Staub said, "You are correct, Alex. No one can argue that."
Duarte noticed the colonel's English and accent had improved dramatically. It almost seemed familiar to him somehow. He watched as Staub's dark eyes shifted from him to the stairs, where Félix had left.
***
Pelly sat on a deck chair and watched the line of workers enter one of the big buildings that prepared containers for shipping. He had been down to the French Quarter twice, but Colonel Staub had told him to stay put tonight. He didn't want to risk the FBI, DEA or ATF agents seeing him. It didn't matter to Pelly; those tall, red drinks gave him a horrible hangover.
At least he didn't worry about how he looked tonight.
It was eleven o'clock when his cell phone rang. Colonel Staub said in Spanish, "I'm just outside the port. I don't want a record that I came in. Meet me at the coffee shop just down the street." The phone line went dead.
Pelly nodded to the ship's captain, not that the captain was his boss. That notion was put to rest the day some of Staub's associates took the man's ten-year-old son and cut off his left ear. Once he explained what could happen to one of the captain's three daughters, the man had been cooperative. For five years they had utilized the ship, which had a different name every year. The captain was paid and the ship made more money than most freighters, but it was prudent to keep it looking like a rundown garbage scow.
Whenever the ship was loaded in Colón, Colonel Staub had men supervise it, and there was no problem. So far, the old ship had chugged into the U.S. eleven times. Three times right here in New Orleans, and they had never had a hitch. The loads had been discovered three times, once in the Port of Palm Beach, once in Miami and once in Galveston, but each time the person listed as the shipper had been blamed, and the rusty old tub had sailed on without trouble, changing its name once more.
Pelly nodded to several of the crewmen, too. They didn't know exactly who he was, but they knew he was no sailor.
Pelly used his fast stride to make it to the coffee shop in a matter of minutes. He paused once to look into the window of a jewelry store. There was an emerald necklace that he thought his mother might like. He briefly caught his reflection in the window and, seeing the light reflect his hairy face, turned quickly and moved on. He had been used to the taunts as a child. Monkey Boy was the one that had stuck. Even after all these years, he didn't like to see his face in a mirror.
He walked directly to the small table outside the coffee shop where Colonel Staub sat by himself.
Staub said, "Any problems on the ship?"
"No sir. They plan to leave early tomorrow morning."
"You might have to stay."
Pelly hesitated. He didn't like being away from home and particularly didn't like this big, dirty city. "They haven't discovered that you are also Ortíz, have they?"
"No, but I have a job for you."
"Whatever is needed, boss."
"The ATF agent. You haven't met him."
"The well-built guy with dark, short hair?"
"Yeah, that's him, Duarte."
"I saw him on the ship. What about him?"
"He may be too smart for his own good."
"I could handle him tonight and still make the ship before it leaves."
"No, we have to make it look like an accident."
"Or maybe a botched robbery."
"Perhaps." Staub considered the idea and then said, "That's very good, Pelly. But we have to act fast. He is looking into Gastlin's death."
"No problem, boss. Just give me the details of where he's staying. I can get someone to help here. We have several contacts."
If his boss had decided that this guy Duarte needed to go, then he needed to go.
***
Alice Brainard arrived at the office an hour early and took care of all of her assigned duties. She wanted to have enough time to see about Alex's padlock and arrange to fingerprint the severed finger the DEA was going to deliver. The idea of handling a severed finger didn't faze her personally. She had fingerprinted dead bodies a number of times; this wasn't much different. But though the lock was no big deal, the finger was way outside the lines. Technically, it should be done over at the medical examiner's office, because it was part of a corpse. It made sense, though, that with only one available digit, she should print it instead of some DEA agent who could screw it up. It was also more secure than faxing a print up for identification. It was gross, but smart. She could be fired for doing it in the lab, but she knew her way around and wasn't worried what might happen.
As she considered what she was risking for a guy who hadn't even introduced her to his parents, her intercom buzzed.
A male voice said, "Alice, there's a FedEx guy with a package."
Five minutes later, alone at her station, she carefully opened the package from New Orleans. She pulled out the two crumpled sheets of paper from the box, then carefully removed the lock with a pair of long-nose pliers. She picked up the box and looked for a note or card. Anything. She unfolded the sheets of paper. They were in Spanish and appeared to be some kind of shipping invoice. But no note from her supposed boyfriend.
She sighed. That was just so Alex Duarte.
Dusting the lock was no problem. She immediately had three decent thumbprints. There was a mark or two from the handling of the lock and the shipping, but they were identifiable. Probably AFIS quality. She was hoping the giant database of automated prints might yield a hit.
Before she could even clean up, she had another call. The DEA agent with her special "package" was here. Alice had him escorted back to the lab.
She was surprised how young he looked.
"I'm Carl Spirazza with the DEA. A mutual friend asked me to deliver this to you."
Alice looked him in the eyes. "You know what's in here?"
"I was told."
"And you guys can mail stuff like this?"
"Nope, but I was told you were cool and it was a favor. We all owe Félix for one favor or another." He paused and said, "Besides, Alex Duarte is a hard-ass. If he can find out who did this, he'll do something about it."
"You know Alex?"
"The Rocket? You bet."
She smiled at how her quiet, unassuming boyfriend was known by every cop in the county. She left on her latex gloves and used a razor to slit the corner of the small box. She tipped it up and a small plastic bag, half the size of a sandwich baggie, dropped onto the table with a meaty, sickening sound.
She used thick tweezers to open the baggie and extracted the slightly shriveled finger. There was not much blood in the bag. She held it up and examined it closely. Then she saw something that made her hesitate. She better call Alex.
***
In the little hotel café, Colonel Staub sipped some coffee at a tiny table with Félix Baez and Lina Cirillo. They had said little since all sitting down at about the same time.
The colonel was lost in his own little world. After snapping the girl's neck in the U-Haul the night before, he had felt almost drunk with excitement. His erection had been so intense that he had found two different prostitutes. Neither had satisfied him, and he resisted the urge to kill them. He was not in Panama and couldn't cover his tracks as well here in New Orleans.
He looked up and smiled at Lina, knowing that the FBI agent had no idea about him. They were much too focused on Mr. Ortíz.
Staub believed he could get this idiot American, Ike, to complete the mission, and then he would go back to his life in Panama while the U.S. government spent the next fifty years looking for "Mr. Ortíz."
He smiled because life was good.
***
Alex Duarte stepped out of the hotel lobby to use the curb to stretch his Achilles tendon and calves. It was cooler than Florida, and even though he preferred not to run in traffic, he decided it was early enough that he could make do on the sidewalks of New Orleans. He wasn't ready to leave the city yet. Something about this whole case didn't sit right with him. There was still work to do. Perhaps, with some evidenc
e, they could charge Ortíz with the killing under the relatively new federal kingpin statute. He knew he now had a clear objective. Any army officer with a clear objective had a much better chance of completing his assignment, and Duarte's was to identify Ortíz and have him extradited to the U.S.
He stepped off the curb and used one hand to balance himself against a sign. He let his heels dip and felt his leg muscles stretch and tingle. He intended to run an hour today. It had been a stressful week.
As he stretched, his cell phone, tucked in his shorts pocket, rang. He flipped it open. "Duarte."
In a mock deep voice, he heard Alice say, "Brainard."
He smiled.
She said, "You always sound so serious when you answer. What is that?"
"Four years in the army."
"I guess so. That stuff never leaves you."
"I hope not."
"Well, I was calling to say I got your note tucked in with the padlock."
Duarte thought about it, but couldn't remember sending any kind of note. He remained silent.
"It was a lovely note."
"In with the lock?"
"Yeah, you remember how you said, 'This is so great of you to do that I'm including this thoughtful note of thanks'?"
He had to smile at that. She had him. "I'm sorry. It's just been so busy."
"I'll pretend the shipping invoices were notes in Spanish to me. Oh, wait. Neither you nor I even speak Spanish. The better to keep up the illusion."
She let him hang for a second before she added, "Are you getting a chance to slow down at all?"
"Yeah, a little. I'm gonna run in a few minutes."
"Wow, running in New Orleans, tough job."
"Wish you were with me."
He felt the pause, but knew that for a change he had said the right thing.
Alice said, "That's sweet and, coming from you, almost incredible."
He smiled as he stepped up from the curb, listening to Alice's laugh.
Then she shifted gears. "There's something I need to talk to you about before we have the young DEA man dispose of the finger. And I should at least say he is going to dispose of it illegally because no one can know it was mailed here and was examined outside the M.E.'s office."
"What do we need to discuss? Was it Gastlin?"
"Yes, it matched his prints here."
"Something else?"
"There's blood under the nail of the finger."
"So?"
"So it's probably not his. He scratched his killer, so skin and other evidence is under it."
"Usable evidence?"
"Does the term 'DNA' mean anything to you?"
"Really? You can get DNA from the sample?"
"No guarantees, but probably. The issue is whether it could be used in Panama. They don't have a DNA database. And if they have no clear suspect, it won't matter. We can't enter the sample in our database because of how it was obtained."
Duarte looked up and down the street as he thought about what to do. At the corner, across the street in front of a doughnut shop, he noticed a dark, shaggy young man. He looked directly at Duarte, then seemed to melt behind a wall. Something was familiar about him.
Alice said, "You want me to take the sample?"
"Do you mind? I mean, is it a big deal?"
"Depends on what I get if it is a big deal."
He kept looking at the doughnut shop for the man he had just seen.
Alice said, "I guess I get something really great if it's a big deal."
"Huh?"
Alice said, "What's wrong that you can't talk to me for more than a few minutes without losing interest?"
"I'm sorry, I just saw someone who looked familiar. If you could take the sample, we'll see if we can use it."
"I also have at least one name for you from a print off the padlock."
"Really? Who?"
"He's a longshoreman who lives in Gretna, Louisiana. He has four arrests. Two for theft and two for battery. One of those was on a cop."
"Nice."
"He left his thumbprint on the lock. I don't know when, but he did." She read off his home address.
Duarte ran it through his head and knew he had it stored forever.
They talked a minute more, and Alice said, "Miss me?"
"Yes. Yes, I do."
"When are you coming home?"
"Soon."
They exchanged goodbyes and Duarte flipped the phone closed. He looked back up at the doughnut shop and suddenly realized who the man he had seen looked like: the first mate of the Flame of Panama.
20
IKE HAD NOT DRIVEN FAR FROM NEW ORLEANS YET. HE HAD stayed the night in a Motel 8 right off I-10, near Gonzales, Louisiana. He had spent several hours looking for the right place to dump Faith's body. He was still a little freaked out by how quickly and casually Mr. Ortíz had twisted her neck and killed her. There might not have been blood, but he wouldn't have called it clean and neat. Her bowels had let go and she started to stink almost immediately. He left her curled up in the rear of the truck Then, a few miles east of Lutcher, he pulled behind a Wal-Mart and tossed her over the side of a giant Dumpster. Her body made a thud on the other side that could only have been made by something dead.
Despite all he had been involved in years earlier, he had never seen a dead person up close. He knew from the news and what people had told him that there were corpses because of what he had done, or at least what he knew was going to be done, but it never occurred to him just how unnerving a dead person looked. When Faith's eyes stared at him with no thought behind them and her body flopped around like a beanbag doll, he got a glimpse of death. He thought it might be worse because he had been talking to her and had the feeling she was a nice person. He remembered her smile and the smell of her fancy coffee drink when she leaned in close to him and spoke.
He saw the sign for Lafayette and knew that even though it wasn't even lunchtime yet, he needed a beer. Maybe several. He whipped off the next exit faster than the big rental truck was built to do. He felt it slide a little to one side, then settle as he took it down the ramp to the light. About five blocks off the interstate, he saw a bar and grill sign that said simply BEER AND GOOD FOOD. That was the ticket as far as he was concerned. He pulled the big yellow truck to the side of the building and parked in the far end of the lot. There was a Camaro and two pickup trucks in the lot up next to the white building. He locked up the rental truck and then quick-stepped past the big bay window and through the glass front door. He noticed his hand shake as he shoved open the door.
The five customers, two waitresses and bartender all looked up at him as he headed straight to the bar.
The fat, biker-looking bartender said, "The lunch rush is early today. What'll ya have?"
"What's on draft?"
"Icehouse and Lite."
Ike said, "Two Icehouses and a hamburger."
"You sound like a man with a plan." The bartender drew the beers and then stepped into the kitchen.
Ike sucked down the first beer in two gulps. He grabbed the second one when the young man a few seats down at the bar said, "Rough day already?"
Ike paused and looked over at the man, about twenty-one with light hair and dazzling, green eyes. "Rough night. Today is just recovery."
"Know the feeling."
"I doubt it." Ike noticed the man's eyes still on him. He held off on gulping the next beer and said, "My name is William, but my friends call me Ike."
"I'm Craig, but my friends call me Craig."
Ike smiled at his humor, especially because his eyes shined as he spoke. His clear skin had a rich, moist look to it. He slid over to the stool next to Ike.
"You staying here or just passing though?"
Ike turned on the stool to face the young man. A little older than Ike liked them, but still plenty young enough. "I could be convinced to stay a little while." He was sure he hadn't misinterpreted the man's message, even if he was in western Louisiana.
"That migh
t be arranged," said Craig, as he reached for his own beer and Ike joined him.
***
Alex Duarte had stuck the phone back in his pocket and finished his prerun stretch. He searched for the man he had just seen with the amazing resemblance to the first mate of the Flame of Panama. He had been unnerved by the man's sudden appearance. Had he imagined it?
He shifted his thoughts to Alice and what she was risking to help him on what was probably a futile effort. As he jogged down the street, he pictured her pretty face and infectious smile. He started to trot, allowing his body to warm up slowly. That man…
He made it to the end of the street, where a canal forced him to swing onto the next street and reverse directions. He could see the upper floors of his hotel, so he didn't think he could get lost as he picked up his pace.
When he was just about even with his hotel, a small man stepped out from a parked car so quickly that Duarte bumped into him on the sidewalk.
Duarte slowed to a stop, spun on his right foot, and in three steps was at the man's side, helping him up.
"I'm sorry. I didn't see you."
"Chíngala," He looked at Duarte. "Pendejo."
Duarte used his limited Spanish. "Lo siento."
Then he caught another figure out of the corner of his eye. He turned and saw another Latin man with an automatic pistol pointed at Duarte. Then a third man stepped from the same doorway. That man had a knife. The older, short man he had bumped looked up and smiled at him. "Chulo pendejo."
The man with the gun said something in Spanish.
Duarte shrugged. "You're making a mistake."
"What, you don't speak Spanish?"
"No, I don't like robbers." He had the man closest to him by the arm before the others could react. He heard the gunshot before he saw the flash. At least that's how it seemed.
21
DUARTE DIDN'T PANIC AT THE SOUND OF THE GUNSHOT. HE HAD heard them before, up close and from long range. The problem was that he had seen the muzzle flash and was temporarily blinded. He kept his grip on the man he had grabbed by the arm and then, since he couldn't see, decided it would be best to put him out of action. He twisted the arm until it was elbow up, then Duarte dropped his right forearm across it. He felt the joint crackle and shatter as the man dropped to the ground.
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