The Night Charter (6 page)

I
GNACIO SET UP
on Matt Clifford's address early in the morning, when the sun was only a blister over the Atlantic. Clifford lived in a three-story apartment building shaped like a U, open into the center, where an overgrown forest of tropical plants ruled. The apartment was in the back corner on the second floor but was still visible from the street.

Ignacio was technically off the clock, but morning was the best time for catching bad guys. They stayed up late and rose late, so a cop could always tell where a suspect was likely to be: sprawled out in bed sleeping off the night before.

He decided to wait until eight o'clock to knock on Clifford's door and put on the radio to Mega 94.9 without cranking up the volume. A slow thread of traffic proceeded down the street, at first washing Ignacio with their headlights and then simply passing as the day brightened. Finally, the streetlights went out, and it was nearly time.

Matt Clifford's door opened at ten minutes to eight, and Ignacio sat up in his seat.

The man was not Clifford, but Ignacio knew who he was. He recognized the short, broad figure and the rolling gait of the man, even though his features were indistinct. Ignacio took a legal pad from the seat next to him and scribbled down a notation:
Sandro Soto—7:50am—leaving
.

In his mind he brought up Soto's sheet. It was long and detailed, covering a whole panoply of criminal activity, starting at Soto's eighteenth birthday and extending into his thirties. There were more crimes in his juvenile years, but those were officially sealed when Soto became an adult. Ignacio was not supposed to be able to see them, but there were ways.

Soto went down the steps to the ground floor, and Ignacio lost him in the leaves and branches of the courtyard. When Soto reappeared, he was walking quickly, dressed in jeans and a salmon-colored wife-beater with a beach scene printed on the back and front. He went to a car parked on the street, and the headlights flashed as he used the key fob to unlock the doors. Ignacio scribbled more on his pad: make and model and the license plate number.

He let Soto go. The man drove by within ten feet of him and saw nothing, his own radio cranked so loud that it boomed on the quiet morning street. Ignacio made a face at the racket and switched off his own radio.

A few minutes passed, and Matt Clifford did not emerge. Ignacio let his watch tick over to eight o'clock, and then he got out of the car with his legal pad tucked under his arm. He left his car unlocked. If someone stole it, the insurance was worth more than the vehicle.

The whole apartment building was still as Ignacio mounted the steps to the second floor. The air seemed pent up, a held breath, and it released only when Ignacio pounded on Clifford's door with his fist. “Police!” Ignacio announced. “Police! Open the door!”

No one came right away, so Ignacio used his keys to rap on the apartment's front window. The curtains were closed, and he could not see in. He went back to the door and pounded again, harder this time, until he heard the lock turn.

Clifford opened the door and squinted out at Ignacio. The sun angled directly into his face, and Ignacio saw his lids were red-rimmed and his skin was slightly pallid and blotchy. A hard night had passed into unforgiving morning. “What the hell, man?” he asked.

Ignacio smiled the largest smile he could muster. “Matt! It
is
you! You know, they told me you were back in town, but I didn't believe them. But here you are, and here I am talking to you! I didn't wake you up, did I?”

“Of course you woke me up, asshole,” Clifford said. “Go away.”

“Hey, now, let's not call each other names,” Ignacio said.

“Okay. Just go away, then.”

Clifford moved to close the door, but Ignacio blocked it with his foot. He put his hand on the door's face and pushed until it had opened wide enough to reveal Clifford's shirtless body and his long, gangly legs bare beneath the tight swaddling of white cotton briefs. There were some new tattoos on his belly and chest. “I think you and I need to have a little talk,” Ignacio said. “So how about it?”

“Fine. Come in. Whatever.”

The man stepped aside, and Ignacio moved into the front room. Cheap furniture that likely came with the apartment was scattered around, old and plaid. The television was a new flat screen, and Clifford owned a game console. Ignacio swept his gaze around the room, picking up the plastic wrapper on the coffee table that might have held a little crystal, the discarded fast-food bags around the couch, and the wall clock that was stopped at three thirty. The air was stagnant and smelled of smoke. There was a bare pillow on one end of the couch and an indifferently folded sheet. “Really great place you have,” Ignacio said. “I like it.”

Clifford only mumbled and stumbled off to the bedroom. Ignacio circled the room, peering into the dining nook at the table scattered with gun and car magazines, a layer of newspaper, and a half-completed model of a Ford Fairlane. The kitchen was spotless, as if it were never used, though the trash can overflowed with beer bottles.

After a few minutes Clifford returned with clothes thrown over his body, though he was barefoot on the carpet. “This is harassment, man,” he said.

“It isn't harassment yet,” Ignacio said. “Give it time.”

The man flopped down on the couch. He gathered up a pack of cigarettes from between the cushion and the back of the couch and lit a smoke with a lighter from his pocket. “I didn't think I'd ever see you again,” he said.

“I didn't think so, either. You left town in a big hurry and didn't leave a forwarding address,” Ignacio said. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Do what you want.”

“You know, we never did clear that case,” Ignacio said. “The pawnshop. It's still open.”

“That's too bad.”

“Yeah, it is. Because I have to start looking into it again now that my prime suspect's decided to show his face in Miami. You
do
know you're my prime suspect, right?”

Clifford nodded and took a drag. He exhaled through his nose. “I kind of figured.”

“There are still a whole lot of questions. In fact, here's one: what are you doing for money? Because I did some checking, and you haven't filed for income taxes in all the time you were out of town. Which means you never had a legit job. Of course, with what you took from that safe, you could live for four years easy, assuming you didn't spend it all in one place.”

“I didn't take anything from anybody's safe. And I do construction for cash. It pays the bills.”

Ignacio snorted. “Construction? Matt, you weigh a buck fifty soaking wet. I don't see you swinging a hammer for a living.”

“What can I say? I also got a little money from my great-uncle. He died and left me something.”

“Got any record of that?”

Clifford waved vaguely. “I'll ask my secretary to check the files.”

Ignacio wrote on his pad. He felt Clifford watching. “So you're going with the ‘I came into some money' thing, huh?”

“It's the truth. What are you writing?”

“Don't worry about it. Hey, have you seen Sandro or Jackson lately? I've missed those guys. They kind of dropped off the earth, too.”

“Can't say that I have.”

“See, now that's too bad,” Ignacio said.

“What is?”

“I can take you lying to me, Matt, but not about stuff I can check. Like Sandro coming out of your place this morning. Sleeping on your couch. Maybe smoking a little crank with you.”

“I don't smoke crystal anymore.”

“Good for you.” Ignacio poised his pen above the paper. “So let's cut the bullshit and get real, okay? I'm going to ask you questions, and you're going to give me answers. Maybe we can clear up some of what we missed out on four years ago.”

Clifford watched Ignacio through a trickle of smoke. “You can ask,” he said.

“Okay. Let's start.”

C
AMARO SPENT THREE
days running charters in and out of the marina and tried to put Parker and his friend out of her mind. There were other things to do, and she refused to worry, and so the time passed and she was satisfied.

On the fourth day, Parker called to tell her that it was on. “Matt wants to have a meeting first. Everybody on the boat. You can meet us, and we can meet you.”

“Okay. When?”

“Tomorrow night. After dark.”

“When are we going out for the real thing?” Camaro asked.

“Friday night. Is that too soon?”

“It isn't for me if it isn't for you.”

“Good. I'll see you, Camaro.”

She stayed on the boat all of the next day, taking her meals in the cabin. When the sun began to fall, she checked herself. In one boot she kept a karambit, but in the other she holstered a Glock 38. It was a compact pistol chambered in .45 GAP, and it held a single stack of eight rounds. With the leg of her pants down over it, the bulge could barely be seen. If she needed it, it was there.

Behind a panel just inside the cabin was a large first aid kit stocked for serious injury, but there was room enough for more. Here she placed a Mossberg 590 Cruiser, a 12-gauge shotgun with a pistol grip that could be laid diagonally in the space with the panel secured over it. She loaded it with five rounds of double-ought buckshot. Boxes of ammo for pistol and shotgun were located in a compartment below one of the galley seats.

It was not long after dark when she heard the Charger's engine. She took up her spot on the flybridge and saw Parker with his truck beside the yellow-jacket Dodge. Two men got out of the Charger with Matt Clifford. One was built low to the ground, like a piece of earthmoving equipment, and the other was simply big. Matt moved with smooth confidence, chest out and shoulders back. He led the others with his body, trailing them in his wake in eddies.

She waited until they were close before she spoke. “Come on aboard,” she said.

They stepped over the side and onto the back deck. Camaro surveyed them from where she was. The short one was Latino and dark, the big one a ruddy-faced strawberry blond. Parker was with them and apart from them, and she saw in his eyes a needful look she found she did not want to deny.

“You coming down from there?” Matt asked.

Camaro descended to the deck and stood before them. Of the men, only the Latino was eye level with her. Matt stood taller than her by six inches or more, and so did the other. Both tall men leaned in to make themselves larger. She did not step back. “Who are your friends?” she asked.

Matt pointed to the Latino. “Sandro. And this is Jackson.”

“You're all coming along?”

“Yeah. Is that a problem?”

“The boat can handle ten,” Camaro said.

“Good.”

“Parker tells me that you're carrying one man.”

“That's right. One guy.”

“I won't bring this boat into any port,” Camaro said. “That's closer than I'll go.”

“Don't worry about it. The Cubans are going to bring this guy out to us. You won't have to go closer than ten or twelve miles offshore.”

“Where?”

“You have charts?”

“Yeah.”

“Let's see them.”

Camaro and Matt went into the cabin, and Camaro brought charts that marked the coastline of Cuba. She spread them on the galley counter and switched on the overhead lights to shine directly down upon them. Their heads cast shadows as Matt traced his fingers along the land. Camaro glanced away once and saw Parker watching from the outside. She gave him a black look, and he moved off.

“It's here,” Matt said finally. “Right here.”

He showed her a spot about one hundred fifty miles east of Havana, off the place called the Baños de Elguea. There were many little islands off the coast there, but open seas beyond. Camaro marked the distance from shore to the waters beyond. Twelve miles kept her safely clear of the bay. “They can bring him out that far?” she asked.

“Yeah. It's all going to happen out there. They come to us, make the exchange, and we each go our merry ways. Done and done.”

“What about Cuban patrols?”

“The Cubans say they won't be around. They're bribed off the spot for the night.”

“And if they're not?”

“You're an American. What are they going to do except tell you to get the hell out of their waters?” Matt asked. “It's not like they're gonna haul you in.”

Camaro looked at him. “You don't know what they'll do. They could force us to dock in Cuba, they could board us…there are lots of options. If the government in Cuba really doesn't want this guy leaving the country, this could still easily turn into something fast.”

“Well, let's hope that doesn't happen, okay?”

“You hope. I want guarantees.”

Matt straightened up sharply and nearly clipped his head on the ceiling. He ducked and glared and tried to lean into her again. Camaro put up a hand, and he stepped back. “What do you want?” he asked. “They wouldn't be paying us this kind of money if it was a cakewalk! You're getting paid good money to play taxicab, so don't be giving me any static. We go in, we pick the guy up, and we
leave
. No one's going to be boarding anybody.”

Camaro did not raise her voice. “Let's get one thing straight right now: I'm skipper. Not one of your crew. And if you treat me like I am, I'll park this boat halfway to Cuba and push you over the side. Without this boat, you can't go anywhere or do anything. You know it, and
I
know it. So can the shit.”

She could see the retort spinning around inside of him, wanting to be given voice, but Matt's lips merely quivered. In the end he smiled and raised his hands for peace. “Okay, okay. I'm sorry I got a little carried away. It's the stress, you know?”

“Let me talk to Parker.”

“He doesn't—”

Camaro cut him off with a look. The corner of Matt's mouth curled, but he turned away and climbed up to the aft deck. She heard him speaking in low tones to the others, and then Parker descended. “What's up?” he asked.

“Close it,” Camaro said.

Parker shut the wooden door. When he looked at her again, she saw fear. “What is it?” he asked her.

“How solid is this?” Camaro asked. “Is this guy blowing smoke, or is there really going to be a boat out there to meet us?”

“It's going to be there,” Parker said. “Absolutely. This is a done deal.”

“Who are we picking up?”

Parker peeked out through the window in the door. No one was watching. He moved to the counter and spread his hands across the charts. The shadow of his fingers fell on the rendezvous point off the Cuban coast. “I don't know a whole lot. From what Matt tells me, he's some kind of big deal. Maybe he's a Cuban official, maybe he's some rich guy…I don't know. All I
do
know is that these people in Miami are willing to pay top dollar to bring him here. And that's all that matters, right? What the client pays for? Isn't that how you work?”

Camaro stood opposite him. “I keep things together by not letting them get out of hand,” she said. “When I can't handle something, I step back. I get the feeling your friend Matt would step into a nest of rattlesnakes if he thought there was a buck in it. And he'd take all the rest of you with him.”

“It's a good deal,” Parker said, and his voice turned pleading. “Matt says it's easy money, and so far that's true. They gave us fifty grand up front just to sign on. If you want, I can get you the ten thousand right now. Whatever it takes to keep you on board.”

“I'm going to tell you, and I want you to tell your friend,” Camaro said. “Are you listening?”

“Yeah, I'm listening. Whatever you want.”

“As long as you people are on my boat, you do what I say. If I feel like we're going too far, I'll turn around and head back to port. There are a lot of miles between here and Cuba, and that water is full of ships and helicopters and planes and drones and who knows what the hell else. I don't want the money up front. I don't want any money at all if this goes sideways. I'd rather have my boat and my business than your ten thousand.”

“I understand completely.”

“Good. Now go make your friends understand.”

“I will,” Parker said. He reached out and took her hand, but when he saw her face he dropped it. “Sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. Be smart,” Camaro said, and she looked to the charts. “Tell your buddies to leave. I'll be ready when it's time.”