Crooked River

by Douglas Preston

  They made their way through the Blind Pass Bridge checkpoint and to the mainland, retracing the route Coldmoon had taken the day before. Fifteen minutes later, Coldmoon turned into the parking lot of the Fort Myers Police Department. The lot was packed with task force vehicles.

  “Tell me more about this Commander Baugh,” said Coldmoon. Pendergast had brought him up to speed on the task force the previous evening, but he’d been careful to refrain from opining or editorializing.

  “You will meet him in a moment and can judge for yourself.”

  Coldmoon caught a note of disdain in his voice. “He’s an asshole, then?”

  “Such a disagreeable expression,” said Pendergast. “I should think that you, with your wide-ranging intellect, might find another word.”

  “How about suckwad? Dripdick? Shitbag?”

  “You’re a veritable cornucopia of colorful expressions.”

  “That’s just English. You should hear my Lakota.”

  “Perhaps another time. Have you ever considered pursuing such a rare talent on the doctoral level?”

  They entered the building into a wash of air conditioning and soon found themselves at the closed door of the commander’s office. Pendergast rapped.

  The door was opened by a lackey in full dress uniform. “Please come in.”

  He stepped aside to reveal the commander, sitting behind a large desk, also in dress uniform, looking crisp and fit, with a face of granite. “Oh, Pendergast, it’s you. So good of you to make an appearance.”

  “My partner, Special Agent Armstrong Coldmoon,” said Pendergast.

  Coldmoon stepped forward but the commander didn’t rise to shake his hand. Instead, he said, “Partner? Glad you finally brought in help.”

  Coldmoon immediately felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He glanced at Pendergast and was surprised to see the mild expression on his face.

  “And this,” said Baugh, “is my chief of staff, Lieutenant Darby.”

  He was a chinless wonder, thin, nervous, and slope-shouldered, with a prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed as he nodded a greeting.

  With this, Baugh indicated for them to sit. Darby took a seat to one side of the commander’s desk. He removed a steno notebook and, pen in hand, prepared to take notes.

  “I expected a report from you already. Two of the six ships in question are currently in territorial waters, right here in the gulf, and I would advise you to get warrants and swoop down on them before they sail back out.”

  “The warrants have been pulled,” said Pendergast, “and Agent Coldmoon and I will be executing them shortly.”

  “Good. Now, there’s another issue I want to talk to you about. What’s this I hear about you hiring some oceanographer without my knowledge?”

  At this, Pendergast went very still. “Where did you hear this?” he asked.

  “Never mind where I heard it. Is it true?”

  “Commander Baugh, are you aware of the concept of compartmentalization?”

  “For Christ’s sake, this isn’t some CIA operation! I’m in charge of this task force. I can’t have the FBI going rogue on me here.”

  Pendergast’s silvery eyes remained for a long time on the commander. “If you’re displeased with the idea of my withholding information, you’ll have to take that up with Assistant Director in Charge Pickett.”

  “Are you telling me to my face you’re withholding information? This is unacceptable. I order you to share your work with the task force.”

  Coldmoon felt his own anger, which had been growing, finally overflow. He half rose. “You don’t get to order the FBI to do a damn thing!”

  He felt Pendergast’s hand on his forearm. “Agent Coldmoon?” he said placidly.

  Coldmoon sat down, fuming.

  “Thank you for controlling your partner,” said the commander, giving Coldmoon a nasty stare.

  This was messed up. Coldmoon wasn’t going to tolerate one more disrespectful comment from this jumped-up jackass in uniform. He was about to say more when he caught Pendergast’s warning glance.

  “Commander Baugh,” Pendergast said, “I will gladly share my conclusions with you when we have drawn them. For the time being, I will continue working in confidence.”

  “I promise you, Pendergast, this lack of cooperation will have consequences.”

  Pendergast rose, his voice still mild. “Thank you, Commander. Now, as you just pointed out, we have warrants to serve—and so we’ll take our leave.”

  As they departed the air-conditioned haven into the sweltering parking lot, Coldmoon turned to Pendergast and exploded in anger. “That bastard! Where does he get off talking to us that way! And you let him!”

  “Agent Coldmoon, there’s a word to describe our response, and that word is strategic. It isn’t strategic at the present time for us to do battle with the commander. Recall that you’re still new to this task force—and its shortcomings.”

  Coldmoon felt some of his anger at the commander shifting over toward Pendergast and his lack of fight. “You can’t let him talk to us like that. We’re FBI, for Chrissakes.”

  “His day of reckoning will come. But first, it’s crucial we get the drift results from Dr. Gladstone—and we must do all we can to keep her name out of the investigation. I can’t imagine how Baugh learned of her involvement.”

  “Why? Is she in any kind of danger?”

  “We are all in danger.”

  “What from?”

  “I don’t know—and that’s what makes it so very dangerous.”

  28

  SMITHBACK SAT IN the driver’s seat of his Subaru, parked beneath a broken streetlight, half a block from the LeeTran bus stop. There was nobody on the street, and the kiosk was empty.

  He glanced at his watch: quarter past ten. Christ, the guy was fifteen minutes late already. But it was the only lead he had, and he would sit here half the night if he had to. Faint sounds came to his ears: an argument in Spanish; boat traffic on the river; and a car horn braying “La cucaracha,” Doppler-shifting as it passed by.

  He wondered, for the thousandth time, who it was that had called him. It was a gruff voice with a Spanish accent. Smithback had lived in south Florida long enough to know there were dozens of variations on a Spanish accent, but he’d never learned to tell them apart. The voice had said to meet at this bus stop at ten in the evening—in a southwestern neighborhood of Fort Myers not far from where he’d had the unpleasant encounter with the guys in the street. He wouldn’t say anything beyond that, except to tell Smithback he had information.

  Information. That could mean anything. Smithback’s beat was Miami; his byline wouldn’t be known around here. And the call had come over his cell phone, which almost certainly meant it was from one of the cards he’d given out. But he hadn’t passed out more than a dozen; most people he’d encountered in the barrio had simply refused to take them.

  Just then, he saw movement on the next block. Instinctively, he crouched in his seat, watching. The shadowy figure crossed the street, coming closer, and quite abruptly Smithback recognized him. It was that old landscaper, the one he’d seen mowing the lawn who had spoken no English. What the hell was going on? Was it coincidence?

  As he watched, the lean man kept coming, walking intently, looking straight ahead, until he reached the kiosk. Then he stopped, glanced around once, and took a seat: arms folded, body rigid.

  Rising from behind the steering wheel, Smithback regarded him carefully. Everything about the man’s body language told the reporter this wasn’t a person waiting for a bus. The old man, like just about everyone else he’d encountered in that neighborhood, had been unwilling to talk, at least in public. And he knew the reason: fear. In recent years, waves of gangs had swept over these streets like plagues, hollowing them out and transforming the neighborhood into a nightmarish shadow of what it had once been, with the drug dealing, shootings, abandoned buildings, and graffiti-covered walls.

  The gardener unfolded his arms lon
g enough to take a puff on his cheroot, and as he did so, Smithback saw his fingers tremble. He was afraid, all right. It was clear the man was taking a big chance to talk to him, and Smithback wasn’t going to expose him to further danger by delaying. He took another look around to make sure the street was still deserted, then started his engine and drove the half block, pulling up in front of the bus stop.

  The man glanced up and their eyes met. For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then the man nodded faintly, dropped his cheroot on the pavement, rose, and got into Smithback’s car, crouching down much as the reporter had done minutes earlier. He did not offer either a greeting or a name. Immediately, Smithback pulled away from the curb and they drove into the night.

  “¿Adónde?” Smithback asked.

  The man waved a hand. “Drive. Circula. Around.”

  So he did speak English—after a fashion, anyway. And Smithback recognized it as the voice he’d heard over the phone.

  He’d conducted enough interviews like this to know brevity was important. “Why are you helping me?” he asked.

  “¿Eres tonto? You crazy? You are the one looking for help. You are the one asking questions everywhere, asking for trouble for people—you and us. If they knew I was talking to you…ya valió madre.” The man shook his head.

  “You say I’m making trouble for myself. Why?”

  “Because you are like pollo scratching for corn in front of the fox’s den. What are you doing, all by yourself? You are reporter, sí? So I tell you story. Not all, but enough. Then you go—go write your story. Maybe it help, maybe not. But you don’t come back. Gira aquí. Turn here.”

  Smithback turned onto a narrow street, crowded on both sides with beat-up trailers and cars in various stages of decrepitude. They passed by small, dimly lit houses. Every now and then Smithback saw the flag of some Central American country hanging from a window.

  “When I move here, there were already gangs,” the man said. “Just like in El Salvador. They sell the drogas, handle the juegos de dinero—numbers, you know?—but they watch the barrio, too. Then the police, they come in, break up gangs, put the leaders in jail. Years pass. Then new gangs, they come in. But these pandillas much worse. Before, the gangs, they lie low, keep to themselves unless messed with. But now, these gangs like wasps, everywhere, sting everyone.” He interlaced his fingers for emphasis. “Organized, muy malas, muy sanguinarias. They care nothing for their own people, nothing for life. To join, you kill. Anybody.” He nodded out the window. “Before, people would sit out at night. There would be music, singing. Now we might as well be among the dead.”

  Smithback had heard similar stories about Miami gangs. “And that tattoo? The one with the P and the N?”

  Quickly, the man crossed himself, muttered something under his breath.

  “Is that the gang you’re referring to? The gang that’s so influential? So bloodthirsty?”

  The man nodded once, said something else under his breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Panteras de la noche,” the man said.

  Panteras de la noche. Night panthers. This was it: the missing link, the answer to the riddle of the tattoo. Smithback tried to contain his excitement. “So: muy mala. But they still deal mostly in drugs, right?”

  “Sí, sí. But before, they were—how you say it?—little fish. Now, one connected family, like I tell you. Big drugs now. The coca leaves, they grow in Colombia, Peru maybe. But the panteras are Guatemalan. They make everything…everything smooth.”

  “Smooth?”

  “Sí, smooth.”

  Smithback thought a moment. “You mean, like middlemen?”

  “¡Sí, intermediarios!” The man gestured in frustration: one cupped hand arcing over the other. “Guatemala best for shipping. Drugs come by airplane, go by boat, caravana, whatever. Guatemala very poor. The panteras, they know the oficiales, the funcionarios. Reclutamiento very easy. Often they are familia.” He gave a harsh laugh.

  The road ended in a T, and at a signal from his passenger Smithback turned right. This street was busier, a boulevard of sorts, with bodegas and small restaurants. For the first time in a while, Smithback saw something resembling a crowd.

  This was gold. This was better than gold. Totally by accident, he’d stumbled upon a resident who was fed up with what had happened to his community—and had the stones to do something about it…even if that something was just talking to a reporter.

  “This gang,” he said. “These panteras de la noche. Where can I find them?”

  The man’s eyes went wide. “¡Pinche estúpido! Have you not heard what I have told you? You can do nothing yourself. You write—write in your newspaper. Write about how the policía do nothing. But first, go home.”

  “I need something more. A name, a place—something. Otherwise, it’s hearsay.”

  The man would not calm down. “I tell you, no! No names!”

  “Look, you need to understand. You’ve been talking to me off the record. We won’t print your name, even if I knew it. But we also can’t print speculation or rumor. I have to have something hard to go on.”

  Despite his anxiety, the man barked a laugh. “Something hard? No names, but…” He thought a moment. “I will show you something. A place where they meet. I show you, then you go. You go. ¿Entiende?”

  “Sí.”

  The man sighed. “Keep going. It is not far.”

  They drove along the boulevard, passing more restaurants and knots of strolling people. The lights were brighter here, the atmosphere noticeably more relaxed. After about three blocks, Smithback felt the man grasp his forearm. “There, on the right. Past Pollo Fresco. You see?”

  Smithback looked ahead. There, beyond a family market and a restaurant with a garish red-and-yellow sign, was a narrow street, a service road for the nearby businesses.

  “Turn in there. Don’t stop. When we pass the entrance, I will tell you. But don’t stop. Drive slowly until we get to the next road, then vamos.”

  Smithback turned in at the indicated spot. It was narrower than he expected, more an alley than a street, and darker. Ahead, he could see dented trash cans and, overhead, laundry drying on clotheslines that stretched from façade to façade. They passed one door, then another, dim gray outlines with no identifying names or numbers.

  “Hey,” he said, “how are you going to be able—”

  Suddenly, a pair of bright headlights swung into the alley ahead of him. Smithback squinted and looked away, blinded. As he did so, he saw another pair of headlights appear in his rearview mirror. A roar of powerful engines, and the twin sets of lights came closer until his Subaru was pinned. He looked over at the landscaper in mute appeal, uncertain what to do, but to his vast surprise the man had already stepped out of the passenger seat. He was standing and talking to a large, tattooed figure…probably the largest and most heavily muscled man Smithback had seen in his life. He watched in a confused daze. It seemed the big man was giving a roll of money to Smithback’s confidential source. The two shook hands or, more precisely, fingers. With a lurching feeling, Smithback realized he’d been set up. Then the landscaper was gone, walking off down the alley, and the huge man came strolling over and leaned in the passenger window, staring at Smithback. The reporter had just enough time to see one ham-sized hand ball into a fist before an impact like a steam piston knocked him back and into a place of unrelieved blackness.

  29

  COLDMOON COULD SEE the cargo ship about a mile off, an ugly, rust-streaked vessel stacked with containers of different colors, looking like a bunch of Legos. He couldn’t believe a ship so overloaded wouldn’t just tip over. As the chopper approached, he spied the name stenciled on the side, barely legible through peeling paint. The ship was at anchor; they had received word it was having engine trouble. No wonder, a shitcan like that.

  “There it is, Agent Coldmoon,” said Pendergast. “The good ship Empire Carrier, Liberian flagged, Ukrainian owned, crew of eighteen.”

  �
��Eighteen? A big ship like that?”

  “These days, apparently, that’s all that’s required.”

  Coldmoon found his annoyance increasing as the ship loomed below. What a fool’s errand this was. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he said, “how the hell are the two of us supposed to search that ship? It must be seven, eight hundred feet long, and most of those containers are inaccessible.”

  “Ah, but you see, we don’t have to search it. Direct your attention to the cleared space at the bow. Do you see that lone container, sitting next to the crane? That’s our target.”

  “Thanks for briefing me,” Coldmoon said sarcastically.

  “Why, Agent Coldmoon, I am briefing you. That container is known in the lingo of the shipping business as a ‘reefer.’ A reefer, contrary to the usage I am sure you’re accustomed to, is a refrigerated container carrying either frozen or chilled cargo. But as you can see, it no longer appears to be connected to power, so whatever is or was in it has spoiled—or disappeared.”

  “Like a bunch of frozen feet?”

  “Possibly.” Pendergast pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and handed them to Coldmoon. “Here are a series of satellite pictures of this same ship, taken five weeks ago, at the approximate time and location the commander’s team thinks the feet were dumped. And as you can see, the ship did indeed dump something—from that very container. You notice, in that first photo, a vessel approaching from the north? It’s a Coast Guard cutter. It appears the Empire Carrier’s crew thought they were about to be boarded and in a panic disposed of the cargo in this particular container. But it was a coincidental meeting. The cutter went on past and it seems they dumped the contents of the container for nothing.”

  Coldmoon began flipping through the pictures with growing amazement. They showed the container being lifted by crane, swung out over the stern, tipped, and a loose blurry load splashing into the ocean. “Holy shit, this is a smoking gun!”

  “Not quite. There are two problems. The first is that whatever was dumped overboard sank immediately. The feet would have floated, encased as they were in buoyant shoes.”