by Matt Lincoln
Moments like this were my least favorite part of the job. In a way, dealing with bodies was easier. They spoke in dry voices through forensics and histories. Survivors made things real. Made them personal.
“Luci…” I had to clear my throat. “Luci, I know it’s hard, but if you can remember anything, like a name or certain sounds, it’d help.”
The nurse shook herself. I got the impression this was the first time she heard the entire story as well. She bustled around the bed and toward us.
“She’s had enough. If she remembers anything else, we’ll call you.”
God knew I didn’t want to push, but we had little else to go on.
“Your call, Luci,” I said in a gentle tone. “We can come back when you’re feeling better, but if you can remember anything else right now, we’ll get these bastards sooner.”
“Agent Marston!” The nurse stepped in front of me and pointed to the door. “I will call security and have you removed if you don’t leave.”
I stood and looked over the nurse’s head. So help me, if the monsters who hurt that girl had been in the room with us, I would’ve destroyed them right there.
“We’ll find them, Luci,” I promised.
She looked toward me and shuddered. Yeah, it was time to go. I signaled to Holm, but he was already moving toward the door.
“Espera,” she said. “Wait.”
“I’m still here,” I replied as I paused mid-stride.
“I remember one name, I think.” She tried to sit up a little, but she sank back. “Someone who the men talked about once. He helped them find buyers. They called him ‘Sealy, the Squealy.’”
“Sounds like they didn’t like him,” Holm said. “Did he talk to cops?”
“No.” She closed her eyes. The less bruised corner of her mouth twitched. “They trusted him. It was his voice. They said he squealed like a pig when he got excited.”
Holm blinked slowly. Yeah, that was a new one by me, as well.
I pulled a card from my wallet and handed it to the nurse. She laid it on the bedside table within Luci’s reach.
“You’ve been a big help,” I told the girl. “If you think of anything else, call.”
Luci was already drifting to sleep by the time I stopped at the door for one last look. I suspected the nurse gave her something to help her sleep. I sure hoped so. If I were that kid, I don’t know if I’d ever be able to sleep again.
8
I spun the pink and orange cocktail umbrella back and forth on the bar counter. Mike Birch, owner and proprietor of Mike’s Tropical Tango Hut, set another shot of Jack’s Single-Barrel Black Label in front of me. He held out his hand, and I surrendered the defenseless umbrella and slammed back the shot.
“What’s got a burr up your ass?” Mike asked as I set the empty shot glass on the table.
“Tough case,” I answered with a shake of my head. “There are some shit people in this world.”
Mike took the empty shot glass with a nod. “You looking into those girls they found at the dockyard?”
“Yeah. Flying out tomorrow morning to go after a lead.” I drummed my fingers on the counter. There was nothing to do but wait until we left for Barbados in the morning, and I hated waiting. The tango music didn’t help. “You ever think about a rock-and-roll night? Once a week. Or whenever I’m here.”
“You’re here more than once a week.” Mike laughed. “If you hate tango so much, why come in?”
“I like the bartender despite his poor taste in decor.”
“It works. The spring breakers like the camp, and the regulars feel comfortable. Who am I to change it up?”
“The owner?” I suggested in a wry tone. I felt a grin tug at my lips. “Guess I’ll live. The place keeps decent beer on tap and Black Label on the shelf.”
“Glad you approve.” Mike looked over my shoulder and smiled. “About time. Your partner needs a pick-me-up.”
Holm landed on the stool to my left. By the look on his face, I didn’t sense a pick-me-up was in store.
“Muñoz and Birn are back.” He gave Mike a look. Our bartender friend pulled a tall draft, handed it to Holm, and then moved out of earshot. “They found a few things on the Somewhat There wreck.”
“Besides the fact that it only got somewhat to its destination?”
“They said it was likely boarded,” Holm told me with no trace of humor. “It’s possible their crew was infiltrated, but boarding seems more probable. Muñoz found traces of C4 in an air pocket in the wreckage. They blew the bridge. There wasn’t much left of the crew, but there were indications they were zip-tied.”
“Was there anything tying the boat to a gang or specific operation?”
Holm gave a slight shake of his head. “They were thorough.” He drained his beer. “We have to find that Sealy guy in Bridgetown. He’s our best lead.”
I nodded. “Those plants in the box were rare. We also need to look for collectors and avid gardeners.” At Holm’s smirk, I chuckled. “I’m sure there are no green thumbs in Barbados.”
My phone vibrated with a new text notification. It came from a number I didn’t recognize, but the area code was local.
This is Emily Meyer. My dad said you had questions about Caribbean history and you offered to buy food in exchange. Lunch is fine. LMK
“It’s Meyer’s daughter,” I told Holm. “She wants to meet over lunch.”
“Just you?” Holm waggled his eyebrows.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s a consultation, not a date.”
“You sure about that?”
“I don’t know anything about her other than what her father said.” A frothy, cold beer appeared at my space on the counter. Mike sure knew a man. I nodded with a smile. “Stop trying to make something out of nothing.”
“Text her back,” Holm said. He reached for my still-unlocked phone, but I blocked him. “You want info, and who knows? You might like her.”
“I’m going to meet her for business only,” I told him. I sent her a quick message.
Day after tomorrow, 1300 hours, you choose where.
I hit SEND and slammed my phone on the bar.
“There, you happy?”
That’s when Mike dropped a pair of shot glasses on the floor and pointed behind us.
“Guys, look out!”
Holm and I spun on our stools in time to see a pair of men in masks and gloves bum-rushing through the crowd. Both had handguns out, and they were trying to aim them at us. I tackled Holm as the first bullet flew. We hit the floor as a shower of stuffing exploded out of the cushion where he had been sitting. Grateful for our seats at the end of the bar, I scrambled to my feet and pulled my gun as another bullet pinged off the metal stool to my left.
Patrons screamed and bolted for the front and patio doors.
One of the men aimed at Holm, who was still on the floor trying to get his gun out. Before he could pump my partner full of lead, I squeezed off three rounds, and the son of a bitch went down, screaming and holding his leg. The other looked at the bar, dropped his weapon, and threw his hands in the air. I whirled to look, and hell if Mike didn’t have a shotgun trained on the bastard.
“Damn, Mike!” Holm burst out.
“Standing my ground, and these assholes are on my ground.” Mike gestured at the standing attacker, and the goon had the sense to drop to his knees and put his hands behind his back. “All yours, fellas.” He handed me a few long zip ties he had behind the bar.
“Customers get rowdy sometimes,” he explained. “Nobody screws with my bar.”
A few patrons drifted back in to see what had happened. I had Holm see them out and help Mike shut the place down while I trussed up both perps. There was only so much time before Metro and an ambulance arrived, and I wanted answers.
I kneeled on the first guy’s leg near where the bullet had hit and pulled the mask off of his head. He clenched his jaw to keep from crying out again, but his dark-brown eyes sure did bug out.
“Who the
hell are you?” I growled.
He closed his eyes and shook his head.
“You got lucky,” the other gunman hissed. He had an Islander accent, probably Bajan. “Drop the case, and maybe the boss won’t have you an’ your friends killed.”
“Sirens,” Holm said from the door at the same time I heard them. He came over as I pulled Bug Eye to a standing position. I shoved him over to Holm and then unmasked his partner and forced him to his feet. Both had dark Islander skin and shaved heads.
“Who’s the boss?” I growled.
Mike cough-laughed in the background, which didn’t help.
“Tony Danza,” the goon cracked.
“Think you’re funny, smartass?” I slammed him into a wall. His head hit the corner of a metal-framed flamingo print and left a blood smear on the pineapple wallpaper. I held him with my forearm in his neck. “Who. Is. Your. Boss?”
“Go screw yourself,” he spat.
I slugged him in the stomach. Either he saw it coming, or he had abs of steel because it was like hitting a wall. He laughed, so I hit his forehead with the heel of my palm. His head rocked back onto the cut from the frame.
“Talk,” I ordered.
“Not a chance,” the perp spat out. “Besides, I know my rights. Get me a lawyer.”
“You’re not under arrest yet,” Holm said from behind me. “We’re just having a friendly chat.”
“Lawyer.”
I had a mind to compel him to talk, but before I could, Metro came barreling in, guns drawn. Holm was ready with his ID. I casually released Smartass, and off-balance from his hands being tied behind his back, he stumbled away from the wall.
The bastard left a blood smear on the tropical wallpaper, and I sent Mike an apologetic look. He simply set out a bottle of bleach, a pair of gloves, and a sponge and pointed at me. His shotgun had conveniently vanished back below the counter.
I gave him a nod of understanding, then marched Smartass to where the medics had Bug Eye on a gurney, his pant leg already cut off to attend to his bullet wound. Just my luck, it was the same pair of EMTs who had met us at the docks. Guess we were in the same fire district.
“He’s gonna live,” the older medic informed me. “These guys have something to do with the last time we saw you?”
I shrugged. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”
She nodded and opened a gauze pad. When her quiet partner went to check on Smartass’s oozing head wound, she grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol, soaked the pad with it, and then nonchalantly pressed it against the hole. Hard. Bug Eye grunted, and his eyes bulged again. I smirked and happened to look down at his lower leg.
“Holm, over here.”
I grabbed Bug Eye’s ankle and lifted to show Holm what I’d seen. On the calf was a small tattoo with a flower and trident.
“It’s the same one,” Holm said. He went over to Smartass and the officer who guarded him. “Drop his pants.”
Smartass glowered. “I don’t drop my pants for no man.”
Holm got in his face. “Your boss makes women drop their pants for men, so get the hell over it.” To the Metro cop, he said, “Pull them down.”
The first thing everyone noticed was the Bugs Bunny print on his boxers, which was a hell of a contrast to the full-skin tattooing. There were skulls, pirate images, guns, and more, but there was no sign of a Pride of Barbados with a trident.
“You happy?” Smartass asked as the hapless cop had the enjoyable task of pulling those pants back up. “So what if I like Looney Tunes? I learned opera from that rabbit.”
I frowned. “Lift his shirt.”
“Uh-uh,” he protested, his arms pinned to his sides. “Lawyer.”
“It’s here or at MBLIS’s holding unit,” I told him. “Here is easier. Believe it.”
He glowered but loosened his arms. I pulled the back of his shirt up to his neck. The tattoo was on his shoulder blade. Holm took a picture and sent it to Bonnie and Clyde, along with a photo of Bug Eye’s tat.
I pulled the back of Smartass’s shirt down, and since I couldn’t get too physical, I grabbed his thumb. I gave a sharp tug to hyperextend it and got close to his ear.
“Give me a name now, while these cops are here,” I whispered. “If I have to interview you at my headquarters, I’m gonna get crabby. Very crabby.”
I stepped back and watched the gears turn. Smartass narrowed his eyes, and his jaw muscles clenched. The corner of his mouth turned up into a nasty grin. He met my eye and spat at my face. I balled my fist, but Holm caught me by the elbow.
“Not here, partner.” He let go, and I backed off. “We have bigger issues.”
Holm was right. Detective J.J. Rucker tramped into Mike’s bar with a deeper scowl than he’d worn at the docks scene. He had his phone out and showed me an e-doc sent by the local federal judge.
“Cut ‘em loose.” He glared at our attackers. “I don’t know what kind of crap you got yourself into, but these players have connections. The order came about the same time the shooting happened.”
“What?” I barked.
I scrolled through the document even as my own phone pinged. When I was done, I handed Rucker back his phone, and he put it away.
“They tried to kill us,” Holm groused.
“And shot up my bar!” Mike said from where he was speaking with one of the Metro officers. “Hey, I want to press charges.”
“You and me both, but the official word is they’re free.” Rucker snorted. “Trust me on this, I followed up with my boss, who called his boss. It’s legit unless you’re doubting the word of the chief of police.”
Without another word, he gestured to the officers to cut the zip ties on Smartass and Bug Eye. Their IDs matched the docs. Smartass’s name was Ayato Smith and Bug Eye’s Paul King. Smith grinned as he rubbed his wrists.
“I could press my own charges,” he said. “You injured my mate and busted my head open, but I’m feeling nice today, so I won’t do that.”
“Self defense, asshole,” I told him. “Guess we’re even. For now. Oh, and we get to keep the guns. They’re evidence.”
“Hold it!” Holm yelled at the police. “It was a hack. Don’t let them go!”
Smith made a dash for the door, but there were too many police. Several officers drew on him, and he skidded on a spot where someone had spilled a drink in the chaos. He shook his head with a wry laugh and put his hands up. A police officer cuffed him and sat him in a chair.
“What the hell is going on?” I asked my partner.
“Hang on a sec,” he told me. He went over to Rucker and held out his hand. “Let me see your phone.”
“I’m not a suspect,” Rucker snapped. “My phone isn’t a part of your investigation.”
“It is now, Detective. You got hacked.” Holm’s brow furrowed. “That document you forwarded to us got flagged by Cyber’s email security system. It’s full of bad stuff, including a worm program that tried to infect MBLIS’s network.”
I was torn between being pissed about the hack and relishing Rucker’s outrage. His pockmarked face turned deep red, but he handed the phone over. I handed Holm a plastic evidence bag and then turned to the police who were holding Smith and King.
“You the guys transporting these assholes to MBLIS?” I asked.
“Yes, sir!” A young officer beamed when I spoke. Oh God. “Agent Marston, I heard you were the guys who took down Cobra Jon a few months ago. I know you’ll get your guy this time, too.”
“I hope so, too,” I told him. “Don’t turn your back on your prisoners. These guys are dangerous.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Get outta here,” Rucker growled at the kid. Once the young guy and his training partner left with their prisoners, Rucker shook his head. “Rookies are getting stupider by the year. That one’s lucky he got paired up with an old-timer to watch his ass until he’s on his own.”
“Everyone was a dumb kid at that age,” I reminded him. I gestured toward where Mike was fi
nishing up with his statement. “We’re going to check on our friend over there and then get your phone to our lab. Ping me when you get a new cell.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Rucker said in a mocking tone. He gave a sharp salute with a snarl, the kind that’s anything but respectful. “I’ll be sure to lick your boots next time I see you.”
“Always a pleasure, Detective.” I gave my most charming smile. “Make sure you send our lab your unlock code.” I turned to Holm. “C’mon, Robbie, let’s talk to Mike.”
Holm held the bag that contained Rucker’s phone. “Wonder if there are any pictures he doesn’t want us to look at,” he said.
Rucker growled and stomped away. That man needed a few drinks, but I doubted Mike would be the one to supply them. Our friends were Rucker’s, well, not enemies, but definitely not on his side.
Mike was signing off on his statement when we walked up to the bar.
“My offer stands,” he informed us. “Free mint juleps to anyone who gets shot at.”
“I’ll pass,” I laughed. “I’ll take—”
The building shook, and all the bottles and glasses rattled as an enormous boom exploded somewhere outside.
We ran outside with every other law officer remaining at Mike’s. Flames whooshed upward from an upside-down vehicle two blocks down from the bar. A buzzing sound deepened above the clamor. Out of the night came a helicopter that I thought belonged to Metro. Some of the officers running down the street tried to wave at it, but the pilot ignored them.
The helicopter descended to a nearby rooftop, hovered no more than ten seconds, and then cranked up straight upward. A shadowy figure hung out the side carrying a damned bazooka. They aimed it toward us as the chopper turned away. We all hit the ground, but the figure ducked inside as cops shot at it from down the street. Then, they were gone.
Everyone started yelling at once as a sick feeling came over me. Those asshole gunmen may have failed to kill us, but their boss got the point through loud and clear. He wasn’t afraid of us, and he wanted us to know it.
