Payback

[Robbie C.]

Total, screaming rough draft but I wanted to get it out there...

The knife was inches from his face when Martin Castillo snapped awake. Moonlight turned the blade into a glittering laser and then it was gone, the dream ending as soon as his eyes flared open. His ears searched the blackness, picking up buzzing insects and the steady beat of his own heart. The room was empty.

It wasn't the first time he'd been visited by the dream, and Martin knew it wouldn't be the last. He could feel cold sweat on his chest under the single cotton sheet, but his own sense of control refused to let him move. Not until his pulse slowed. He moved his eyes to take in the room, moonlight streaming through shuttered windows in ragged spears painting everything silver and white. He knew each shadow, and they were all where they should be. Air hissed in and out of his lungs, moving through his nose in a calming routine. They hadn't gotten him in the mountains of Cuba, the jungles of Laos, or Vietnam's Delta region. Maybe Florida would be his undoing.

Satisfied, Castillo sat up, letting the sheet fall away and the night air attempt to dry his skin. The dream came more frequently now that they'd taken down Frank, but at least now it was just the knife. He didn't see the girls anymore. So he sat on the Japanese sleeping mat he preferred to a bed and listened to the night. Waiting for the last bits of the dream to fade.

As he listened to the waking birds and trilling bugs outside, he wondered if he'd ever really get away from the jungle. His house, a Japanese transplant in the middle of South Florida's fake Taras and misplaced Mission-style mansions, sat back from the road on the edge of one of the many inland waterways. Lost in the trees unless you knew where to look. It reminded him of mountain huts in Laos with the thick Mekong Delta air thrown in for good measure. A perfect home for a man with no home.

The wood grips of his big Smith & Wesson Model 29 felt cool under his palm when the bird noises changed. He slipped from the bed without a sound, black shorts little more than a shadow across his lean brown body. Whoever was out there was alone, and moving fast. He was through the back door in a handful of heartbeats, and moving around the side of the house before the shadow reached the front porch. Moonlight sparked off a rifle barrel, and Castillo felt his pistol's trigger under his finger. The challenge was automatic. “Hold it right there.”

The man's rifle came up as he turned, following his eyes as he strained to see though the darkness. The click of a safety coming off was almost lost in the reply. “Hey, man. I'm outa gas back there. Need to use your phone.”

“Drop the rifle. Now.” Martin's finger tightened on the trigger, knowing what was coming next.

“No chance.” Whatever else he'd wanted to say was lost in the boom of the big Smith & Wesson.

 

By the time the meat wagon and escorting patrol cars arrived, Martin Castillo was wearing his trademark black suit. The crumpled body lay where it had fallen, flies buzzing around the gaping hole in its chest. Aside from kicking the rifle away he'd avoided the body.

Sonny Crockett and Ricardo Tubbs had made the drive, but Martin noticed they'd taken Tubbs' Cadillac. Wise choice. The road out here would have shredded that Ferrari. He nodded to his two top detectives. “Crockett. Tubbs.”

“Who's the chump, lieutenant?”

“I was hoping you could tell me, detective.”

Crockett circled the body, his white blazer stark against the house's dark walls. “He's got one of those Mini-14s with the folding stocks, but I'd bet the numbers are gone. Pockets are empty, and we didn't pass any cars on the way in.”

“I never heard a car. They dropped him and he walked in.”

Tubbs nodded slowly. “Makes sense. And when he didn't come back or they heard that cannon go off they headed for the hills.”

“No ID or money, lieutenant. Nothing but an extra magazine for the rifle.” Crockett turned away from the body, fixing his eyes on the lieutenant who never seemed to sweat. “He's a professional.”

“I never doubted that.” Martin let his gaze shift from one man to the other. “The real question is why is he here?”

“Pissed anyone off lately?” Tubbs chuckled. “Wait, let me guess. It's more who haven't you pissed off.” Then his eyes changed. “Could this be some kind of payback for that nutjob we took down? The brother with the knife?”

“No.” Martin's voice was firm, but deep down he wasn't totally sure. He doubtedthe Company was coming after him for that, but you could never be sure. Still...this wasn't their style. Too messy. Too public. “No,” he repeated more for himself than his two top detectives. “It wasn't them.”

Crockett watched the crew roll the body onto a stretcher and then feed it into the back of the wagon. “KGB, maybe? I expect they still want to settle up for that little set-to we had.”

Tubbs shook his head. “No way they'd send just one dude. Not after what the lieutenant did to their guys last time. They'd come in with a whole crew.”

“Tubbs is right. It wouldn't just be one man.” Martin saw the state trooper lurking back in the shadows, a notebook open in his hand. “You two get back to OCB. I need to do the initial shooting report. Get the team together and ready to brief their ongoing cases. This might not be about me.” As he watched the two head back to Tubbs' car, Martin Castillo suppressed a sigh. He knew it was about him. He just wasn't sure what part of him it was about.

The trooper smiled apologetically. “Sorry about this, lieutenant.”

“It's the job.” Martin decided to make it easy on the man.

“Name, rank, and agency?”

Name. Now that was a loaded question. Half truth and half lie. “Martin Castillo. Lieutenant. OCB, Metro Dade Police Department.” Martin was his name, given years ago in a small dirt-floored hut in the hills north of Havana. Given, he remembered being told, in honor of a grandfather who'd been a professor. The half-lie was Castillo. His pre-Revolution gift from the CIA when they got him out of the country ahead of Castro's take-over. His real last name buried in the dirt floor of that hut.

“How did you...”

“I heard a noise outside and investigated. He threatened me with his weapon and I defended myself.”

“Do you know him? Recognize him at all?”

“No.”

“So this was random? A break-in gone bad?”

“I don't know.” Martin had discarded that angle right away. The man had no tools, and there had been recognition on his face when he was bringing up the rifle. He at least knew what I looked like.“I doubt it, though. He had no tools I could see.”

It went on for another ten minutes. In the end the trooper snapped his notebook shut and shook his head. “We'll run his prints through and see what comes up. Funny that he didn't have a car, though. Dude don't look like someone who runs the swamps. Your Metro Dade boys might have some questions as well. I'll be sending my report over.”

“Thanks.” Martin gave him a short, crisp handshake and turned back to the house. He shoved the dead man's eyes back into his dark corner. It was time to go to work.

 

He swung the big Ford into his normal parking space, like he did every morning. Thanks to the call out he knew Crockett and Tubbs were already there, and they would have called in the rest of the team. Martin shook his head, shutting off the car and adjusting his sun glasses. The team. He'd worked alone for most of his professional life, and having a team was different. Difficult in its own way. But after three years they were more like his family. Theyare my familyhe corrected himself, locking the car and heading into the bland building marked Gold Coast Shipping. There's no one else left.

The squad room was empty, and Martin knew they'd be waiting for him in the conference room. He was worried about Switek, though he couldn't let it show. Only a few months had passed since Larry Zito's murder, and Martin knew from experience how hard it could be to find your partner's body. Stan came back to work quick enough, maybe too quick. He'd bear watching.

They were sitting around the table when he walked through the door. Crockett and Tubbs across from each other at the head as usual, with Gina and Trudy a bit further down wearing last night's street clothes. Stan sat at the very end, looking like a forgotten child waiting for his mother to pick him up after school. Or one of the orphans sitting by the side of the road watching American convoys roll past. Castillo pinched the bridge of his nose to banish the images. “You've been told?”

“We briefed them, lieutenant.” Crockett sounded all business.

“We're just glad you're ok.” It was Trudy who said it. Always Trudy, putting into words what others might not.

“I need to know about your current cases. See if there's anything there that might have triggered this.”

“Tubbs and I are still working the Mendozas. Strictly small time so far.”

“Yeah, mon. I can't get them to offer up more than a kilo.”

“Trudy and I are looking into reports of a new pimp working close to the Overton,” Gina said, looking down at her note pad. “New place, new guy. At most he's got two or three girls and doesn't seem to be making any fast moves.”

“And I'm stuck with running a sting at that pawn shop over by Flamingo.” Stan tugged at his shirt and snorted. “That new kid from tech services is doing ok, but...”

“Thank you.” Martin cut him off, but gave one of his thin smiles to show it was nothing personal. “So nothing that might generate a hit on any of these cases?”

“No way, lieutenant.” Tubbs' voice rang with certainty. “That leaves the question...who would come after you?”

“I don't know.” And Martin didn't. Not yet, at least. “It's been quiet since we took out Frank. Detective Zito's killers are out as well.”

“Did that Lao Li have any relatives?” Stan spoke softly, not looking up. “He doesn't seem the forgiving type to me.”

“Or that chump Menton? Some of those clowns at the Agency have long memories.”

“No. Lao Li's people wouldn't send a round-eye with a Mini-14.” Crockett spoke now. “And Menton's a spook in prison. An ex-spook in prison. He's dead to them. For them it's the cost of doing business.”

“Crockett's right. This wasn't the Agency, and I doubt it had anything to do with Lao Li or his people. Not directly.” Martin folded his hands over each other and looked down at the table. He knew they assumed he knew who had tried to kill him, and it bothered him that he didn't. He'd make a call or two and see what shook out. “Get back to your cases. I'm going to make a few calls. But be careful. This might be about more than me.”

Castillo kept his office dim and uncluttered. A desk, chair, phone, and a few books placed more for show than use was all he needed. His watch told him it was mid-afternoon, but he hadn't left the office since the meeting. Mostly he'd been on the phone, making or taking calls depending on what was required. But the whole time he'd been thinking. Running through the files in his head trying to find pieces to put together.

A light rap on the door shattered his focus, and Trudy stuck her head in. “Sorry to bother you, lieutenant, but the state boys got a hit on the shooter's prints. He had more aliases than Tubbs has names in his little black book, but his parents called him Dougie Collier. Did a few years in the Army. Dishonorable discharge back in '82, and he's been in and out of trouble ever since. A few ties to the Neo-Nazi crowd, but nothing major.”

“Thank you.” Martin looked up, seeing the light in her eyes. It triggered a memory he hurried to bury. “Come in a minute. I need to ask you something.”

“What is it?” She sat in the chair in front of his desk, her thick dark hair loose around her face.

“How's Detective Switek? I know he talks to you more than the others.”

“He's...” She closed her eyes for a moment. “He's hanging in there, lieutenant. He and Larry were really close, and to find him like that...” Her voice trailed away. “It almost killed him. But he's tough. More than they give him credit for, I mean. He's still not talking much to Sonny, though.”

“I know.” Martin shared a thin smile. “Switek isn't like Crockett and Tubbs. But he's a good detective. He can go places they can't, hear things they can't. Just like you and Gina. Detective Zito was his balance, and I need to know if he's out of balance.” He could see she was getting nervous. “That's all. Let me know if anything changes. And get that name to Crockett and Tubbs. Have them work the streets a bit. Maybe Collier was trying to move up in the world.”

 

“You're sure you've never heard the name?” Martin kept his voice even, listening to the man on the other end of the line let his breath out in a hiss.

“No, Marty. Swear to God. He's not one of ours. Hell, we don't like using those Nazi goofs.” Ryan worked with ATF now, but in the bad old days he'd done a bit of Company work. He kept his ears open and for the most part Castillo trusted him. Mostly.

“Thank you.” Martin hung up and let his shoulders sag. Ryan had been his last phone hope. The other people he needed to talk to were harder to find, difficult to meet, and never used phones. He knew it would be easier if he had any ideawhysomeone was trying to kill him. No, he thought, correcting himself. It's more who than why. The whys are almost endless. In some ways the other list was almost endless as well.

It could be Cuba, after all these years. But they'd have to find his name, and that was next to impossible. No, it wasimpossible. His old name was gone, and the man who'd created the new one died on a forgotten beach on the island of Martin's birth, leading dreamers in a fight they were destined to lose. There were no other records. No files. Just Martin Castillo with a US passport and birth certificate. And they'd shut down Zamora's band of thugs hard enough no one was still around to be thinking of revenge from that angle.

The Russians? Castillo leaned back in his chair, feeling the weight of years on his shoulders. He doubted the Russians would be coming after him. He'd annoyed them a time or two, mostly in his past life, but they had bigger worries these days. That and they'd never send just one shooter. The Company was out for the same reason. The CIA would never try to square things with one white trash shooter.

Vietnam or Laos. He had ghosts without number from those dark jungles, and Thailand as well. So many years of his life had been given to those jungles. So many things gone with no trace. Menton and Lao Li were both in Federal prison, but he didn't doubt the reach of either man. Still...it didn't feel right for Lao Li. The old general would be far more particular in the men he sent after Castillo. Menton was another story, but Martin wasn't sure the renegade ex-CIA man would lift a finger without Lao Li's approval.

 

Out in the squad room Tubbs stared at the glass insert of Castillo's office door. “He hasn't come out of there since the briefing.”

Crockett looked up from his desk. “So? We've got a meet with that goofball Noogie in half an hour. You ready for Miami's entry in the space race?”

“You're telling me you're not worried?”

“About Castillo?” Crockett shook his head. “Not a chance, pal. He can take care of himself pretty damned well from what I can see.”

“Sure. Until he can't.” Tubbs sighed. “I know he didn't ask, and he'd just get pissed if we asked, but why don't we take a look into some of this for him? For starters, who would send a Nazi after Marty? You I'd understand.”

“One deal with Kern and you think I'm Hitler.” Crockett smiled and closed the file he'd been reading. “But yeah, it won't hurt to make a call or two. Trudy said he wants us to shake some trees about this Collier guy. Noogie isn't likely to know squat, but I bet he knows someone who might.”

 

The sun had died a red death in the Caribbean by the time Castillo turned on to the dirt road leading to his house. As soon as he left the pavement he shut off the Ford's headlights, easing the car to a stop and allowing his eyes to adjust to the moonlight filtering through the trees. He drove the rest of the way blacked out, shutting off the car and letting it coast the last few yards to the parking pad. After the events of the morning he figured it was worth playing it safe.

His house was one of Martin's few indulgences. Set back from the water, it wouldn't look out of place in an upscale neighborhood on the outskirts of Tokyo. Walking in, he stood in the moonlight streaming through the wide windows for a moment. Letting it cleanse his soul as he breathed in the essence of the place. Only then did he turn on a light.

Years spent in Southeast Asia had left its mark. Martin knew many of his colleagues considered his habits odd at best. Even when he was with the CIA in the early '60s he'd heard the whispers about his 'going native.' They'd accelerated after he'd married May Ying, and her reported death hadn't silenced them. They followed him to the DEA, and later to Metro Dade. The corner of his mouth twitched at a memory, and Martin slipped off his black suit coat and hung it on a wall hook. He'd never cared what they said or thought. For a man with no country, the routines and spirits of Southeast Asia had led him to comfort and a peace he'd found nowhere else.

He made tea in the dim glow of the lone light, sipping it on his deck looking out over the water. The salt of the ocean bit his nose, and he let the cool breeze wash over him. Now, with the city scrubbed away, he could really think.

His team would be working his shooting in addition to their own cases. He knew that, and didn't fight it. They'd work it even if he ordered them not to. But they only knew a fraction of what lay behind Martin Castillo, and if the order came from one of those ghosts they'd likely find nothing. Raising his cup, he forced himself to focus on the scent of the tea, the warmth as it touched his lips, the smooth bite as it crossed his tongue. Centering his being on that one cup. That was when his mind did its best work.

Larry Zito. The name flashed in front of his eyes, followed by the dead detective's thin face framed by straggly dark hair. Martin remembered his failures with a sharp, brilliant clarity, and Zito was the most recent. A routine case gone horribly wrong. He'd let Crockett's desire for revenge get out of hand, and then had to cover for the buffoons from IAD when they tried to class Zito's death as an OD. The whole mess had cost him a fine detective, possibly two if Switek didn't bounce back, and he wasn't sure if Switek would ever really trust Crockett again. All because he hadn't reined Crockett in from the beginning.

He was worried about Trudy, too. Letting another sip of tea warm his throat, he thought about his two female detectives. Gina was solid enough, still in love with Crockett though he'd long since moved on, but solid. Trudy...Trudy had the makings of a top detective. One of the best. But Zito's death had hit her hard. Martin wasn't sure why, and that bothered him. Zito and Trudy hadn't been close, so it wasn't that. Maybe it was because she saw what Crockett's recklessness could cause. He just knew he had to get her through it. Whatever it was.

Martin took a last look at the ocean. The breeze rattled the yellow police tape still marking the side of his house, scattering his thoughts. The tea was gone, and his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten yet. A simple bowl of noodles would complement his mood. Leaving Trudy's image on the deck, he turned and walked back into the house.

 

Music blared from the club's open door, and Tubbs saw Crockett cringe. “How can they listen to that crap?”

“Hey, pal, if I have to meet with Noogie, you can listen to his music.” Tubbs grinned and headed for the door. “You know that chump gives me a rash.”

Rizzo's was a bottom-rung strip club in one of the parts of town trying and failing to climb out of the gutter. The girls were mostly fake, from their hair to their tans to their tits, but the average Rizzo's patron was too drunk or high to notice or care. And after his last failed attempt at making it into music by breaking into a recording studio, and his parole officer telling him one more arrest would send him straight to Radford, Noogie Lamont traded it all in for a job as Rizzo's star DJ. All that flashed through Tubbs' brain as he made his entrance, seeing the main blonde dancer had roots blacker than Calderone's heart and tits faker than a TV evangelist's smile. What might have been the Rolling Stones basted out of overdriven, blown speakers as she finished a half-hearted turn on the pole and sent her bikini top spinning over the heads of the drunken crowd. Then he heard the voice.

“Give it up for Amy and her Guns! That's it! Give it UP! The Noog-man's takin' a quick break for some lubrication, which Amy don't need, an' then we'll be back with more hits and tits!”

“Shoot me now,” Tubbs muttered to Crockett. “Do we have to meet with this chump?”

“You know we do, Rico. He's got an in with the Mendozas.”

“He says he does, at least.”

“He works in a strip club. The Mendozas' money man has a thing for strippers. Noogie might actually have the goods this time.”

Tubbs shook his head, letting Crockett lead the way to the space behind the DJ's raised booth. It didn't take much for two men in suits to move through the sweaty crowd; Rizzo's regulars knew that trouble wore suits and tried to stay clear. It might have helped that Tubbs, as Cooper, had punched out a low-level dealer two weeks before, and the week before that Crockett had done his best Burnett on another dealer's face.

“Burnett! Cooper! What it is? You come by to see some of the Noog-man's primo box? Shake your bills while they shake their tails?” Noogie was wearing bright purple sunglasses with green-tinted lenses and a tie-dyed shirt that might have fit a six year old. His pants looked like spray-painted leather.

“Not tonight, Noogie. Cooper and I are more interested in business.”

“Aw...not even Bouncin' Betty over there?”

“Especially not Bouncing Betty.” Tubbs narrowed his eyes, fighting the urge to slap the glasses off Noogie's face. “We'll make this quick.”

“You got anything for us on that man we were after?”

Tubbs stopped listening as Noogie launched into his routine. Crockett would get the fine points. He was watching the crowd, checking for threats. But once Crockett finished and started to turn, Tubbs remembered. “You know a cat named Dougie Collier?”

Noogie's mouth stuck open. “What that you say? Dougie C? He don't run with me, 'cause I'm da black man an' he don't dig da black man. He da white man. But I knows a man who run wit dat man.”

“Who?” It took all Tubbs' self-control to keep from driving his fist through Noogie's flashing white teeth.

“My man Izzy! Man who knows everyone! And now if you gentlemen will excuse me, the Noog-man's gotta spin so they can spin, if you get what I'm sayin'.”

Back on the street, Tubbs rubbed his eyes. “Please just shoot me now. At least tell me you got something on Mendoza's banker.”

“Sure did.” Crockett chuckled. “While you were lookin' at the merchandise, partner, I was working. He said Mendoza's boy will be in tomorrow night. He's got a thing for some tall redhead. Comes in every night she dances. And he thinks Izzy knows the guy who took a shot at Castillo?”

“Either that or Izzy knows someone who does. And why is it every time we talk to that chump he's in a strip club? And don't tell me it's because of Annie.”

“Who knows? But now we gotta go find Cuba's gift to Miami.” Crockett turned toward the Ferrari.

Tubbs followed, still trying to get Noogie's shrill voice out of his head. It still didn't make sense that Izzy would know how to find a neo-Nazi, but he'd also learned through painful experience that the Cuban refugee didseem to know everyone in the greater Miami area. Settling into the Ferrari, he waited until Crockett had pulled out into traffic to speak again. “You talked to Switek lately?”

“Naw.” Crockett let the word drip casually. “He's still mad at me for what happened to Larry. He's a big boy. He'll work it out.”

“Sure.” But Tubbs wondered. Crockett hadpushed too hard on that one, and there'd been a cost. It wasn't something he figured Sonny would admit, even to himself. “Tell you what, I'll call Stan and see if he's in touch with Izzy. One freak a night is my limit, unless there's a king-sized bed involved.”

Crockett laughed, guiding the Ferrari around an ambling taxi. “You're on, Rico.”

The car phone hissed static as Tubbs keyed in the number. When Stan answered he could tell the big man was in the bug van from the way his voice echoed. “Elvis Exterminators. We take the heartbreak out of your hotel.”

“Funny, Stan. I need a favor. You in touch with Izzy?”

“I could be. What did the little mouth-breather do this time?”

“Nothing. But the lieutenant wants us to run down some chump named Dougie Collier. We struck out with Noogie, but he thought Izzy might know the cat. We're still working that Mendoza lead.”

Stan's voice faded. “No! You adjust the bug here, not with that. Anyhow, back with you, Tubbs. Guy's supposed to be a neo-Nazi, right? Izzy don't run with them. Too brown. But he might know someone who does. Little punk knows everyone. I'll do some digging and let you know.”

“Thanks. I owe you a beer.” Tubbs hung up the phone and looked out the car window at the dark streets. “He'll make some calls.”

“Good. You feel like a drink, partner?”

“Sure.” Tubbs leaned back in the seat, trying to ignore the pain he'd heard in Stan's voice. “Sounds good, partner. And maybe we can figure out who tried to kill the lieutenant while we're at it.”

 

Awake before the sun, Martin Castillo felt the shock of the cold water hit his chest as he dove into the breaking surf. Cutting through the tide with powerful strokes, he was soon almost a quarter mile away from the beach. Turning, he let the current carry him for a time, then started back for shore.

Time in the water gave him time to think, away from the distractions on land. The dream hadn't come last night, and he was thankful for that. He did have glimpses of elements from his past, seen through fog. Columns of short hill tribesmen in tattered green fatigues snaking through the jungle. Smoke rising from burning huts. A woman's laugh knifing through the cacophony of a Saigon street. And just before he woke the whisper of his wife's voice.

Back on shore, he toweled off and walked through the sliding glass door into his kitchen. He made tea, watching the waves slide up the white sand as the leaves soaked in boiling water. When it was time he drank slowly, savoring each mouthful. Then it was time for a shower and clothes. He'd pick something up at one of the Cuban coffee shops on his way to OCB.

The squad room was mostly full when he walked in. He could see Crockett and Tubbs at their desks, Trudy and Gina talking over a case, and off in the corner Switek sat alone, staring at an open file folder. Working their cases like the good cops they were. But he could feel something missing. “Updates in five minutes,” he said on the way through.

As the last one in, Trudy shut the conference room door. Martin thanked her with a nod. “Let's have it.”

“We met with Noogie last night. He said the Mendoza money man has a thing for one of Rizzo's girls. We know when she's dancing, so we can get him then.” Crockett closed the folder.

“We've been working the Overton.” Gina looked down at her notepad. “No one's come near us yet, but we've been getting some looks from the girls. Tonight might be it.”

“Good.” Martin looked at his own notes. “Detective Switek?”

“Still no movement on that wire.” Stan's voice was louder than usual. “I think we're wasting our time. But I did get word from Izzy on that thing, Tubbs. Izzy said to find a guy named Brick. He likes to drink at a biker bar down by the docks. Place called the Hog Shed. And he said Crockett should be the one to go in. In Izzy's words your face might get 'strategically readjusticated' if you go in.”

“We'll look at that wire again in a week. If there's still nothing I'll take you off it. But be ready to back up Gina and Trudy if something surfaces there.” Martin closed his own notebook, trying not to look at the chair Larry Zito usually occupied. “Following Izzy's lead is not a priority, Crockett. Mendoza's money man is. Thank you.”

Back in his office, Martin thought about what Stan had said. He knew the Hog Shed from past cases. A dive biker bar with connections to both the Hell's Angels and a number of small-time neo-Nazi groups. Strictly small-time. The kind of place someone went to hire help, not the place a hit on a cop came from. Instead of sending Crockett he'd go take a look himself. See what shook out. He spent over an hour catching up on backlogged paperwork before he decided he'd earned the right to check out the lead.

He could see the heat rising in waves from the parking lot as soon as he stepped outside OCB. Slipping on his sunglasses, he strode across the lot to his car, then stopped. Even though the heat haze he could see scrapes in the asphalt just under the driver's side of his car. Fresh scrapes.

In case someone was watching, Martin made a show of checking his watch as if he'd forgotten something then turned on his heel and went back into OCB. “Call the bomb squad,” he said when Stan looked up at him. “I think my car's been booby-trapped. Get someone to check the cameras. We have one on the front lot, don't we?”

 

“You were right, lieutenant.” The sergeant from the bomb squad held a gray rectangle in his hands like a prize bass. “We found two pounds of C-4 wired to the ignition. You'd have turned that key, we'd be cleaning you up with a toothbrush and there'd be a hell of a hole in the parking lot. How'd you know it was there?”

“Hot asphalt. Someone forgot it gouges.” Castillo looked at the bomb through narrowed eyes, ignoring the rest of the team gathered around. “Any idea what made those marks?”

“Not my department. Reminded me of those chains punk rockers use to hold their wallets, though.” The sergeant kept staring at the bomb. “Lots of C-4, but the workmanship's sloppy. Whoever did this isn't very damned good at it.”

Tubbs' voice echoed from behind him. “Lieutenant. Bikers use those chains, too.”

“Yes. Switek, have Leon bring another car around. And let me know if that camera got anything.”

Stan looked up from the monitor. “Doubt it, Lieutenant. Someone took it out. Looks like one of those air guns with paint they use to mark livestock. Lens has been painted red since not long after you came in.”

“You think they followed you?”

“No.” Martin gave Crockett a quick look. “I'd have seen them. But they could be staking out OCB. They don't need to tail me if they know where I'm going. Check the tapes and see if anything stands out. I doubt they got every camera. And we can't let this happen again. Switek, work with Leon and see what you can come up with.”

“Right away, lieutenant. But you're not gonna like this. Leon doesn't have any cars ready.”

“Take the Caddy, lieutenant.” Tubbs tossed his keys across the desk. “Crockett's got the Ferrari.”

“Thanks.” Martin caught the keys and dropped them into his suit coat pocket. “I'll be back soon. Don't let that money man slip away. The Mendozas are still a top priority.”

Martin could feel the heat from the leather upholstery through his slacks as he eased the big convertible into the mid-morning traffic near OCB. He took the back way out of the lot, leaving the bomb squad surrounding his car to draw any attention if someone was still watching the building. The drive to the Hog Shed could take almost an hour when traffic was good, and he'd need to split his attention between the traffic and watching his rear view. Just in case whoever had been watching OCB spotted him leaving and wanted to tag along.

At one time the Hog Shed had been a gas station, but at some point in the 1960s the pumps were pulled out and it became a bar. Martin remembered the gas station from his life before Southeast Asia, especially buying cold Cokes from the cooler inside. He'd been back a few times since, mostly to watch the place slide into the state it was in today. Sunlight glittered off polished chrome from a row of six Harleys parked out front, and a side lot held two rusted pickups and what might have been a Thunderbird. Sliding the Caddy into an empty spot, Martin adjusted his dark glasses and reached down to touch the bulk of his Smith & Wesson Model 29. Just in case.

Inside it was dark and smelled of sweat, motor oil, stale beer, and piss. Most of the bikers at the bar smelled the same way, so it was hard to tell where their stench stopped and the bar's began. A jukebox toward the back flashed a pattern as it played “Sweet Home Alabama,” and two pool tables basked under light from long fixtures with broken side panes. Martin walked through the door and stepped to one side; a thin, dark shadow highlighted for a moment before vanishing into other darker shadows. The men at the bar turned with varying degrees of alertness, but he could see the bartender watching his every move.

He sized up the bikers with a glance. Three were big, muscles bulging through denim cut-off jackets, and looked slow. One was average, and two had the thin build of knife fighters Martin had known in Manila. The average one was the first to turn away from his bottle of Budwiser to see what had disturbed the darkness of the bar. “Hey! Who let the beaner in?”

His lips pursed into an imitation of a smile. “I'm looking for Brick.”

“And just who the fuck are you, Chico? The man ain't here, and we didn't order no tacos. So get the fuck out.” One of the big ones turned now, his voice grinding like a missed shift.

“Who I am doesn't matter. Is Brick here?”

“Sure, but he don't talk to spics. Darkies neither. So why don't you just get the fuck out of here?”

“I don't think so.” Martin unbuttoned his coat and shifted his balance to the balls of his feet. Even though he knew he shouldn't, part of him enjoyed what was coming.

“You hear that? He wants to get uppity. I say we teach him a lesson.”

Martin watched them come away from the bar and turn toward him. Only one of the thin ones had a knife, which made things easier. He'd take him first, then the big one with the mouth. His years of training meshed with hard-earned experience in one smooth, fluid moment and he slid into a corner of himself where he observed everything and time moved like slow-pouring honey.

“Not much to say now?” The one with the knife cut at the air with showy motions, the blade dancing as sunlight caught it through dirty windows. Martin stood, waiting, not moving. Drawing them closer. Closer. Then it was time.

The knife had just completed one of its glittering arcs when Castillo's arm flashed out. Trapping the man's knife arm, he spun to the side and exerted pressure. There was a sharp crack and the man screamed, the knife clattering to the floor as he lost control of his fingers. Continuing the spin, Castillo sent the limp figure crashing into the far wall, his leg coming up in a sharp roundhouse kick destroying the jaw of one of the big men. His scream muffled by blood and shattered teeth, the man lurched away from the fight.

The average one took a swing, a sloppy cross Castillo avoided before dropping him with a knife hand to the throat. Swinging his left arm in a smooth arc he blocked another wild punch, reversing the arc and catching another of the big men with a savage chop to the side of his neck. Dropping back into a ready pose, Castillo was barely breathing hard when he saw the remaining big man and the other small man exchange looks and then bolt through the front door. Only the bartender remained. From his files Castillo knew that was Brick.

The bartender started to reach for the sawed-off shotgun under the bar when his hand stopped short. Castillo stepped over one of the groaning men on the floor, his big magnum trained on the man's shaved head. “Brick. We need to talk.”

 

One of the fluorescent lights in interrogation was starting to fail, and the flickering cast erratic shadows over Martin's face as he stared across the table at Brick. He could see sweat beading on the man's forehead and heard his fingers drumming on the table. Good. Another couple of minutes and he'll tell me anything I want to know.

“You gonna talk to me, cop? Tell me how much trouble I'm in?”

Martin could feel the eyes on the other side of the mirror. Watching him. The whole squad had stopped in one frozen moment when he'd pushed Brick through and into interrogation. Still...he sat and looked down at the table. Waiting.

“You gonna...”

It was time. Martin looked up, and Brick stopped in mid-word. “Who was he?”

“Who was who? You ain't makin' no...”

“Who hired Dougie Collier?”

“You'd have to ask him.”

“I can't. He's dead. But I know you set it up.” Castillo locked eyes with him, knowing the man couldn't look away. “Who called you?”

“Maybe it was me.”

“No. You're not smart enough. Don't stand up. What I did to your friends was just a warm up. Or maybe you're too smart. You know what would happen to your crew if you took a shot at a cop. That's why you picked Dougie, right? He's not part of the crew. Just white trash who kept hanging around. But I'm sure we can make you for this. Conspiracy to commit murder. Facilitation. Unlawful possession of a firearm.”

Brick looked down at the table. “Look. You're right about Dougie. He was a bitch who kept whining about wanting to be part of the movement. Only movement he had plugged up my damned shitter for a day. So when the call came I was happy to send him.”

“Who. Made. The. Call.” Each word came out clipped, and Castillo slammed his hand on the table to emphasize each one.

“I don't know his name, man! It's not like calling the plumber or some shit! He sounded like a brother, though. That's the other reason I used Dougie. Couldn't send one of my own to do some darkie's work. Had him some schooling, though. Used big words. Yankee, too.”

“Payment?”

“Mailbox downtown. I didn't want him stoppin' by the Hog Shed.”

“And who set the bomb?”

“That was Spider. Dude whose arm you broke. When Dougie missed the darkie called back. Pissed as hell. Said we needed to make it right. So Spider built one of his little packages. But then you went and found it.”

“Your men were watching.”

“Sure. The darkie said he needed proof you were gone, so they was waitin' with a camera. Got some good shots of the bomb squad, but I sure as hell didn't figure you'd come out to the Hog Shed. Or that you'd know it was us.”

Castillo leaned in, lowering his voice. “This can go quite a few ways. Does the man who hired you know the bomb didn't work?”

“No. Ain't no one called him.” Brick leaned back in his chair, his eyes searching the corners of the room. “And I ain't gonna turn on him.”

“Federal prison isn't anything like Radford.” Castillo kept his voice low. “Once you're put into general population and word gets out you're a Nazi you won't last ten minutes. I can see that you do Federal time, Jacob. Or you could go to Radford with a race traitor tag in your jacket.”

Brick flinched as if he'd been slapped when Castillo used his real name. “I don't use that Jew name no more.”

“Why not? You are Jewish. You've got a lot of secrets, Jacob. Or you did.”

 

In the observation room Crocket let out a low, long whistle. “He's good. Damned good.”

“You can say that again.” Tubbs leaned against the back wall, watching Castillo work. “Not a drop of sweat on the man and he's got that chump wetting his pants. I was wondering when he'd play the name card.”

“Who do you think did this?”

“That, partner, is the big question. Who would hire a rag-tag bunch of Nazis to whack the lieutenant? And a brother, no less. Maybe Jacob's got his wires crossed.”

“I don't think so.” Crockett sat down with a sigh. “He'd know that kind of voice. I just can't think of anyone from up north who'd want to kill Castillo. You? Sure.”

“Can I help it I make friends easy?” Tubbs laughed. “I've been wrackin' my brain trying to think of anyone we've crossed like that.”

 

“You'll make the call. Tell him it's done. He'll want a picture. You'll have one to send.”
Castillo didn't look up as he spoke. There was no need now. Jacob was broken, and he finally knew it. “Do this right and you'll do your time quietly. Try to cross me and you won't last ten minutes inside.” Without another word he got to his feet and left the interrogation room.

Crockett and Tubbs were waiting outside. “We've been going back through it, lieutenant,” Crockett said, “but we can't think of anyone who matches that profile. Black, educated, and hates your guts.”

Tubbs shook his head. “There's something. I just can't put my finger on it.”

“You'll get your chance.” Castillo rubbed his eyes, tired now that the interrogation rush was wearing off. “Have Stan set up a phone with a trace and recorder. Maybe we can keep this guy on the line long enough to get a location, but if not I want his voice taped. I'll be in my office. Let me know when it's ready.” He looked back at the closed door. “Keep him alone for now. Let him think.”

After the flickering light of the interrogation room his office felt cool and inviting. Dropping into his chair, working his hands to keep the blood flowing and prevent bruises from forming, Castillo looked at the open file folder on his plain blotter. Jacob Goldstein, alias Brick. Over twenty arrests for various things before he was thirty, but nothing bigger than simple assault. Until today.

Closing his eyes, Castillo let the words flow through his mind. An educated black man from up north. Who did he know like that? Who did he know like that who hated him enough to try to kill him twice? Menton would, but he's not black. He might have contacts who are, though.Who...

“Lieutenant.” It was Tubbs' voice. “Stan has the phone ready whenever you want to go.”

“Right.”

“You know...I was thinking. That chump says the guy on the phone's educated, right? And black? And from up north. That did get me thinking about someone.”

“Who?”

“That chump from the Federal Organized Crime Task Force we had to babysit a year or so ago. The hungry fed. Always chomping on his gum.”

“Joe Dalva.” Castillo remembered him slumped in the Miami heat, watching his ambition evaporate as Sergio Celmente bled out in front of him. Stabbed by his own sister, Maria Rojas, who Dalva had pulled from witness protection. Seconds after she stabbed her brother she'd been shot dead by a sniper on Clemente's payroll. “I remember him.”

“What ended up happening to him? You told him he was being an idiot, and he didn't listen. If there's any brother from up north who'd have it in for you, it would be him.”

“I'll make a call.” In truth Castillo hadn't thought about Dalva since he'd left the man sitting on the hot asphalt of the parking lot. As far as he knew Dalva left Miami the same day, fleeing the scene of his own failure like most Feds Castillo had known over the years. But would one case make him hate that much? I don't know.

“I'll go keep the big chump company. We'll be ready when you are, lieutenant.”

“Thanks.” Castillo sat, his eyes loosely focused on the chair Tubbs had just vacated, for almost five minutes before reaching out for the phone. “It's Castillo. Yes. Get him. I have a question.”

 

“Damn.” Brick whistled low. “That's a hell of a picture. I can't see him sayin' no to that.”

Castillo didn't move. Lester had worked up the photo, after the bomb squad had blown up a car looking just enough like Castillo's to convince anyone in the area. The story would hit the papers as a John Doe blown up in one of Miami's drug feuds, even though there was no body in the car. “Make the call. He'll have seen the news by now.”

Stan gave a thumbs-up from his console as Brick started punching buttons. “Keep him on the line as long as you can. And we're live.”

Castillo slipped on headphones as Brick held the receiver to his ear with both hands, his handcuffs wrapped with a hand towel to keep the chains from clattering. After the third ring a hollow click filled his ears. “I've seen the news.”

“We did our part. That spick's scattered over three football fields now. Got some great pictures, too.”

“Good.” The voice was clipped, just like Castillo remembered Dalva's, but it was also muted. Like something was wrapped over the phone mouthpiece. “Deliver it to the address.”

“How do I know I'll get my money? This work ain't cheap, friend.”

“I said deliver the picture. Take it to the mail drop. Hand it to the guy behind the desk. He'll check and pay you. That simple enough for you?”

“Sure. But what...” Brick stared at the mouthpiece as a dial tone filled his ear. “Fucker hung up on me.”

“Do you get anything?”

Stan shut off the recorder with a click. “He was using a payphone, lieutenant. Looks like one of the ones down by the Flamingo Hotel. That's a bank of four if I remember right. And busy.”

“Has this man ever seen you before?”

Brick shook his head. “It's all been over the phone, man.”

“Good. Take him to holding and keep him quiet. I don't want this going into booking just yet.” Castillo stood by the table, waiting until Brick had been hauled from the room. Stan still sat by the tape deck, and Crockett and Tubbs stood expectantly in opposite corners. “Crockett, you're going to be Brick for this one.”

“Gotcha, lieutenant. Shouldn't be a big thing.”

“Did you talk to your contact?” Tubbs walked to the table and sat down, looking at the tape recorder with narrowed eyes. “Sounded like the chump was talking through a sock.”

“You know this guy?” Crockett looked between Castillo and Tubbs.

“Possibly. When you were working that case against Callie and Charlie Bassett, Tubbs and I had to work with an agent from FOCTF. Joe Dalva. He managed to get some people killed. His target, and an informant we were supposed to protect.”

“That asshat? Tubbs told me about him.”

“Yes. It turns out he was removed from the Task Force a month later. The Bureau sent him to Baltimore and then Kansas City. He took early retirement soon after. My contact at the Bureau says he blamed us for his demotion. Me in particular.”
“But do you think he'd try to kill you?” Crockett shook his head. “That seems crazy even for a Fed. Where did he retire to? Most of those boys end up on some small town police force.”

“My contact didn't know. Dalva just seemed to disappear once he left. His pension gets sent to a bank and deposited. We'd need a warrant to dig any deeper into his financials, and I don't have enough to ask for one.”

“So what's the plan?” Stan didn't look up when he spoke.

“Crockett will do the exchange. Switek, set him up with a wire. Once the deal's done, Tubbs and I will take the counter man into custody. He's the next link in the chain.”

“Don't forget we've got Mendoza's money man in Rizzo's tonight,” Crockett said. “I guess we can push that back a week if we have to. Seems he sets his watch by this redhead.”

“Picking the clerk up shouldn't take long. If we move now.”

“You heard the man. Let's get your sound check going.” Stan pushed back from the table, his chair legs grating on the tiled floor of the interrogation room. “I think I've got something in your size.”

Once the two were gone, Tubbs turned back to Castillo. “Did your man say anything else?”

“No.” Therehadbeen more, but it wasn't anything Tubbs needed to know. Not yet, at least.

“Come onlieutenant. I know there's more.” Tubbs' voice was almost a hiss, blending in with the laboring air conditioning. “We both worked that case. He's going to be after me as much as he is you.”

“Maybe not. My contact says he met with Menton three times before he retired.”

“That spook you almost killed in the conference room?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe this isn't Dalva. Maybe it's Menton and Dalva's living in some trailer park somewhere.”

“Menton's had other repeat visitors. At least one of them was black. And he could have been meeting with Dalva to find out information for Lao Li. We need to be ready either way.” Castillo started for the door. “Get moving. We need to be in position before Crockett gets there. Make sure he gets the address before he leaves.”

 

Taking the clerk, Castillo reflected as he sat in his office, had been easy. Crocket just walked in with the picture and five minutes later they were hauling the thin, wide-eyed man off in a patrol car. Now the hard part began: getting him to give up whoever had left the money with him.

For a moment he wished he had Crockett and Tubbs close to hand, but they were at Rizzo's working the Mendoza case. Gina and Trudy were on station at the Overton, and he'd shifted Stan to cover them. The wiretap was looking to be a bust, and he wanted to keep Switek active and thinking about something other than his dead partner and his anger at Crockett. It wasn't easy.

So that left him to work on the clerk. Sighing, Castillo closed his eyes, the file in front of him engraved on his eyelids he'd been staring at it so long.Leroy Tufts. Two priors, both for misdemeanor assault. No serious convictions. No ties to anyone other than his mailbox operation.He wasn't even a neo-Nazi. Tufts was strictly small-time in the true sense of the phrase. Which didn't explain why he was so quiet.

As soon as they'd gotten him into interrogation, Tufts had slumped in his chair and stared at broken fingernails. He'd grunted when read his rights, and shook his head when asked about a lawyer. He hadn't moved or spoken since then.

Interrogations always took Martin back to his time working liaison with the Saigon police. He'd shifted from Project Phoenix to the city and back so many times he'd lost count, but the interrogations were always the same. The room always dripped with Saigon's heat and humidity, a single overhead bulb burned bright and drew insects, and the suspect was tied to a chair. Some days he had fresh bruises and cuts, other days old wounds seeped infection and the bruises were green. But they always looked the same: small, beaten, and defiant. He'd come to recognize the Viet Cong, the realViet Cong, by their defiance. The others, those brought in for being in the wrong place at the right time or having the wrong enemies, just looked broken.

Usually he'd send the Vietnamese police, the White Mice, away with a short wave of the hand. Most days he'd keep the interpreter, but more for camouflage. After all his years in country Castillo was fluent in Vietnamese, and the VC's favorite mole was an interpreter. As one of his CIA trainers had said shortly after Cuba, interrogation was often a team sport. The key was to identify the teams quickly. Once he did, Martin usually let the Company know. More than a few of his interpreters disappeared into the narrow alleys of Saigon.

The interrogation room hadn't changed. The lights still burned white, the air conditioning labored against body odors and lingering tobacco smoke, and Leroy Tufts was still cuffed to his chair. Shutting the door with a firm click, Castillo sat down without a word.

A full five minutes passed before Tufts spoke. “You the silent cop?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.” Castillo never looked up, reviewing the file's notes in his head. “Only two assaults on your record. Not much for a man involved in a murder conspiracy.”

Tufts' head snapped up. “Murder? I ain't murdering no one.”

“What did you think the money was for?”

“I...I don't know. Ain't my business to know.”

“No.”

“Then why all this, man? I don't know shit!”

“No. You do. And it's enough for a conspiracy charge. That means state prison. Maybe Federal time.”

“I just rent the boxes. Don't know who uses 'em.”

“Wrong. This one you knew.” Castillo still kept looking at the table. Picturing the silent, determined little men in those nameless Saigon rooms. If he could break them... “Who is he?”

“But I don't...”

“You do. You took the picture and gave the man money. He's talking now.” Keeping Crockett in cover had its advantages. “But we know who gave him the picture. If you remember, it might cut your charges.”

“Charges?”

Castillo finally looked up, keeping his eyes flat and expressionless. Another skill he'd learned in Cuba and perfected in Southeast Asia. “Conspiracy to commit murder. Obstruction. Mail fraud. That's at least twenty-five years of hard time. Federal time.”

Tufts held his gaze for a handful of seconds. “I only saw the one who brought the money. Don't know it was the same one who rented the box. They did that on the phone and mailed in the money. Cash. One who brought the money said he was to make sure it got where it was needed.”

“Go on.”

“Not much more to say. He said I was to give the money to a feller who brought in a picture for that box. Once I got it I was to call him at a number he left. You all picked me up before I could do it.”

“What did he look like?”

“Redneck lookin' feller. I've seen him a time or two over at Rizzo's.”

“How did they know you wouldn't just take the money?”

Tufts went pale. “He said they'd be back tomorrow night at eight. If I weren't there they'd find me. Don't take much imagination to know what would happen then.”

Castillo pushed back from the table and left without another word. In the hall, he turned to the duty officer. “Keep him here. He's not to be transferred without my direct order.”

 

It was the nights that made Castillo miss the highlands the most. Not the Mekong or the area around Saigon, but the highlands of Laos and Thailand. Up there the stars were so bright, so close, it was like you could reach out and gather a handful to drop in your pocket for later. It reminded him of memories from his childhood, things seen like flickering clips from an old movie in a room full of smoke.

His house was far enough out the stars were fairly clear. Nothing like they were in the clear mountain air, but as close as he could get. Sitting on the porch, hearing the yellow police tape still snapping in the occasional breeze, Martin turned his thoughts to the case. He didn't think they'd try again here, not with leaked news stories speculating about the possibility of a dead cop in the mysterious explosion. Still, from long habit he sat in the dark. Taking a sip of sharp, clear rum, he let the liquor warm his mouth before swallowing.

It wasn't the why that bothered him as much as the who. Many people had many reasons for wanting him dead, and if he knew the who the why would follow as naturally as night follows day. But the team had other cases to work, and his wasn't at the top. Breaking at least part of the Mendoza operation would set them back months, and any inroad they could make in the network of pimps was worth doing. His smile was as faint as moth wings in the darkness. Moving Switek to back up Gina and Trudy was the right call. Something he would have done sooner if this mess hadn't landed in his lap.

Out beyond the white line of the beach he could hear waves crashing. The pulse of the night, or so one of his old team had said. Born and raised in southern California, the man had been a surfer from the beginning, and he used to tell the others outlandish stories about monster waves, blazing bonfires, and girls who would do anything you wanted just to say they'd been with a surfer. Jess had been one of the men who bled out in the jungle after Menton's ambush. Two weeks from rotating back to a nice desk job in Langley. Jess, Hoang, Ti Ti, Gus, and the rest. Somehow Martin had been spared, stunned by the first crack-blast of a Chinese claymore and covered in the blood of better men the ambushers assumed he was dead like the rest.

Castillo raised his glass in silent toast to the waves. Some nights he'd walk down, listening to the slip-crash and imagining he could see Jess out there riding one of the bigger ones. But only some nights. Most nights he used the memory to focus his thoughts and push down his feelings. To try to rip the guts out of the trade that killed Jess and the rest.

Menton. The whole time he'd been chasing Lao Li, Castillo never realized Menton was in his pocket. After Saigon Castillo left the CIA, shifting to the newly-forming DEA and chasing the same heroin smugglers in the Golden Triangle. Once Laos fell they shifted him back to the states, someone finally remembering the Cuban-American spoke flawless Spanish and might be an asset. But it was like trying to clear an avalanche with a teaspoon, and eventually Castillo dropped his badge on his senior agent's desk. There was talk he'd been forced out, but it wasn't that. Castillo had finally decided if he wanted to make a real difference it HAD to be local, and Miami was as close to home as he could get.

The glass was empty now. Martin still sat, listening to the night bloom and grow around him. As always, when he strode through the graveyard of his past the present seemed to sort itself out. Looking out toward the water he whispered, “Good night, Jess. Hope you catch a big one,” before turning and heading back inside.

 

“So he left that joker in there all night?” Crockett jerked his thumb toward interrogation.

“That he did, partner.” Tubbs grinned, tightening his tie with a practiced motion. “Left him to sweat all night long.” He sang the last three words, drawing a giggle from Trudy across the room.

“Maybe he should have sent him with us. Although exposure to Noogie for more than an hour might have gotten him sprung on cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Solid.” Tubbs kept the typewriter clattering with a few more flourishes and pulled out the form. “That report's done. I think we got enough to turn Mendoza's money man.”

“Or at least jam him up so bad he can't work.” Crockett looked over at Gina and Trudy talking with Stan. “How do you think they did?”

“Good I'd guess. Trudy don't look like she's about to kill someone, and that's always good in my book.” Tubbs narrowed his eyes. He'd already brought Stan up once, and Crockett hadn't paid any mind. Mentioning it again might do more harm than good. “Be good to see them get a win on this one.”

“And get another pimp off the street.” Crockett stretched and rubbed at his eyes. “God's work, that is.”

Tubbs was about to add something when the office door opened. “Conference room in five minutes. I want case updates.”

 

Switek looked down at his notepad. “Had a call from central booking. They're still sitting on those dirtbags you kicked the shit out of at the Hog Shed, lieutenant.”

“Good. Have them keep them there. I don't want Jacob getting any ideas.” Castillo looked at his own notes. “It sounds like your cases are developing. Can we trust Mendoza's banker enough to turn him?”

Crockett nodded. “I think so. He's a greedy bastard.”

“I disagree.” Tubbs shook his head. “He might be greedy, but he's also a coward. He'd rat us out the first chance he got.”

“We play it safe. Jam him up. Force the Mendozas into the open. Sorry, Sonny, but we can't afford to miss on this one. They got away from us once before. Not again.” He turned to Trudy. “Any ID on the pimp?”

She nodded. “I think so, lieutenant. His street name's Diamond. Gina's down at the Federal Building running aliases through the FBI. Nothing local, but Stan heard some of the girls at the bar talking about how he came in from up north.”

“Keep on it. Switek, stay with them. Good work picking that up.” Castillo looked up. “I'm sure you've seen Tufts down in interrogation. He's supposed to meet with the courier tonight.”

“Courier?” Crockett shook his head. “So we're no closer.”

“We are. One man closer. We put Tufts in play because they expect him to be there. He said his partner usually covers the day shift so we don't need to worry about that. Switek, get him there before six tonight and sit on him. I'll be there as soon as I can. Crockett, Tubbs, you'll be working outside. Find a good spot and watch the place. Tufts says the courier will be there at eight. I want you in place at least half an hour before that.”

“Any back up?”

“No. I can't risk spooking him.”

“What about Gina and Trudy?” Tubbs looked across the table with a grin. “Are they on the bench?”

“No. Good point. Trudy, be in position close to the store. Gina can go with you if she's done downtown in time.”

Trudy looked at her fingernails. “Do we have any idea who's behind him?”

“No.” But it has to be Menton. This is too deep for anyone else. Or maybe I just want it to be Menton. Castillo closed his notebook with a snap. “Thank you. Let's get to work.”

They filed out one by one, Martin noting their passage by their footsteps. Crockett still had his confident military stride, Tubbs alternating between swaggering and dancing depending on his mood, and Switek shuffling more than ever. When he realized one was missing, he looked up and saw Trudy still in her seat. “Something bothering you, detective?”

“Yes. I mean...no, but yes.” She shook her head, and he noticed the sparkle in her eyes again. It was a beautiful, dangerous light. “I don't know what I mean.”

“I think you do.”

“Someone's going to a lot of trouble to try to kill you, lieutenant. They might try again. We should be covering you, not chasing pimps.”

“The cases come first.”

“That's what Sonny thought, too. And look what happened.” She shook her head. “I'm sorry, lieutenant. That wasn't fair.”

“No. You're right.” Martin couldn't deny, couldn't bury, the feeling growing in his chest. But he could hide it. He'd gotten good at that over the years, a skill first learned in Cuba's mountains and honed in the highlands of Thailand. “We have to balance the case with the people. I won't risk any of you in this. If they want me, they're welcome to try. But I won't risk Crockett to draw them out. And I won't risk you.”

“Me?”

“Yes.” He lowered his eyes, hoping she hadn't seen what was growing in them. “You're a good detective. One of the best in this unit.”

“Is that...”

“We need to get moving.” He cut her off, his voice sharper than he'd wanted. “I want Tufts released into a box he can't get out of. Check with Gina and see if she'll be ready.” He paused for half a long heartbeat. “We'll talk once this is done.”

 

“Everyone's in place.” Crockett's voice crackled through the earpiece. “Even Gina got to the party in time.”

“Good. Use radio discipline. Menton's people might be monitoring.” Castillo sat in another unmarked Ford sedan, sunglasses blocking the worst of the late afternoon sun. Switek could use the phone tap to monitor the inside of the shop, something anyone listening wouldn't detect. He'd had time to get that set up before things swung into high gear.

From his spot Castillo could just see the nose of Crockett's white Ferrari. Close enough to help out if needed, but not close enough to draw too much attention. Switek was in the shop's back room monitoring the hardwired taps. Gina and Trudy were around the corner with a knot of working girls. Disappearing by staying in plain sight.

It was a good team. One of the best he'd ever had. Losing Zito had done damage, the kind he might not be able to fix, but Castillo would work with what he had. Out of habit he scanned every car rolling past, looking for familiar profiles, the glint of a weapon, anything out of the ordinary. The courier might not be a professional, but if Menton was involved there would be pros somewhere close by. Insulation at the very least.

Castillo looked at his watch. “Five minutes.” He counted the radio clicks and allowed himself a thin smile. It was all in position. And the waiting was almost done.

A rusty pick-up rolled down the street and stopped in front of the shop with a scream of worn break shoes grabbing pitted metal. The door creaked open and a thickset man stepped onto the pavement. Castillo could see the rising heat waves swirling around the man's cowboy boots like low-lying fog. A greasy mesh ball cap covered his head, the brim tilted in a thin attempt to hide his face. Castillo keyed his radio. “He's coming in.”

He knew the waiting was hard on his team. Especially Crockett. Sonny was too anxious, too eager to make a case. Even Tubbs handled the waiting better. As for Martin, he just sat. Ignoring the heat. Focusing on the air moving in and out through his nose. Ears sorting through the hissing static for any hint of movement or things going wrong. Behind the dark glasses his eyes swept and reswept the street. Was anyone covering the courier? He was about to say no when a dark Cadillac rolled to a stop half a block back from the truck. Two shadows moved behind tinted windows, and the badly-tuned motor kept pumping out a haze of exhaust. Understandable to keep air conditioning running, but the timing was too convenient. “Crockett. Tubbs. Sit on the dark Caddy.”

“Copy that, lieutenant.” Tubbs' voice filled his earpiece. “Should we take them in?”

“No. Not until the exchange.” Castillo shifted, feeling the magnum under his arm.I doubt if he knows anyone's following him. Too much of a gap for them to be security.He was about to speak when Switek's voice filled his ear. 

“They made the handoff.”

“Go.” Castillo started his car, knowing Switek would grab Tufts the moment the courier left the shop. Crockett and Tubbs would be moving, and Gina and Trudy would form the other part of the box. “Crockett. Get patrol out to bring those two in. I need you two on the box.”

“Copy. We'll cuff 'em to the steering wheel.”

From the corner of his eye Castillo could see the two men approaching the Caddy, but he also saw the courier climbing into the rusty truck. A puff of greasy smoke billowed from the exhaust pipe and he lurched away from the curb.

Castillo waited before easing the Ford out into traffic, not wanting to get too close to the truck. Somewhere in front he knew Gina and Trudy were forming the front of the box, and Crockett wouldn't have any trouble catching up to them. All he needed to do was hang back far enough to blend in but still keep the truck in sight.

The courier made things easy, moving in and out of traffic like an old woman on her way to Sunday service. He seemed to know where he was going, and didn't care how long it took to get there. Castillo focused on the road, looking for a second layer of cover he might have missed at the shop. Over the radio he heard Switek report that patrol had picked up the two men in the Caddy and Tufts, but kept silent. Stan knew the drill. He'd catch up to them as soon as he could, forming another side of the box.

Trudy's voice came over the radio. “He's turning onto the expressway now. Looks like he's heading out of town.”

“Crockett, move to second position. Trudy, fall in behind me when you can. Switek, you've got chase. Don't lose him.”

It wasn't hard to keep the truck in sight, especially as evening thinned the traffic even more. Soon they left the lights of Miami behind, and Castillo had to accelerate maintain his place in the box. Taking off his sunglasses, he focused on the middle distance of the cone of light thrown by the car's headlights.

“Looks like he's taking the next exit.” Tubbs' voice broke the silence. “Fast, too.”

“Get ready to move in.” Someone must have noticed the cover was gone. They must be using radios, too.“Don't lose that truck.”

The whine of a downshift was audible behind Tubbs' voice. “You got it, lieutenant.”

“He still needs to get to his contact. Don't stop him, but don't lose him.” The Ford's V-8 gave a throaty growl as Castillo stabbed down on the accelerator. They were too close to let this one slip.

“He took the Keys exit and ducked down a dirt road about two hundred yards past the ramp. We're going dark and following.”

Castillo squinted in anticipation of shutting off the Ford's headlights as he swerved down the dirt road. Once clear of the turn he shut them off, letting the night swallow his car. Somewhere up ahead he knew Crockett would be cursing as the Ferrari lurched over the rough road. Then Switek's voice filled his ear. “I know this road. There's a shack and small dock at the end. No way out but the water or the way we came. Busted a small-time smuggler a couple years back with Larry out here. Turns out he was taking TVs to Cuba. The shack's about a mile from the turn.”

“Good. Crockett, hold short of the shack. Gina and Trudy, you'll be with me. Switek, block the road. Don't let anyone get by you.”

“What if they have a boat?”

“Crockett, you and Tubbs move on foot. If there's a boat, keep them from getting to it.” It wasn't a great plan, but Martin had to work with what they had. And he didn't think Menton would have been able to hire many more men. Nothing he'd seen so far hinted at Lao Li's resources being behind anything. Still, they were using the radio too much now. But there was no help for it. The team had to stay in touch if this was going to work.

Five minutes later Castillo passed the white wedge of the Ferrari, pulled just off the road and sheltered behind a stand of low bushes. He swung his own Ford off the road a couple of yards later, trusting the darkness and the car's own paint to provide concealment. Crockett came over the radio now. “We're almost in position. I count six at the shack, including the courier. Looks like there's a boat, but no one's near it.”

“I've got the road blocked, lieutenant.” Switek's voice was thin. “They won't get out this way.”

Castillo waited by his car until he could hear the crunch of tires on the gravel road. Then he raised his hand, signaling for Gina to stop and park. “I need you two with me.” His eyes searched the shadows around the shack. “They've got lights in the shack, but nothing outside except for something on the porch. Trees come up pretty close, too. Use them for cover.”

Gina nodded, pulling her .38 out of her purse. “I should have changed. These heels don't do much good out here.”

“I hear you, girlfriend.” Trudy reached into the back seat of the convertible, pulling out a long shotgun. “At least I had time to change my shoes. Sneakers aren't much of a fashion statement, but they do better in the swamp.”

Castillo raised his hand for silence. He could hear them now; voices carried by the light onshore breeze. Someone was shouting, while another voice whined in the gaps. Accusations followed by thin denials and chased with threats. He drifted from tree to tree like a shadow, getting closer to the shack with each cluster of heartbeats. There was a guard on the porch, but he was more concerned with the show inside than watching the darkness around him.

Shotgun draped over his shoulder, the guard didn't even flinch when Castillo put him in a sleeper hold. Lowering the unconscious man to the splintered boards of the shack's porch, Martin drew his big .44 Magnum and stopped just outside the arc of light glowing gold through the doorway. “Miami Vice! You're surrounded! Come out with your hands up!” Then he took two steps back and vaulted over a sagging railing. Looking for a back door. In his experience the bigger rats always tried to desert the ship.

Men shouted confused inside the shack's one room, and a lone shotgun blast out a side window was answered by Crockett's big .45. Screaming in pain, the man let the weapon fall out the window and threw up his hands, followed seconds later by more shouts and thuds of weapons hitting rotting boards. Still Martin waited in the dark shadows, moving only when a beam of light shone from the rear of the place. “I've got a runner. Taking him.” Then he moved.

The man was big, both tall and heavy-set, sinking into the wet ground near the water with each step. It didn't take long for Castillo to catch up, and a single shot from the Smith & Wesson ended the man's flight. “And I thought I could get used to this.”

The voice was familiar. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Back up toward me.”

“So the picture was a fake.” The man moved slowly, his dark suit dripping with water and sweat. “Should have known, I guess. You were too smart for those boys.”

Tubbs came around the far corner of the shack, his own Smith & Wesson at the ready. “Don't look so hungry now, Dalva.”

“Joe Dalva.” Castillo lowered his pistol.

“You and your city ruined my career. Got me exiled so good I could never get back in.” Dalva's dark skin shone with sweat, and anger burned hot in his eyes. “Damn that Rojas girl. And damn you.”

“Do you know a man named Menton?” Castillo held Dalva's stare, his own eyes burning into former Fed's until the man looked away.

“Never heard of him. Should I have? No, this was all me. Took all my savings. I just wanted to square things.”

“Take him.” Castillo turned back toward the water, letting Tubbs lead the broken man away. There'd be time in interrogation later to sort through it, but right now he wanted to make sense of it in his own mind. He and Menton and Lao Li went back decades, years of hate honed to an edge in jungles and highlands. He'd encountered Dalva once, and the Fed had been the one who'd made the mistakes. Yet he'd come after Castillo like a man possessed. Maybe later it would make sense, when he could sit on his porch with tea and the waves. Maybe later...

[mjcmmv]

1 hour ago, Robbie C. said:

Total, screaming rough draft but I wanted to get it out there...

The knife was inches from his face when Martin Castillo snapped awake. Moonlight turned the blade into a glittering laser and then it was gone, the dream ending as soon as his eyes flared open. His ears searched the blackness, picking up buzzing insects and the steady beat of his own heart. The room was empty.

It wasn't the first time he'd been visited by the dream, and Martin knew it wouldn't be the last. He could feel cold sweat on his chest under the single cotton sheet, but his own sense of control refused to let him move. Not until his pulse slowed. He moved his eyes to take in the room, moonlight streaming through shuttered windows in ragged spears painting everything silver and white. He knew each shadow, and they were all where they should be. Air hissed in and out of his lungs, moving through his nose in a calming routine. They hadn't gotten him in the mountains of Cuba, the jungles of Laos, or Vietnam's Delta region. Maybe Florida would be his undoing.

Satisfied, Castillo sat up, letting the sheet fall away and the night air attempt to dry his skin. The dream came more frequently now that they'd taken down Frank, but at least now it was just the knife. He didn't see the girls anymore. So he sat on the Japanese sleeping mat he preferred to a bed and listened to the night. Waiting for the last bits of the dream to fade.

As he listened to the waking birds and trilling bugs outside, he wondered if he'd ever really get away from the jungle. His house, a Japanese transplant in the middle of South Florida's fake Taras and misplaced Mission-style mansions, sat back from the road on the edge of one of the many inland waterways. Lost in the trees unless you knew where to look. It reminded him of mountain huts in Laos with the thick Mekong Delta air thrown in for good measure. A perfect home for a man with no home.

The wood grips of his big Smith & Wesson Model 29 felt cool under his palm when the bird noises changed. He slipped from the bed without a sound, black shorts little more than a shadow across his lean brown body. Whoever was out there was alone, and moving fast. He was through the back door in a handful of heartbeats, and moving around the side of the house before the shadow reached the front porch. Moonlight sparked off a rifle barrel, and Castillo felt his pistol's trigger under his finger. The challenge was automatic. “Hold it right there.”

The man's rifle came up as he turned, following his eyes as he strained to see though the darkness. The click of a safety coming off was almost lost in the reply. “Hey, man. I'm outa gas back there. Need to use your phone.”

“Drop the rifle. Now.” Martin's finger tightened on the trigger, knowing what was coming next.

“No chance.” Whatever else he'd wanted to say was lost in the boom of the big Smith & Wesson.

 

By the time the meat wagon and escorting patrol cars arrived, Martin Castillo was wearing his trademark black suit. The crumpled body lay where it had fallen, flies buzzing around the gaping hole in its chest. Aside from kicking the rifle away he'd avoided the body.

Sonny Crockett and Ricardo Tubbs had made the drive, but Martin noticed they'd taken Tubbs' Cadillac. Wise choice. The road out here would have shredded that Ferrari. He nodded to his two top detectives. “Crockett. Tubbs.”

“Who's the chump, lieutenant?”

“I was hoping you could tell me, detective.”

Crockett circled the body, his white blazer stark against the house's dark walls. “He's got one of those Mini-14s with the folding stocks, but I'd bet the numbers are gone. Pockets are empty, and we didn't pass any cars on the way in.”

“I never heard a car. They dropped him and he walked in.”

Tubbs nodded slowly. “Makes sense. And when he didn't come back or they heard that cannon go off they headed for the hills.”

“No ID or money, lieutenant. Nothing but an extra magazine for the rifle.” Crockett turned away from the body, fixing his eyes on the lieutenant who never seemed to sweat. “He's a professional.”

“I never doubted that.” Martin let his gaze shift from one man to the other. “The real question is why is he here?”

“Pissed anyone off lately?” Tubbs chuckled. “Wait, let me guess. It's more who haven't you pissed off.” Then his eyes changed. “Could this be some kind of payback for that nutjob we took down? The brother with the knife?”

“No.” Martin's voice was firm, but deep down he wasn't totally sure. He doubtedthe Company was coming after him for that, but you could never be sure. Still...this wasn't their style. Too messy. Too public. “No,” he repeated more for himself than his two top detectives. “It wasn't them.”

Crockett watched the crew roll the body onto a stretcher and then feed it into the back of the wagon. “KGB, maybe? I expect they still want to settle up for that little set-to we had.”

Tubbs shook his head. “No way they'd send just one dude. Not after what the lieutenant did to their guys last time. They'd come in with a whole crew.”

“Tubbs is right. It wouldn't just be one man.” Martin saw the state trooper lurking back in the shadows, a notebook open in his hand. “You two get back to OCB. I need to do the initial shooting report. Get the team together and ready to brief their ongoing cases. This might not be about me.” As he watched the two head back to Tubbs' car, Martin Castillo suppressed a sigh. He knew it was about him. He just wasn't sure what part of him it was about.

The trooper smiled apologetically. “Sorry about this, lieutenant.”

“It's the job.” Martin decided to make it easy on the man.

“Name, rank, and agency?”

Name. Now that was a loaded question. Half truth and half lie. “Martin Castillo. Lieutenant. OCB, Metro Dade Police Department.” Martin was his name, given years ago in a small dirt-floored hut in the hills north of Havana. Given, he remembered being told, in honor of a grandfather who'd been a professor. The half-lie was Castillo. His pre-Revolution gift from the CIA when they got him out of the country ahead of Castro's take-over. His real last name buried in the dirt floor of that hut.

“How did you...”

“I heard a noise outside and investigated. He threatened me with his weapon and I defended myself.”

“Do you know him? Recognize him at all?”

“No.”

“So this was random? A break-in gone bad?”

“I don't know.” Martin had discarded that angle right away. The man had no tools, and there had been recognition on his face when he was bringing up the rifle. He at least knew what I looked like.“I doubt it, though. He had no tools I could see.”

It went on for another ten minutes. In the end the trooper snapped his notebook shut and shook his head. “We'll run his prints through and see what comes up. Funny that he didn't have a car, though. Dude don't look like someone who runs the swamps. Your Metro Dade boys might have some questions as well. I'll be sending my report over.”

“Thanks.” Martin gave him a short, crisp handshake and turned back to the house. He shoved the dead man's eyes back into his dark corner. It was time to go to work.

 

He swung the big Ford into his normal parking space, like he did every morning. Thanks to the call out he knew Crockett and Tubbs were already there, and they would have called in the rest of the team. Martin shook his head, shutting off the car and adjusting his sun glasses. The team. He'd worked alone for most of his professional life, and having a team was different. Difficult in its own way. But after three years they were more like his family. Theyare my familyhe corrected himself, locking the car and heading into the bland building marked Gold Coast Shipping. There's no one else left.

The squad room was empty, and Martin knew they'd be waiting for him in the conference room. He was worried about Switek, though he couldn't let it show. Only a few months had passed since Larry Zito's murder, and Martin knew from experience how hard it could be to find your partner's body. Stan came back to work quick enough, maybe too quick. He'd bear watching.

They were sitting around the table when he walked through the door. Crockett and Tubbs across from each other at the head as usual, with Gina and Trudy a bit further down wearing last night's street clothes. Stan sat at the very end, looking like a forgotten child waiting for his mother to pick him up after school. Or one of the orphans sitting by the side of the road watching American convoys roll past. Castillo pinched the bridge of his nose to banish the images. “You've been told?”

“We briefed them, lieutenant.” Crockett sounded all business.

“We're just glad you're ok.” It was Trudy who said it. Always Trudy, putting into words what others might not.

“I need to know about your current cases. See if there's anything there that might have triggered this.”

“Tubbs and I are still working the Mendozas. Strictly small time so far.”

“Yeah, mon. I can't get them to offer up more than a kilo.”

“Trudy and I are looking into reports of a new pimp working close to the Overton,” Gina said, looking down at her note pad. “New place, new guy. At most he's got two or three girls and doesn't seem to be making any fast moves.”

“And I'm stuck with running a sting at that pawn shop over by Flamingo.” Stan tugged at his shirt and snorted. “That new kid from tech services is doing ok, but...”

“Thank you.” Martin cut him off, but gave one of his thin smiles to show it was nothing personal. “So nothing that might generate a hit on any of these cases?”

“No way, lieutenant.” Tubbs' voice rang with certainty. “That leaves the question...who would come after you?”

“I don't know.” And Martin didn't. Not yet, at least. “It's been quiet since we took out Frank. Detective Zito's killers are out as well.”

“Did that Lao Li have any relatives?” Stan spoke softly, not looking up. “He doesn't seem the forgiving type to me.”

“Or that chump Menton? Some of those clowns at the Agency have long memories.”

“No. Lao Li's people wouldn't send a round-eye with a Mini-14.” Crockett spoke now. “And Menton's a spook in prison. An ex-spook in prison. He's dead to them. For them it's the cost of doing business.”

“Crockett's right. This wasn't the Agency, and I doubt it had anything to do with Lao Li or his people. Not directly.” Martin folded his hands over each other and looked down at the table. He knew they assumed he knew who had tried to kill him, and it bothered him that he didn't. He'd make a call or two and see what shook out. “Get back to your cases. I'm going to make a few calls. But be careful. This might be about more than me.”

Castillo kept his office dim and uncluttered. A desk, chair, phone, and a few books placed more for show than use was all he needed. His watch told him it was mid-afternoon, but he hadn't left the office since the meeting. Mostly he'd been on the phone, making or taking calls depending on what was required. But the whole time he'd been thinking. Running through the files in his head trying to find pieces to put together.

A light rap on the door shattered his focus, and Trudy stuck her head in. “Sorry to bother you, lieutenant, but the state boys got a hit on the shooter's prints. He had more aliases than Tubbs has names in his little black book, but his parents called him Dougie Collier. Did a few years in the Army. Dishonorable discharge back in '82, and he's been in and out of trouble ever since. A few ties to the Neo-Nazi crowd, but nothing major.”

“Thank you.” Martin looked up, seeing the light in her eyes. It triggered a memory he hurried to bury. “Come in a minute. I need to ask you something.”

“What is it?” She sat in the chair in front of his desk, her thick dark hair loose around her face.

“How's Detective Switek? I know he talks to you more than the others.”

“He's...” She closed her eyes for a moment. “He's hanging in there, lieutenant. He and Larry were really close, and to find him like that...” Her voice trailed away. “It almost killed him. But he's tough. More than they give him credit for, I mean. He's still not talking much to Sonny, though.”

“I know.” Martin shared a thin smile. “Switek isn't like Crockett and Tubbs. But he's a good detective. He can go places they can't, hear things they can't. Just like you and Gina. Detective Zito was his balance, and I need to know if he's out of balance.” He could see she was getting nervous. “That's all. Let me know if anything changes. And get that name to Crockett and Tubbs. Have them work the streets a bit. Maybe Collier was trying to move up in the world.”

 

“You're sure you've never heard the name?” Martin kept his voice even, listening to the man on the other end of the line let his breath out in a hiss.

“No, Marty. Swear to God. He's not one of ours. Hell, we don't like using those Nazi goofs.” Ryan worked with ATF now, but in the bad old days he'd done a bit of Company work. He kept his ears open and for the most part Castillo trusted him. Mostly.

“Thank you.” Martin hung up and let his shoulders sag. Ryan had been his last phone hope. The other people he needed to talk to were harder to find, difficult to meet, and never used phones. He knew it would be easier if he had any ideawhysomeone was trying to kill him. No, he thought, correcting himself. It's more who than why. The whys are almost endless. In some ways the other list was almost endless as well.

It could be Cuba, after all these years. But they'd have to find his name, and that was next to impossible. No, it wasimpossible. His old name was gone, and the man who'd created the new one died on a forgotten beach on the island of Martin's birth, leading dreamers in a fight they were destined to lose. There were no other records. No files. Just Martin Castillo with a US passport and birth certificate. And they'd shut down Zamora's band of thugs hard enough no one was still around to be thinking of revenge from that angle.

The Russians? Castillo leaned back in his chair, feeling the weight of years on his shoulders. He doubted the Russians would be coming after him. He'd annoyed them a time or two, mostly in his past life, but they had bigger worries these days. That and they'd never send just one shooter. The Company was out for the same reason. The CIA would never try to square things with one white trash shooter.

Vietnam or Laos. He had ghosts without number from those dark jungles, and Thailand as well. So many years of his life had been given to those jungles. So many things gone with no trace. Menton and Lao Li were both in Federal prison, but he didn't doubt the reach of either man. Still...it didn't feel right for Lao Li. The old general would be far more particular in the men he sent after Castillo. Menton was another story, but Martin wasn't sure the renegade ex-CIA man would lift a finger without Lao Li's approval.

 

Out in the squad room Tubbs stared at the glass insert of Castillo's office door. “He hasn't come out of there since the briefing.”

Crockett looked up from his desk. “So? We've got a meet with that goofball Noogie in half an hour. You ready for Miami's entry in the space race?”

“You're telling me you're not worried?”

“About Castillo?” Crockett shook his head. “Not a chance, pal. He can take care of himself pretty damned well from what I can see.”

“Sure. Until he can't.” Tubbs sighed. “I know he didn't ask, and he'd just get pissed if we asked, but why don't we take a look into some of this for him? For starters, who would send a Nazi after Marty? You I'd understand.”

“One deal with Kern and you think I'm Hitler.” Crockett smiled and closed the file he'd been reading. “But yeah, it won't hurt to make a call or two. Trudy said he wants us to shake some trees about this Collier guy. Noogie isn't likely to know squat, but I bet he knows someone who might.”

 

The sun had died a red death in the Caribbean by the time Castillo turned on to the dirt road leading to his house. As soon as he left the pavement he shut off the Ford's headlights, easing the car to a stop and allowing his eyes to adjust to the moonlight filtering through the trees. He drove the rest of the way blacked out, shutting off the car and letting it coast the last few yards to the parking pad. After the events of the morning he figured it was worth playing it safe.

His house was one of Martin's few indulgences. Set back from the water, it wouldn't look out of place in an upscale neighborhood on the outskirts of Tokyo. Walking in, he stood in the moonlight streaming through the wide windows for a moment. Letting it cleanse his soul as he breathed in the essence of the place. Only then did he turn on a light.

Years spent in Southeast Asia had left its mark. Martin knew many of his colleagues considered his habits odd at best. Even when he was with the CIA in the early '60s he'd heard the whispers about his 'going native.' They'd accelerated after he'd married May Ying, and her reported death hadn't silenced them. They followed him to the DEA, and later to Metro Dade. The corner of his mouth twitched at a memory, and Martin slipped off his black suit coat and hung it on a wall hook. He'd never cared what they said or thought. For a man with no country, the routines and spirits of Southeast Asia had led him to comfort and a peace he'd found nowhere else.

He made tea in the dim glow of the lone light, sipping it on his deck looking out over the water. The salt of the ocean bit his nose, and he let the cool breeze wash over him. Now, with the city scrubbed away, he could really think.

His team would be working his shooting in addition to their own cases. He knew that, and didn't fight it. They'd work it even if he ordered them not to. But they only knew a fraction of what lay behind Martin Castillo, and if the order came from one of those ghosts they'd likely find nothing. Raising his cup, he forced himself to focus on the scent of the tea, the warmth as it touched his lips, the smooth bite as it crossed his tongue. Centering his being on that one cup. That was when his mind did its best work.

Larry Zito. The name flashed in front of his eyes, followed by the dead detective's thin face framed by straggly dark hair. Martin remembered his failures with a sharp, brilliant clarity, and Zito was the most recent. A routine case gone horribly wrong. He'd let Crockett's desire for revenge get out of hand, and then had to cover for the buffoons from IAD when they tried to class Zito's death as an OD. The whole mess had cost him a fine detective, possibly two if Switek didn't bounce back, and he wasn't sure if Switek would ever really trust Crockett again. All because he hadn't reined Crockett in from the beginning.

He was worried about Trudy, too. Letting another sip of tea warm his throat, he thought about his two female detectives. Gina was solid enough, still in love with Crockett though he'd long since moved on, but solid. Trudy...Trudy had the makings of a top detective. One of the best. But Zito's death had hit her hard. Martin wasn't sure why, and that bothered him. Zito and Trudy hadn't been close, so it wasn't that. Maybe it was because she saw what Crockett's recklessness could cause. He just knew he had to get her through it. Whatever it was.

Martin took a last look at the ocean. The breeze rattled the yellow police tape still marking the side of his house, scattering his thoughts. The tea was gone, and his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten yet. A simple bowl of noodles would complement his mood. Leaving Trudy's image on the deck, he turned and walked back into the house.

 

Music blared from the club's open door, and Tubbs saw Crockett cringe. “How can they listen to that crap?”

“Hey, pal, if I have to meet with Noogie, you can listen to his music.” Tubbs grinned and headed for the door. “You know that chump gives me a rash.”

Rizzo's was a bottom-rung strip club in one of the parts of town trying and failing to climb out of the gutter. The girls were mostly fake, from their hair to their tans to their tits, but the average Rizzo's patron was too drunk or high to notice or care. And after his last failed attempt at making it into music by breaking into a recording studio, and his parole officer telling him one more arrest would send him straight to Radford, Noogie Lamont traded it all in for a job as Rizzo's star DJ. All that flashed through Tubbs' brain as he made his entrance, seeing the main blonde dancer had roots blacker than Calderone's heart and tits faker than a TV evangelist's smile. What might have been the Rolling Stones basted out of overdriven, blown speakers as she finished a half-hearted turn on the pole and sent her bikini top spinning over the heads of the drunken crowd. Then he heard the voice.

“Give it up for Amy and her Guns! That's it! Give it UP! The Noog-man's takin' a quick break for some lubrication, which Amy don't need, an' then we'll be back with more hits and tits!”

“Shoot me now,” Tubbs muttered to Crockett. “Do we have to meet with this chump?”

“You know we do, Rico. He's got an in with the Mendozas.”

“He says he does, at least.”

“He works in a strip club. The Mendozas' money man has a thing for strippers. Noogie might actually have the goods this time.”

Tubbs shook his head, letting Crockett lead the way to the space behind the DJ's raised booth. It didn't take much for two men in suits to move through the sweaty crowd; Rizzo's regulars knew that trouble wore suits and tried to stay clear. It might have helped that Tubbs, as Cooper, had punched out a low-level dealer two weeks before, and the week before that Crockett had done his best Burnett on another dealer's face.

“Burnett! Cooper! What it is? You come by to see some of the Noog-man's primo box? Shake your bills while they shake their tails?” Noogie was wearing bright purple sunglasses with green-tinted lenses and a tie-dyed shirt that might have fit a six year old. His pants looked like spray-painted leather.

“Not tonight, Noogie. Cooper and I are more interested in business.”

“Aw...not even Bouncin' Betty over there?”

“Especially not Bouncing Betty.” Tubbs narrowed his eyes, fighting the urge to slap the glasses off Noogie's face. “We'll make this quick.”

“You got anything for us on that man we were after?”

Tubbs stopped listening as Noogie launched into his routine. Crockett would get the fine points. He was watching the crowd, checking for threats. But once Crockett finished and started to turn, Tubbs remembered. “You know a cat named Dougie Collier?”

Noogie's mouth stuck open. “What that you say? Dougie C? He don't run with me, 'cause I'm da black man an' he don't dig da black man. He da white man. But I knows a man who run wit dat man.”

“Who?” It took all Tubbs' self-control to keep from driving his fist through Noogie's flashing white teeth.

“My man Izzy! Man who knows everyone! And now if you gentlemen will excuse me, the Noog-man's gotta spin so they can spin, if you get what I'm sayin'.”

Back on the street, Tubbs rubbed his eyes. “Please just shoot me now. At least tell me you got something on Mendoza's banker.”

“Sure did.” Crockett chuckled. “While you were lookin' at the merchandise, partner, I was working. He said Mendoza's boy will be in tomorrow night. He's got a thing for some tall redhead. Comes in every night she dances. And he thinks Izzy knows the guy who took a shot at Castillo?”

“Either that or Izzy knows someone who does. And why is it every time we talk to that chump he's in a strip club? And don't tell me it's because of Annie.”

“Who knows? But now we gotta go find Cuba's gift to Miami.” Crockett turned toward the Ferrari.

Tubbs followed, still trying to get Noogie's shrill voice out of his head. It still didn't make sense that Izzy would know how to find a neo-Nazi, but he'd also learned through painful experience that the Cuban refugee didseem to know everyone in the greater Miami area. Settling into the Ferrari, he waited until Crockett had pulled out into traffic to speak again. “You talked to Switek lately?”

“Naw.” Crockett let the word drip casually. “He's still mad at me for what happened to Larry. He's a big boy. He'll work it out.”

“Sure.” But Tubbs wondered. Crockett hadpushed too hard on that one, and there'd been a cost. It wasn't something he figured Sonny would admit, even to himself. “Tell you what, I'll call Stan and see if he's in touch with Izzy. One freak a night is my limit, unless there's a king-sized bed involved.”

Crockett laughed, guiding the Ferrari around an ambling taxi. “You're on, Rico.”

The car phone hissed static as Tubbs keyed in the number. When Stan answered he could tell the big man was in the bug van from the way his voice echoed. “Elvis Exterminators. We take the heartbreak out of your hotel.”

“Funny, Stan. I need a favor. You in touch with Izzy?”

“I could be. What did the little mouth-breather do this time?”

“Nothing. But the lieutenant wants us to run down some chump named Dougie Collier. We struck out with Noogie, but he thought Izzy might know the cat. We're still working that Mendoza lead.”

Stan's voice faded. “No! You adjust the bug here, not with that. Anyhow, back with you, Tubbs. Guy's supposed to be a neo-Nazi, right? Izzy don't run with them. Too brown. But he might know someone who does. Little punk knows everyone. I'll do some digging and let you know.”

“Thanks. I owe you a beer.” Tubbs hung up the phone and looked out the car window at the dark streets. “He'll make some calls.”

“Good. You feel like a drink, partner?”

“Sure.” Tubbs leaned back in the seat, trying to ignore the pain he'd heard in Stan's voice. “Sounds good, partner. And maybe we can figure out who tried to kill the lieutenant while we're at it.”

 

Awake before the sun, Martin Castillo felt the shock of the cold water hit his chest as he dove into the breaking surf. Cutting through the tide with powerful strokes, he was soon almost a quarter mile away from the beach. Turning, he let the current carry him for a time, then started back for shore.

Time in the water gave him time to think, away from the distractions on land. The dream hadn't come last night, and he was thankful for that. He did have glimpses of elements from his past, seen through fog. Columns of short hill tribesmen in tattered green fatigues snaking through the jungle. Smoke rising from burning huts. A woman's laugh knifing through the cacophony of a Saigon street. And just before he woke the whisper of his wife's voice.

Back on shore, he toweled off and walked through the sliding glass door into his kitchen. He made tea, watching the waves slide up the white sand as the leaves soaked in boiling water. When it was time he drank slowly, savoring each mouthful. Then it was time for a shower and clothes. He'd pick something up at one of the Cuban coffee shops on his way to OCB.

The squad room was mostly full when he walked in. He could see Crockett and Tubbs at their desks, Trudy and Gina talking over a case, and off in the corner Switek sat alone, staring at an open file folder. Working their cases like the good cops they were. But he could feel something missing. “Updates in five minutes,” he said on the way through.

As the last one in, Trudy shut the conference room door. Martin thanked her with a nod. “Let's have it.”

“We met with Noogie last night. He said the Mendoza money man has a thing for one of Rizzo's girls. We know when she's dancing, so we can get him then.” Crockett closed the folder.

“We've been working the Overton.” Gina looked down at her notepad. “No one's come near us yet, but we've been getting some looks from the girls. Tonight might be it.”

“Good.” Martin looked at his own notes. “Detective Switek?”

“Still no movement on that wire.” Stan's voice was louder than usual. “I think we're wasting our time. But I did get word from Izzy on that thing, Tubbs. Izzy said to find a guy named Brick. He likes to drink at a biker bar down by the docks. Place called the Hog Shed. And he said Crockett should be the one to go in. In Izzy's words your face might get 'strategically readjusticated' if you go in.”

“We'll look at that wire again in a week. If there's still nothing I'll take you off it. But be ready to back up Gina and Trudy if something surfaces there.” Martin closed his own notebook, trying not to look at the chair Larry Zito usually occupied. “Following Izzy's lead is not a priority, Crockett. Mendoza's money man is. Thank you.”

Back in his office, Martin thought about what Stan had said. He knew the Hog Shed from past cases. A dive biker bar with connections to both the Hell's Angels and a number of small-time neo-Nazi groups. Strictly small-time. The kind of place someone went to hire help, not the place a hit on a cop came from. Instead of sending Crockett he'd go take a look himself. See what shook out. He spent over an hour catching up on backlogged paperwork before he decided he'd earned the right to check out the lead.

He could see the heat rising in waves from the parking lot as soon as he stepped outside OCB. Slipping on his sunglasses, he strode across the lot to his car, then stopped. Even though the heat haze he could see scrapes in the asphalt just under the driver's side of his car. Fresh scrapes.

In case someone was watching, Martin made a show of checking his watch as if he'd forgotten something then turned on his heel and went back into OCB. “Call the bomb squad,” he said when Stan looked up at him. “I think my car's been booby-trapped. Get someone to check the cameras. We have one on the front lot, don't we?”

 

“You were right, lieutenant.” The sergeant from the bomb squad held a gray rectangle in his hands like a prize bass. “We found two pounds of C-4 wired to the ignition. You'd have turned that key, we'd be cleaning you up with a toothbrush and there'd be a hell of a hole in the parking lot. How'd you know it was there?”

“Hot asphalt. Someone forgot it gouges.” Castillo looked at the bomb through narrowed eyes, ignoring the rest of the team gathered around. “Any idea what made those marks?”

“Not my department. Reminded me of those chains punk rockers use to hold their wallets, though.” The sergeant kept staring at the bomb. “Lots of C-4, but the workmanship's sloppy. Whoever did this isn't very damned good at it.”

Tubbs' voice echoed from behind him. “Lieutenant. Bikers use those chains, too.”

“Yes. Switek, have Leon bring another car around. And let me know if that camera got anything.”

Stan looked up from the monitor. “Doubt it, Lieutenant. Someone took it out. Looks like one of those air guns with paint they use to mark livestock. Lens has been painted red since not long after you came in.”

“You think they followed you?”

“No.” Martin gave Crockett a quick look. “I'd have seen them. But they could be staking out OCB. They don't need to tail me if they know where I'm going. Check the tapes and see if anything stands out. I doubt they got every camera. And we can't let this happen again. Switek, work with Leon and see what you can come up with.”

“Right away, lieutenant. But you're not gonna like this. Leon doesn't have any cars ready.”

“Take the Caddy, lieutenant.” Tubbs tossed his keys across the desk. “Crockett's got the Ferrari.”

“Thanks.” Martin caught the keys and dropped them into his suit coat pocket. “I'll be back soon. Don't let that money man slip away. The Mendozas are still a top priority.”

Martin could feel the heat from the leather upholstery through his slacks as he eased the big convertible into the mid-morning traffic near OCB. He took the back way out of the lot, leaving the bomb squad surrounding his car to draw any attention if someone was still watching the building. The drive to the Hog Shed could take almost an hour when traffic was good, and he'd need to split his attention between the traffic and watching his rear view. Just in case whoever had been watching OCB spotted him leaving and wanted to tag along.

At one time the Hog Shed had been a gas station, but at some point in the 1960s the pumps were pulled out and it became a bar. Martin remembered the gas station from his life before Southeast Asia, especially buying cold Cokes from the cooler inside. He'd been back a few times since, mostly to watch the place slide into the state it was in today. Sunlight glittered off polished chrome from a row of six Harleys parked out front, and a side lot held two rusted pickups and what might have been a Thunderbird. Sliding the Caddy into an empty spot, Martin adjusted his dark glasses and reached down to touch the bulk of his Smith & Wesson Model 29. Just in case.

Inside it was dark and smelled of sweat, motor oil, stale beer, and piss. Most of the bikers at the bar smelled the same way, so it was hard to tell where their stench stopped and the bar's began. A jukebox toward the back flashed a pattern as it played “Sweet Home Alabama,” and two pool tables basked under light from long fixtures with broken side panes. Martin walked through the door and stepped to one side; a thin, dark shadow highlighted for a moment before vanishing into other darker shadows. The men at the bar turned with varying degrees of alertness, but he could see the bartender watching his every move.

He sized up the bikers with a glance. Three were big, muscles bulging through denim cut-off jackets, and looked slow. One was average, and two had the thin build of knife fighters Martin had known in Manila. The average one was the first to turn away from his bottle of Budwiser to see what had disturbed the darkness of the bar. “Hey! Who let the beaner in?”

His lips pursed into an imitation of a smile. “I'm looking for Brick.”

“And just who the fuck are you, Chico? The man ain't here, and we didn't order no tacos. So get the fuck out.” One of the big ones turned now, his voice grinding like a missed shift.

“Who I am doesn't matter. Is Brick here?”

“Sure, but he don't talk to spics. Darkies neither. So why don't you just get the fuck out of here?”

“I don't think so.” Martin unbuttoned his coat and shifted his balance to the balls of his feet. Even though he knew he shouldn't, part of him enjoyed what was coming.

“You hear that? He wants to get uppity. I say we teach him a lesson.”

Martin watched them come away from the bar and turn toward him. Only one of the thin ones had a knife, which made things easier. He'd take him first, then the big one with the mouth. His years of training meshed with hard-earned experience in one smooth, fluid moment and he slid into a corner of himself where he observed everything and time moved like slow-pouring honey.

“Not much to say now?” The one with the knife cut at the air with showy motions, the blade dancing as sunlight caught it through dirty windows. Martin stood, waiting, not moving. Drawing them closer. Closer. Then it was time.

The knife had just completed one of its glittering arcs when Castillo's arm flashed out. Trapping the man's knife arm, he spun to the side and exerted pressure. There was a sharp crack and the man screamed, the knife clattering to the floor as he lost control of his fingers. Continuing the spin, Castillo sent the limp figure crashing into the far wall, his leg coming up in a sharp roundhouse kick destroying the jaw of one of the big men. His scream muffled by blood and shattered teeth, the man lurched away from the fight.

The average one took a swing, a sloppy cross Castillo avoided before dropping him with a knife hand to the throat. Swinging his left arm in a smooth arc he blocked another wild punch, reversing the arc and catching another of the big men with a savage chop to the side of his neck. Dropping back into a ready pose, Castillo was barely breathing hard when he saw the remaining big man and the other small man exchange looks and then bolt through the front door. Only the bartender remained. From his files Castillo knew that was Brick.

The bartender started to reach for the sawed-off shotgun under the bar when his hand stopped short. Castillo stepped over one of the groaning men on the floor, his big magnum trained on the man's shaved head. “Brick. We need to talk.”

 

One of the fluorescent lights in interrogation was starting to fail, and the flickering cast erratic shadows over Martin's face as he stared across the table at Brick. He could see sweat beading on the man's forehead and heard his fingers drumming on the table. Good. Another couple of minutes and he'll tell me anything I want to know.

“You gonna talk to me, cop? Tell me how much trouble I'm in?”

Martin could feel the eyes on the other side of the mirror. Watching him. The whole squad had stopped in one frozen moment when he'd pushed Brick through and into interrogation. Still...he sat and looked down at the table. Waiting.

“You gonna...”

It was time. Martin looked up, and Brick stopped in mid-word. “Who was he?”

“Who was who? You ain't makin' no...”

“Who hired Dougie Collier?”

“You'd have to ask him.”

“I can't. He's dead. But I know you set it up.” Castillo locked eyes with him, knowing the man couldn't look away. “Who called you?”

“Maybe it was me.”

“No. You're not smart enough. Don't stand up. What I did to your friends was just a warm up. Or maybe you're too smart. You know what would happen to your crew if you took a shot at a cop. That's why you picked Dougie, right? He's not part of the crew. Just white trash who kept hanging around. But I'm sure we can make you for this. Conspiracy to commit murder. Facilitation. Unlawful possession of a firearm.”

Brick looked down at the table. “Look. You're right about Dougie. He was a bitch who kept whining about wanting to be part of the movement. Only movement he had plugged up my damned shitter for a day. So when the call came I was happy to send him.”

“Who. Made. The. Call.” Each word came out clipped, and Castillo slammed his hand on the table to emphasize each one.

“I don't know his name, man! It's not like calling the plumber or some shit! He sounded like a brother, though. That's the other reason I used Dougie. Couldn't send one of my own to do some darkie's work. Had him some schooling, though. Used big words. Yankee, too.”

“Payment?”

“Mailbox downtown. I didn't want him stoppin' by the Hog Shed.”

“And who set the bomb?”

“That was Spider. Dude whose arm you broke. When Dougie missed the darkie called back. Pissed as hell. Said we needed to make it right. So Spider built one of his little packages. But then you went and found it.”

“Your men were watching.”

“Sure. The darkie said he needed proof you were gone, so they was waitin' with a camera. Got some good shots of the bomb squad, but I sure as hell didn't figure you'd come out to the Hog Shed. Or that you'd know it was us.”

Castillo leaned in, lowering his voice. “This can go quite a few ways. Does the man who hired you know the bomb didn't work?”

“No. Ain't no one called him.” Brick leaned back in his chair, his eyes searching the corners of the room. “And I ain't gonna turn on him.”

“Federal prison isn't anything like Radford.” Castillo kept his voice low. “Once you're put into general population and word gets out you're a Nazi you won't last ten minutes. I can see that you do Federal time, Jacob. Or you could go to Radford with a race traitor tag in your jacket.”

Brick flinched as if he'd been slapped when Castillo used his real name. “I don't use that Jew name no more.”

“Why not? You are Jewish. You've got a lot of secrets, Jacob. Or you did.”

 

In the observation room Crocket let out a low, long whistle. “He's good. Damned good.”

“You can say that again.” Tubbs leaned against the back wall, watching Castillo work. “Not a drop of sweat on the man and he's got that chump wetting his pants. I was wondering when he'd play the name card.”

“Who do you think did this?”

“That, partner, is the big question. Who would hire a rag-tag bunch of Nazis to whack the lieutenant? And a brother, no less. Maybe Jacob's got his wires crossed.”

“I don't think so.” Crockett sat down with a sigh. “He'd know that kind of voice. I just can't think of anyone from up north who'd want to kill Castillo. You? Sure.”

“Can I help it I make friends easy?” Tubbs laughed. “I've been wrackin' my brain trying to think of anyone we've crossed like that.”

 

“You'll make the call. Tell him it's done. He'll want a picture. You'll have one to send.”
Castillo didn't look up as he spoke. There was no need now. Jacob was broken, and he finally knew it. “Do this right and you'll do your time quietly. Try to cross me and you won't last ten minutes inside.” Without another word he got to his feet and left the interrogation room.

Crockett and Tubbs were waiting outside. “We've been going back through it, lieutenant,” Crockett said, “but we can't think of anyone who matches that profile. Black, educated, and hates your guts.”

Tubbs shook his head. “There's something. I just can't put my finger on it.”

“You'll get your chance.” Castillo rubbed his eyes, tired now that the interrogation rush was wearing off. “Have Stan set up a phone with a trace and recorder. Maybe we can keep this guy on the line long enough to get a location, but if not I want his voice taped. I'll be in my office. Let me know when it's ready.” He looked back at the closed door. “Keep him alone for now. Let him think.”

After the flickering light of the interrogation room his office felt cool and inviting. Dropping into his chair, working his hands to keep the blood flowing and prevent bruises from forming, Castillo looked at the open file folder on his plain blotter. Jacob Goldstein, alias Brick. Over twenty arrests for various things before he was thirty, but nothing bigger than simple assault. Until today.

Closing his eyes, Castillo let the words flow through his mind. An educated black man from up north. Who did he know like that? Who did he know like that who hated him enough to try to kill him twice? Menton would, but he's not black. He might have contacts who are, though.Who...

“Lieutenant.” It was Tubbs' voice. “Stan has the phone ready whenever you want to go.”

“Right.”

“You know...I was thinking. That chump says the guy on the phone's educated, right? And black? And from up north. That did get me thinking about someone.”

“Who?”

“That chump from the Federal Organized Crime Task Force we had to babysit a year or so ago. The hungry fed. Always chomping on his gum.”

“Joe Dalva.” Castillo remembered him slumped in the Miami heat, watching his ambition evaporate as Sergio Celmente bled out in front of him. Stabbed by his own sister, Maria Rojas, who Dalva had pulled from witness protection. Seconds after she stabbed her brother she'd been shot dead by a sniper on Clemente's payroll. “I remember him.”

“What ended up happening to him? You told him he was being an idiot, and he didn't listen. If there's any brother from up north who'd have it in for you, it would be him.”

“I'll make a call.” In truth Castillo hadn't thought about Dalva since he'd left the man sitting on the hot asphalt of the parking lot. As far as he knew Dalva left Miami the same day, fleeing the scene of his own failure like most Feds Castillo had known over the years. But would one case make him hate that much? I don't know.

“I'll go keep the big chump company. We'll be ready when you are, lieutenant.”

“Thanks.” Castillo sat, his eyes loosely focused on the chair Tubbs had just vacated, for almost five minutes before reaching out for the phone. “It's Castillo. Yes. Get him. I have a question.”

 

“Damn.” Brick whistled low. “That's a hell of a picture. I can't see him sayin' no to that.”

Castillo didn't move. Lester had worked up the photo, after the bomb squad had blown up a car looking just enough like Castillo's to convince anyone in the area. The story would hit the papers as a John Doe blown up in one of Miami's drug feuds, even though there was no body in the car. “Make the call. He'll have seen the news by now.”

Stan gave a thumbs-up from his console as Brick started punching buttons. “Keep him on the line as long as you can. And we're live.”

Castillo slipped on headphones as Brick held the receiver to his ear with both hands, his handcuffs wrapped with a hand towel to keep the chains from clattering. After the third ring a hollow click filled his ears. “I've seen the news.”

“We did our part. That spick's scattered over three football fields now. Got some great pictures, too.”

“Good.” The voice was clipped, just like Castillo remembered Dalva's, but it was also muted. Like something was wrapped over the phone mouthpiece. “Deliver it to the address.”

“How do I know I'll get my money? This work ain't cheap, friend.”

“I said deliver the picture. Take it to the mail drop. Hand it to the guy behind the desk. He'll check and pay you. That simple enough for you?”

“Sure. But what...” Brick stared at the mouthpiece as a dial tone filled his ear. “Fucker hung up on me.”

“Do you get anything?”

Stan shut off the recorder with a click. “He was using a payphone, lieutenant. Looks like one of the ones down by the Flamingo Hotel. That's a bank of four if I remember right. And busy.”

“Has this man ever seen you before?”

Brick shook his head. “It's all been over the phone, man.”

“Good. Take him to holding and keep him quiet. I don't want this going into booking just yet.” Castillo stood by the table, waiting until Brick had been hauled from the room. Stan still sat by the tape deck, and Crockett and Tubbs stood expectantly in opposite corners. “Crockett, you're going to be Brick for this one.”

“Gotcha, lieutenant. Shouldn't be a big thing.”

“Did you talk to your contact?” Tubbs walked to the table and sat down, looking at the tape recorder with narrowed eyes. “Sounded like the chump was talking through a sock.”

“You know this guy?” Crockett looked between Castillo and Tubbs.

“Possibly. When you were working that case against Callie and Charlie Bassett, Tubbs and I had to work with an agent from FOCTF. Joe Dalva. He managed to get some people killed. His target, and an informant we were supposed to protect.”

“That asshat? Tubbs told me about him.”

“Yes. It turns out he was removed from the Task Force a month later. The Bureau sent him to Baltimore and then Kansas City. He took early retirement soon after. My contact at the Bureau says he blamed us for his demotion. Me in particular.”
“But do you think he'd try to kill you?” Crockett shook his head. “That seems crazy even for a Fed. Where did he retire to? Most of those boys end up on some small town police force.”

“My contact didn't know. Dalva just seemed to disappear once he left. His pension gets sent to a bank and deposited. We'd need a warrant to dig any deeper into his financials, and I don't have enough to ask for one.”

“So what's the plan?” Stan didn't look up when he spoke.

“Crockett will do the exchange. Switek, set him up with a wire. Once the deal's done, Tubbs and I will take the counter man into custody. He's the next link in the chain.”

“Don't forget we've got Mendoza's money man in Rizzo's tonight,” Crockett said. “I guess we can push that back a week if we have to. Seems he sets his watch by this redhead.”

“Picking the clerk up shouldn't take long. If we move now.”

“You heard the man. Let's get your sound check going.” Stan pushed back from the table, his chair legs grating on the tiled floor of the interrogation room. “I think I've got something in your size.”

Once the two were gone, Tubbs turned back to Castillo. “Did your man say anything else?”

“No.” Therehadbeen more, but it wasn't anything Tubbs needed to know. Not yet, at least.

“Come onlieutenant. I know there's more.” Tubbs' voice was almost a hiss, blending in with the laboring air conditioning. “We both worked that case. He's going to be after me as much as he is you.”

“Maybe not. My contact says he met with Menton three times before he retired.”

“That spook you almost killed in the conference room?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe this isn't Dalva. Maybe it's Menton and Dalva's living in some trailer park somewhere.”

“Menton's had other repeat visitors. At least one of them was black. And he could have been meeting with Dalva to find out information for Lao Li. We need to be ready either way.” Castillo started for the door. “Get moving. We need to be in position before Crockett gets there. Make sure he gets the address before he leaves.”

 

Taking the clerk, Castillo reflected as he sat in his office, had been easy. Crocket just walked in with the picture and five minutes later they were hauling the thin, wide-eyed man off in a patrol car. Now the hard part began: getting him to give up whoever had left the money with him.

For a moment he wished he had Crockett and Tubbs close to hand, but they were at Rizzo's working the Mendoza case. Gina and Trudy were on station at the Overton, and he'd shifted Stan to cover them. The wiretap was looking to be a bust, and he wanted to keep Switek active and thinking about something other than his dead partner and his anger at Crockett. It wasn't easy.

So that left him to work on the clerk. Sighing, Castillo closed his eyes, the file in front of him engraved on his eyelids he'd been staring at it so long.Leroy Tufts. Two priors, both for misdemeanor assault. No serious convictions. No ties to anyone other than his mailbox operation.He wasn't even a neo-Nazi. Tufts was strictly small-time in the true sense of the phrase. Which didn't explain why he was so quiet.

As soon as they'd gotten him into interrogation, Tufts had slumped in his chair and stared at broken fingernails. He'd grunted when read his rights, and shook his head when asked about a lawyer. He hadn't moved or spoken since then.

Interrogations always took Martin back to his time working liaison with the Saigon police. He'd shifted from Project Phoenix to the city and back so many times he'd lost count, but the interrogations were always the same. The room always dripped with Saigon's heat and humidity, a single overhead bulb burned bright and drew insects, and the suspect was tied to a chair. Some days he had fresh bruises and cuts, other days old wounds seeped infection and the bruises were green. But they always looked the same: small, beaten, and defiant. He'd come to recognize the Viet Cong, the realViet Cong, by their defiance. The others, those brought in for being in the wrong place at the right time or having the wrong enemies, just looked broken.

Usually he'd send the Vietnamese police, the White Mice, away with a short wave of the hand. Most days he'd keep the interpreter, but more for camouflage. After all his years in country Castillo was fluent in Vietnamese, and the VC's favorite mole was an interpreter. As one of his CIA trainers had said shortly after Cuba, interrogation was often a team sport. The key was to identify the teams quickly. Once he did, Martin usually let the Company know. More than a few of his interpreters disappeared into the narrow alleys of Saigon.

The interrogation room hadn't changed. The lights still burned white, the air conditioning labored against body odors and lingering tobacco smoke, and Leroy Tufts was still cuffed to his chair. Shutting the door with a firm click, Castillo sat down without a word.

A full five minutes passed before Tufts spoke. “You the silent cop?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.” Castillo never looked up, reviewing the file's notes in his head. “Only two assaults on your record. Not much for a man involved in a murder conspiracy.”

Tufts' head snapped up. “Murder? I ain't murdering no one.”

“What did you think the money was for?”

“I...I don't know. Ain't my business to know.”

“No.”

“Then why all this, man? I don't know shit!”

“No. You do. And it's enough for a conspiracy charge. That means state prison. Maybe Federal time.”

“I just rent the boxes. Don't know who uses 'em.”

“Wrong. This one you knew.” Castillo still kept looking at the table. Picturing the silent, determined little men in those nameless Saigon rooms. If he could break them... “Who is he?”

“But I don't...”

“You do. You took the picture and gave the man money. He's talking now.” Keeping Crockett in cover had its advantages. “But we know who gave him the picture. If you remember, it might cut your charges.”

“Charges?”

Castillo finally looked up, keeping his eyes flat and expressionless. Another skill he'd learned in Cuba and perfected in Southeast Asia. “Conspiracy to commit murder. Obstruction. Mail fraud. That's at least twenty-five years of hard time. Federal time.”

Tufts held his gaze for a handful of seconds. “I only saw the one who brought the money. Don't know it was the same one who rented the box. They did that on the phone and mailed in the money. Cash. One who brought the money said he was to make sure it got where it was needed.”

“Go on.”

“Not much more to say. He said I was to give the money to a feller who brought in a picture for that box. Once I got it I was to call him at a number he left. You all picked me up before I could do it.”

“What did he look like?”

“Redneck lookin' feller. I've seen him a time or two over at Rizzo's.”

“How did they know you wouldn't just take the money?”

Tufts went pale. “He said they'd be back tomorrow night at eight. If I weren't there they'd find me. Don't take much imagination to know what would happen then.”

Castillo pushed back from the table and left without another word. In the hall, he turned to the duty officer. “Keep him here. He's not to be transferred without my direct order.”

 

It was the nights that made Castillo miss the highlands the most. Not the Mekong or the area around Saigon, but the highlands of Laos and Thailand. Up there the stars were so bright, so close, it was like you could reach out and gather a handful to drop in your pocket for later. It reminded him of memories from his childhood, things seen like flickering clips from an old movie in a room full of smoke.

His house was far enough out the stars were fairly clear. Nothing like they were in the clear mountain air, but as close as he could get. Sitting on the porch, hearing the yellow police tape still snapping in the occasional breeze, Martin turned his thoughts to the case. He didn't think they'd try again here, not with leaked news stories speculating about the possibility of a dead cop in the mysterious explosion. Still, from long habit he sat in the dark. Taking a sip of sharp, clear rum, he let the liquor warm his mouth before swallowing.

It wasn't the why that bothered him as much as the who. Many people had many reasons for wanting him dead, and if he knew the who the why would follow as naturally as night follows day. But the team had other cases to work, and his wasn't at the top. Breaking at least part of the Mendoza operation would set them back months, and any inroad they could make in the network of pimps was worth doing. His smile was as faint as moth wings in the darkness. Moving Switek to back up Gina and Trudy was the right call. Something he would have done sooner if this mess hadn't landed in his lap.

Out beyond the white line of the beach he could hear waves crashing. The pulse of the night, or so one of his old team had said. Born and raised in southern California, the man had been a surfer from the beginning, and he used to tell the others outlandish stories about monster waves, blazing bonfires, and girls who would do anything you wanted just to say they'd been with a surfer. Jess had been one of the men who bled out in the jungle after Menton's ambush. Two weeks from rotating back to a nice desk job in Langley. Jess, Hoang, Ti Ti, Gus, and the rest. Somehow Martin had been spared, stunned by the first crack-blast of a Chinese claymore and covered in the blood of better men the ambushers assumed he was dead like the rest.

Castillo raised his glass in silent toast to the waves. Some nights he'd walk down, listening to the slip-crash and imagining he could see Jess out there riding one of the bigger ones. But only some nights. Most nights he used the memory to focus his thoughts and push down his feelings. To try to rip the guts out of the trade that killed Jess and the rest.

Menton. The whole time he'd been chasing Lao Li, Castillo never realized Menton was in his pocket. After Saigon Castillo left the CIA, shifting to the newly-forming DEA and chasing the same heroin smugglers in the Golden Triangle. Once Laos fell they shifted him back to the states, someone finally remembering the Cuban-American spoke flawless Spanish and might be an asset. But it was like trying to clear an avalanche with a teaspoon, and eventually Castillo dropped his badge on his senior agent's desk. There was talk he'd been forced out, but it wasn't that. Castillo had finally decided if he wanted to make a real difference it HAD to be local, and Miami was as close to home as he could get.

The glass was empty now. Martin still sat, listening to the night bloom and grow around him. As always, when he strode through the graveyard of his past the present seemed to sort itself out. Looking out toward the water he whispered, “Good night, Jess. Hope you catch a big one,” before turning and heading back inside.

 

“So he left that joker in there all night?” Crockett jerked his thumb toward interrogation.

“That he did, partner.” Tubbs grinned, tightening his tie with a practiced motion. “Left him to sweat all night long.” He sang the last three words, drawing a giggle from Trudy across the room.

“Maybe he should have sent him with us. Although exposure to Noogie for more than an hour might have gotten him sprung on cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Solid.” Tubbs kept the typewriter clattering with a few more flourishes and pulled out the form. “That report's done. I think we got enough to turn Mendoza's money man.”

“Or at least jam him up so bad he can't work.” Crockett looked over at Gina and Trudy talking with Stan. “How do you think they did?”

“Good I'd guess. Trudy don't look like she's about to kill someone, and that's always good in my book.” Tubbs narrowed his eyes. He'd already brought Stan up once, and Crockett hadn't paid any mind. Mentioning it again might do more harm than good. “Be good to see them get a win on this one.”

“And get another pimp off the street.” Crockett stretched and rubbed at his eyes. “God's work, that is.”

Tubbs was about to add something when the office door opened. “Conference room in five minutes. I want case updates.”

 

Switek looked down at his notepad. “Had a call from central booking. They're still sitting on those dirtbags you kicked the shit out of at the Hog Shed, lieutenant.”

“Good. Have them keep them there. I don't want Jacob getting any ideas.” Castillo looked at his own notes. “It sounds like your cases are developing. Can we trust Mendoza's banker enough to turn him?”

Crockett nodded. “I think so. He's a greedy bastard.”

“I disagree.” Tubbs shook his head. “He might be greedy, but he's also a coward. He'd rat us out the first chance he got.”

“We play it safe. Jam him up. Force the Mendozas into the open. Sorry, Sonny, but we can't afford to miss on this one. They got away from us once before. Not again.” He turned to Trudy. “Any ID on the pimp?”

She nodded. “I think so, lieutenant. His street name's Diamond. Gina's down at the Federal Building running aliases through the FBI. Nothing local, but Stan heard some of the girls at the bar talking about how he came in from up north.”

“Keep on it. Switek, stay with them. Good work picking that up.” Castillo looked up. “I'm sure you've seen Tufts down in interrogation. He's supposed to meet with the courier tonight.”

“Courier?” Crockett shook his head. “So we're no closer.”

“We are. One man closer. We put Tufts in play because they expect him to be there. He said his partner usually covers the day shift so we don't need to worry about that. Switek, get him there before six tonight and sit on him. I'll be there as soon as I can. Crockett, Tubbs, you'll be working outside. Find a good spot and watch the place. Tufts says the courier will be there at eight. I want you in place at least half an hour before that.”

“Any back up?”

“No. I can't risk spooking him.”

“What about Gina and Trudy?” Tubbs looked across the table with a grin. “Are they on the bench?”

“No. Good point. Trudy, be in position close to the store. Gina can go with you if she's done downtown in time.”

Trudy looked at her fingernails. “Do we have any idea who's behind him?”

“No.” But it has to be Menton. This is too deep for anyone else. Or maybe I just want it to be Menton. Castillo closed his notebook with a snap. “Thank you. Let's get to work.”

They filed out one by one, Martin noting their passage by their footsteps. Crockett still had his confident military stride, Tubbs alternating between swaggering and dancing depending on his mood, and Switek shuffling more than ever. When he realized one was missing, he looked up and saw Trudy still in her seat. “Something bothering you, detective?”

“Yes. I mean...no, but yes.” She shook her head, and he noticed the sparkle in her eyes again. It was a beautiful, dangerous light. “I don't know what I mean.”

“I think you do.”

“Someone's going to a lot of trouble to try to kill you, lieutenant. They might try again. We should be covering you, not chasing pimps.”

“The cases come first.”

“That's what Sonny thought, too. And look what happened.” She shook her head. “I'm sorry, lieutenant. That wasn't fair.”

“No. You're right.” Martin couldn't deny, couldn't bury, the feeling growing in his chest. But he could hide it. He'd gotten good at that over the years, a skill first learned in Cuba's mountains and honed in the highlands of Thailand. “We have to balance the case with the people. I won't risk any of you in this. If they want me, they're welcome to try. But I won't risk Crockett to draw them out. And I won't risk you.”

“Me?”

“Yes.” He lowered his eyes, hoping she hadn't seen what was growing in them. “You're a good detective. One of the best in this unit.”

“Is that...”

“We need to get moving.” He cut her off, his voice sharper than he'd wanted. “I want Tufts released into a box he can't get out of. Check with Gina and see if she'll be ready.” He paused for half a long heartbeat. “We'll talk once this is done.”

 

“Everyone's in place.” Crockett's voice crackled through the earpiece. “Even Gina got to the party in time.”

“Good. Use radio discipline. Menton's people might be monitoring.” Castillo sat in another unmarked Ford sedan, sunglasses blocking the worst of the late afternoon sun. Switek could use the phone tap to monitor the inside of the shop, something anyone listening wouldn't detect. He'd had time to get that set up before things swung into high gear.

From his spot Castillo could just see the nose of Crockett's white Ferrari. Close enough to help out if needed, but not close enough to draw too much attention. Switek was in the shop's back room monitoring the hardwired taps. Gina and Trudy were around the corner with a knot of working girls. Disappearing by staying in plain sight.

It was a good team. One of the best he'd ever had. Losing Zito had done damage, the kind he might not be able to fix, but Castillo would work with what he had. Out of habit he scanned every car rolling past, looking for familiar profiles, the glint of a weapon, anything out of the ordinary. The courier might not be a professional, but if Menton was involved there would be pros somewhere close by. Insulation at the very least.

Castillo looked at his watch. “Five minutes.” He counted the radio clicks and allowed himself a thin smile. It was all in position. And the waiting was almost done.

A rusty pick-up rolled down the street and stopped in front of the shop with a scream of worn break shoes grabbing pitted metal. The door creaked open and a thickset man stepped onto the pavement. Castillo could see the rising heat waves swirling around the man's cowboy boots like low-lying fog. A greasy mesh ball cap covered his head, the brim tilted in a thin attempt to hide his face. Castillo keyed his radio. “He's coming in.”

He knew the waiting was hard on his team. Especially Crockett. Sonny was too anxious, too eager to make a case. Even Tubbs handled the waiting better. As for Martin, he just sat. Ignoring the heat. Focusing on the air moving in and out through his nose. Ears sorting through the hissing static for any hint of movement or things going wrong. Behind the dark glasses his eyes swept and reswept the street. Was anyone covering the courier? He was about to say no when a dark Cadillac rolled to a stop half a block back from the truck. Two shadows moved behind tinted windows, and the badly-tuned motor kept pumping out a haze of exhaust. Understandable to keep air conditioning running, but the timing was too convenient. “Crockett. Tubbs. Sit on the dark Caddy.”

“Copy that, lieutenant.” Tubbs' voice filled his earpiece. “Should we take them in?”

“No. Not until the exchange.” Castillo shifted, feeling the magnum under his arm.I doubt if he knows anyone's following him. Too much of a gap for them to be security.He was about to speak when Switek's voice filled his ear. 

“They made the handoff.”

“Go.” Castillo started his car, knowing Switek would grab Tufts the moment the courier left the shop. Crockett and Tubbs would be moving, and Gina and Trudy would form the other part of the box. “Crockett. Get patrol out to bring those two in. I need you two on the box.”

“Copy. We'll cuff 'em to the steering wheel.”

From the corner of his eye Castillo could see the two men approaching the Caddy, but he also saw the courier climbing into the rusty truck. A puff of greasy smoke billowed from the exhaust pipe and he lurched away from the curb.

Castillo waited before easing the Ford out into traffic, not wanting to get too close to the truck. Somewhere in front he knew Gina and Trudy were forming the front of the box, and Crockett wouldn't have any trouble catching up to them. All he needed to do was hang back far enough to blend in but still keep the truck in sight.

The courier made things easy, moving in and out of traffic like an old woman on her way to Sunday service. He seemed to know where he was going, and didn't care how long it took to get there. Castillo focused on the road, looking for a second layer of cover he might have missed at the shop. Over the radio he heard Switek report that patrol had picked up the two men in the Caddy and Tufts, but kept silent. Stan knew the drill. He'd catch up to them as soon as he could, forming another side of the box.

Trudy's voice came over the radio. “He's turning onto the expressway now. Looks like he's heading out of town.”

“Crockett, move to second position. Trudy, fall in behind me when you can. Switek, you've got chase. Don't lose him.”

It wasn't hard to keep the truck in sight, especially as evening thinned the traffic even more. Soon they left the lights of Miami behind, and Castillo had to accelerate maintain his place in the box. Taking off his sunglasses, he focused on the middle distance of the cone of light thrown by the car's headlights.

“Looks like he's taking the next exit.” Tubbs' voice broke the silence. “Fast, too.”

“Get ready to move in.” Someone must have noticed the cover was gone. They must be using radios, too.“Don't lose that truck.”

The whine of a downshift was audible behind Tubbs' voice. “You got it, lieutenant.”

“He still needs to get to his contact. Don't stop him, but don't lose him.” The Ford's V-8 gave a throaty growl as Castillo stabbed down on the accelerator. They were too close to let this one slip.

“He took the Keys exit and ducked down a dirt road about two hundred yards past the ramp. We're going dark and following.”

Castillo squinted in anticipation of shutting off the Ford's headlights as he swerved down the dirt road. Once clear of the turn he shut them off, letting the night swallow his car. Somewhere up ahead he knew Crockett would be cursing as the Ferrari lurched over the rough road. Then Switek's voice filled his ear. “I know this road. There's a shack and small dock at the end. No way out but the water or the way we came. Busted a small-time smuggler a couple years back with Larry out here. Turns out he was taking TVs to Cuba. The shack's about a mile from the turn.”

“Good. Crockett, hold short of the shack. Gina and Trudy, you'll be with me. Switek, block the road. Don't let anyone get by you.”

“What if they have a boat?”

“Crockett, you and Tubbs move on foot. If there's a boat, keep them from getting to it.” It wasn't a great plan, but Martin had to work with what they had. And he didn't think Menton would have been able to hire many more men. Nothing he'd seen so far hinted at Lao Li's resources being behind anything. Still, they were using the radio too much now. But there was no help for it. The team had to stay in touch if this was going to work.

Five minutes later Castillo passed the white wedge of the Ferrari, pulled just off the road and sheltered behind a stand of low bushes. He swung his own Ford off the road a couple of yards later, trusting the darkness and the car's own paint to provide concealment. Crockett came over the radio now. “We're almost in position. I count six at the shack, including the courier. Looks like there's a boat, but no one's near it.”

“I've got the road blocked, lieutenant.” Switek's voice was thin. “They won't get out this way.”

Castillo waited by his car until he could hear the crunch of tires on the gravel road. Then he raised his hand, signaling for Gina to stop and park. “I need you two with me.” His eyes searched the shadows around the shack. “They've got lights in the shack, but nothing outside except for something on the porch. Trees come up pretty close, too. Use them for cover.”

Gina nodded, pulling her .38 out of her purse. “I should have changed. These heels don't do much good out here.”

“I hear you, girlfriend.” Trudy reached into the back seat of the convertible, pulling out a long shotgun. “At least I had time to change my shoes. Sneakers aren't much of a fashion statement, but they do better in the swamp.”

Castillo raised his hand for silence. He could hear them now; voices carried by the light onshore breeze. Someone was shouting, while another voice whined in the gaps. Accusations followed by thin denials and chased with threats. He drifted from tree to tree like a shadow, getting closer to the shack with each cluster of heartbeats. There was a guard on the porch, but he was more concerned with the show inside than watching the darkness around him.

Shotgun draped over his shoulder, the guard didn't even flinch when Castillo put him in a sleeper hold. Lowering the unconscious man to the splintered boards of the shack's porch, Martin drew his big .44 Magnum and stopped just outside the arc of light glowing gold through the doorway. “Miami Vice! You're surrounded! Come out with your hands up!” Then he took two steps back and vaulted over a sagging railing. Looking for a back door. In his experience the bigger rats always tried to desert the ship.

Men shouted confused inside the shack's one room, and a lone shotgun blast out a side window was answered by Crockett's big .45. Screaming in pain, the man let the weapon fall out the window and threw up his hands, followed seconds later by more shouts and thuds of weapons hitting rotting boards. Still Martin waited in the dark shadows, moving only when a beam of light shone from the rear of the place. “I've got a runner. Taking him.” Then he moved.

The man was big, both tall and heavy-set, sinking into the wet ground near the water with each step. It didn't take long for Castillo to catch up, and a single shot from the Smith & Wesson ended the man's flight. “And I thought I could get used to this.”

The voice was familiar. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Back up toward me.”

“So the picture was a fake.” The man moved slowly, his dark suit dripping with water and sweat. “Should have known, I guess. You were too smart for those boys.”

Tubbs came around the far corner of the shack, his own Smith & Wesson at the ready. “Don't look so hungry now, Dalva.”

“Joe Dalva.” Castillo lowered his pistol.

“You and your city ruined my career. Got me exiled so good I could never get back in.” Dalva's dark skin shone with sweat, and anger burned hot in his eyes. “Damn that Rojas girl. And damn you.”

“Do you know a man named Menton?” Castillo held Dalva's stare, his own eyes burning into former Fed's until the man looked away.

“Never heard of him. Should I have? No, this was all me. Took all my savings. I just wanted to square things.”

“Take him.” Castillo turned back toward the water, letting Tubbs lead the broken man away. There'd be time in interrogation later to sort through it, but right now he wanted to make sense of it in his own mind. He and Menton and Lao Li went back decades, years of hate honed to an edge in jungles and highlands. He'd encountered Dalva once, and the Fed had been the one who'd made the mistakes. Yet he'd come after Castillo like a man possessed. Maybe later it would make sense, when he could sit on his porch with tea and the waves. Maybe later...

You really made the team come to life. I love how you brought in the plots from other episodes and tied them all together. The animosity between Crockett and Stan after Larry's death was only addressed in Down for the Count II and should have been further developed in the show, I think. You did a good job with it! Great description of Castillos house and his past. He's such and interesting character. Can't believe this is just a rough draft! Let me know when it's finished!! I'd love to see how it finally turns out. 

[vicegirl85]

This was really good!  You made me smell the smells, hear the sounds, and see the people, places and things.  Loved the way you brought Dalva back!

Looking forward to more from you.

[mjcmmv]

1 hour ago, vicegirl85 said:

This was really good!  You made me smell the smells, hear the sounds, and see the people, places and things.  Loved the way you brought Dalva back!

Looking forward to more from you.

I agree! I really liked this a lot. Keeping MV alive!! Keep it coming!

[Robbie C.]

On 5/19/2019 at 9:42 PM, mjcmmv said:

You really made the team come to life. I love how you brought in the plots from other episodes and tied them all together. The animosity between Crockett and Stan after Larry's death was only addressed in Down for the Count II and should have been further developed in the show, I think. You did a good job with it! Great description of Castillos house and his past. He's such and interesting character. Can't believe this is just a rough draft! Let me know when it's finished!! I'd love to see how it finally turns out. 

 

2 hours ago, vicegirl85 said:

This was really good!  You made me smell the smells, hear the sounds, and see the people, places and things.  Loved the way you brought Dalva back!

Looking forward to more from you.

Thanks both of you! Yeah, it's just a first draft. Haven't even really looked back through it yet honestly. I don't know when I'll get to it...another story got my attention right after this (30 pages and counting so far).

I do like mining the episodes for strong elements that were missed, overlooked, or just fell through the cracks. Little things like Crockett and Stan or bigger bits like enemies who could have reappeared or issues from a character's past. I always thought Dalva had great potential as some kind of antagonist. Definitely Miami was the only episode that managed to run two noir plots at the same time.

[mjcmmv]

Something to look forward to!!

 

[Jeff_Cooper]

Good story! I've had this open in a separate tab for some time, just waiting to get time to read it.

Happy that I did. Thank you for a cool story!

-J

[Robbie C.]

Glad you enjoyed it!