Mortal Dilemma (34 page)

“What happened to her?”

“Francisco killed her. It was an accident. She wanted to leave the life and he didn't want her to. There was a fight and I guess Francisco hit her too hard. She died.”

“Was her body in the boat that exploded near the port?”

“Yes. Francisco was taking her body out to sea to dump it.”

“Was Francisco aboard the boat?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what caused the explosion?”

“Yes. The man who owns the boat is a drug runner. He had some cocaine stashed on the boat. He'd just made a run from Bimini bringing the stuff in. He'd off-loaded most of it, but there was some left on the boat for delivery to another dealer. That deal was supposed to go down late on the day Francisco decided to steal the boat to take Penny's body offshore. The boat owner had wired some semtex explosive to a cell phone and hid it in the boat. It could be detonated by a phone call. It was the guy's security system. If somebody stole his boat, he could dial a number, and poof, the boat and the thief would disappear.”

“So, when he saw his boat was gone, he dialed the number and no more Francisco.”

“Right.”

“Where's the guy now?”

“Javier wrapped some anchors around his neck and dropped him in the Gulfstream.”

“You're doing good. Now tell me about Millie Magnus.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Wally shot the detective through his right foot. The man screamed.

“Want to try again, Detective?”

“Yes.” He was talking through gritted teeth. “I know her. What do you want?”

“How did you figure out she was my source?”

“I staked out your house and saw her come there. I followed her home to her townhouse and got the address. I also got some pictures of her. I gave them to Javier. He knew exactly who she was.”

“What happened then?”

“I don't know.”

Wally aimed the pistol at the detective's left foot. “I've got lots of bullets,” he said.

“No. I'd tell you if I knew. Javier paid me off and said he'd take care of her.”

“What did you think he meant?”

“I figured he was going to kill her. It didn't matter. She was just a whore.”

Wally shot the detective through the head. It was the first time he'd ever killed a man. He waited for the horror of his actions to overwhelm him. Nothing. Satisfaction was as close as he could come to describing the emotion that he did feel. The bastard he'd just sent on to whatever reward or punishment awaited him had sealed his fate when he fingered Millie to Javier.

Wally unlocked his handcuffs and put them in his pocket. He pulled the detective's body over to the bank and rolled it into the water. The gators would have a snack tonight.

*    *    *

Over the next few days, Wally heard rumors around the station that the detective was missing. The consensus was that he was dirty and had run afoul of his underworld bosses. He was probably tied to an anchor at the bottom of the Atlantic. Then, two weeks after the detective disappeared, two dour men from Internal Affairs came to visit Wally at his apartment. They had heard rumblings that the detective had been instrumental in giving Javier Mendez the identity of one of Wally's confidential sources. What could he tell them about that?

Wally shook his head. “I gave the detective some information I got
from a confidential source regarding the death of Francisco Mendez, but I didn't tell him the source's name.”

“What was his or her name?”

“I can't give you that.”

“We can make life hard for you,” the IA detective said.

“I know my rights, Detective,” Wally said. “I don't have to give you a name.”

“We'll be seeing you again, Officer,” the IA detective said and left with his partner.

The rumors didn't stop and Wally was slowly ostracized from the police brotherhood. He couldn't be fired on what IA had, but other cops began to ignore him and go out of their way to snub him. He was never invited to the after-hours drinking parties at a local bar. He was becoming a pariah, but he didn't care.

Wally took two of his days off and drove to Tampa where he'd heard of a master forger. For three thousand dollars, he walked out with wonderfully forged ID documents including passports and active credit cards in the names of two different people.

A few weeks later, Wally used one of the fake IDs and took a flight to the Cayman Islands. He lay on a beach for five days, drinking piña coladas and enjoying the solitude. On the third day, late in the morning, he appeared at a bank in George Town that he had previously looked into and was satisfied that it would suit his needs. He opened a secret numbered account with five thousand dollars in cash and a fake ID and passport.

Two days later, Wally used the other fake ID and flew to Nassau, Bahamas. He checked into a gambling resort and stayed three days. He visited another bank and opened another numbered account with the second fake ID, using the last of his savings. Then, he went home.

*    *    *

Another month went by, and Wally decided it was time to strike. Time for Javier Mendez to pay for his sins. Wally knew the location of the Mendez mansion, a great pile of excess that one architectural reviewer had called a spectacle of inelegance overcome by self-indul-gent profligacy.

On the night he chose to bring retribution to the Mendez household, Wally parked his personal car a block down the street from the eyesore in which Mendez lived. He had watched the place for two weeks and every evening at that time, Mendez's limousine had rolled down the driveway precisely at seven o'clock with Mendez in the back seat. He was driven to a nondescript building two miles away. Wally knew the building housed an upscale private club that was frequented by the cream of the South Florida underworld. The Mendez limousine left the club at precisely 8:50 each evening and turned into his home's driveway at exactly 9:00. It was ritualistic, Wally thought.

Wally sat and waited and when the limousine turned the corner into Mendez's street, he followed, lights out, and turned into the driveway behind the big vehicle. The driver had gotten out of the car and was moving around to the passenger side rear door to open it for Mendez when he noticed Wally's car. He stopped, and Wally shot him dead with a silenced forty-five-caliber semiautomatic pistol. He then went to the limo, opened the rear door and stuck his pistol into the side of Mendez's head.

“Get out, nice and quiet,” Wally said.

“What is this?” Mendez asked.

“We need to do a little negotiation.”

“My men are inside. They'll kill you on sight.”

“Javier,” Wally said, “you're not in any position to bargain right now. Here's what we're going to do. You call or whistle or whatever you do to contact the men inside and you tell them to come outside. Right now. All of them.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because, if you don't, I'm going to shoot you and leave your body right here in the driveway.”

“I'll have to use my phone.”

“Okay, but if anything looks the least little bit out of the ordinary, you die. They might get me in the end, but you'll be dead.”

“I understand,” Javier said, and made the call.

In less than a minute, two men came out the back door and walked down the driveway. Wally shot them both.

“Are there any more?” Wally asked.

“No. Just the two.”

“Get out of the car. You're going in the trunk of your limo. I'll be back to get you in a few minutes.” He handcuffed Mendez's arms behind his back and helped him into the trunk.

Wally backed his car out of the driveway, drove two blocks and parked. He'd taken the precaution of replacing his license plate with one he'd stolen earlier in the evening from a car of the same make and model as his that he found parked in the long-term parking garage at the airport. Even if the car was reported as having been seen in the neighborhood, it would not be connected to him.

He took a backpack from his car and walked back to the Mendez home. He opened the limo trunk for Javier, and said, “We're going inside. If there are any more people there, you will die immediately. Understand?”

Javier nodded. “There were only the two you killed. They were good men. Who sent you?”

“Let's go to your study. You do have one, don't you?”

Mendez led him into a richly appointed room lined with bookshelves full of books that Wally thought had never been read. Wally placed Mendez in a chair and said, “Millie Magnus sent me.”

Mendez blanched, then caught himself and sputtered. “That whore.”

“Yes. That whore. The one you carved up like a side of cheap beef. Time to pay up.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to wire ten million dollars into a bank account in Nassau.”

“Where am I going to get ten million dollars?”

“Don't bullshit me, Javier. You've got that much in your checking account.”

“The banks are closed.”

“The Internet is open.”

“I couldn't transfer that much even if I had it.”

“Javier, you're not cooperating. That will get you killed. I know your bank. It's mobbed up to the hilt. What you're going to do is call the manager and then you're going to use your computer to get into your account and transfer the money. The manager can send a signal to the bank's computers that will approve the transfer.”

“I'm not going to do that.”

Wally pulled a knife out of the scabbard attached to his belt. He put the point of it against Javier's cheek and sliced downward. Blood flowed and Mendez screamed. “Does that hurt, Javier?”

Mendez nodded.

“Want another one?” Wally asked.

“No.”

“Make the call.”

Mendez shook his head. Wally sliced him again. Mendez screamed in pain and shuffled in his chair, trying desperately to get away from the knife.

“Make the call,” Wally said.

Mendez nodded and Wally asked for the number.

“Use my cell. It's in my pocket. The bank president's name is Cal Hoover. His home number is in my phone's contact list.”

Wally retrieved the number and pushed the call button and put it on speaker. “Any funny stuff, Javier, and I'll slit your throat.”

Mendez nodded. A man answered the phone. “Cal, this is Javier Mendez. I have an emergency and need to transfer some money to Nassau tonight. Can you authorize an Internet transfer?”

“How much.”

“Ten million dollars.”

“That's a lot of money.”

“I've got a lot of product coming in,” Javier said.

“Okay, my friend. Give me about five minutes and I can get into the computer and set it up. I need the wiring instructions.”

Wally held up a piece of paper with the routing number of the bank and his account number. Mendez repeated it into the phone.

“Give me five minutes,” the banker said.

“Thanks, Cal. Talk to you later.” Wally touched the off button on the phone.

“That was real good, Javier. I hope there wasn't some hidden code in there somewhere. Not if you want to live another day.”

Five minutes later, Wally pulled a small notebook computer from his backpack and fired it up. Javier gave him the user ID and password to get into his bank account and another password to transfer the money. Wally had gotten a towel from and adjacent bathroom and given it to Javier to stem the bleeding from his face. He released one wrist from the handcuffs and attached the other cuff to the leg of the chair.

Wally waited for ten minutes, and then called the number the bank manager in Nassau had given him. The banker assured him the money was in his account. Wally told him to withdraw one hundred thousand dollars for his efforts and wire the rest of the money to the Cayman Island account.

“The money transferred, Javier. Thanks.” Wally shot him through the head and left the house.

*    *    *

The next morning, Wally called the president of the bank in the little town in Wisconsin where Millie lived. “Good morning, sir,” he said. “My name is Richard Wright. I'm an attorney in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, and I've settled a personal injury case for one of your clients, Millicent Smith. I need to wire a substantial amount of money to her account and need to make sure of your routing number.”

The president recited the number and then asked, “May I ask the amount of the wire?”

“Five million dollars. She had a substantial injury with a lot of facial scars.”

“Yes. I've known Millicent most of her life. I'm sure she will be well taken care of. Do you need her account number?”

“Thank you. I already have it.” He hung up and sent wiring instructions to the Cayman Island Bank, using Millie's account number from the check he'd pilfered from her checkbook that day in the hospital. He left his rented apartment, taking nothing with him, and never showed up at the police department again.

*    *    *

The man with the water came back. “You're sick,” he said.

Wally nodded.

“With what?”

“Pancreatic cancer.”

“How long have you got?”

“What's today?”

“Thursday, November sixth.”

“I saw the doctor yesterday. He said I've got a week, maybe less.”

“You in pain?”

“Yes.”

“What do you take for it?”

“Morphine's the only thing that touches it.”

“I'll be back.”

In a few minutes the man returned with another bottle of water and a small container with two pills. Wally swallowed the pills and thanked the man, who nodded and left the room.

*    *    *

Wally was drifting on a cloud, his pain manageable, his thoughts scattering again. He hadn't meant to end up working for a bunch of terrorists. He'd gotten involved with Frank Thomason when he'd stumbled into Frank's out-of-the-way gambling den in Atlantic City. Wally was living on the money he'd extorted from Javier Mendez, but it was starting to run low. After a few drinks and some roundabout talk, Frank offered Wally a job, first as a bartender and later as an enforcer.