by A. C. Fuller
SG was behind the counter, cashing out the register. He didn’t look up. “We’re closed!”
“Need help,” Warren said. “This is Cole.”
SG looked up. “What the hell?”
“You got a piece?” Warren asked, jumping behind the counter. He scanned the shelves under the register.
SG grabbed his shoulder. “What in the hell?”
“Two guys. Following us.”
“I don’t keep a gun here.”
Warren leapt back over the counter and jogged across the store. Poking his head out, he saw the two men about a block away. They were turned, each looking into the window of a different storefront. He pulled his head back inside, pretty sure they hadn’t seen him.
They had two options. Assuming they’d lost the men, he and Cole could hide in the back and let them pass. But something in him wouldn’t accept this. He turned to Cole. She had that hard-thinking look he’d come to recognize. “Let them go or lure them in and find out who the hell these guys are?”
A slight smile moved across Cole’s face. “I’m tired of running away.”
“L-l-lure them in?” SG stammered. “What in the hell?”
Warren took Cole by the shoulders, then nodded toward the door. “Make sure they see you, then get back in and stay behind the counter. SG, I recommend you head to the back.”
SG shook his head and muttered, but he headed to the back of the shop.
Cole moved to the door.
“Wait.” Warren grabbed a large spool of thick fishing line, the kind used for deep-sea poles. Reaching a length across the doorway about a foot off the ground, he secured one end to a display rack and the other end to a bait fridge.
Cole stepped over carefully and leaned out. The night was quiet and dark.
The two men moved methodically down the block, checking the doors of each business, most of which were closed. Her heart raced.
The white-haired man noticed her and froze. Once he’d gotten the other’s attention, they took off for her. She shut the door behind her and slid across the counter, crouching down.
She held her breath, then let it out slowly, not wanting to make a sound. She peeked over the counter. Warren took position behind the bait fridge. His large frame was concealed from view from the outside, blocked by a display rack.
“Get down,” he called, and she did.
Warren heard the door creak as it opened only a crack. Then it swung open all at once with the clang of the bell. A bald head emerged, then disappeared as the man tripped on the fishing line and toppled into the store.
Warren leapt out, kicking the gun out of his hand while simultaneously throwing a vicious punch into the gut of the white-haired man right behind baldy.
The white-haired man staggered back, but Warren caught him by the hair and threw him into the bait fridge. The glass shattered, spilling styrofoam containers onto the floor.
The younger man had recovered and rolled toward the gun. Warren jumped, landing a heel on his outstretched hand. The bones and knuckles cracked and Warren fell on him, elbow first, striking his cheek.
Screaming, the man threw a series of short punches from his back, connecting with Warren’s temple and neck. But Warren gained position atop him and pummeled his face with a series of forearms and elbows.
As soon as he went limp, Warren looked back. The white-haired man had been knocked out cold by his collision with the bait fridge. A long brown worm wriggled on his pale cheek.
There was shuffling, then Cole stood over them, holding the gun.
She waved it at the white-haired man. “Is he dead?”
Warren reached for the man’s neck. His pulse was live. “Just knocked out. Back of his head broke the fridge.”
“These two aren’t Mazzalano’s,” Cole said.
“How do you know?”
“I assumed these two were connected to the two dudes in D.C. I don’t know how I know, but…”
Cole handed him the gun, then leaned over the younger man, whose face had already swelled. Blood trickled from his lips and one of his eyes had closed like a boxer in the twelfth round. She reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his cell phone. She swiped, then held it to his face.
Brilliant, Warren thought.
She frowned and tried again. “You busted his face so badly, his Face ID isn’t working.”
Warren slid himself over and took the phone from her. He centered it on the guy’s broken face and tried. The phone shook and displayed, “Face ID Unsuccessful.”
Cole was already trying it with the white-haired man. She swiped and held the phone up to his face. It vibrated and unlocked.
Warren stood and leaned over her shoulder.
“What should I look for?” she asked.
“Last calls, maybe.”
She checked his call log. A dozen calls to the same number over the last twenty-four hours.
“D.C. area code,” Warren said.
“And I think I recognize the number.”
SG appeared from the back. “What the hell did you do to my store?”
“Sorry,” Warren offered.
Cole walked to the corner, staring at the phone.
Warren went through the pockets of the white-haired man and found a business card. It read Beltway Investigators, a private investigation firm out of D.C.
He watched Cole tap the phone. She was calling the number. He wanted to stop her, to discuss how to approach it, but it was too late. He watched the side of her face as she listened.
After a few seconds, Cole’s eyes opened wide. “Put him on the phone!” she demanded.
She listened for a few seconds, then the phone dropped away from her ear. “Oh, God.”
Cole stared at the phone in her hand, her mind leaping between memories of the last few days. Everything was happening too fast. She turned to Warren, who’d been watching her.
“What?” Warren asked.
She let her eyes drop to the two men on the floor, then shifted her gaze to SG, who stood, arms out like he was asking, Who’s gonna clean this mess up?
“Cole, what is it?” Warren asked. “Who was that?”
“Marty Goldberg’s assistant.”
“Marty Goldberg sent these two? Why?”
Cole’s memory flashed again. Her first meeting with Goldberg when they were bright-eyed, optimistic interns together. A night at the bar, the evening of the 2002 midterm elections. And just a few days ago, when she’d sat in his office.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But now he’s dead. They found Marty floating in the Potomac River about two hours ago. Didn’t show up for a cocktail hour event. Assistant couldn’t reach him. Went to his apartment and found his phone, but no Marty.”
Warren stepped toward her, hand out, but she backed away. “I…who?” was all she could say.
“Suicide?” Warren offered weakly.
“No.”
“I know.”
The scene snapped into place suddenly. The broken glass from the shattered fridge. The worms. The two men on the floor. SG. They needed to get out of there.
“Can you make this right with SG? Tell him we’ll send him a few grand or something. Ask him to come up with a story. We need to get out of here. Now.”
“We can’t leave these guys in here. In his shop.”
“No, you sure as hell can’t,” SG interjected.
“We’re gonna send you money just as soon as we can get it,” Warren said. “Couple grand. And I’ll deal with these guys.”
Warren moved swiftly, dragging the younger of the two men outside and leaving him in the doorway of a shoe store. He covered him with some old cardboard to make him look homeless. Next he carried the white-haired guy through the back of the shop and leaned him against a dumpster.
“How’s that gonna help SG?” Cole asked.
“It will,” SG said.
Warren locked the back door and surveyed the store. “Right. The card said they’re private security from D.C. They illeg
ally pulled a weapon on us. They’re not the kind of guys who are gonna call the cops.”
SG nodded. “And they’re not gonna come back here. Guys like that just disappear when they take a hit like that.”
13
Saturday
It was two in the morning and Cole was hungry again. She shoved a bag of popcorn from the mini-bar into the microwave and pressed the “baked potato” setting.
Feeling Warren’s eyes on her, she turned. “What?”
“Not only are you microwaving a bag of empty carbs, salt, and fat, but you’re using the wrong setting. Why in the name of all that is holy would you use the baked potato setting for a bag of popcorn?”
“It was the top button.”
“There’s a popcorn button less than an inch below it.”
“Does it matter?”
He shook his head in feigned disgust.
“Look,” she said, “I listen for the popping to slow down to one kernel every two to three seconds. That’s the only guaranteed way to get the perfectly popped bag.”
“But why would they have the popcorn setting, then?”
“Because they’re evil.” She smiled. “Different popcorn bags are different sizes and therefore require different amounts of time. Sometimes, the ‘Popcorn’ setting leaves too many unpopped kernels. Sometimes it burns it. My technique is the only way. Plus, can we agree that I know more about the proper preparation of empty carbs than you?”
“I’ll give you that.”
Cole listened to the hum of the microwave and the popping. She was exhausted. For two hours they’d gone over what they knew, and they were nowhere. They knew the two men following them in D.C. had been sent by Mazzalano, and they’d lost them. And they assumed Marty Goldberg had hired the private security firm to tail them to D.C. They didn’t think they’d been followed into the train station, but they weren’t certain. Maybe the old dancing couple or the young backpackers had been watching them. Maybe the homeless guy was paid by Goldberg to keep an eye on everyone coming in and out of the station. Unlikely, but possible. More likely was that he’d tracked them through their phones. They’d tried not to leave a paper trail, but each of them carried one of the most trackable devices on earth in their pocket. Cole’s bet was that Goldberg had bribed the right person at the cell phone company to get a location, and they’d been picked up at their hotel in Little Havana.
The bigger question was why Goldberg had wanted to track them in the first place.
Cole took her popcorn out of the microwave and opened it slowly, then plopped on the bed.
Warren said, “Can you think of anyone who wanted him dead? Goldberg, I mean.”
“No...I can think of a hundred people. When you’re as powerful in D.C. as he is, you make a lot of enemies. Locally, but also international. Foreign governments lobby in D.C. constantly.” Cole munched a handful of popcorn, considering. “But it’s not a coincidence he died when he did.”
“I don’t think so either.”
Cole held the bag out to Warren, who turned away. “But why?” she asked. “If he had us tailed, why? And how in the hell could that lead to him getting killed? Someone protecting us?”
Cole’s phone pinged with a new email. She swiped it open, then froze. It was a Google alert containing a news story. About her.
Years ago she’d set up alerts to automatically email her when news stories about certain people and subjects were published. These days she usually heard about stories on Twitter before the alert arrived. But she’d been off her phone all night.
Two more emails arrived. Two more Google alerts containing articles with her name in them. She scanned the pieces one by one, then waved the phone at Warren. “We’re famous.”
“Huh?”
“The hit pieces have started.”
Warren was in the process of taking off his leg. “What?”
“You know how I said that speculation would start online and in the press that the murders are connected?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, it’s started. And apparently we’re suspects.”
Warren sat up straight, setting his leg on his lap.
“Here’s one from Crime-Scene.Net,” Cole said. “I’ll skip to the punchline. ‘Though it’s too early to claim a link between the deaths of Raj Ambani and Alvin Meyers, certain coincidences jump out. One is that Mr. Ambani donated to the campaign of Senator Meyers on three separate occasions. The other is that Meyers and Ambani both served on the board of directors of Sen-Jen Private Equity, the only two Americans to serve on the board of the prestigious Japanese firm.’” Cole stopped reading. That was a connection between the two she hadn’t found before. She knew little about American’s serving on Japanese Boards of Directors, but she filed it away for further research. “‘A third connection,’” she continued from the story, “‘is more tangential, but no less real. In New York City, suspended cop Robert Warren and crime reporter Jane Cole were both seen at the apartment of Michael Wragg, the man now believed to be the shooter in the Raj Ambani murder. Only days later, Cole quit her job at The New York Sun and, sources say, traveled to D.C. with Mr. Warren. Are the two connected to the murders? It’s too soon to say, but Crime-Scene.Net will be keeping an eye out.
Cole dropped her phone on the bed.
Warren’s mouth was open, his eyes wide. “Can we now agree that journalists are the worst?”
“These aren’t journalists. There are two other similar articles, also on insignificant blogs. They read like all three came from one or two sources, calling around and trying to get the story out there.”
“Why?”
The stories were pathetic attempts to smear them. Truly amateur. She doubted they’d gain much traction. The stories themselves didn’t worry her, but the fact that someone was out there planting them did.
She lay back in bed. “Tell me again everything SG told you about Lady Chicharrón. There’s gotta be something we missed.”
Warren laced his hands behind his head. “I told you everything.”
“Tell me again.”
He sighed. “Said she runs the coke in and out of Miami. Said if a hit was going down—something organized like we’re tracking—she’d know about it. Might have given the okay for it. But no one really knows who she is, or how to find her.”
“And her wiki?”
“Like I said, it’s got some background stuff that could be true. But not a real name. And, can we pause for a second and notice how crazy it is that she has a Wikipedia page? Probably has a publicist updating it to build her myth without giving up anything that could get her busted. Probably helps her street cred. Soon there’ll be a Pitbull song for her, ‘Old Money Bags Chicharrón.’” Warren yawned. “I need sleep. At least a few hours.” He tucked his leg under the pillow.
“My mind won’t shut up,” Cole said.
“That’s ‘cause you keep feeding it sugar.” His eyes were closed and his voice was slow and sleepy. A minute later, gentle snores came from his side of the room.
She was out of Ambien, so after an hour of tossing and turning, Cole took a bathrobe from the closet and left the room. The hotel was still and silent. She turned down a long hallway, following signs to the outdoor pool.
The night was balmy, the courtyard deserted. It was silent except for the sound of the occasional car passing on the far side of the hotel. She tried her keycard on the pool’s metal gate, but it blinked red. The pool closed at ten. Using the gate’s handle as a step, she climbed the fence, dropping easily into the pool area. After a quick scan, she stripped to her bra and underwear and eased herself into the pool.
She swam a quiet lap, then floated on her back, staring at the starless black sky. She became still, feeling only her long, slow breaths and the cool water. Closing her eyes, she compared the blackness in her mind to the blackness of the sky. Eyes open, she was pulled into the seemingly infinite darkness, as though leaving her body to go to a quieter, more peaceful place. Eyes closed, her mind folded
in on itself, her history and identity collapsing to a point of infinite pain and darkness. Warren had said, “Whatever’s in you—one way or another—it’s coming out.” It hit her hard. She closed her eyes again. Whatever was there, she didn’t want it to come out. What she’d told Warren about Matt was bullshit. She wasn’t driven to get the story to please some idea of Matt. It was to keep herself busy. To keep the darkness at bay.
Another aspect of their conversation pushed her musings to the side, and she replayed it in her mind. Something didn’t sit right. Lady Chicharrón never would have allowed a hit on Ana Diaz just out of kindness. It had to serve her interests as well. More than that, would the men behind the murders of Ambani and Meyers have sought permission to murder Ana Diaz from Lady Chicharrón? She didn’t think so. Whatever they were doing was bigger than a coke kingpin from Miami.
She wondered about Lady Chicharrón’s Wikipedia page. She should have read it herself. Warren wasn’t the researcher she was, and she—
Her eyes popped open. “Money Bags.”
Cole let the door slam as she entered the room and flipped on the lights.
Warren shot up in bed, fists clenched. “What?”
“You called her ‘Money Bags.’”
“Why are you in a robe? What happened to your clothes?”
“You called Lady Chicharrón ‘Money Bags.’”
He rubbed his eyes. “SG called her that. I guess it’s another nickname. Any drug kingpin has to have at least a couple. And a Chicharrón is a damn fried pork rind, so who wouldn’t want a different nickname. I mean—”
“Rob, listen!” She sat next to him. “Ana Diaz is Lady Chicharrón. Pipo, the guy who took me to her estate, called Ana Diaz ‘Money Bags.’ Ana Diaz, the reclusive financier, is Lady Chicharrón, the notorious drug kingpin.”
Warren took his leg from under the pillow and passed it from hand to hand. “Holy hell. It’s so damn obvious now that you say it. She uses the bank for legit business and to funnel coke money. She’s the most powerful person in Miami. And if Ana Diaz is connected to Ambani and Meyers, it means they may have had their toes in the drug game, too.”
