Wood's Wall (11 page)

Jeff leaned forward in the chair, cradling his head in his hands. His world was crumbling around him.

The colonel walked in the door. “Jeff, you in some kind of trouble?”

Jeff starred at the floor as he poured out the whole story. A wave of relief passed though him now that it was in the open. He looked up at the colonel, awaiting his fate.

“Go back to your office and undo what you’ve done. Clean it all up. You’re in luck, I know the sheriff down there in Marathon, served with her for a few years. Think we can probably get her on board, get this figured out. Let me make a call. I’ll come up to your office as soon as I talk to her. Don’t worry.”

Jeff eased back in the chair and stared at the ceiling for a minute before he trusted his shaking legs to get him out the door.

***

Pete sat motionless in the bushes. His feet and knees had gone numb maintaining his position. It was just past daylight and the house was quiet now. His courage had faded as the sun rose. He was resigned to taking what he had to the police and hoping they’d just let him go when the door opened. He watched as the guy Trufante had called Cesar made for the truck, started up, and pulled out of the driveway. As soon as the headlights swung the other way, he sprinted for his car. Wherever the guy was heading, he hoped he could catch up to him. He knew it wasn’t rational, but he was proud of himself for getting this far. 

The truck’s brake lights were visible at the intersection just as Pete pulled out. He accelerated, hoping to make up some ground, and reached the intersection seconds after the truck turned right onto Truman. He waited out the traffic, now confident he’d be able to follow. The truck turned right on First Street and left on Flagler. Jeff stayed as far back as he could, his lone headlight illuminating the way. Ahead of him, the truck turned right on Government and then into Little Hamaca Park. He parked and waited, watching as a pink scooter approached the truck.

***

“That your scooter? Nice ride,” Cesar said through the open window. A gun rested below his thigh just in case the exchange went awry. 

“A friend’s. You have my package?”

“Yeah.” Cesar handed the box through the window.

“You’re not worried about being seen here?” the other guy asked.

Cesar snorted. “Fuck. This is the homeless capital of the universe. The police don’t come near this place after dark.”

“Suit yourself.” Ibrahim took the offered box and examined it. Satisfied, he put it in the basket of the scooter and pulled out.

Cesar exhaled as the window closed. He adjusted the air-conditioning to high, realizing that he was sweating. He put the truck in reverse and pulled out, thankful the exchange was done. 

***

Pete watched the men from the cover of an overgrown hibiscus bush. He’d left the car out of sight as soon as he saw the black truck pull over and followed on foot. Several homeless people snorted at him as he passed their cardboard abodes, but he ignored them. He saw the drug dealer hand the lead box to the guy on the scooter. Hoping the trail was coming to an end, he decided to follow the scooter.

17

 Seven Hundred Eleventh Street was a prestigious address, the top floor of the building even more so. Patel stared past the man at the desk and out the office window taking in the view from the thirteenth and top floor, a partial view of the White House in the distance. The flamboyant wealth displayed by these infidels disgusted him. Although his carefully crafted exterior appearance matched the surroundings, he was different inside. Raised Akim Hullah in Saudi Arabia, he had been sent to the United States to attend college years ago. Remaining after law school, he had climbed the ladder at Davies and Associates, manipulating cases as he could, but mostly, biding his time for something bigger. 

He looked at Bradley Davies, founder and managing partner of Davies and Associates. 

Patel knew the history. Davies had parted ways with the ACLU in the 1980s. He’d shared many of their views but was tired of having his cases shot down. Unable to climb the ladder and reach a coveted seat on the board of directors, where he could pick his own cases, he left. A membership organization, the ACLU was more interested in making political hay than money. Davies and Associates was interested in both, often leaning toward cases that were important but had large damages attached to them. It was the best of both worlds.

“The delivery was lost,” Patel said.

“No big deal. Send out another one.”

“You know how long it took to get that? Those men you say you trust in Florida, if they are captured, will leave behind records.”

“Those guys won’t give up anything. In their culture it’s a badge of honor to keep quiet.”

“Even if they keep quiet. One record. An email. A phone call …”

“Relax. They called here. I am their attorney and represented their leader, Diego years ago. He’s on our client roster. That will ensure attorney - client privilege. He won’t talk.” 

They were interrupted by Patel’s phone. He listened intently, using his free hand to signal to Davies that he needed something to write with. Pad in hand, he wrote out an address. 

“We have a lead. The man got away, but this is the address.”

Davies looked at the pad. It took a minute for it to register. He’d seen this address on countless overnight envelopes over the last few months. This was where Mel was staying. When he dialed, her phone went straight to voicemail. 

“Interesting. Somehow one of my attorneys is mixed up in this.”

Patel looked at him accusingly. “Melanie?”

Davies nodded. 

“Simple, then. Get her to get it back.”

“Not so simple. Currently she’s more loyal to that boyfriend of hers than to me.”

“There are other ways,” Patel said. “Tell me about this man. Can we use him as leverage to get her to cooperate?”

“Name’s Travis, Mac Travis. Been down there for years living off the land in typical Keys fashion. Strong minded guy, just like her father. This guy is invisible. I’ve had a PI run down the basic stuff on him, and the numbers don’t add up. He’s pulling in a marginal income fishing and doing commercial dive work, but it doesn’t add up. He pays his taxes, but has no bank accounts. He paid cash for his house and boat. That’s probably five hundred thousand for the house and another two for the boat.” Davies summarized. He had acquired the information in an effort to get Travis to testify, now it served another purpose. “What do you have in mind?”

“FISA warrants are rubber stamps. Get one on him. It’ll turn up something.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Emails and phone records.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

18

Mac pulled back on the throttles and looked over his shoulder as the boat backed up to an empty dock by Fifty-First Street. Sue ran over to the seawall as Mac and Mel helped Trufante over the transom and onto the dock.

“Patch him up and keep him at your place.” Mac was on the dock holding the boat with one line. “No hospital, no police. I guess you know the drill.”

“Do you look for trouble or does it just find you?” She asked both men. “I don’t know if he keeps me around because he likes me or because I can fix him.”

Trufante grabbed her ass, answering her question. 

“Here.” She handed Mac a phone. “You owe me fifty for it. I put my cell number in. Let me know when it’s safe.”

“Thanks. Take care of him.” 

Mac jumped back on the boat, took the helm, and handed the phone to Mel. They watched Sue take Trufante to her car and waited for her to pull out before they moved. Then Mac put the boat in gear and headed out toward Boot Key Harbor. They rode in silence, waiting for open water before they started talking. Mac bit his lip. Mel wasn’t going to like what he had to say. 

As usual, Mel beat him to the punch. “I assume you’re not going back to your place. Go ahead, spit it out. What are you two in now?“

He put up a cautionary hand. “Sound does strange things in these canals, and you never know who’s staying aboard one of these boats” He cocked his head to the seawall, which was lined with boats. “Seas are down, I’m gonna head out to the lighthouse and anchor up on a mooring buoy over night. We can talk when we get out there.”

He idled past the condos and hotels backing on the seawall. Boats were anchored along it, some with lights on, muted conversation barely audible. He turned left into the mangrove-lined canal leading to Sisters Creek, and hit the throttle. Five minutes later, the boat was in open water, running smoothly toward the lighthouse. Once there, he tied off to one of the mooring balls —frequented by tourist and dive charters during the day but mostly vacant at night. The closest boat was a quarter mile away, and he thought they’d be safe.

Swallowing heavily, he went down to talk to Mel.

***

“What the hell, Mac, what are you mixed up in now?”

“It’s Trufante. He came to me with this box, part of one of his drug deals. Some tourists were out fishing and hooked a square grouper. They took it thinking they were gonna get rich and now it’s snowballed. There were fifty bricks: forty nine coke and one different. It was a lead box soldered shut.” He had her attention now. “I started small, but ended up cutting it open. It was loaded with plutonium, looked like weapons grade stuff. I repackaged it with some industrial material from an old compaction tester. It’s radioactive, but harmless compared to the other stuff. I put the box back in the safe. I think I must have left it open when you came down last night. Anyway, I don’t know what the deal was with those guys and the women, but it doesn’t take much to guess that it has to do with that box. They must have tortured Tru, got him to admit that the box was at my house. That’s all I know.”

“So the Hispanic guy is gone? With a box of …”

“It’s harmless now. Hopefully that’ll buy us some time.”

“Where’s the real stuff?”

Mac went forward and came back with the lead coated ball. He went to hand it to her, but she recoiled.

“Now what?”

“Tomorrow I’m taking this to a spot I know and stashing it ‘till we can figure out what’s going on here.”

“Have you called Jules?” She gave him her lawyer look. “You promised.”

“Yeah I know, I’ll call now.” He picked up the burner phone Sue had left. “Wish I had my phone now.”

“That’s a good one.” She laughed and headed towards the cabin.

 He stayed on deck, calling information and then the sheriff’s office. The dispatcher said that Jules was out. He left a message and set the phone down. 

 Sleep was not even close and alcohol was not the answer tonight. Too much to figure out. He sat on the deck and watched the sky, waiting for the sun to rise.

***

“Sheriff Whitman.” Jules answered, golf club resting on her hip.

“Jules, Dave Rayburn. Been forever.”

“Yeah, it has. What can I do for you?” Julie Whitman had been sheriff of this corner of paradise long enough to know that most calls from old friends were for favors.

“Got a guy that works for me in some big-time trouble down there.”

Whitman’s attitude changed at that. Trouble was her specialty. “Tell me what you have.”

Rayburn told her everything he knew. She was silent as he told of the fake transfer and abduction. When he was done, the line was silent. “Jules?”

“I’m here, just thinking. Can you get him down here fast? I need this firsthand.”

“I can put him on the puddle jumper to Key West. Be there about one o’clock.”

“That’s fine. Tell him I’ll pick him up there. That’ll give me some time to figure this out. One more thing. I need the address of the house they were staying at.”

“I’ll get him on the plane and text it to you. Listen, he’s a good guy. Think he’s just mixed up in a dirty deal. Any help I can give you, just call. I’ll do whatever I can.”

“You got it. I’ll keep you posted.”