FIFTY-FIVE
Victor Espinosa was on the flight leaving the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport at 7:22 the night of the killings. It would take a couple of days because of the disguise he wore, but the feds would identify him. They were also able to track him to Houston and a connecting flight to Cancun. By the time they did this, they were already too late.
Espinosa was awakened Sunday morning by the sound of the shower coming from the master bedroom. He smiled at the image of Pablo’s naked body in the shower and briefly thought about joining him. Instead, he pulled the king size comforter up to his chin, rolled over to face the bedroom window overlooking the Gulf and closed his eyes.
Fifteen minutes later, wearing nothing but silk, black, boxer briefs, Pablo Quinones strolled into the bedroom vainly brushing back his thick black hair. Before he crossed the threshold to reenter the bedroom he started to speak.
“We need to firm up our…”
At this point, he was now completely in the bedroom and could see Victor, still in bed. Espinosa was sitting up, his back against the bed’s headboard, holding the comforter up under his chin, a look of terror in his eyes. Pablo had stopped dead in his tracks, frozen in fear, looking at the reason why his lover was seated in the position he was with the look on his face that he had.
Seated in one of the room’s matching armchairs against the wall facing the bed, was Pablo’s boss, Javier Torres. He was dressed as he normally was, casually in white linen slacks, a silk, light-blue shirt, loafers and no socks. He had an unlit cigar in his right hand, his left leg loosely crossed over his right. Even in this comfortable posture, the man was the epitome of terror.
“Jefe, welcome. Why are you here?” Pablo managed to croak in Spanish.
Torres put the cigar in his mouth and puffed on it while Carlos Rodriguez, standing on his left, held a cigar lighter for him. On Torres’ right was another ominous looking man, well known by Quinones, Jesus Perez. Perez stood silently, his hands held together in front of himself, staring at Quinones with an indifferent expression.
Torres was holding the cigar in his left hand, puffing away to get it going. As he did this, he used his right hand to point at another chair next to Quinones indicating Pablo should sit down.
“Jesus,” Rodriguez said, “cenicero.”
Perez left the room to find an ashtray for his boss. While he was gone, Torres, satisfied the cigar was lit, finally spoke.
“I heard some disturbing news last night and again this morning. News coming out of Minnesota,” Torres said in Spanish, looking impassively at Quinones.
“The American’s found several of your friend’s colleagues,” he continued referring to the terrified Espinosa, “dead. Apparently murdered. This, of course, is a matter of indifference to me except their FBI raided the offices of CAR Securities and confiscated everything. Apparently, the entire business is now in the hands of the American authorities.” Torres took three or four more puffs on the cigar then a long drag which he deeply inhaled. He exhaled and blew several perfect smoke rings then continued.
“What do you two know about this?”
“This is the first I have heard about it,” Pablo quickly replied.
Torres looked at Espinosa who was barely able to say, “I know nothing about it.”
“I see,” Torres said. He took another drag on the cigar, knocked the ashes off into the ashtray Perez held for him, then placed his left elbow on the arm of the chair. He rested his chin in the palm of his left hand, hit the cigar again, blew out several more smoke rings, then looked back and forth between Espinosa and Quinones.
He looked directly at Espinosa and very calmly asked, “Where is my money, Victor? I seem to be missing two hundred and four million Yankee dollars. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes, yes, I can get it for you. I can access an account where I know there is enough money to repay you, Senor Torres,” a much-relieved Espinosa answered. “I just need a computer, a laptop, with internet access.”
“The house is wired for Wi-Fi,” Torres casually replied. He removed a slip of paper from his shirt pocket, gave it to Rodriguez who took it to Espinosa and handed it to him.
“This is a bank account information. Transfer the money into it,” Torres said.
“I, ah, need some clothes, a robe,” Espinosa managed to say.
Torres pointed at the closet then waved a finger at Espinosa to indicate Rodriguez should get him something to put on. He found a bathrobe and tossed it at Espinosa who quickly scrambled to get up and cover himself.
There was a small table with a chair at it against the window overlooking the Gulf. On the table was a laptop that Espinosa nervously began working with. While Espinosa did this, Torres turned his attention back to his consejero.
“Did you think I did not know about your taste for men and young boys? That you went, how you say, both ways?”
Quinones sat silently looking back at his psychopathic boss. Quinones knew that his time was probably running out. Torres would not tolerate his bisexuality being known by his men. The presence of Rodriguez and Perez guaranteed that. Torres could not stay on top if he showed sufficient weakness to let him live.
“I, ah, I don’t understand,” a panicky Espinosa was saying. “The money should be here. It’s supposed to be here. We had it all set up. I don’t know what happened.”
Espinosa turned around in the chair and looked at Torres. “Um, let me check some other things. Don’t worry, I’ll find it.”
Torres raised his eyebrows then silently held out his left hand, pointing it at the computer. He was indicating to a shattered Espinosa to do whatever was required to find his money.
Ten minutes later, Espinosa slammed his fists down on the laptop and yelled, “I don’t understand! It’s gone! It’s all gone. It’s not where it’s supposed to be.”
Espinosa turned completely around and looked across the bed at his lover and said, “Pablo, I don’t….”
“It doesn’t matter, Victor. It would have made no difference. This crazy pig,” Quinones said referring to Torres, “has his mind made up anyway.”
Pablo Quinones looked at Carlos Rodriguez and said, “Carlos, take your gun and kill the fat pig and I’ll make you a partner. Do it because someday he will do it to you.”
Rodriguez did not respond. He simply continued to stare at Quinones.
Torres puffed on his cigar looking as calm as ever. Inside, a terrified thought flashed through his mind wondering if Rodriguez might actually take Quinones up on it. Instead, he pointed his right index finger at Jesus Perez then flipped it at Quinones. Still holding the ashtray, Perez walked over to the defiant looking former counselor and punched him once as hard as he could. The punch knocked Quinones completely out of the chair and he sprawled on the thick carpeting, out cold.
Jesus was standing on the swim platform attached to the stern of the 36’ Chris Craft cabin cruiser. Carlos was at the wheel and Torres was seated behind him watching their condemned captives. The boat was barely moving so Jesus could ladle shark chum into the calm Gulf waters. They were roughly sixty miles east of Cancun.
Torres was by nature a very cruel, sadistic, twisted man. He reveled almost sexually in making people he perceived as enemies, suffer. Having Carlos and Jesus in attendance, he knew this story would quickly spread among his cartel members. Fear among his underlings was not only a great control mechanism but it was also a powerful aphrodisiac for him. His twisted libido would need satisfying after this which would likely end in the death of a young girl.
Jesus had been tossing bloody chum from a ten-gallon plastic bucket for over a half-hour when he saw the first dorsal fin appear in the water barely ten feet away. The sight of the big fish, a seven-foot Bull shark, caused his heart to skip and made him stumble backwards.
“Jefe,” he nervously said to Torres pointing at the fin.
“Good. More,” Torres said indicating he should toss more chum into the water.
Within fifteen minutes, a very nervous Jesus counted a d
ozen more fins moving through the water in and around the bloody trail. Sitting on the stern gunwale smoking another expensive Cuban, Torres also saw them.
Jesus looked at his boss who told him to throw the plastic bucket into the water. Relieved, Jesus quickly did as ordered, then scrambled back onto the main deck.
Carlos shut down the engines and between him and Jesus, they prepared the two men for their fate. They forced Quinones and Espinosa to stand naked, face-to-face, then wrapped them together with ten feet of barbed wire. The sharp points of the barbs pricked the skin and blood was coming from numerous holes in both men.
They guided the two men onto the swim platform and made them stand there, the sun blazing down, while Torres stared and smiled. Espinosa began to break down and beg for his life which only made the scene more enjoyable for Torres.
“Stop it, my friend. Be brave,” Pablo quietly said to Victor. “He will only enjoy it more.”
The two men placed their foreheads together in a last moment of shared love and compassion. Quinones turned to Torres and said, “You are a disgusting pig. You will die a horrible death then rot in hell.”
“You first, maricón,” Torres smiled.
He nodded to Jesus who stepped down onto the swim platform, whispered, “Sorry,” then pushed them in.
In ten minutes it was over. The three men on the boat never heard the screams. The sharks rushed in, dragged the men down and literally tore them apart. While Torres gleefully watched the feeding frenzy, his two men stood back totally repulsed by the spectacle. Torres clapped his hands together and laughed at the sight of their blood and body parts coming to the surface. Jesus and Carlos looked at each other and silently nodded.
It finally ended and the bloody water calmed. Torres took several more satisfying drags on his cigar, tossed it into the water then spit into it as well.
With his back still turned to the two men, he roughly said, “Jesus, clean this up,” indicating the swim platform.
At that moment he felt the hard steel pressed up against his head behind his left ear.
“Check him, Jesus,” he heard Carlos say. While Torres raised his hands, Jesus quickly, but thoroughly, frisked their insane boss and found no weapons.
Carlos, many years younger and much stronger than Torres was after years of soft living, grabbed Torres shirt collar with his left hand. He half dragged him to the gate leading to the swim platform and pushed him onto it.
Torres turned to face them. “You are both dead men. My soldiers are loyal to me only,” he screamed pounding a fist on his chest.
Right behind him, the dorsal of what looked to be about a twelve foot Great White broke the surface and swam past the back of the boat.
“No, they are not,” Jesus answered him. “They are tired of being afraid all of the time. Tired of you and your lust for blood.”
“That young girl you raped, beat, tortured and murdered last week?” Carlos said.
“What of it? She was nobody,” Torres defiantly said.
“She was my cousin and a beautiful, innocent girl,” Carlos sadly answered him. “You are an animal and it is time. What you made us do today sickens me. I am ashamed to have been a part of it.”
Carlos shot him once in the midsection with the Colt .45 he was holding. The force of the blow sent the sadist staggering backward and into the water. A moment later he bobbed to the surface, screaming, pleading, begging for help, begging for his life.
Jesus went to the steering wheel and controls and moved the boat thirty meters ahead. He shut down the engine and joined Carlos at the stern in time to see the fifteen to twenty shark fins slicing through the water.
FIFTY-SIX
“What do you think this means for Maddy’s case?” Carvelli asked Marc.
It was Sunday morning and Marc was seated at the island in Margaret Tennant’s kitchen. It was a few minutes past 7:00 A.M. and Margaret had just poured each of them their first cup of coffee. While Marc listened to Tony, Margaret ran her fingernails through the white T-shirt he was wearing, scratching his back.
“Oh god, that’s good,” Marc said into the phone while referring to what Margaret was doing. “Oh, yeah, right there, right there. God, that’s great.”
“Did I catch you two in the middle of something?” Tony asked.
Margaret stopped and climbed onto the high chair next to Marc.
“You didn’t have to stop,” Marc said.
“I’ll call back,” Tony said a touch of embarrassment in his voice.
“No, no,” Marc said. “She was scratching my back. We’re in the kitchen.”
“What did he think we were up to?” Margaret asked with a sly, knowing grin.
“Guess,” Marc said to her, which made her chuckle. “You’re up early. What do I think what means for Maddy’s case?”
This piqued Margaret’s curiosity and she silently mouthed the word “what” at Marc. He held up an index finger to her as he listened to his PI friend.
“Haven’t you watched any news or seen this morning’s paper? All the guys at CAR Securities are dead except Espinosa. They can’t find him.”
“What? Seriously? How, what happened?”
“Rask, Corbin Reed and Jordan Kemp all shot dead. Looks like Walter Pascal did it. Then someone shot him with the same gun. Probably Espinosa. Looks like Espinosa and Pascal were working together. We’ll know more today or tomorrow,” Tony replied.
“What the hell…” Marc started to ask.
“I don’t know yet but…”
“What!” Margaret almost yelled.
“Hang on,” Marc told Tony. He removed the phone and quickly told Margaret what Tony had told him.
“Okay, sorry. You were saying,” Marc said into the phone.
“I was saying, Owen Jefferson is in charge of the case and the Feebs are involved somehow,” Tony said.
“What does the FBI have to do with this?” Marc asked.
“Don’t know yet. But I’ve been told they were at Pascal’s house when the cops got there and it was them who busted down his door and found Pascal dead.”
Marc thought about what Carvelli had just told him. It was a little too much to give any kind of response to just yet.
“Let me call you back,” he told Tony.
“Okay. Say ‘hello’ to her Honor and tell her I’m sorry if I interrupted anything.”
“We’re in the kitchen having coffee,” Marc dryly replied.
Marc retrieved the Sunday Tribune from Margaret’s doorstep. The two of them pushed their chairs together and while Marc held the newspaper, they read the story together. It was on the front page, above the fold with screaming headlines. Half-way through the article the reporters reminded their readers that Madeline Rivers’ lawyer, Marc Kadella, tried to implicate CAR Securities and these men in the murder of Robert Judd, a former employee.
When they finished reading, Marc turned to Margaret and asked, “Why would the FBI be interested in Walter Pascal?”
“Because they were investigating CAR and Pascal was their snitch,” Margaret answered him.
“Exactly,” Marc agreed. “Or at least that’s the obvious reason.” He picked up his phone and said, “Give me a few minutes to talk to Tony then we’ll take a quick shower and go out to see Maddy.”
“If we take a shower together it won’t be quick,” Margaret said.
Marc paused for a moment, the phone in his hand and said, “It’s still early and she’s not going anywhere.”
Margaret playfully slapped him on the shoulder as he redialed Tony’s number. Carvelli answered before the first ring finished.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“You think the FBI was investigating CAR and Pascal was their snitch?” Marc asked.
“Gotta be it,” Carvelli agreed. “It could be something else but I can’t think of what that might be.”
“We’re going out to see Maddy in a bit. You want to come along?”
“Sure. I’ll jump in the shower. Call me when
you’re ready to go and I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay. Listen, let’s give Jefferson today to get more information. Then tomorrow morning you call him and see if he’ll meet with you.”
“He’ll tell me it’s an ongoing investigation and he won’t talk to me,” Carvelli said.
“Sure, but then you say that he can watch Gabriella’s show tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be on it giving my take on what’s going on.”
Carvelli laughed and said, “That should cause him some heartburn. I’ll see you in a while.”
Dante Ferraro was seated at his dining room table writing a note to Vivian Donahue. Patiently waiting for him was the man who had brought Ferraro the news he was sending to Vivian, Michael Giunta. When the old man finished, he held up the single sheet of paper and read through it. Satisfied he removed his reading glasses and stood up. He placed his arm through an arm of the younger man and silently walked him to his front door.
“You did good, Michael. Truly excellent. Now do this one more thing for me,” Ferraro said as he handed the letter to the young man.
“Thank you, Don Ferraro. I’m very glad it is helpful to you,” Giunta replied. He bowed took Ferraro’s proffered right hand and respectfully kissed it then went out the door.
Giunta was on his way to the nearest FedEx office. He had brought with him for the Don to see, twenty-six pages of a transcript. It was information obtained from a federal wiretap of a Russian mob boss. Translated from Russian into English, it would be very interesting reading for Vivian and her friends in Minnesota.
Being Sunday, Ferraro’s housekeeper was off for the day. Ferraro took one of the three cigars he allowed himself each day against doctor’s orders and went out on the three-season enclosed porch. Despite the calendar still reading February, the sun was shining and it was quite comfortable on the porch. After lighting the cigar, he dialed his phone and waited for Vivian to answer it.
“Hello, you old devil,” Vivian said to him.
“I have sent something to you by FedEx. If you don’t get it tomorrow, let me know. You should find it to be very interesting reading.”
[Marc Kadella 06.0] Delayed Justice Page 36
