Carmen was wearing a white shift over her bikini as she relaxed on her back on a chaise longue, her arm dangling at her side.
“How do you like your birthday party?” said Gaetano, clad in a peach linen guayabera shirt and khaki Bermuda shorts, nursing a tequila.
“Thank you so much, dear,” she said, and kissed him on the lips. “It’s a beautiful night,” she added, luxuriating in the balmy air.
“Our guests are having a good time,” he said, smiling at the women lazing in the pool.
A grinning swarthy twentysomething guy in navy blue bathing trunks standing near the pool, dripping wet, shied a particolored beach ball at the girl riding the unicorn in the water. She batted the ball back at him and all but fell off the unicorn, splashing and screaming in her gay attempts to stay mounted.
Gaetano felt his satphone vibrate in the pocket of his Bermudas. He plucked out the satphone, inspected the caller ID, and, recognizing the number of a business associate, excused himself, and retreated to an isolated area of the terra-cotta and cement patio.
He took the call.
“This is Tony,” said the caller.
“Hello, Tony. How are you?”
It was the boss of the ’Ndrangheta, Gaetano realized. He had been expecting a call from them. His heartbeat accelerated in anticipation of a difficult conversation.
“I’m not happy, Gaetano. I still don’t have my shipment.”
“We’re in the process of getting it in California.”
“I sent a man there to help get it.”
“Fine. But I doubt we’ll need help.”
Gaetano didn’t want to lose the business of the ’Ndrangheta in Italy. He was expanding his empire overseas. The ’Ndrangheta would be the perfect partners because they controlled most of the drug smuggling in Europe and they were always in need of cocaine. Europeans would sell their souls for cocaine. Everything was going fine with their business arrangement until that asshole American stole the shipment bound for Calabria. The arrangement, which Gaetano had worked so hard to bring about, might come to grief any minute as a result.
“If everything doesn’t go OK, I’m gonna have to switch suppliers and bargain with the Sinaloa cartel,” said Tony. “I need a supplier I can count on.”
Gaetano felt himself getting hot under the collar. “The shipment will be yours soon.”
“Or I could cut a deal with the Zetas.”
“Their stuff is laced with lidocaine and lactose. We have the purest product on the market. Zero zero zero.”
“That’s not what they say.”
Which meant Tony had been talking to the Zetas and perhaps the Sinaloa cartel, decided Gaetano. Not good. He didn’t want to lose his pipeline to the multibillion-dollar European narco market via the ’Ndrangheta.
“The Zetas lie about everything,” said Gaetano. “They cut their product with baby powder, talcum powder, Ajax, and all sorts of crap. You’re getting Chalk, the lowest quality coke. You’re lucky to get 30 percent blow. More like 10 percent.”
“They guarantee delivery.”
“So do we. The American stole your shipment, but he won’t get away with it. I assure you.”
“The Zetas talk a good game.”
“And that’s all it is. Talk.”
Gaetano was sweating. He didn’t want to lose this promising new business partner. All because of the fucking gringo. This was Gaetano’s first shipment to the ’Ndrangheta, and he had done everything he could to make sure it went down without a hitch. Then the Californian gringo had gone and fucked it up. Gaetano clenched his teeth, obsessed with the gringo. The bastard would pay for all the trouble he was causing the Jalisco New Generation cartel. They would torture and kill the cabrón.
They had cut off the gringo’s dog’s head, his bodyguard Rakowski’s head, and next it would be his own head lopped off and handed to him on a platter. Maybe then he would get the message.
“If my man doesn’t have the shipment in his hands by tomorrow, you can kiss our arrangement good-bye,” said Tony.
“This is the beginning of a beautiful and lucrative arrangement between us.”
“You better not be selling me a bill of goods.”
Tony terminated the call.
Putting away his satphone Gaetano cursed, as screams of merriment emanated from the pool.
Fuck. And fuck.
An explosion ripped through the backyard.
Startled, Gaetano hurtled to the pool to find out what was happening.
Party guests were screaming and scrambling out of the pool in dread of an attack. A half dozen of his men, including Arturo, armed with .45 ACP MAC-10s at the ready were sprinting across the yard toward the motorbike garage, which had burst into flames, smoke pluming into the night sky. Gripping his machine pistol Arturo was still smoking a cigarette as he sprinted in his python cowboy boots to the inferno.
“Qué pasó?” hollered Gaetano.
“Zetas threw a hand grenade at the garage, patrón,” cried Arturo, the cigarette wedged in the corner of his mouth waving up and down.
“Don’t let them escape,” said Gaetano.
Racketing automatic gunfire erupted, as his men opened fire on a silhouette skulking around the burning garage. The silhouette crumpled.
“Kill every last one of them,” ordered Gaetano, outraged they would dare attack his home. First the church he attended, now his hacienda. Where did it end? “Fucking Zetas. They have no decency.”
Chapter 103
Brody pulled into Deirdre’s driveway as sheet lightning flashed overhead. He didn’t see anything untoward. But the downpour and the all-pervading darkness obscured his vision.
He slid out of his Mini and hunched his shoulders in the cold rain. He stepped onto the wet lawn, his shoes squelching in the mud.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a shadow stealing toward him. He reached for his SIG P365 in his shoulder rig.
Another flash of sheet lightning.
“Brody?” said the figure.
Brody could make out a hooded guy in a rain-soaked camo poncho approaching him. It looked like Victor through the screen of rain, but Brody wasn’t ready to bet his life on it. Brody trained his SIG on the dripping, ominous figure.
“Tell me it’s you, Brody, or we got a problem,” said the figure, hoisting an MP5 and training it on Brody.
“It’s me,” said Brody. “That you, Victor?”
“Yeah. I wasn’t sure it was you in the rain when I saw that piece you were pointing at me,” said Victor, lowering his machine pistol.
“Did anyone follow me here?” said Brody, glancing over his shoulder.
“I didn’t see anyone.”
Brody squelched across the damp ground closer to Victor till he could make out Victor’s rain-streaked face. Victor was hard to see thanks to his camo pants and poncho. His hood helped obscure his rain-streaked face. He blew water away from his wet lips.
“How’s everything here?” said Brody, surveying the property as best he could in the rainy gloom.
“No disturbances.”
“Why didn’t you answer your cell when I called you earlier?”
“I didn’t get a call.”
Brody thought about it. “Maybe the electricity in the air is screwing up commo.”
“Why did you call me?”
“I was checking in. I have a gut feeling our foe will attack tonight.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I found one of Lyndon’s clients murdered in a skin joint.”
“You think it’s the same guy that’s harassing Lyndon?”
“Yeah. You got enough ammo?”
“I got three magazines in my cargo pockets. We need anymore, I got a dozen spare magazines and a hundred-round Beta C-Mag drum magazine stuffed inside my backpack that I left in the Foxes’ house if we need it.”
“Good.”
“If it’s a party they want, we can oblige ’em.”
“Best to be prepared.”
<
br /> “How many of these bogeys can we expect?”
“More than one, I’d say. We got MS-13 and we got this Hollywood actress murderer that I know of. Somebody else might’ve beheaded Busby. A slew of players want this suitcase.”
“What’s in it?”
Since he had signed the FBI’s NDA for Peltz, Brody couldn’t tell Victor about the secret documents that the suitcase contained.
“I don’t know,” said Brody.
“Are these guys in cahoots?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Which makes matters worse.”
“Keep your eyes peeled. I’m going inside.”
“You look like shit.”
“That’s the pot calling the kettle black,” said Brody, hunching in the steady rain and eying Victor’s drenched clothing.
Victor disappeared into the shadows like a wraith.
Brody made for the house.
Chapter 104
Rain was spilling over the eaves and sloshing on the stoop’s terrazzo floor as Brody reached the front door and rang the doorbell. Hammered by the rain, the bougainvillea blooms on the pergola drooped and shed petals on the terrazzo.
Warily, Deirdre cracked the door and peeked out.
“It’s me,” said Brody, rain dripping from his hair and face. “I’m back.”
With his hand he brushed rain off his hair.
She opened the door and let him in. “Wait here. I’ll get you a towel.”
He made to close the door behind him. Without a second thought he peered outside into the rain for any sign of strangers. Satisfied no one was skulking behind the trees, he closed the door.
Deirdre returned with a bath towel and handed it to him.
He wiped his hair, face, and neck.
“You know the actress that accused your husband of rape?” said Brody, keeping his voice low, remarking that Lyndon was nowhere in sight.
“What about her?” said Deirdre.
“She’s dead.”
“What?” she said in surprise.
“Somebody killed her in Hollywood.”
“How awful.” She paused in thought. “You don’t think Lyndon had anything to do with it, do you?”
“To shut her up, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“He was here when she was murdered.”
“Maybe he hired someone to do it for him.”
“I didn’t give Lyndon her name when I told him about the rape charge. How would he know it was the murder victim that had accused him?”
“Maybe he figured it out somehow.”
Brody shrugged, wiping more rain off his head. “It’s possible.”
“And he might’ve had Sam Rakowski killed in Cabo.”
Brody nodded yes, but wasn’t convinced. “In any case, I think we should believe she was telling the truth about Lyndon’s raping her.”
Deirdre turned away from him. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”
“I believe her.”
She faced him. “You haven’t given me any proof. I need proof. This is a strong accusation. I’m doing my best to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“That’s what I don’t understand. Why? Why do you have to go out of your way to give him the benefit of the doubt? Is it because you don’t want to accept the idea he’s been making a fool out of you? Is it because it’s an insult to your vanity?”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself for his cheating on you.”
“I don’t know that he is cheating on me. You haven’t given me any proof. I hired you to get proof.”
“Maybe you should confront him about the rape accusation.”
She looked blank. “I don’t want to put any more strain on our marriage. If this actress was lying . . . ,” she said, her voice trailing off.
“We’ll never know now, because she’s dead,” he said, his tone suffused with melancholy at the memory of Terri dying in his arms.
“Then you need to get proof.” Deirdre paused. “If Lyndon really did rape this actress, why didn’t she fire him and tell the cops?”
“She didn’t want to destroy her career by reporting him. If she fired him, it would’ve torpedoed her acting career.”
“She could have gotten another talent manager.”
“She said they’re not easy to get, and if she’d reported him to the cops, she would’ve gotten the reputation of being a troublemaker. No manager would touch her with a ten-foot pole. Lyndon knows all about PR and how it works, how it can make and break careers overnight.”
“That’s his business. But this actress could have been lying to get attention.”
“Whose attention? As far as I know, the only attention she got was mine.”
“Then she wanted your attention.”
Brody didn’t want to belabor the issue, and he didn’t want to dwell on hapless Terri bleeding to death in a deserted alley in the back of a strip joint. There was nothing he could do to save Terri now. There was a more burning issue to deal with. One that could lead to murder. One that wasn’t beyond salvation.
Chapter 105
“Did you find the suitcase?” said Brody, the damp towel in his hands.
“We think Valerie’s boyfriend Nick has it,” said Deirdre.
Brody didn’t see the logic. “Why would he have it?”
“Because Valerie can’t find it, and he’s the only one other than her that knew where it was hidden.”
“Valerie had the suitcase?”
“Yep.”
“Why did she take it?”
“She found out what was inside it.”
Secret documents? wondered Brody. “Why would she want what was inside?”
“She tried it and liked it.”
Brody couldn’t get his head around it. How did you try secret documents? he wondered. Maybe the suitcase she had wasn’t the one the terrorists wanted.
“Are you sure it’s the right suitcase?” he said.
“Positive.”
Maybe there were multiple items in the suitcase, decided Brody.
“Why would Nick want the suitcase?” he said.
“Lyndon thinks it’s because Nick wants to sell the contents.”
“He knows someone that would want them?” said Brody, puzzled. How would Nick know someone that wanted secret government papers? he wondered.
“Apparently.”
“That’s odd.”
“Why?”
“He would have to know somebody in the government who would be interested in buying them.”
Deirdre screwed up her face. “To sell drugs to? Almost everybody is taking some kind of drug nowadays, not just politicians. Wake up and smell the coffee.”
“I’m not following.”
“Finding a buyer of cocaine wouldn’t be difficult around here. It’s a popular drug in these parts, especially among the young. And I’m sure Nick knows a lot of his peers who would be interested in buying the drug.”
“Cocaine was in the suitcase?”
“What did you think we were talking about? Oh, you weren’t here for the big reveal.”
“Explain.”
“Lyndon told us what was in the suitcase. Ten keys of cocaine.”
“He was smuggling blow?”
“He said his suitcase was switched with the one he took to Cabo. He ended up bringing the wrong suitcase back home with him.”
Maybe the secret documents were stashed inside the suitcase with the blow, decided Brody. If coke really was inside the suitcase, it would explain why MS-13 gangbangers would be interested.
“So, where’s Nick?” he said.
“Nobody knows. He didn’t answer his phone.”
“Has anyone actually seen the coke?”
“Lyndon and Valerie have.”
“Was there anything else in the suitcase?” asked Brody, wondering if Lyndon had found the secret documents tucked away in it.
“A woman’s clothing, he sa
id.”
“That all?”
“That’s what he told us.”
The secret documents to bring down the president might have been hidden better than the blow, decided Brody. Or Lyndon was lying about not finding them in the suitcase. Or the documents weren’t there. Brody needed to contact Peltz. Maybe Peltz knew where the documents had been secreted in the suitcase.
“I need to make a call,” said Brody, digging his iPhone out of his damp trouser pocket.
He dried the iPhone off with the towel and punched out Peltz’s number.
The phone rang seven times.
Brody terminated the call. Maybe his phone wasn’t working properly because it had gotten wet, he decided.
“You’re not calling the cops, are you?” said Deirdre. “Lyndon said no cops.”
“It wasn’t the cops, and he didn’t answer,” said Brody, putting away his cell. “He’s a friend who could help us.”
Brody didn’t want to scare her off by telling her Peltz worked for the FBI. The less he said about Peltz the better, since he had signed Peltz’s NDA.
“We need to get that suitcase back ASAP,” he said. “Our lives could depend on it.”
Lyndon burst into the foyer.
Chapter 106
“Look what the cat dragged in,” said Lyndon.
“I need to talk to you in private,” said Brody.
“If you want my autograph, you’re out of luck.”
“This is important.”
“I don’t want your stinking insurance. Get over it.”
“This isn’t about insurance. You’re gonna want to hear this.”
Lyndon shrugged. “As long as it doesn’t take too long. We got urgent matters going on.”
Lyndon led the way into the study.
If Deirdre wasn’t going to confront Lyndon about the rape charge, Brody would do it for her. He thought it needed to be done.
“One of your clients claims you coerced her into having sex with you,” said Brody in the book-lined study, as he stood next to a leather recliner.
“I never coerced anyone into having sex with me in my life,” said Lyndon, taken aback. “I don’t need to. Who is this client?”
Bolt Page 29
