The Night Charter (20 page)

T
HEY WAITED UNTIL
ten o'clock. Galdarres rode in the black SUV with Davíd, Peyrera, Icaza, and the older man, Pedro. Davíd kept weapons in a locked safe in his garage, and now all of them were armed with pistols. Peyrera brought his own shotgun. Davíd had heavier guns at his disposal, but they would not need them tonight.

Pablo Marquez's house was a neat house on a row of the same. Each home had a perfect square of yard, a place to park a car alongside the comfortable-looking house, and brightly lit windows in the early darkness of evening. The sun had fled the sky only an hour before, and in the west there was still the faintest coloration of lingering light, nearly invisible to the eye.

“Now,” Galdarres instructed Peyrera, and they rolled slowly up the street.

Once they were abreast of the house, they spilled out onto the sidewalk, careful not to display their guns. Peyrera could not hide his, but he held it to his side, concealing it with the line of his body as they advanced up the walk.

At the door, Galdarres signaled to Icaza, and the young man hit the porch light with the butt of his pistol, smashing the bulb and immediately plunging the front of the house into shadow. Galdarres opened the storm door. Davíd held it open as Galdarres knocked.

Footsteps sounded inside, and the tiny light from the peephole went out as someone peered through from the other side. The locks rattled and the door swung wide. It was Marquez's wife, Carolina. “May I help you?” she asked.

“Yes, señora,” Galdarres said. “I am here to see your husband.”

Carolina looked toward the broken porch light. The first inkling of trouble appeared in her eyes. “He's busy upstairs. It's late. Could you come back tomorrow?”

She tried to close the door on him, but Galdarres pushed against it. He stepped over the threshold, with the others behind him. Marquez's wife opened her mouth to scream, but Galdarres showed her his gun. “Silence, please,” he said.

All five were in the house, and Pedro closed the door behind them. Carolina put a hand to the wall to steady herself. She trembled visibly. “What do you want?” she asked them. “We have no money in the house.”

“Into the living room,” Galdarres said.

They marched her into the house's welcoming living room. The curtains were drawn against the night. No one would see what happened here. At Galdarres' silent command, Carolina seated herself on the couch while the others spread themselves around the space.

“What is your husband doing upstairs?” Galdarres asked.

“He's taking a shower.”

Galdarres listened and heard the faint rush of water in pipes. Even as he cocked his ear, the sound of the valves closing squeaked through the ceiling and the rushing stopped. In a moment Marquez would be naked and dripping on the bathmat. “Go and get him,” Galdarres commanded his men. “Gerard. Joel. Do it now.”

Peyrera and Icaza vanished from the room, and then their feet sounded on the stairs. Galdarres covered Carolina with his pistol casually. “Please, don't hurt us,” Marquez's wife said.

“Why do you think I want to hurt you?” Galdarres asked.

“I don't…” Carolina began, and then her voice trailed away.

“If you are cooperative and do as I say, there will be no violence,” Galdarres assured her. “Your husband will understand why we are here.”

It did not take long for Marquez himself to appear. He was muscled into the living room by Icaza and Peyrera. Marquez was shirtless and wet, hastily dressed in a pair of gray sweatpants. Galdarres pointed to the couch, and his men forced Marquez to sit.

Galdarres looked at Marquez. The man had fear in his face, but he tempered it with anger. He was a fighter. If Peyrera and Icaza had not been armed like they were, he would have resisted every step of the way. He might still do something foolish simply to prove he was not a coward. It didn't matter. Soon the situation would be resolved.

“Do you know who I am?” Galdarres asked Marquez.

“No.”

“My name is Alejandro Galdarres. I represent the Intelligence Directorate of the Republic of Cuba.”

Fiery eyes settled into blackness. “I won't tell you anything,” Marquez said.

“You will if I promise your wife will suffer,” Galdarres said. “Every man cares for his wife. Even the vermin of Alpha 66.”

He had hoped the mention of Alpha 66 would shake Marquez, but the man's demeanor didn't change. Of course, as soon as he knew where Galdarres had come from, he knew why he was here. The men of Alpha 66 were delusional, but they were not stupid. “If you hurt my wife, I'll kill you,” Marquez said.

“Don't give me a reason,” Galdarres said.

Marquez glared and said nothing.

“Where is Sergio Chapado?”

“I don't know.”

“Hit her,” Galdarres commanded. At his word, Pedro stepped forward and smashed his fist into Carolina's face, driving her against her husband with the yelp of a wounded animal. Marquez nearly erupted from the couch, but Peyrera struck him with the butt of his shotgun. The man reeled.

“Where is Sergio Chapado?” Galdarres asked.

Marquez put an arm around his wife. “I don't know! It's the truth! He's been taken!”

“Then you admit that Alpha 66 is responsible for Chapado's escape from Cuba.”

“Yes. But we don't have him. You can't get him through us.”

Galdarres smiled thinly. “I know. I only wanted to see how easily you could be made to talk. You're pathetic. Cut their throats.”

Davíd and Pedro drew knives and closed on the couch. Marquez and his wife shouted, but there was no one to hear. Galdarres stepped back to avoid the worst of the mess.

“What now?” Davíd asked when it was done.

“Now, we—” Galdarres began. A movement drew his eye, and then all of them saw it. They turned to the living room door.

The girl looked to be three years old and no more. She wore pink pajamas. She looked at Galdarres and the men, looked to the bodies on the couch and the floor, then opened her mouth and screamed.

L
AUREN WAS ASLEEP
. Camaro watched one of the late-night shows on television, keeping the sound low, whiling away the time until it was past midnight and the streets would be mostly still. Only then did she turn off the TV and gather up her Glock to venture out of the room, careful to close the door silently behind her.

She took the steps down to the parking lot two at a time and crossed to her Harley, which stood shining under the glare of the parking lot lights. Starting it probably woke anyone nearby, but she hoped the noise would not reach Lauren's ears.

She raised the kickstand and curved out of the lot onto the street, heading east toward the coast. As she'd hoped, the traffic was almost nonexistent. She ate up the miles hungrily with few cars on the road to keep her company.

She didn't stop at the marina right away. First she rode past and then returned at a slower clip. The lot was mostly empty. Though the piers and some of the boats were lit, it was dark and undisturbed. Only when she was certain no one was set up to watch the place did she ride in and park.

The cops did not have to have someone stationed there permanently. The units that patrolled through here could have been set to check out the marina on a regular basis, watching for her truck or her bike when they put in an appearance. She could not stay very long.

Camaro jogged down the pier to the
Annabel
and climbed aboard. She unlocked the door with her key and entered the dark cabin. Without switching on the lights, she went to the panel over the medical kit and popped it open to reveal the shotgun inside. She brought it out.

The shotgun was black and ugly, but it was not meant for beauty. Camaro put the panel back in place and went to one of the galley seats. She lifted it and uncovered the two boxes of shotgun shells and the three boxes of .45 GAP ammo. She opened one box of shotgun shells and pulled five free. These she stuffed into her pocket. The rest she left alone and concealed again when she lowered the seat.

She went out of the cabin and locked the door behind her. A scan around the marina revealed no movement. Her phone began to buzz as she climbed out of the boat onto the pier. The ringer was alarmingly loud in the quiet.

“Hello?” Camaro answered.

“Camaro,” Lauren said, “where are you?”

“How did you get my number?”

“You sent it to the blogger, remember? I remembered it.”

“You're supposed to be asleep.”

“I was, but then you were gone. Where did you go?”

“I had to pick up a couple of things,” Camaro said. She walked up the pier quickly with the shotgun and kept her voice low. “You need to go back to sleep.”

“Are you coming back?”

“Yes. Soon.”

“When?”

“Before dawn.”

“What did you have to get?” Lauren asked.

“You're too nosy for your own good,” Camaro said. “I have to do something, and I have to do it alone. And that means
alone
. If I tell you what I'm doing, you're going to worry.”

“I'm already worried.”

“Don't be. I'm going to be all right.”

“You don't have to lie to me.”

Camaro stopped. “I'm not lying,” she said. “I'll be okay. And I'll be back.”

“I'll wait up.”

“Sleep,”
Camaro said. “Remember what I told you. You need to be fresh so we can move. We're not staying at that hotel another day.”

“Where will we go?”

“You'll find out when we get there. Now put down the phone, and let me do what I need to do.”

“Okay,” Lauren said reluctantly. “Be careful.”

The parking lot was still deserted except for a scattering of cars and trucks. Camaro put her phone away and went to her bike. The shotgun was not long, especially since it had no stock, just the pistol grip. She was able to jam the whole length of it behind one of the saddlebags, in such a way that only the grip was exposed. A close eye would not miss it, but someone simply passing by would never notice it was there.

She left the marina quickly and vacated the neighborhood entirely in as little time as possible, the Harley's engine roaring into the night. After the oppressive heat of the day, it was maybe twenty degrees cooler. Not enough to raise goose bumps, but refreshing enough that it felt good in her face and on her body.

It took her twenty minutes to find the next place. She had not paid much attention to it when she saw it before. The building was set on its own lot, with a concrete parking area surprisingly populated given the hour and the area. Bright pink neon striped the front and sides of the building. The walls were painted a strange, blushing color that looked unappetizing in the daylight but seemed to glow under the lights now that night had fallen.

Camaro parked between a truck and a minivan to hide the bike from the street, then went to the entrance. The door was heavily grated with steel and was locked. She had to press a buzzer to alert the worker inside, who released the electric locks from where he sat behind the counter a yard or two beyond the way in.

The man was in his twenties, skinny, and wearing a Hawaiian Punch T-shirt. The thin rudiments of what was meant to be a goatee sprouted from his chin and upper lip. Random hairs poked out along his jawline and on his cheeks. He looked at Camaro as she came in, his eyes settling on her chest. “Evening,” he said.

Every wall was lined with porn magazines. They were inches thick on the shelves, all wrapped in plastic envelopes and sorted into sections by kink. Bins occupied most of the floor space, these also packed with magazines. There were security cameras everywhere.

“Help you with anything?” the attendant asked her. “Mags up front, DVDs in the back. We have live booths and video peeps. Whatever you want.”

“Sex toys,” Camaro said.

The man's eyebrows went up. “Sure. Right down here.”

He led her down the counter to where it transformed into a glass display case like the sort used to show off jewelry. There were no diamonds but many dildos and vibrators and rubber plugs and beads, all in different colors and made of different materials. Camaro ignored those things and traveled farther down until the selection gave way to kinkier fare. She pointed. “Those,” she said.

“Okay. Popular item. Special man or special lady?”

“Just get them out.”

The attendant unlocked the case and took the flat box out. “Thirty bucks,” he said.

“Thirty bucks?” Camaro asked.

“They're double locking.”

“Whatever,” Camaro said, and she put a fifty on the counter. The attendant took her money to the register and made the sale. He brought a plastic bag from beneath the counter.

“Forget the bag,” Camaro said.

He handed them over. “Enjoy,” he said.

Camaro ignored him. She went out of the porn shop and into the night.

I
GNACIO HARDLY FELT
as though he'd slept at all. His phone was ringing, and he was awake abruptly, switching on the bedside lamp and blinding himself. He answered. “Go away and die,” he said.

“Detective Montellano?” asked a woman.

“Yes, this is Detective Montellano. Who is this?”

“I'm Sergeant Kathryn Stinson. I work out of Coral Way.”

“Hello, Sergeant. What can I do for you at two o'clock in the morning?”

“I'm at a crime scene, sir, and a Detective Kirby from the Homicide Unit has instructed me to call you down here.”

Ignacio sat up. “What's going on?”

“I think it's probably better if you come and see for yourself, sir. Let me give you the address.”

“Wait a minute. I need to find something to write on.”

He struggled with the sheets before escaping the bed and raided the jacket from the day before to find his notebook and pen. Sergeant Stinson repeated the address twice to make sure Ignacio had it. He thanked her and hung up.

There was no time for showering or shaving. Fresh clothes would have to do. He pulled himself together before making a cup of instant coffee and taking it with him in the car. He felt the caffeine picking him up by the time he arrived on the perfect little street in Coral Way, now marred by the presence of police units and a meat wagon from the medical examiner. The CSI van was already there, too.

Yellow crime-scene tape circled one of the lovely, restored houses. Uniforms kept back the curious, who even here managed to collect on the sidelines, hoping for a peek at the worst thing they'd ever seen. Ignacio showed his badge and let himself under the tape, advancing across the yard. A woman with sergeant's stripes waited on the darkened porch. “Stinson?” Ignacio asked.

She came to him and they shook hands. “Detective,” she said. “Everybody's inside. It's pretty bad, sir.”

He went up the steps and through the open front door. Plastic sheeting had been put down in the foyer. A couple of uniformed officers stood idly by the entrance to the living room as camera flashes burst inside. Ignacio entered.

The first and most striking thing in the room was the blood that seemed to have pooled and splattered everywhere. The couch was thick with it, dark with saturated gore. The coffee table and its magazines were splashed with gobbets of red. The walls were sprayed, and even the ceiling had managed to catch droplets. The dead man and the dead woman were soaked in their own vital fluids. And then there was the writing.

Nolan Kirby stood in one corner while the CSIs took pictures. He was an older man, graying into his sixties and ripe for retirement. When he spotted Ignacio, he waved him over to stand by the front window. “Nacho,” he said. “Come on.”

They clasped hands briefly, and then Kirby looked back to the mess. “Sorry to call you in like this, but I heard from Brady Pool that you were working an angle on another case with some Cuban group. It just so happens that I know this guy, and he's a big Cuban activist. Pablo Marquez. That's his wife, Carolina.”

Ignacio read the writing again. A thought was dawning. “How did it go down?”

“No sign of forced entry, so either Pablo or Carolina let the killer or killers into the house. I already have uniforms canvassing the neighbors, but I haven't heard anything about strangers in the neighborhood or anything like that. We'll see how it pans out. In the meanwhile, I'm still waiting on Children's Services to send somebody out to talk to our witness.”

“You have a witness?”

“Yeah: Pablo Marquez's daughter, Renata. She's three years old. We're not getting a whole lot from her. The kid barely knows how to talk, so asking for a statement is a little much.”

“Where is she?” Ignacio asked.

“Upstairs with an officer.”

“I'll want to talk to her.”

“Give it time. Let Children's Services try to bring her down first. She saw it all happen, and she's not in any shape for an interrogation.”

“It doesn't matter,” Ignacio said. “I know who did it.”

Kirby looked at him sharply. “Who?”

“Matt Clifford and Sandro Soto. Two tweakers I'm after. They have some kind of bad blood with a bunch of activist Cubans. Cutting throats isn't exactly Matt's style, but one of his crew killed a guy by caving his skull in with a baseball bat, so it's not like he's not capable of doing it. I'm surprised he let the kid live.”

“We've got to get these guys' names out there,” Kirby said.

“Already done. I've been looking for Clifford and Soto for days. They dropped off the map, but they're still doing business. A night ago, two of his boys got shot to death over in Liberty City, but they managed to take out five Cubans in the process. This is war we're talking about here.”

“I guess that explains the writing,” Kirby said.

“Yeah,” Ignacio replied. He looked at the living room wall and the words painted in blood in foot-high letters.

I WANT THE MONEY.