by Matt Lincoln
“All I have is a last-known address,” he said before rattling off a number and street name. “It’s from two years ago.”
“Thanks,” I said sarcastically. “I’ll try not to mention your name when I get around to interviewing Cobra Jon.”
Captain Laury dropped the notebook in his desk, slammed the drawer shut, and gave a bitter laugh. “And for a moment I thought I should be worried. I doubt you’ll live long enough to drop anyone’s name if you plan to involve him. In fact, I almost feel sorry for you.”
“Yeah? I was going to say the same about you,” I said. “I probably shouldn’t, but I’ll do you the courtesy of warning you now. When I wrap up this investigation, you and that little book of yours are next on my list.”
The captain watched us with glittering eyes as we left his office.
7
The address Laury gave us was in The Grove, about twenty minutes out of downtown Nassau. The neighborhood could be generously described as “not great,” if you were trying to avoid calling it a slum. Like most of Nassau, The Grove was a dense mix of high-end stone showplace homes and close set, brightly painted wooden houses that ranged from cheerful and well-maintained to shabby and falling apart. Around here, there was less stone and more wood, less cheer and more desperation shading into resigned brokenness.
When we found the place, it was about what I expected, little more than a shack with haphazardly boarded windows behind a rotting, graffiti-tagged stockade fence. Clearly, the place hadn’t been occupied in a long time, but that didn’t mean no one had been here. Evidence of a fairly recent party littered the overgrown, postage-stamp of a front yard: crushed beer cans, cigarette butts, a battered canvas shoe with half the sole torn away, the blackened remains of a small campfire.
“Are we even going to bother?” Holm said as we eased the scooters onto the dirt walkway that led to the entrance of the leaning structure. The house had been coral pink once, but weather and neglect had faded it to a dingy pale shade that resembled diseased gums.
I shrugged and dismounted the bike. “We’re here. Might as well look around.”
My partner followed me to the door, both of us with hands on our weapons as I reached out and rapped on the peeling surface.
“Anybody home?” I called out, knowing damned well there wasn’t, though I couldn’t discount the possibility that some junkie or drunk had wandered inside and passed out. There was no response, either in the form of an answering voice or the sounds of scrambling to escape from my unfamiliar, unaccented greeting that the majority of residents in The Grove would recognize as law enforcement.
With one hand still on my gun, I turned the knob and pushed the door open. It wasn’t a surprise to find the place unlocked. The surprise was finding it still semi-furnished and relatively free of clutter, despite evidence that the house had been used as a neighborhood party pad after the previous occupant had abandoned it.
Or maybe Chad Sweeting had been here more recently than we’d been led to believe.
I walked in slowly with Holm right behind me. The front room held a faded green sofa and a small end table, with a stand across from the sofa that had probably held a television at some point. There was a fine layer of dust on everything, but it wasn’t as thick or grimy as it would’ve been if the place had been deserted for two years.
The rest of the rooms were in similar states, everything coated with dust that suggested a few days of absence rather than a few years. In the kitchen were a chair and two tables, a few dishes in the rack next to the sink and a few more in the cabinets. There were some cans and boxes of food, but nothing in the fridge. The bathroom had a shower curtain, soap, shampoo, and a few towels. There were two bedrooms, one small and completely empty, the other slightly larger with a single, hastily made bed, a three-drawer dresser, and a few button-down shirts and linen slacks hanging in the closet.
Since this place was potentially tied to a crime, once we made sure no one was in the building, Holm and I donned gloves and sifted through what little there was to investigate. Other than the strange, half-lived-in state of the house, there wasn’t much of interest, until I started looking through the apparently empty dresser in the larger bedroom and found that the bottom drawer wouldn’t quite close all the way.
I pulled it out as far as it would go. The wood of the frame had warped slightly, and the drawer stuck stubbornly at one corner until I whacked the side with the heel of my hand and dislodged it. I set the drawer aside, reached into the space, and felt something flat and rectangular loose on the floor of the drawer space.
It was a thin book with a faded leather cover. Some kind of ledger, the pages crinkled and a little grimy. I flipped through it briefly and found it half-filled with entries. There were four columns filled out for each line: a date, a set of numbers that didn’t make sense on first pass, a name, and a dollar amount.
“Hey, Robbie,” I called as I walked from the bedroom toward the kitchen, where I could hear him opening cupboards. “Have any luck?”
“Nothing. You?” He turned as I walked in and saw the book in my hands. “Hey, look at that. Something.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, it’s something. I just don’t know what yet.” I flipped the ledger to the furthest page with entries and looked at the last one. “Final date in here is yesterday, when our vic was killed.”
“We don’t know exactly when he was killed yet. Still waiting on the doc, remember?”
“He hadn’t been in that cave long when we got there,” I told him.
Holm frowned. “And you know this, how?”
“Body was too dry,” I said. “He couldn’t have been there more than twelve hours before the witness found him. High tide, remember? That’s why we had to haul ass at the scene.”
He grinned and shook his head. “Okay, yeah, you’re right. I don’t know why I never manage to put this stuff together before you do.”
“What can I say? I must be a genius.” I smirked as I grabbed an evidence bag from my field pack and slipped the ledger inside. “If there’s something in here, Bonnie and Clyde will find it.”
“So we’re headed back?”
“Soon. I’d like to make a quick stop on the way, though.” I took my gloves off, stuffed them in a pocket, and looked out the curtainless kitchen window. “That restaurant Tomaz Sands owns, it’s between here and downtown, isn’t it?”
Holm stared at me. “You want to go to the Royale Verde?”
“Yeah. Why not? I mean, we’re already on the island,” I said. “It’ll save us a trip back later.”
“Fishing,” Holm muttered under his breath. “Nice boat, cold beer, warm sun. That’s all I wanted.”
I clapped his back. “We are going fishing.”
“Not the kind of fishing I had in mind.” He sighed. “Fine. Let’s go, then.”
We headed outside to reclaim the scooters, and I led the way to the restaurant in a marginal section on the outskirts of downtown. The Royale Verde was not a tourist spot, and Tomaz Sands was not a businessman, at least in the traditional sense of the word. He was the leader of the Congo Kings, and though his restaurant did serve food, it was mostly a front for gang activities.
It was just after noon when we pulled into the small, crushed gravel lot in front of the building, painted bright green to go with the restaurant’s name, with white and gold trim. There was only one car in the lot, an understated classic Jaguar that was one of Sands’s signature vehicles, but there was a handful of mopeds near the front of the building and a handful of young men to go with them, lounging on the two picnic tables beside the entrance and watching us with cold sneers.
Neither of us bothered flashing badges as we dismounted the scooters and approached the building. They already knew who we were. Not us, specifically, but their pig senses had to be firing on all cylinders.
There were six of them, ranging in age from teens to mid-twenties, all sporting jeans and tank tops and various head coverings, ball caps and bandanas and do-rags. T
hey got up all at once and ambled over to congregate in front of the entrance, blocking the way with folded arms and menacing stares.
Holm and I stopped about five feet from them, and I addressed the one in front, the oldest and probably most senior. “Looking for the boss. Is he in today?”
The kid’s lip curled, and he gestured with a slight lift of his chin. “We closed.”
“Oh, you work here?” I asked without a hint of sarcasm showing. “What time do you open?”
“Never for you, cochon,” one of the others said. The comment drew a few snickers.
I took a step forward and jerked my head toward the Jaguar in the parking lot. “I know that car belongs to Tomaz Sands,” I said. “That means he’s here, and I need to talk to him. Now, you can move out of the way, or you can be moved. Your choice.”
The leader snorted. “You gonna move me? I’d like to see that.”
“Okay,” I said.
My fist flew and caught him in the jaw. He moved a good three or four feet, from standing to sprawling on his ass in the dirt.
As the rest of them tensed to spring at me, there was a soft click from the direction of the building, and the door to the restaurant swung open slowly.
“Stand down, boys,” a mellow male voice with a breezy accent called from the shadows of the opening. “Sure these gentlemen don’t want more than a talk with me. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” I said as I flexed my hand briefly. “Just a little chat.”
“Please. Come in.”
The kid I’d clocked scrambled to his feet and drew aside with a glare as he rubbed his jaw, and his buddies backed off warily. When we headed for the entrance, I caught the minute flash of sunlight on glass and saw the lens of a security camera above the door, mounted flush with the wall. That was clever. It also meant Sands had seen us arrive and watched to see how we handled his boys before he announced himself.
Holm and I walked inside, and the man who’d invited us in closed the door. Tomaz Sands was tall and lithe, forty-something, with a cap of short, tight curls and thick eyelashes framing clear, amber-brown eyes. He wore a suit without a jacket, the tie loosened and the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled halfway up his arms. He flashed a wide smile that revealed a crooked front tooth and offered a hand. I took his in a strong grip, and then he shook with Holm’s.
“I hear you know my name already,” he said. “And you are?”
I introduced myself and my partner as my gaze darted around the room, taking it in to check for possible threats. The dining area was rustic chic, all wood tables and chairs on a knotted plank floor. Restrooms to the left, bar at the back, and two other doors that probably led to the kitchen and storage. No one else in the room, unless they were ducked down behind the bar.
My hand stayed close to my gun, and I knew without looking that Holm had taken the same stance.
“Agents Marston and Holm,” Sands said. “Did you know the best way to remember someone’s name is to use it frequently in conversation when you meet them? I’m not sure if I am pleased to meet you yet, Agent Marston and Agent Holm.” His mouth continued to smile, but his eyes failed to reflect it as he looked at each of us in turn, and then started for the bar. “Let’s have that talk, then. Would either of you care for a drink?”
“Pass,” I said, sharing a glance with my partner before we walked after him. “We’re on duty.”
“On a Saturday?” Sands shook his head without breaking his stride. “You Americans are all so overworked.”
“Tell me about it,” Holm grumbled. Thankfully, he refrained from bringing up his spoiled fishing trip again.
Sands circled the bar, walked behind it, and started making himself a mixed drink. “I, however, am not on duty,” he said as he grabbed various bottles, poured and blended with practiced flair. “Therefore, I believe I’ll have a drink.”
“Knock yourself out,” I told him and waited until he came to rest behind the bar with an ice-choked glass of some concoction or another in hand. “So, Tomaz, any of your boys been up to the Florida coast lately? Say, two days ago?”
Sands lifted an eyebrow. “Which boys do you mean, Agent Marston?” he asked. “You see, I’m still using your name. Agent Marston. Believe me, I will never forget it.”
There was a threat behind his calm tone that I chose to ignore. “I mean whichever one of them executed one of the Black Mambas on my turf.”
Something darkened his gaze at that. “Tell me why you come to me with this, Agent Marston.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Holm cut in. “Maybe because of the back-of-the-head shot and the gold rope that the victim was hogtied with. We know how you Kings really like your gold.”
“Agent Holm,” Sands said with ever growing calm, the dangerous kind, “it sounds like you are accusing me of murder.”
“You? Never,” I said. “We just think you know something.”
“Yeah, and we’d sure like to hear it,” Holm added.
I nodded along. “Sometime today would be nice. I mean, you can wait for a warrant or call a lawyer or whatever, but that’ll just make you look guilty. I’m sure you know that, Tomaz.” I watched his eyes contract as I spoke. “See what I did there? I used your name. Good tip, by the way.”
“Enough,” Sands barked suddenly, hard enough to rattle the ice in his drink. “I had nothing to do with this.”
“Sure, you didn’t. You’re just a poor, misunderstood rival gang leader.”
Sands shook his head and stared into the distance, his face a stony blank. “You can leave my restaurant now,” he said as he reached an arm out and poured the contents of his glass into a nearby bar sink. “It seems I am on duty today, after all.”
I sensed something in his tone that gave me pause because it bordered on confirming the suspicion I’d had when I first saw the body in the cave.
“Why’s that, Tomaz?” I asked casually as I caught his gaze. “This wouldn’t be an unexpected business matter with Cobra Jon, would it?”
Holm shot me a questioning look, but he didn’t say anything. He’d known something was off about the crime scene, too.
“And if it is?” Sands let out a snort. “You police have no interest in the truth. What does it matter to you? A gang member is killed, another is arrested, regardless of whether he is guilty, and you call that justice.”
I stared hard at him. “It matters to me. I’m not the RBPF here, Tomaz. I’ve got a dead guy with a bullet in his brain, and I want to know who personally fired that bullet. That’s who I plan to arrest. One man… the right man.” I watched his reaction as I added, “Even if he’s not one of yours.”
Sands clenched his jaw briefly and then forced it to relax. “Let me make this clear, Agent Marston,” he said in measured tones. “I may almost believe you, but I do not trust you. Still, you seem like an honest man.”
“Thanks. Does that mean you’re going to tell me something?”
“I suppose it does.” A long sigh eased from his throat. “This is not the first time the Black Mambas have arranged something very similar, and they do it when they have a need to dispose of one of their own.”
My brow went up. “What were they up to the last time this happened?”
“That, Agent Marston, is something you will have to discover yourself.” Sands closed his features off again. “Good day to you, gentlemen.”
That was our cue to leave, and we took it.
8
The medical examiner was just wrapping up the autopsy when Holm and I got back to the office late that afternoon, right around four. She barely glanced at us as we walked into the morgue, probably because she was elbow-deep in the victim’s chest cavity.
Ethel Dumas had been with MBLIS since the agency’s founding almost thirty years ago, and she showed no sign of slowing down even at fifty-five years old. That included work and her personal life. A tall, solid woman with Amazon-like proportions, a thick mane of black hair, and perfect skin and teeth, Ethel wa
s perpetually single and loving it. She liked to say that she’d dated half the men in Miami and the other half just didn’t know what they were missing yet.
She was also physically strong as hell and preferred to work alone, despite the agency’s policy to maintain at least two full-time staff in each department. As directors came and went through the agency, they’d periodically try to hire ME assistants that Ethel would proceed to intimidate into quitting. She’d driven off the latest one just about a week ago. The poor guy was crying when he left the building, and HR had to ship his personal belongings to him since he’d refused to set foot in here ever again.
No one knew what she’d done to him, and she wasn’t telling.
After a minute or so, Ethel extricated herself from the body and crossed the room toward the sink while holding her gloved and bloodied hands up. “You boys need to stop with these weekend murders. Just because they’re criminals doesn’t mean they shouldn’t keep a civilized schedule.”
“See? That’s what I’m talking about,” Holm said. “It’s just plain rude, killing people on a Saturday.”
“Amen to that.” Ethel stripped her soiled gloves off, dropped them in a trash can, and took her time washing her hands. When she finally turned toward us, she was smirking. “Hope you don’t think I’m going to tell you anything you don’t already know.”
“I do think that,” I said. “Actually, I’m counting on it.”
Ethel laughed. “Yeah, you got me. I do have a few things that may interest you, even though most of it’s pretty straightforward.”
I nodded. “Walk me through it.”
“Okay, then.” She started back toward the splayed-open body on the autopsy table, and Holm and I approached to stand on the other side. “You’ve got your standard single-bullet, back of the head kill shot here,” she said as she motioned to the victim’s head. “Your standard beach sand all over the body. That shit gets everywhere, even in places you don’t want me to mention.” She winked. “And your standard rope burns around the wrists. Just another gang-banger popped by a rival gang, right?”
