Square Snapper (Detective Inspector Burgess) (21 page)

“Okay, let me get this straight,” said Hofstein. “We need to go over the inventory of items from the drug lab and see if there are any books. Then we need to go over the items in Cujo’s -”

“Cujo? You mean like that mad dog in the movie?”

“Yes, Cujo’s apartment and see if there’s a book that matches one in the lab.”

“Yes, Detective, You’ve got it. That’s what I need to try and break this code. I’m pretty sure that there will be more than one copy of a certain book lying around so that this Cujo guy can check up on whoever it is writing the code for him.”

Gonzalez felt a glimmer of hope. “Aaron, my friend, we’re on it. Come on, Hof, I think there’s time for that beer after all. We’re going to need to order takeout tonight, if we’re going to be going through the evidence inventories.”

Hofstein got up. “Aaron, thanks. We’ll get back to you as soon as we have that book for you. Wish us luck!” He waved to the young man as he steered Gonzalez past the espresso machine and out the front door. Jacobs waved back fervently hoping that it
was
a book that held the key or he would have two really large, really angry detectives to deal with later.

Chapter 42

Frenchie uttered a low whistle as he saw the list of gun and ammunition requirements left at the agreed drop-off point.
He knew something big must be going down but had no concrete evidence as to what and for whom. If he had to put his money on it, he would guess that it had something to do with the Captain yet, since most of his instructions came in writing, he had no way of knowing who was really at the end of them and, if the truth be told, he preferred it that way. As far as he was concerned, the less he knew, the better. However, this was pretty sophisticated stuff and he wondered if the rumour of a hit man was true. He had also heard stories of a plot to kill off the Jamaican before he went to trial. How much of this was just smoke without fire was anybody’s guess but, in Frenchie’s opinion, it was best to take heed of anything coming down the pipeline. Secretly, he was quite pleased with himself because, if this was a list from a professional assassin, he was going to be impressed that he could get it all here. Frenchie was a resourceful man and had quite a stockpile of illegal weapons from the most mundane to the patently sophisticated. It just so happened that he had more than one Russian made Tokarev with the 7.62 x 25mm cartridges to go with them. In fact, he had quite a stash of the cartridges since they could be used with several Soviet and Czech submachine guns. He knew that even though most firearms chambered in this calibre had been declared obsolete and removed from military inventories, some Russian police and special forces units still used it over the 9mm Makarov ammunition due to its superior penetration. At least they were straight cartridges without special loadings. That was one thing he did not have: armour piercing, tracer and incendiary rounds. There just was not the market for them and, in any event, those were simply too difficult to smuggle into the island and not worth the jail time - or potential public lynching - if ever caught. Even Frenchie had his limits.

He hid the list in a cash box which he then locked and deposited in a safe hidden under a rug in the floor of his office. Later this evening, he would visit his cache and put together the package. Nobody knew where he kept his weaponry and he intended to keep it that way. He would then leave a message at the drop-off point giving instructions for payment and pick up. He’d make a tidy sum for less than an hour’s work. The thought made him smile.

Back at Cherry Hill, Nana was pleased with the way the gravel was looking. She almost thought it an improvement to the yard. She and Officer Max were walking around the house collecting the empty lemonade glasses from the men from Coral Cement and inspecting their work. She was enjoying having the dog and noticed she had been chatting non-stop to her as if she really understood everything.
I
’
d better not do that too much or they
’
ll say I
’
m losing it and send me to St. Brendan
’
s or whatever it
’
s called these days.
Nana was of the old guard and still referred to everything by its old name, the local psychiatric hospital was no exception. She chuckled to herself and Officer Max came running up and thrust her wet nose into her hand. Nana was getting used to the size of the animal and becoming more and more comfortable with her. At first she had worried that she would knock her over and she might break an arm or her hip, but she soon realized that the dog was very gentle, even careful with her. So, together they walked back up the steps to the main house, Nana resting her hand on Officer Max’s back to steady herself as she made her way up the stairway. She then put on the radio for the People’s Corner and Officer Max settled into her favourite place on the kitchen tiles for a little shut-eye. Officer Max already knew that this was the time of day when Nana would make a cup of tea and share a couple of cookies with her. She really liked this assignment.

Chapter 43

Gonzalez and Hofstein instinctively realized that they were now at a turning point in the case. Both had a heightened sense of hope that they would break the back of the investigation fairly shortly. They had worked late into the evening the night before going back into Cujo’s two apartments and his South Beach house coming up with one particular book that had also been found in the lab. It had been relatively easy to find as it was the type of book you would never think to find in the home of a drug lord and it was certainly out of place in a drug lab. The book that they were sure was the key to the code was “La Casa de los Espiritus” or “The House of Spirits” by Isabel Allende. It was considered a classic amongst both Spanish and English speaking readers and stood out amongst the murder mysteries, lightweight porn and frothy romance novels (the latter favoured, they imagined, by his now deceased girlfriend) that were scattered around his homes. They sent a copy over to Aaron Jacobs at the FCL who had become, as far as they were both concerned, their “new best friend” and were anxiously waiting to hear back from him.

Hofstein looked across from his desk to Gonzalez. “Do you think we’ll ever catch this Cujo guy, now that he knows we’re on to him?”

“Dunno, Hof. If I were him, I’d be sitting on some beach in Grand Cayman with a brand new face by now. I think his days in Miami are numbered.”

“I guess it all depends on how greedy he is and whether there’s more dope coming in that he wants to get his hands on. He must have taken a big hit after we confiscated all the drugs in the lab. I wonder if he has more labs too. Have you seen all of the interview reports yet? I’d like to have a look at some more of them.”

Gonzalez lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He then took his time to blow out the smoke through his nose before replying. “I think that’s a great idea. We may see something we can follow up on. I’ll call down and have them sent up. Sure beats waiting.” He reached for his phone and dialled. Both knew that it was a long shot, but they had nothing to lose.

In the Forensic Computer Lab, Aaron Jacobs was methodically running all sorts of programs on his computers using “La Casa de Los Espiritus” as his key. He knew it would take a while before he hit on the right combination but relished the challenge of breaking the code. He had a sixth sense for knowing when something “felt right” and he was confident that they had the key. He wondered whether the communications would be in Spanish or English. He would have to consider that additional complication and try and pinpoint the correct language. Right now he was in his element: totally focused and enjoying every moment of this project. God, how he loved a puzzle
.
He also knew that if he broke the code, a promotion would surely be in order. Not that he needed that as motivation. He just loved to pit his skills against a worthy adversary. In high school and college, Jacobs had never excelled at sport. He had instead relied on his good looks and cool dress code to win friends, in particular, girls. In those days, he had taken great pains to camouflage his almost genius IQ so as not to be labelled a nerd. Now, he enjoyed his “whiz kid” status in the FCL and particularly enjoyed it when new people looked at his GQ clothes assuming he was a lightweight. It was never long before they discovered their mistake. When it came to computers, he could run circles around all of them.

He kept checking his programs and keying in alternative information. At some point, he knew that he would begin to crack the code and when he did, he would work non-stop to give the detectives the information they needed to track down the members of the drug ring. It was like any jigsaw puzzle, once you had the corner pieces and could build a framework, the rest of the picture filled in fairly quickly. He just had to find the right permutations to locate those corner pieces. He knew he would find them and then the chase would begin to find the more elusive pieces that made up the body of the puzzle. However, this was going to take some time, so he went over to the espresso machine and made himself a cup of strong coffee. He needed to stay alert. He then took out the English version of “La Casa de los Espiritus”, put his feet up on his desk and began to read. Hell, it was one way to pass the time and he had heard that this was a damn good read.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been dozing when he was awakened by a ding on the computer confiscated from the drug lab. Instantly alert, he raced over to check on it scarcely believing his eyes… incoming mail! As he opened the e-mail, his spirits fell as he saw it was encoded. Well, at least he could start to trace its origin even if he had no idea what it said. He began to type furiously, absolutely in his element. Nothing would stop him now. He would pursue his quarry like a hound after a fox. Jacobs could be relentless.

Chapter 44

The Croatian had gone on to the internet and spent several hours reading about Bermuda. He was hooked. He found the quaintness of the narrow leafy lanes with their abundance of flowers intriguing and was captivated by the white beaches, which he learned from a tourist website were actually a shade of pink. He found himself drawn to the unique architecture of the buildings. Having grown up in a war torn country, the purity of the white roofs and the pastel shades of the houses with their contrasting window shutters were a revelation. He had travelled to many Caribbean islands but this island stood apart in its isolation much further to the north, possessing a pristine beauty all of its own. He had been totally unaware of the island’s success as an international business venue and was amazed to learn that it was a huge insurance centre rivalling London and New York - Not bad for an island of twenty one square miles and sixty five thousand inhabitants. His eye had been drawn to one particular article in a local newspaper featuring a Bermudian to be honoured as Insurance Personality of the Year. He was finding Bermuda to be full of surprises and he made a mental note not to underestimate its sophistication. When it came to doing a job, he did not like surprises. He also spent considerable time looking over all the recent articles in the local newspapers. He studied the ongoing investigation into various murders and easily pieced together the reason for being sent over there. Pity he would have to kill the detective. From what he read of him and the few quotes there were, he seemed like a good man. He had a long look at his photograph. He knew he would receive a better one in his kit but he was glad to see him this early on. It was hard to read the man. He looked athletic in his well-cut suit – tall and lithe - probably a runner or basketball player. He had intelligent, watchful eyes;
I bet he doesn
’
t miss much
.
No doubt too clever for his own good and getting too close to the truth.
He wondered who was behind the hit. The government? He often worked for those, even though he never knew for sure. Was it a drug cartel? No mind. As long as they paid, he would do what was asked. This was business after all.

It was time to start packing. Packing always took a while as he had to hide his various disguises and papers in hidden compartments. He had already decided which fake identities he would adopt and how he would appear on arrival in Bermuda. With the humidity, he had to be careful with make-up and false beards as they could peel away in the heat and moisture. No, he would keep it simple, dying his hair and giving his own beard a few more days to grow and wearing tinted contact lenses. He knew it was much more difficult to recognize a man without a beard after only being seen with one. With a beard and moustache you could hide jaw lines and lip contours which would take on a much more prominent role when removed, sometimes completely altering an appearance. If he needed to disguise himself in a hurry, he could change his hair and eye colour, wear glasses and leave clean shaven. He already had the matching identity papers for that. If things went badly wrong, he would look a lot younger when he left than when he entered as he would weave some grey into his hair and beard. He was quite the artist when it came to disguises. As always before any job, he felt the butterflies of anticipation in his stomach. He had to prepare for every contingency and plan thoroughly. His greatest worry was getting off the island.

When he had finished his packing he put on his workout clothes and took himself down to the gym. Once there, he began his usual gymnastic routine finishing with climbing up several times to the ceiling using the ropes. Having thus “warmed up”, he then went to the outdoor track where he put himself through a gruelling course of running and then shooting with his bow and arrow. Afterwards, he changed weaponry firing a range of handguns at wooden targets in the form of humans that would spring up randomly. First he practised with a 9mm Glock, and a Russian TT33 Tokarev. Then, as he always did, he ended the session with his “companion” from the Bosnian war, a Yugo M70 9mm pistol which was actually a Yugoslavian variation of the TT33. He liked the feel of it, its longer grip, slide mounted safety and magazine that held one more round than usual. He wished he could take it to Bermuda. That weapon had saved his life on more than one occasion and felt more like a trusted friend. He would have to be content with the Tokarev he had ordered.