Heart of the World

by Linda Barnes

  “I heard he was dead.”

  “We both know that’s not true.”

  “I don’t know where he is.”

  “Too bad.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  When lawyers insist they’re telling the truth, watch out. I said, “I’ll bet you know somebody who knows.” “You don’t know what you’re getting involved in,” he replied. “I need a way to get to Roldan, and I will mess up your life if I don’t get it.”

  He chewed his lip for a while. I waited. He stared at his diplomas, the pictures of his kids. I glanced at my watch.

  He lowered his voice. “I might know someone who might be able to get a message to the man. I might be willing to give you that name, as a goodwill gesture.”

  “Terrific,” I said. “But don’t send me on a wild goose chase. I’m an impatient woman and I might find myself wandering over to 26 if I don’t get quick results.”

  He stared longingly at the door again, finally decided that no one was going to come to his rescue. “Drew Naylor.”

  “Who is he? How do I find him?”

  “He makes promotional films for business clients. Works half the year here and half in L.A. Very swanky, very exclusive. Thinks he ought to get nominated for an Oscar.”

  He sounded resentful; I hoped he wasn’t siccing me on a deadbeat client.

  “Where do I find him?”

  The lawyer flashed his shirt cuff and consulted a gold Rolex. “You don’t find him.”

  “I’m not sitting around waiting for a call. Where does he live?”

  “I wouldn’t want him to know—”

  “I’m not here to make trouble for you; I’m here to find a way to get to Roldan.”

  Vandenburg rubbed his hands like he was warming them over a hot stove. “Look, Naylor’s throwing one of his parties tonight. I’ll try to talk to him. He might give me a phone number, a conduit, but—”

  “Where’s the party?”

  “Naylor wouldn’t want me to—”

  I said, “You have a date for this party?”

  His face relaxed into a smile. “Naylor’s parties—you go there to meet women, you don’t bring them.”

  “But tonight’s an exception,” I said. “I’d love to go.”

  He stared at me with his mouth open, ready for rebuttal. I could see him considering his options.

  He nodded at my duffel. “You have something in there to wear to a Coral Gables fling?”

  “Underdressed is always elegant. What time? Where does he live?”

  “Where are you staying?” he countered. “I’ll pick you up.”

  I gave him my cell number and requested his.

  When he handed me his card, he couldn’t resist adding some advice. “I wouldn’t bother threatening Naylor with DEA if I were you.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I wouldn’t threaten him in any way.” His voice stayed as level as the low Florida ground, but he stood to emphasize that the interview was at an end.

  I stood as well; I didn’t like him staring down at me. “Wouldn’t it be easier to give me an address? I won’t use your name.”

  “Ms. Carlyle, we do this my way or not at all.”

  I wanted to grab him by his tailored lapels and shake him, make him understand that Paolina, my Paolina, my golden girl in the photo frame, was slipping away with every delay, with every wasted hour. His eyes were cold; the good-old-boy smile long gone.

  “If I find him first,” I said, “the deal’s off.”

  “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  In other words, there was a greater chance of a sudden Miami blizzard than of me locating Naylor under my own steam. Vandenburg marched across the carpet and held the door to his escape hatch wide. He looked like he’d go on standing there, stern and mute as a guard at Buckingham Palace, till I gave up and departed.

  He shut the door on my heels; I didn’t even get the chance to slam it.

  CHAPTER 9

  A discreet staircase led from Vandenburg’s escape hatch to the lobby where Gramps, happy to take a break from guarding the parquet, called for a cab. When a dirty white Ford with HANK’S TAXI SERVICE boldly lettered in red on the side door pulled up, I checked the driver’s ID on the visor while ducking into the back seat. The driver’s name wasn’t Hank, but his face matched the photo, so I told him to drop me at a motel, requesting cheap but not sleazy, mentioning that I piloted a Boston cab in the hope that he’d select wisely for a fellow member of the community. His bloodshot eyes met mine in the rearview mirror and he hung a sudden left.

  “Got a daughter your age,” he said gruffly. “Whatcha wanna drive a hack for?”

  I shrugged and he accepted it as a reply, which was a good thing because I wasn’t in the mood for a discussion. Vandenburg hadn’t shut me down completely; it was a relief, but hardly a comfort. Naylor’s party might prove a dead end. And worse, it wasn’t till evening, long hours away. I watched the traffic, resisting the temptation to order the cabbie to take me to the airport so I could keep an eye on every departure lounge with a scheduled flight to Colombia.

  I couldn’t watch the flights from New York, I told myself. Or the Delta departures from Atlanta.

  The driver abandoned me in front of a low slung L-shaped building with instructions to tell the guy on the desk that Frankie G. had sent me. The clerk turned pleasant when I mentioned the name, and told me I was lucky they had a vacancy the way the weather sucked up north. The place had a kidney-shaped deco pool and a room worth the price: the carpet soft, the bed firm, the sheets fresh. There was a scratched wooden desk for my laptop and a phone directory tucked away on the top shelf of a cramped closet.

  No listing for Drew Naylor; didn’t surprise me. I wondered whether the lawyer had tossed me the first name that came to mind, a scrap of meat to a hungry hound. He’d seemed scared enough to cooperate, but threats lead to plenty of phony confessions.

  The bathroom had a storage shelf above a small white sink. I unpacked toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant, but they didn’t make the place feel any homier. Floral air freshener didn’t block the harsh ammonia smell of cleaning fluid. I’d forgotten to pack dental floss. My cosmetics kit rustled, reminding me to remove the magazine article I’d stashed in the side pocket.

  The same article was probably on my laptop by now; I’d instructed Roz to run a Lexis/Nexis search on Roldan, and she’d have yanked it from the Newsweek archives. I hadn’t needed to search; I’d found it where I’d left it years ago, in the top drawer of my bedside table.

  I once knew a burglar who said the closer a woman kept an item to her bed, the more she valued it. Swore he found more diamond rings in bedside tables than jewelry boxes, and he was a legendary thief while he lasted on the streets. I wondered what he’d make of my storing that particular page near the bed instead of filing it in my office.

  The five men in the photograph looked cheerful and unposed, as though they’d been surprised by a friend taking a candid shot. The caption underneath gave their names. Carlos Roldan Gonzales stood farthest to the right, slightly apart; his was the last name given. The story was headlined: ANDEAN DRUG LORDS MEET AT SUMMIT. No photo credit, which made sense; whoever’d taken the shot wouldn’t be eager to have the men know he’d sold their likenesses.

  The first man, Juan Lopez Everardo, identified in the article below the caption as the heir to Jose Rodriguez Gacha, the “Mexican,” wore a Panama hat with a snakehead on the band, the same style Rodriguez Gacha flaunted before his untimely death. Lopez was reputed to be as violent as his mentor, a man who routinely tortured associates who might be cheating him by holding back cash. The second man, heavyset with a shock of dark wavy hair, was the eldest of the Munoz brothers, three up-and-comers who’d acquired a chunk of the business run by the late Pablo Escobar of the Medellin Cartel. Lopez and Munoz were both dead now, shot “while escaping” by the Colombian armed forces. The third man, Jaime Orejuela, currently jailed for life in the U.S., was one of the few
cartel bosses ever successfully extradited to stand trial in Miami, convicted in spite of the suspicious deaths of three witnesses. The features of the fourth, Enrique “Angel” Navas, were blurred, as though he’d shaken his head in disagreement with the others the instant the shutter snapped. He had a wide grin and the broad-chested build of an athlete. An unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth. He was rumored to be dead, along with his ex-partner, Roldan.

  The article speculated on possible reasons for the unusual get-together. Price-fixing among cartels? An indicator that things were looking bad for the druglords, that the War on Drugs, with its increasing use of high-tech surveillance, was capturing more product on the way to the U.S. market? Were they discussing new smuggling routes? Few answers were suggested, but the single fact in the piece, that cocaine prices were dropping on the streets of New York, Boston, and Miami, backed up one conclusion the writers hadn’t offered. With too much coke hitting the streets, the meeting might concern controlling production in an effort to keep prices high. There was a sidebar about the history of cocaine use, tracing it back from its ‘80s glamorization via TV and movies to its roots as the “divine plant” of the ancient Incas in Peru. I learned that before the Pure Food and Drug Act banned its use in medicines and soft drinks such as Coca-Cola, as much coca leaf was shipped to the U.S. in 1906 as was shipped in 1976. Another sidebar addressed the skyrocketing Colombian use of basuco, a cocaine derivative similar to crack.

  I returned to the photo and stared at the small image on the right, wishing for the magnifying glass on my desk at home. Roldan was taller than his partner, his build slighter. His thin face was deeply shadowed, almost gaunt, like the face of a saint in an old painting. I searched for a resemblance to Paolina, found it in the wide-set eyes, the generous mouth.

  The story, widely reported, was that they’d quarreled, over money or politics or both, that the man nicknamed the Angel had been responsible for several attempts on Roldan’s life. Then there’d been the even more widely circulated tale, that a Cessna carrying Roldan to Panama had disappeared, blown out of the sky, some said by the government, some by his old friend, the Angel.

  The reports were wrong; Roldan was alive. And whatever else he might be, he was a wealthy man. He could have sent Paolina money, plane tickets, a guide. He’d sent her the little statue, a golden gift, maybe many gifts. To a girl as eager for an older man’s approval as my little sister, wouldn’t that have been invitation enough? Come be my daughter. Your mother loves her boys better. Your big sister is involved with a man who takes up all her time.

  Bullshit. I didn’t believe it; if my sister was in control, on her own, she’d have told someone, called someone, maybe not me, but her best friend, Aurelia. Roldan had arranged for the girl to be snatched off the street; that’s what I believed.

  I refolded the worn article and replaced it in the kit. The lamps in the main room were dim. I opened the curtains; the skimpy window looked out on a parking lot. The air conditioner hummed sleepily; it was well past lunchtime, but I wasn’t hungry. I wanted to get to Naylor now.

  My cell rang and I snatched it, recognizing Mooney’s voice as soon as he spoke my name.

  “Hi,” I said. “Great. I wanted to talk to you. Did you get somebody working on those airline lists?”

  “Carlotta, where the hell are you?” I pictured him, tapping a pencil impatiently on his desktop.

  “What difference does it make?” I said.

  “You went to Logan.”

  “I’m in Miami. How did you know I—?”

  “Picture this: I’m talking to this guy at the feds about how we need to meet today, so we can fill him in on the Paolina thing, and he tells me you’re not even in town. How do you think that makes me look?”

  “Mooney—”

  “Yeah. The feds have a tail on your boyfriend. That surprise you?”

  I wondered whether the feds had filled Mooney in on the supposed Miami hit squad. The idea that the feds had told Mooney, a local, that they were watching Sam was as surprising, maybe more surprising, than the fact of the surveillance.

  I bit my lip. “Mooney, let’s fight about Sam later, after you tell me what’s new on Paolina.”

  “What the hell are you doing in Florida?”

  I swallowed. “Following a lead.”

  “What lead?”

  “Moon, I told you. I think Roldan snatched her.”

  “Yeah, right. He sent her some stuff, and then Marta pulled that shit with the photo. I know. I tried to talk to her, but she’s stonewalling me. You think she was in on it from the get-go?”

  “She sold the photo, but I don’t think she thought it through. When she phoned me, she really was looking for Paolina, thinking she’d be home to babysit.”

  “Okay, so what’s with Florida? If you’ve got a lead, why not give it to the feds?”

  “I give it to them, I’ve got no pressure.”

  “You’re threatening some druglord with the feds?”

  “Not a druglord. A lawyer. Moon, listen, there’s nothing I can do in Boston that Roz can’t do. Or Gloria. That you can’t do. I trust you to handle the feds.”

  “Right.”

  “I have to follow my gut on this, try every angle. It would help if I knew about the passenger lists.”

  “Nada,” he said. “No similar names.” “All flights?”

  “All flights out of Boston, all flights to Bogota.”

  “You’ll work with the feds? Even if I’m not there?” I took his continued silence for consent. “See if you can get them to put her on the no-fly list. The one for suspected terrorists.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “What do you think they’ll do?”

  “Either give me the horselaugh or tell me they have to liaise with the DEA.”

  “Yeah.” Only the feds “liaise.” Once Roldan’s name was mentioned, they’d inform DEA. But how long before the right hand told the left hand what was going on?

  I said, “Ask the feds if there’s a possibility Roldan could be here, in the U.S.”

  “I’ll ask.”

  “Mooney, why are the feds watching Sam?”

  “To see which way he runs, Carlotta. Seems he’s in a bind.”

  “What kind of bind?” Sam had hummed Billie Holiday tunes while he shaved this morning. He hadn’t looked like a man in trouble, but I’d been preoccupied with Paolina. I’m not sure I’d have noticed anything softer than an outright cry for help.

  Mooney said, “I can’t tell you. You know I can’t tell you. If the feds think I’m talking to you, they stop talking to me.”

  Impasse.

  He said, “So, is Gianelli down there with you?”

  “I can’t tell you where he is, Moon.”

  “Tit for tat? Well, I’ll help with Paolina anyway. Anything I can do, just ask.”

  “I’ve got two names you can run.” I gave him the lawyer, Vandenburg, and Drew Naylor. Roz is a whiz when it comes to computer manipulation, but Mooney has access to resources Roz doesn’t, including NCIC. He might have pals on the Miami force.

  “Vandenburg’s tied to Roldan?”

  “Used to be. Let me know if there are any priors, any drug-related offenses. I’m trying to find links to Roldan.”

  “Carlotta, the U.S. government, the Colombian government, both of them have been trying to find links to Roldan for years. What makes you think you can do better?”

  “For one thing, I’m not going through any government.”

  “Tell me you’re not going to Colombia.”

  “If I get a lead that Roldan’s there, that Paolina’s there, yeah, I am.” “Well, don’t check in with the local PD. You don’t want to go near the cops in Colombia, what I hear.” “Calm down, Moon.”

  “Jesus.” I could hear the pencil point smack his desk, a rhythmic tat-tat-tat.

  “Have you got any leads that would bring me back to Boston?”

  He didn’t. He’d come up empty on Marta’s boyfriend, Gregor Maltic. No
priors, he told me, and Immigration had no beef with the man. Plus Paolina’s disappearance didn’t fit any local pattern; there was no rash of disappearing teens.

  “Thanks, Moon,” I said. “And Moon, if you can’t reach me, talk to Roz, okay?” It was a lot to ask. Roz and Mooney tend to clash. Mooney, tall, tough, with seen-it-all cop eyes, tends to scare people. Roz, tattooed, voluptuous, and brazen, in my humble opinion, scares him.

  “I’ll talk to Gloria,” he said. “She can pass it on. Miami, huh?” He gave a low whistle.

  “Yeah, you know anybody on the force here, somebody might help me with the airport?”

  “What hotel are you at?” His voice sounded odd, tense, edged with some kind of suppressed emotion.

  I gave him the information.

  “Keep your cell charged,” he said. “I might have something. I’ll get back to you.”

  “What, Mooney?”

  The next thing I heard was the phone clicking into the cradle. It was totally unlike Mooney to end a conversation so abruptly. I stared at the phone in my hand, waiting, thinking he’d ring back.

  When he did, should I tell him Sam had flown to Las Vegas? If Sam did have a contract out on him, would he be safer with the feds in the know? What if Sam, realizing the feds were tracking him, intended to lead them astray? Could he have told me about Vegas hoping I’d pass on the information? He knew I’d be in touch with Mooney.

  When the phone didn’t ring, I called Roz.

  CHAPTER 10

  She’d made no progress placing Paolina after the Friday night party. She’d hung flyers all over Cambridge, Boston, and Somerville, gotten some calls on them, but mostly from PIs trying to drum up business, investigators too lame to run the phone number and discover they were calling one of their own. She had nothing new to report on Roldan’s probable whereabouts. He’d disappeared from the press after the plane crash stories. She’d already e-mailed every article she’d been able to unearth.

  I gave her Drew Naylor’s name. “Mooney’s checking him out, but I thought you might have alternative sources. He produces films for businesses.”