Bolt

by Bryan Cassiday

  On the other hand, what if it referred to a dirty picture that could be used to blackmail Dealey? wondered Brody.

  “Lyndon has something people want, something they’re willing to break into his house for,” he said. “Are you sure he never told you about it?”

  She slid her thighs along his thighs more deliberately as she thought about it.

  “He was talking about a missing suitcase the other day,” she said. “I didn’t pay much attention.”

  A suitcase, decided Brody. The same suitcase the MS-13 gangbanger was talking about during his home invasion of the Fox house? It could contain the secret documents Peltz was searching for. But how would MS-13 know anything about secret government documents, and, more to the point, why would they want to get their hands on them even if they did know?

  “Why was he talking about it?” said Brody.

  “He was cut up about not being able to find it,” said Terri, grinding against his abdomen again.

  He was getting horny then started thinking about his dead wife, the way she—

  “What was in it?” he said. “Did he say?”

  “No. It must’ve been important, though. He was bent out of shape that it was missing,” she said, pressing herself against his crotch.

  “Stop doing that,” he said. “I can’t concentrate.”

  “This is what you paid for,” she said, and sat still on his thighs.

  “I paid for information.”

  She looked up at her image in the mirror, reveling in it. “Do you like me?”

  “Yeah—uh, I mean, no, I’m looking for information.”

  “Well, I’m not the information lady,” she said, and dismounted from his lap. “If you want her, dial 411.”

  She turned away from him so he could ogle her butt. She looked over her shoulder at him, watching him watch her.

  “What was in the suitcase? I need to know,” he said.

  “Clothes. How should I know? What’s usually in suitcases?”

  She opened the closet door, retrieved her robe, and put it on. She turned to him and held out her hand.

  Tip, decided Brody.

  He dug his wallet out of his trouser pocket and handed her a twenty.

  Smiling, she accepted it.

  “What happened to the suitcase?” he said.

  “Your time’s up.”

  “I need to find out—”

  “Don’t stay a stranger,” she said, with a wink, as she left the room.

  Chapter 81

  As Brody was driving toward Brentwood, his iPhone vibrated in his trouser pocket. He pulled over to the side of the road in front of a parking meter to accept the call.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “This is Peltz.”

  “Peltz! You bastard.”

  “What?” said Peltz, bewildered by Brody’s hostile tone. He got down to brass tacks. “We need to talk. Meet me at the same place as before.”

  Peltz hung up.

  The RV at the beach, Brody decided.

  Muttering curses at Peltz, Brody fired his ignition, pulled into traffic, and headed as fast as he could to the beach without risking a speeding ticket. A grimy blue pickup behind him honked at him. Brody didn’t have time for road rage. He was nursing his rage for Peltz.

  His concentration dogged, Brody kept going till he arrived at his destination. As long as it wasn’t a motorcycle approaching him in his driver’s-side mirror, he wouldn’t let any vehicles distract him.

  Spotting Peltz’s RV in a deserted section of the beach’s parking lot, Brody parked three slots away from the five-year-old vehicle. He noticed a tire in the back was low on air, the RV’s rear tilting to one side.

  Purple grey storm clouds streaked with a sickly yellow were lingering in the offing, having made little progress in reaching the shore, but they were darker, more menacing, and hung lower on the horizon like a cluster of ripe Concord grapes about to burst.

  Brody got out of his car and, seething, knocked on Peltz’s door, aching to give him a tongue-lashing.

  His brown tie askew, his black jacket unbuttoned, his hair tousled, his glasses askew on his nose, Peltz opened the door, looked around to make sure nobody was watching, and let Brody into the RV.

  Brody climbed the aluminum steps into the vehicle, shutting the door behind him.

  “Deirdre almost got raped and killed because of you, you bastard,” said Brody.

  “Me? What are you talking about?” said Peltz, straightening his glasses on his face.

  “The agents you posted around her house did squat to prevent the attacker from invading her house and terrorizing her.”

  “They must not have seen the guy. Or . . . ,” he said, without completing his thought.

  “Or what?”

  “Never mind.”

  “I got a bone to pick with you. The feds say you don’t work for them anymore.”

  “What feds are you talking about?” said Peltz in surprise.

  “I called the LA branch of the FBI. Special-Agent-in-Charge Thomason said they fired you a long time ago. You don’t work there anymore.”

  “You’re out of line. You’re violating the NDA you signed.”

  “What?” said Brody, floored. “Thomason is an FBI agent. How is that a violation?”

  “Your only contact with the Bureau is through me. Didn’t you read the NDA you signed?”

  “I guess I didn’t read the fine print.” Brody became angry again. “I never wanted to sign that damn thing in the first place.”

  “The fact of the matter is, you did. To violate it is to violate the Espionage Act. You want to go to jail?”

  Peltz had Brody by the short hairs, and Brody didn’t relish the sensation. He could feel drops of icy sweat sliding out of his armpits and down his flanks.

  “It doesn’t alter the fact that Thomason said the FBI fired you,” he said, calling out Peltz’s lie. “He says you’re not an FBI agent.”

  Peltz shook it off without concern. “That’s my cover story. I’m under deep cover. They’re not gonna acknowledge I work there anymore. My mission is off the books. Strictly need to know. Only a handful of people are in the loop. And Thomason’s not one of them.”

  Brody didn’t know whether to believe him. But why would the guy lie about it? Why would he go to the trouble of concocting a story about a phony mission and making Brody sign an NDA to boot?

  “That doesn’t explain why your men didn’t take down the intruder in Deirdre’s house,” said Brody.

  “I can’t explain that. Maybe the intruder has covert training and was able to sneak past them.”

  “MS-13 has covert training?”

  “He was MS-13?”

  “That’s right.”

  “They don’t have covert training, but they’re professional robbers,” said Peltz, his demeanor unflappable.

  “How come I couldn’t contact you? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours,” said Brody, chafed at Peltz.

  “I had to maintain radio silence. I believe the cabal entrenched in the FBI may be onto me. In which case, they’re gonna try to take me out.” Peltz paused in thought. “Thomason may in fact be one of them. They could have moles everywhere.”

  “Can’t you even answer your phone?” demanded Brody.

  “The NSA can eavesdrop on any phone call in the world. Even mine. The FBI is in constant contact with them, getting updates. If the cabal is onto me—and I suspect they are—the Bureau will be combing all phone calls trying to find out where I’m hiding.”

  “What are you hiding from?”

  “The cabal.”

  “Then why did you break radio silence and call me just now?”

  “I had to find out if you found the documents Lyndon Fox has so I can take them to the president.”

  “I haven’t. I’m getting the impression somebody stole them from him. I don’t think he knows where they are. From what I’ve found out, I believe they’re in a suitcase that’s gone missing.”

  Peltz
hammered the air with the bottom of his fist in anger. “We need to get our hands on those documents. It’s the only way we can expose the cabal and their conspiracy with Dealey to overthrow the president.”

  “Do you know what’s in the documents?”

  “No. But I know they’re vital to the conspiracy. That’s why Fox is so upset about losing them.”

  “Could they include a compromising photo?”

  “Possible,” said Peltz, his interest piqued. “Have you found such a photo?”

  “No.”

  Peltz shook his head. “I’m not interested in hypotheticals. I need those docs.”

  “Who the hell could have them?”

  “That’s what you need to find out,” said Peltz, his eyes blazing as he put his hands on Brody’s shoulders and stared into Brody’s eyes. “And report back to me as soon as you find out.”

  “All right. But remember to tell your agents to keep their eyes alert for intruders at the Foxes’ house—or somebody’s gonna get hurt.”

  “Don’t tell me my job. Are you with me?”

  Brody didn’t answer right away.

  “Remember, you signed the NDA,” said Peltz.

  Brody didn’t appreciate Peltz’s threat.

  A gust of wind off the ocean rocked the RV from side to side.

  “How can you sleep in this thing?” said Brody, bracing himself against the wall to avoid falling.

  “Who said anything about sleeping?”

  Brody realized Peltz’s eyes were bloodshot.

  “Are you with me?” repeated Peltz.

  “Yeah. But answer your phone next time when I call you.”

  “I can’t guarantee it. If the cabal traces me, I’m dead. I may be the only one that knows their plans and can hurt them. If they get to me, who’s gonna stop them?”

  “What about me?”

  “You don’t know any of the cabal members’ names. I believe I do. I can destroy their conspiracy at one fell swoop—with your help. I need proof.”

  “Give me their names, in case anything happens to you.”

  “Nothing’s gonna stop me from taking down Dealey and his cabal,” said Peltz, his mind fixated on his goal.

  “I’ll do what I can to help you.”

  “If we talk over the phone again, keep our conversations short. Brief conversations are harder to trace.”

  “If?”

  “When we talk over the phone again.”

  “That’s better,” said Brody, opening the door in the wind. “I don’t want you hanging me out to dry.”

  Peltz slammed the door shut behind him.

  Brody clambered down the aluminum steps of the RV toward his Mini, fighting the furious wind that shoved him back like outthrust hands.

  Chapter 82

  Gaetano was lying back on a chaise longue on his hacienda’s cement pool deck in chinos and a short-sleeve linen mocha guayabera shirt, its top three buttons undone, watching the turquoise water shimmer beyond the toe caps of his glossy black and white python cowboy boots when his satphone vibrated in his trouser pocket. He took the call.

  “Do you have it?” he said.

  “Not yet, patrón,” said Jorge.

  “Then why are you calling me?”

  “I’m not sure we can trust MS-13.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing . . . yet. But what if they decide to double-cross me?”

  “Do. Not. Let. That. Happen. Do you hear me?”

  “Can you send more men?”

  “I’ll send Pepsi and two others.”

  “Muchas gracias, patrón.”

  Gaetano glanced at his 18-karat gold Rolex Submariner wristwatch and terminated the call. He didn’t want the call traced by the DEA, the FBI, the NSA, the DHS, or whoever else the gringos had spying on him. He tried to keep all of his calls under one minute in length in the interest of security.

  A glass of tequila in one hand, a burning cigarette in the other, Arturo angled across the deck toward Gaetano. “Who was that, patrón?”

  “Jorge.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He thinks MS-13 might double-cross him. I’m sending Pepsi and two others to help him.”

  “Does MS-13 know what we’re looking for?”

  “They know it’s in a suitcase, is all. Jorge knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Why did he tell them anything in the first place?”

  “There’s some rent-a-cop helping the target. Jorge wanted help, and he knows MS-13 hates the Sinaloa cartel and the Zetas as much as we do.”

  Under a bank of curdled snow-white clouds Gaetano saw something on the hill at the perimeter of his backyard and sat up straight on his chaise, planting his boots on the deck and squinting to get a better look at the distant, indistinct object.

  “Do you see something hanging from that tree in the distance?” he said, nodding at the tree in question.

  Arturo followed the direction of Gaetano’s gaze. “It’s hard to tell. Probably a broken branch hanging there.”

  “I don’t know,” said Gaetano, getting to his feet. “It doesn’t look right. Let’s get the dirt bikes and take a closer look.”

  Leaning down, Arturo set his tequila on a small round white metal grillwork table near Gaetano’s chaise longue and followed Gaetano, who was clomping across the deck in his boots toward the dirt bikes parked in a shed on the grassy knoll the best part of fifty feet from the pool.

  They drove their dirt bikes to the winding trail that led to the ridge of the hill, Gaetano in the lead. The border of his property extended over a mile away. The racketing bikes kicked up dirt behind them mixed with puffs of exhaust smoke spewed from their tailpipes.

  Gaetano reached the wooded crest of the hill he had espied from his pool and throttled down his dirt bike that was sputtering and vibrating between his legs. He could make out what he had spotted from poolside hanging from one of the branches of an oak tree. It wasn’t a broken limb.

  He brought his dirt bike to a halt near the man hanging motionless by his neck from the oak bough, a knife protruding from his rib cage, a trail of coagulated blood marring his shirt along his flank. A dented Pepsi-Cola can lay at the man’s feet. A sign pinned to his shirt had the words Death to CJNG scrawled in blood on it.

  His eyes locked in a thousand-yard stare, he had several flies gyring around his tongue that was sticking out of his mouth. More flies had already landed on his tongue and were crawling around on it either licking any saliva that remained or laying their eggs on it.

  “Pepsi won’t be going to Los Angeles,” said Gaetano, stone-faced.

  “Sinaloa cartel scumbags.”

  “Those fucking bastards are gonna pay for this, Arturo,” said Gaetano. Clenching his teeth he pounded his dirt bike’s handle with his fist. “Nobody does this to me. Nobody! The cocksuckers. I’ll fucking kill ’em.”

  “They think they can scare us away?”

  “They don’t know who they’re dealing with. Never give an inch. We’re not gonna let them horn in on our business. There’s room for only one cartel in Mexico. Only one in the world. Us. CJNG. We’re the T. rex of the cartels,” said Gaetano, pumping his fist.

  “T. rex!”

  Worked up, Gaetano booted down his kickstand and dismounted his dirt bike. His gaze intent, he paced back and forth in front of Pepsi’s dangling corpse.

  “I was born in poverty,” he said. “I was a million to one shot to get out of the gutter. Fine with me. Did that stop me? No way. I clawed my way out over dead bodies to the top of the heap. And they think this can stop me?” He gestured to Pepsi’s corpse. “They’re idiots. I beat the odds. I beat everybody else in this business, and I’ll beat the Sinaloa cartel. And when the smoke clears we’ll be the only ones left standing.”

  “T. rex is right.”

  Gaetano halted and faced Arturo. “Expansion is the key, Arturo. We gotta keep expanding. If somebody gets in our way, we crush ’em,” said Gaetano, lifting his boot and sto
mping the empty Pepsi-Cola can into the ground with his inch-high heels.

  His satphone vibrated in his trouser pocket. Glancing at the caller ID he took the call and listened, his face becoming glum.

  Arturo eyed him, disconcerted.

  “Thank you,” said Gaetano. “I’ll make arrangements.”

  He put away his satphone, feeling lightheaded.

  “What is it, patrón?” said Arturo.

  “That was the hospital. My mother has died.”

  “I didn’t know she was feeling bad.”

  “She had pancreatic cancer. It metastasized . . . The doctors couldn’t save her.”

  “Oh no.”

  Gaetano stared at the ground, alone with his thoughts.

  Chapter 83

  Brody and Deirdre were sitting on the sofa in Deirdre’s living room. Deirdre was wearing an orange jersey dress, her legs crossed, a glass of pinot grigio in her hand. Brody was drinking a glass of water.

  “You sure all you want is water?” said Deirdre.

  “I’m fine,” said Brody. “Do you know anything about that suitcase the MS-13 gangbanger was looking for?”

  “I think it’s the one Lyndon misplaced.”

  “Misplaced?”

  “He can’t find it. He thought I took it. I didn’t touch it.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What was in it?”

  “He muttered something about business papers. I don’t know.”

  “Business papers?” said Brody, leaning toward her. “What kind of business papers?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Where are these business papers?”

  Baffled, Deirdre shook her head.

  “Where did the suitcase go?” said Brody.

  “Nobody knows.”

  “Suitcases don’t just up and disappear.”

  Brody heard the front door open.

  Lyndon appeared in the living room and registered surprise at seeing Brody there.