance.

  “What is it?”

  “I know where she is,” Lavonne said. “Her physical location.”

  “Great. I’ll go see her face-to-face, lay it out for her myself.”

  “No, you need to stay put, don’t expose yourself. We’re going to need you on the inside.”

  Adrian grunted and shook his head. Joining forces? Not so fast.

  “If you know where Harper is, send one of your people.”

  Lavonne pushed away her unfinished drink.

  “Oh, I will,” she said. “I just hope it’s not too goddamned late.”

  FIVE

  Santa Cruz District, Seville, Spain

  By the end of her four weeks of toil under Marco’s tutelage, Harper had regained her youthful speed, fine-tuned her synapses so they were once again trip-wire quick. She was ten pounds heavier than she’d been last winter in the grim months after her husband and child were murdered. Ten pounds of fresh, limber muscle.

  And her mind had quieted; the ache of grief had subsided. What remained was the blue flicker of rage deep in her throat, a reminder with every breath that her vengeance was not complete.

  Faster, stronger, more lethal, yet after those four long weeks she’d still not caught a single butterfly.

  There was a Zen purity to her days in the dojo, and a no-nonsense solemnity to Marco’s coaching. Simple, direct, and detached while he reset her hands, showed her more-efficient moves, described the most barbaric measures and countermeasures in his dulcet voice. The death blows, the savage wrenching of joints and crippling elbow strikes, the suffocating guillotine choke. Punches and gouges meant to leave her foe deaf and blind, broken, or lifeless.

  The sparring had been grueling. She’d suffered bruises, sprains, gashes, more than one black eye, but she never complained. She’d relished the work, the basic food, the spare accommodations, the utilitarian ethic that guided Marco. She’d felt no sense of deprivation. This was exactly the boot camp she’d needed. A complete immersion in the killing arts.

  There’d been no music, internet, or TV, not even a radio to distract in the limited downtime before bed. Instead, each night Harper pored over the research materials from news magazines, books, and industry pamphlets she’d downloaded from the internet and photocopied in Madrid’s Biblioteca Nacional.

  Olive oil, its colorful history, its complex chemistry, the international laws governing its import and export, news stories about the European Union’s efforts to regulate its purity, protect against fraud and bribery.

  She studied the art of olive-oil production, learned about grindstones and presses and filtration, and the sophisticated vocabulary of taste testing extra-virgin oil, floral notes, harmonious structure.

  The business journals featured the stars of the olive-oil industry, the innovators, the third- and fourth-generation grove owners who were cultivating new strains, learning novel methods of harvesting and pressing the oil.

  Harper had been searching for a place to start, the hint of criminal activity, a thread she could tug that would reach back to Lester Albion, something she might use to provoke him into action.

  Her research turned up one tantalizing possibility. In recent years, the Italian mob, working with corrupt commodity traders, were making hundreds of millions of euros by producing cheap imitations of extra-virgin olive oil and passing it off as the real thing. Blending the genuine stuff with cut-rate soybean or canola oil that arrived at Italian ports in the vast bellies of tankers from Africa. Using industrial vats, workers stirred in synthetic coloring and flavor, and the crooks sold the crap in green bottles with fake labels from fake companies. Less than a dollar to make, selling it for thirty. But so far, she’d found nothing linking Albion to the rip-offs.

  And then one night, two weeks ago, a turning point.

  In the footnotes of an article on the EU’s efforts to root out olive-oil fraud, Harper saw a name she recognized: Daniela Aguilar, owner of one of the largest olive groves in Spain, located in the Andalusian hill country a few hours east of Sevilla.

  Two years earlier, Harper’s brother, Nick, had thrown a small dinner party at his Miami condo to introduce Daniela to Harper and her husband, Ross. At the time Daniela had been marketing director for the global food giant Nestlé. She was in Miami for an internationa
l conference.

  “Just a business friend,” Nick had said on the phone.

  But that night after seeing Daniela and Nick together, Harper could tell the young woman was far more than that.

  All through dinner Nick was animated, talkative, not his usual pensive, guarded self. Daniela was a handsome woman with rich black hair and the delicately fashioned features of her aristocratic forebears. She had expressive eyes that by turns were intense, earnest, and mischievous.

  She was curious about Harper’s work as a photographic assistant, and the conversation flowed easily that night as Harper told tales about some of the celebrities that she and her mother, Deena, had photographed over the years.

  Seated next to Nick, Daniela laughed easily and often, and when describing her own work on behalf of Nestlé, she was wry and self-deprecating. Nick, clearly enthralled, tried without success to keep his eyes off Daniela.

  “A beautiful woman,” Ross said on the drive home. “And smart.”

  “They make a great couple,” said Harper.

  “How does that work?” Ross said. “They both travel so much.”

  “People in love find a way.”

  “I suppose,” Ross said, sounding doubtful.

  When Harper saw Daniela’s name in her research notes, she rose, dug her latest disposable phone from her suitcase, and began trying to track down a number for Daniela Aguilar. It took her two days and numerous calls to Nestlé’s headquarters and the Aguilar Olive Oil offices before, one evening in mid-October, Daniela answered her personal phone.

  Harper introduced herself and said, “You probably don’t remember me.”

  “¡Por supuesto! Of course, I remember you,” she said. “Oh, and I was terribly sorry to hear about your loss. Ross and your lovely son. The pain and horror, it’s unimaginable.”

  Harper didn’t mention Nick. She wasn’t sure if the two of them were still close.

  “You’re not at Nestlé anymore?”

  “My father died last spring,” she said. “I took a leave and came home to settle his affairs. I’ve decided to stay on for a while and try my hand running the family business.”

  “Olive orchards?”

  “That’s right. How did you know?”

  Harper hesitated. She wasn’t sure how frank to be. But Daniela made the decision for her.

  “Is this about Lester Albion? Nick told me last winter you were on a crusade to bring him to justice.”

  “I still am.”

  “I know the man,” she said darkly. “If there is something I can do to help, please name it, and if it’s within my power, I will assist in any way I’m able.”

  That was the first of a half dozen phone conversations between them. Daniela set about tapping her network of former business associates and olive farmers across southern Europe, inquiring discreetly about Albion and his olive-oil business in Puglia. Trying to uncover any hint that he might be engaged in fraud.

  But the information she gathered was disappointingly vague.

  “People are guarded,” Daniela said. “As if they know more than they feel comfortable sharing. But I still have a few more calls to make. I’m sorry I haven’t been more helpful.”

  On the Friday night before Harper’s last weekend in Sevilla, Daniela said, “I have discovered something significant. It’s not about fraud or counterfeit oil, but I believe it could be relevant. However, I’d rather not speak about it on the phone. Is it possible for you to come to Canena? I would meet you in Sevilla, but it is almost harvest time, and things are very busy in the groves.”

  Harper told her, yes, she would find a way to get to Canena as soon as possible, maybe tomorrow or the day after.

  “You can stay here with me,” Daniela said. “There’s lots of room.”

  The next morning, the last Saturday in October, her final day in the dojo, Marco announced that Gabriella and he had business to attend to in Barcelona. Harper had her final day free.

  If she had known this would be the last time she’d see Marco, she would have thanked him for all he’d done, the strength he’d help her find. Though Marco would no doubt have dismissed her gratitude as senseless. He had done nothing at all. Everything flowed from Harper, he would say. So it was probably just as well she hadn’t had a chance to wish him farewell. Sometimes his Zen dispassion was indistinguishable from indifference. It could have made for an awkward parting.

  After Marco and Gabriella left, Harper sat in her room, cradling the photo she’d taken of Leo and Ross in their final moments. If she allowed herself, she could relive every unbearable second of their last evening together. Their parting words, the last touch, the simple, unwitting looks in their eyes, Ross’s intimate smile, Leo’s bubbly grin . . . as she left them for the evening and forever.

  But she braced herself and willed it away, forced herself to refocus on the here and now, this room, this bed, the day ahead. She was tougher and more disciplined than she’d been last winter in the yawning depths of her grief. However, she was not yet disciplined enough nor fierce enough in her resolve to tear that last photograph into bits and leave it in her wake as she knew one day she must.

  SIX

  Santa Cruz District, Seville, Spain

  Using her phone to search train schedules, Harper found an express leaving for Canena late that afternoon, putting her in the village well after dark. Not good enough, so she checked for local car-rental offices and found one fifteen minutes away on a side street near the cathedral. By car, she could be in Canena in two or three hours. The sooner the better. With her training at the dojo complete, it was time to rejoin the battle.

  But until the moment when she left the hush of the dojo and stepped into the street on that sultry afternoon, she hadn’t realized just how starved her senses had become. She cringed at the noise and bustle in the crowded avenue. The bewildering swirl of tourists and locals, their raucous voices, the thoroughfare swarming with motorbikes. She was overwhelmed, frozen in place, her heart thudding. The colors blinded her, the sunlight was stunning.

  She stood by the front door and considered returning to the monastic quiet of Marco’s world. But she fought the weakness and held herself in place until finally the panic subsided, the noise lost its edge, and she acclimated to the chaos.

  She set off into the heart of the Santa Cruz district, armed with the Leica, which she’d grabbed on impulse as she left her room. As if her previous identity, Harper the artist and photographer, the observer, the woman she’d been before the loss of Leo and Ross, had reawakened and was challenging Harper the warrior.

  As she pushed through the narrow lanes, Harper began to shoot photographs of the colorful commotion of Sevilla’s street life. She captured the speechless confusion of an ancient woman in a black shawl who carried a straw basket overflowing with headless dolls. She snapped a man who might have been forty or ninety in cape and beret, his eyes silvery and a single tooth showing in his lusty grin. She captured children running, children crying, children napping in their mothers’ arms. Birds and flowers and more children.

  Snapping, snapping, she wandered in and out of sunbaked plazas pushing through walls of airless heat, savoring the sudden coolness of shaded alleyways, down one, then another, meandering through the maze, entering small plazas paved in ancient stone, others layered with sand like tiny manicured beaches stranded within the medieval Jewish quarter. She ambled past an outdoor bar, men drinking red wine, women in wide-brimmed hats sipping coffee, children running unattended, chasing the wind. Around her the stucco walls were interrupted here and there by intricately tiled mosaic archways, Spain and Morocco forever intertwined.

  She was surprised at how alive her senses had become and even more surprised at the twinges of joy she felt looking through the viewfinder again, seizing those vivid images. And immediately she felt shame that joy remained in her working vocabulary.

  After twenty minutes she found the rental office. The blinds were shut.

  HORA DE LA SIESTA. VOLVEREMOS A L
AS DOS Y MEDIA. Siesta time. We’ll be back at two thirty.

  Nearby she found an empty park bench in the Patio de los Naranjos in the shadow of the Catedral de Sevilla. A young man on a nearby bench was clapping a light flamenco beat while his girlfriend danced coyly in front of him, twisting and turning like a coil of smoke from a newly kindled fire.

  Between those two lovers a butterfly stumbled past and sailed in Harper’s direction, a blue-and-yellow monarch. It headed directly at her, passed by her face, a faint whisper against her cheek, and Harper watched as it danced in the distance, then circled back as if to taunt her a second time, and with her right arm loose and easy, she snapped the creature from the air, her hand cupping softly around it, trapping its delicate quivering wings against her palm and fingers.

  After holding it for a few seconds to feel its pulsing strokes, to bask in the achievement, she raised her hand and set it free and watched it tumble into flight and sail away on a hot gust that pushed it crazily toward the cathedral.

  How she’d managed to catch the damn thing, she couldn’t say. After weeks of trying and failing, this time, out of Marco’s view, she’d done it easily, without thought or planning.

  She turned and walked on. The rush she’d felt for the last half hour had vanished. The blue flame burned again in her throat. Ross and Leo were gone, and the hollow in her chest would never be filled. Lavonne was right. There was no escaping it. No reprieve till you’d served grief’s full sentence.

  With two hours to kill before the rental office reopened, Harper headed back to the dojo. But after a couple of blocks she made a wrong turn, then another, and was soon disoriented. She passed down one winding street after the next, no longer recognizing her surroundings, but forged ahead as the lane narrowed, curved, and became a dead-end alley. When she turned, started to retrace her steps, a big man appeared and blocked her way.

  He was in his thirties, a half foot taller than she, and outweighed her by a hundred pounds. He was smiling as he came forward slowly. The narrow passage left no room to slip around him. If outstretched, the big man’s hands could touch both opposing walls. Fleeing in the other direction was out because the street behind her was closed off by an iron gate.