by Tim Stevens
At the bottom of the stairs, he looked up suddenly, as if noticing Venn for the first time.
Venn had seen fear before. But he thought the guy’s eyes were the most terrified ones he’d ever seen in his life.
The receptionist put her hand over the receiver. She said to Venn, a note of triumph in her voice: “Mr Brull is unable to entertain you at this time.”
Venn and Estrada had discussed the approach in the car on the way. They’d decided to go straight for the jugular.
Venn said, “Tell your Mr Brull that I want to talk to him about the boat.”
She spoke into the phone again.
Then she put it down. “He’ll see you. But you need to hold on a moment.” She picked up the phone again and dialed another number.
Venn saw the guy at the stairs hadn’t moved. He looked at him again.
The man was staring openly at his face. As Venn stared back, the guy quailed a little, as if realizing he was being rude.
He muttered something inaudible and trotted quickly past Venn toward the door.
Venn watched him go.
“Okay,” said the receptionist. “Up the stairs, second floor. Don’t bother trying the elevator, because it ain’t working.”
“Which office is it?”
“Mr Brull’s assistants will be waiting.”
I bet they will, thought Venn.
*
The dingy corridor ran left to right at the top of the stairs. Venn saw two men waiting to the right. They stood with their feet apart, heads slightly lowered.
Just like the row of guys on the pier last night.
And, like those guys, these two had smoothly shaved heads.
“Hey, fellas,” said Venn. “I’m looking for Mr Brull’s office?”
One of the men beckoned with his fingers. “Step over here, raise your arms, place your hands against the wall with your feet back.”
At least he didn’t say assume the position, Venn thought.
He did as he was told. “Just to let you know, there’s a gun in my inside jacket pocket,” he said conversationally.
He’d assumed he’d be frisked, and had debated leaving his Beretta in Estrada’s car. But, once again, he recalled the maxim: a cop never leaves his gun behind. If they took it off him now, he might be able to get it back. But in the car, it would be no use to him at all.
One of the men ran his hands expertly over Venn’s torso, under his arms, between his legs. The other one stood off to the side, well out of reach, watching Venn’s face for the tell-tale signs of an imminent attack.
The first man took the Beretta from Venn’s shoulder holster.
“You gonna give me a receipt for that?” said Venn.
The guy grabbed him by the shoulder, harder than necessary. “Okay. You can stand up straight now.”
The other man knocked on a door. From inside, a voice said: “Yeah. Come.”
The man pushed the door open and went in first. The other guy followed Venn.
Venn stepped into a large office, which unlike the rest of the building so far was freshly painted, and bright with the sunlight flooding in through the large picture windows.
On the other side of an incongruously threadbare floor rug was a desk.
Behind it sat a man. Shaved head, thin, vulpine features. A wink of something glittering between his slightly parted lips.
There was the faintest movement in the man’s black eyes. The tiniest spark of recognition.
And Venn knew, even before the guy spoke, that this was the man from the alley last night.
Chapter 17
“You should have finished the job last night,” Venn said.
It was his opening line.
The two goons stood to either side of him and slightly back, so that he couldn’t see both of them at the same time with his peripheral vision. It was a standard formation. Professional.
Across the desk, Brull said: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Venn said, “So what’s the story with the boat? The Merry May?”
Brull kept the same neutral gaze. “Once again, what you’ve said means nothing to me.”
Yes, the voice clinched it. It was him, all right.
“Like I say, you should have killed me when you had the chance,” said Venn. “Because now you’ve got a whole new problem in your life. A problem called Joe Venn. And I’m the kind of problem there isn’t a solution to.”
A faint smile twitched at Brull’s lips.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “What’s your name? You told my receptionist you were Robert Smith. Yet you seem to be referring to yourself as, uh, Joe Venn.” He said the last two words as if they tasted foul.
Venn was alert to the two guys on either side of him. He couldn’t see them properly, but he could sense them. And he was ready to react, if he detected a tensing in them, the threat of imminent action.
“Yeah,” said Venn. “I know what you’re doing. You’re taking care with what you say, because you can’t be sure I’m not wearing a wire. Even though your two puppies here frisked me. I might have some new-fangled mike in my shoe. Or embedded under my skin. You’re a cautious guy, Brull. Maybe too cautious. Which is why you didn’t shoot me last night.”
Brull frowned. It was an expression of genuine curiosity. He nodded encouragement for Venn to keep talking.
“So I’m not here to interrogate you, Brull. That’ll come later, and then you will talk. Believe me. No. Right now, I’m here to scare the pants off you. To let you know that whatever you’re cooking, we’re outside the kitchen door. We’re smelling it, already. All we don’t know is the exact ingredients.”
Brull tipped his head back, eyed Venn through narrowed eyes.
“That’s about all I came here to say. You screwed with the wrong cop last night, Brull. If you’d just let me chase your guy, and lose him, or if you’d simply come up from behind me and punched my lights out, then none of this would be happening. But you had to play out that little charade, didn’t you? Getting me to kneel down, execution-style. You had to do it, because your ego demanded it. And that just shows how, despite your cautiousness, despite the notion you have of yourself as this hot-shot up-and-coming king of the underworld, you’re just another cheap little hood. Guys like you come and go all the time. Here today, on a slab tomorrow with your worthless brains blown out the back of your skull.”
Brull had raised his eyebrows by now, and was grinning. The diamond in his tooth winked.
“Gentlemen,” he said, glancing from one of the goons to the other. “Show Mr Venn, or Smith, or whoever he is, the door, will you?”
Beside him, one of the goons jerked his head.
Venn turned his back on Brull and walked toward the door. As he opened it, he felt one of the men’s hand on his shoulder.
He stopped, glanced back.
“Take your hand off me,” he said. “Or I’ll book you for assaulting a police officer.”
He went down the stairs, aware of the two men’s looming presence at his back. In the reception area, he smiled at the woman behind the desk. She stared back impassively.
“Oh,” Venn said, turning. “Almost forgot. My gun.”
One of the goons slapped the Beretta into his palm. Venn checked it. They hadn’t secretly unloaded it.
“Have a nice day,” he said to the room, and stepped out into the steaming, brightly sunlit street.
He headed back in the direction of Estrada’s car, aware that he’d just painted a massive, neon-lit target on his back.
*
A block from the office, Venn heard footsteps approaching rapidly.
He tensed. So they were coming after him now, already.
He turned, his hand going into his jacket, fingers touching the grip of the Beretta.
But the man hurrying toward him across the road wasn’t one of Brull’s thugs.
It was the small, overweight, terrified-looking guy he’d seen coming down the stairs earlier.
> Venn slowed, then stopped. He watched the guy approach. The man was out of breath, and Venn guessed he’d been following at quite a pace in order to keep up with Venn’s long strides.
“Sir,” he gasped. “Sir.”
As he drew near to Venn, he gazed fearfully around him. Venn looked, too. Although there were some fairly rough-looking people on the street, none of them looked like an immediate threat.
Venn faced the guy, leaving the Beretta where it was in its holster. The man was drenched with sweat, and the sour smell of fear radiated off him. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in longer.
“You okay?” said Venn, unnecessarily.
Now that he’d reached Venn, the man looked like the final spark had gone out of him. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, and gulped for air. His shoulders shook.
“Hey,” said Venn. “Come on. Easy, now.”
He stooped a little, to get closer to the man’s face. The guy flinched, as if expecting an attack. Venn spread his hands to show he posed no threat.
“I saw you back there,” Venn said, quietly. “In the office. You looked scared.”
The man’s bleary, bloodshot eyes sought Venn’s, though he seemed to have difficulty focussing.
“So why don’t you tell me what’s going on,” Venn suggested.
The man’s eyes cleared a little, and fixed on Venn’s face. His lips worked, but no sound came.
“What’s your name?” said Venn. Always a good prompt to get people talking.
Instead of answering, the man said, his voice low and harsh: “Are you... are you with him? Brull?”
“No,” Venn said. “I’m very much against him.” He straightened, looked around him again. This would be easier if they were somewhere more private.
Touching the guy’s shoulder, gently, so as not to spook him, Venn said, “Let’s walk. We’ll go slowly. Catch your breath. Talk to me in your own time.”
He waited till he knew the guy was ready to fall in step with him. Then he resumed his strides, though at a slower pace, in the direction of Estrada’s car, a block away.
They’d gone ten paces or so when the man said, more steadily now: “My name is Carlos. Carlos Fuentes.”
“Okay, Carlos. I’m Joe Venn.” The guy sounded like a first-generation Cuban. His English was good and fluent, but his accent was heavy. “What were you doing at Brull’s offices?”
Venn was disturbed by the way the man recoiled, as if Venn’s words had physically stung him. Fuentes stopped for a moment. Venn thought he was going to pass out, and put his hands out to catch him.
But Fuentes waved them away, and continued walking.
He said: “You are police?”
“Kind of,” said Venn. “Well, yeah, I am a police officer. But this isn’t my territory. I’m from New York. It’s just that Brull almost killed me last night, and let’s say I’ve taken a keen interest in him since then.”
Fuentes absorbed this in silence.
Venn prompted: “So that’s me. How about you?”
Fuentes stopped again. This time he really did stagger.
Venn turned and grabbed him by the shoulders. He peered down into his face.
“Carlos, what is it? What’s scaring you like this? Talk to me. Talk to me, and maybe I can help you.”
Fuentes raised his eyes to Venn. This time, there was no terror there. Just utter, howling despair.
“Brull has my Hector,” he whispered. “My son. Just a little boy. Brull has stolen him. And if I do not do what he demands, Brull will torture him, and murder him. My little boy.”
The man’s words were choked off in a strangled gasp. His eyes rolled like an animal’s just before slaughter.
Venn put his arm around the guy’s shoulders, not so much to comfort him as to keep him vertical.
He said: “Come on. Let’s move.”
Chapter 18
Estrada twisted round in her seat and stared at Fuentes as Venn pushed him into the rear and slid in after him.
She said, “Who’s this?”
“Carlos Fuentes,” said Venn. “He’s a friend.”
She looked at Venn. “What went down in there?”
“I met your guy. Brull. He’s the one who I encountered last night, all right. But he didn’t give away a thing.”
“And this guy?”
Venn saw that Fuentes was frightened once again. He cringed away from Estrada’s unflinching gaze.
“Carlos, this is Detective Lieutenant Estrada from the Miami PD,” Venn said.
Fuentes look horrified. “No! No police. I cannot -”
“Relax,” said Venn. “She’s not gonna make this official. She’s off the grid, like me. This is like a personal investigation.”
Fuentes looked from Venn to Estrada and back again, unsure.
Estrada said, “Will you tell me what’s going on?”
Venn motioned gently to Fuentes. “Come on, man. You’re safe here. You can talk to us. Take all the time you need.” He noticed a half-empty bottle of water tucked into the cubbyhole in one of the doors and pulled it out. “Have some of this.”
Fuentes drank greedily, spilling some and choking a little. He handed the bottle back to Venn and wiped his mouth.
Slowly, haltingly at first, he began to tell his story.
He’d first encountered Ernesto Justice Brull eight months earlier. Brull had come into his grocery store one day and bought a few items. He’d seemed like just another guy, a sharp-looking dude with a friendly manner and a desire to chat.
While Fuentes had rung up his purchases, Brull had inquired about the store. Fuentes had told him proudly how he’d set it up on his own, eleven years earlier, shortly after he’d gotten his green card and become an American citizen. He and his wife had toiled, day and night, working two jobs each, barely sleeping, seldom eating a square meal, scrimping and saving every penny they earned in order to invest in the fledgling store.
Fuentes had built it slowly, and in fits and starts. There’d been nights, in the early years, when he’d lain awake soaked in sweat, his fears of bankruptcy and ruin taking on the character of demons in the darkness. But he’d come through, and the business had started turning a healthy profit a little over two years after it had first opened its doors.
Brull had listened with seeming genuine interest. He’d congratulated Fuentes effusively, saying that it was success stories like his that had given Brull the inspiration to set up his own business and keep on soldiering through the hard times.
“He said he was setting up a soccer coaching firm for inner city kids,” Fuentes said, his voice sounding appalled by his naivety.
Brull had let it be known that his business was doing extremely well, and that he had cash to play with. Cash he was starting to loan to other, Cuban-run small firms which might need a little boost. Right at that time, Fuentes had hit a bump in his financial road. He’d had a rocky period after a large chain store had opened up a couple of blocks away in the neighborhood. And he could use a small infusion of capital. Maybe two grand, just to keep the wolf from the door.
Brull offered him one and a half times that.
“I was a fool,” said Fuentes simply. “I said yes. I should have known the interest he was proposing was outrageous. But he seemed a nice guy, and authentic.”
So he’d taken Brull’s three thousand dollars. The repayments had suddenly and unexpectedly increased one month. When Fuentes objected, he found his store’s windows smashed one morning, every last one of them. And a dead cat on the wall, impaled there by a crossbow bolt.
He’d paid up. And realized what a nightmare he’d entered.
Since then, the interest had rocketed. Brull had seemed to take a perverse pleasure in cranking them up, arbitrarily and without warning.
And two weeks ago, Brull had called Fuentes and told him that he no longer thought they could work together, that Carlos had let him down with his unreliability and his attitude, and that he was cal
ling in the loan.
“Four thousand dollars, he wanted. In one lump sum. By this week,” said Fuentes, shuddering. “I requested to meet him yesterday. His men collected me and brought me to his office.”
Fuentes fell silent, the memories overwhelming him.
Venn urged softly: “What then?”
Fuentes raised his head and stared a Venn, as if he were a stranger. “He increased the payment to six grand,” he said dully. “Six thousand dollars. By Monday morning. Two days from now.”
“And...?”
“And, he showed me footage of my son. My only son. Hector.”
“Footage,” said Estrada.
Still looking at Venn, Fuentes said, “My boy was screaming in the clip, Mr Venn. Screaming as if he was frightened out of his wits. A man was holding him from behind, with a - with a knife to his throat.” He broke off, choking back a sob.
“How old’s Hector, Carlos?” said Venn.
“Seven.” The voice was a whisper once more.
Venn thought: son of a bitch.
“You son is missing?” said Estrada. Not harshly, but not exactly sympathetically.
This time Fuentes turned his stare to her. “Yes. I called Helena, my wife, immediately as I left Brull’s office. She was in the store. Hector was, so far as she knew, at school. I called the school. They said he never arrived there that morning, and they were going to call us.” He wiped a hand across his wet eyes and nose. “He walks to school. It is just round the corner. Brull or his men must have snatched him on the way.”
Estrada said, “The clip he showed you. Did you notice any other details? The background? The face of the man holding him?”
“Wait,” said Fuentes, and he fumbled in his pocket. He took out a cell phone and thumbed the keys with shaking hands. “Here.”
He held the phone up so both detectives could see the screen. A jerky video clip was playing. In it, a chubby boy, his face a rictus of terror, was struggling in the grip of a muscular man who had his arm across the boy’s neck. The man’s face was out of the picture, and Venn noted no distinguishing marks on the forearm, no tattoos or scars.
