Genesis, part XII

[Robbie C.]

Miami, early 1986

After Junk Love and Bought and Paid For

“Where are we on the Pelican’s Nest investigation?”

Sonny Crockett looked at his fingernails. “Nowhere, lieutenant. The run I did for Forsythe went fine, but when we got pulled off he went somewhere else for his transportation needs. I’m still in touch with him, but that’s all.”

Ricardo Tubbs nodded. “Same thing with Newton Blade. He said he’s happy to take ‘investments’ for a couple of clubs, but I don’t think he bought Cooper having to drop out of sight for a couple of weeks. I haven’t been able to get him to mention any product since. He just keeps saying ‘all in good time,’ an’ it sounds to me like that means never.”

Sonny wanted to say more, but held his tongue. Goddamned politics! Pulled us off the best leads we’d had on Blade or Otis for years. Yeah, we got a couple of bad guys, but now we gotta start over. “Any word on when Gina will be back?”

“Detective Calabrese is still being debriefed by Internal Affairs. Once that’s completed I suggested she take a week or so to get her head straight.” Castillo looked up, his eyes darker than usual. “I understand her frustration, but we are not judge jury, and executioner in this unit. We do our jobs, and if we don’t do them by the book people get hurt. I trust that’s clear.”

“Crystal clear, lieutenant.” Sonny didn’t believe the words even as he said them. He knew just how Gina felt…watching some rich punk bastard get away with rape. The ones with the silver spoons were the most vicious, and usually got rewarded with a slap on the wrist and maybe a stern talking to before they went out and did it again. And again.

Rico seemed to sense his anger. “So what do we do with Pelican’s Nest?”

“Put it on hold.”

“Yeah…we’ll wait another two years and hope we get lucky.”

“That’s enough.” Castillo glared across his desk. “Until Detective Calabrese is returned to duty status, we’ll be running shorthanded. And there have been a series of drug-related homicides that need our attention.”

Sonny managed to contain his frustration until they were back in the squad room. “So now we just sit on our asses? Cleaning up after Homicide because they ran out of leads and decided to say their murders were ‘drug related’? Drug related my ass.”

Stan shifted in his chair. “True for half of ‘em. Maybe not for the other two. The ones over in Liberty City…yeah, I can believe they were random. One was a speed junkie who tried to rob the wrong corner store and got ventilated by a bunch of 9mm rounds. Owner didn’t kill him, but odds are one of his relatives did. The other was a pimp who’d been feuding with another pimp until it started raining buckshot one night and he went out without an umbrella.”

Larry nodded. “But the other two…should ring a couple of bells for you, Sonny.”

“Don’t tell me….45s at close range?”

“Give that man a prize.” Stan chuckled. “Not the single round to the head, but two in the chest. One was a two-bit pusher in Brickell and the other guy had a boat he thought was fast.”

“Just like the late and unlamented Jaime.”

Rico was nodding slowly. “How long ago did these happen? Not the two chumps in Liberty City. Homicide can keep them.”

“The guy in Brickell showed up in an alley about a week ago.” Stan looked down at his notes. “The guy with the boat was two days ago. And they burned the boat, too.”

“Just like Jaime again. They find…”

“They moved him over to the cold case pile.” Larry shook his head. “And we know what that means.”

“I’m guessing you two read over the case files. Homicide find any connections, aside from them both being dead?”

“Nothing, Rico.” Larry gave one of his half smiles. “But I don’t know how hard they looked. As soon as they could drum up a drug connection, they dumped them off on us.”

Sonny fished a cigarette out of the almost-empty pack and lit it. “Call me crazy, Rico, but there’s something here. I can almost smell it.”

“Naw, that’s just Switek’s cigar.”

Stan puffed up a bit in his floral Hawaiian shirt. “Hey! This is top quality stuff, Rico!”

“They’re all connected. It’s a damned line running from Jaime straight to these two jokers.” Sonny sent a cloud of smoke floating toward the ceiling. “Look…who else in town uses .45s these days?”

“Cubans. That whole Bay of Pigs vibe.”

“Joo got it, meng. But then you gotta ask why the Cubans would be knocking off a collection of small-timers like this? Chuckie included.”

“Why Chuckie?”

“The routes he was using. Like the man said, he liked the old ways. And a .45 to the head is about as old way as it gets.”

“But that still don’t answer why the Cubans.”

“I know. This ain’t really their game. Unless they’re working for someone else. Maybe just a few Cubans working for someone else.”

Stan piped up. “Yeah. You know, it wasn’t so long ago they had those training camps out in the swamps. All the old anti-Castro guys out playing army.”

Larry shook his head. “Maybe. But it still doesn’t answer Tubbs’ question. Who are the Cubans working for?”

Sonny slammed his hand down on his desk. Hard. It’s been staring me in the damned face! “What do most of these bozos have in common? They were sniffing around something that involved the Mendoza family. Jaime worked for the uncle, right? Chuckie was getting too close to their routes. Maybe that goofball Joaquin did the same thing. Now we got a dealer in Brickell, where one of my CIs says someone new is getting in the coke game, and another boat guy. Just like Jaime.”

“Weren’t there some Haitians, too?”

Rico nodded. “Yeah. Shot up and dumped in Little Haiti. Homicide thought it was gang-related.”

Sonny shook his head. “Maybe. Or maybe they just got too close to the Mendozas.” He raised his voice. “Hey, Trudy! That guy Gina said got the girls for the Bolivians. Pasqual Benitez. He’s connected to the Mendozas, isn’t he?”

“He worked for a charter service.” Trudy stopped typing and looked over at Sonny. “I don’t know which one, though. We didn’t get the workup on him until after the Ivory Jones thing started. And then Odette.”

“Could you check for me, darlin’? Because if we have another connection, we have an outfit that’s not only tied to a major supplier but seems to be expanding and taking out any competition.”

“Why haven’t we heard of them before?’ Castillo stood in his office doorway, appearing as he often did without any warning.

“I don’t know, lieutenant. Maybe because they’re careful. This is a family that’s been smuggling for generations, so if it’s them they know the game inside and out.” He paused. “Right now it’s just a feeling. But it all fits.”

Castillo stood for a long moment. Then he lowered his eyes. “Check it out. If there’s a connection, I want to know. Like you said, they’ve been doing this for at least three generations. If they’re back in the game, they’re a threat.”

Once Castillo retreated back to his office, Rico let out a low whistle. “Man, I thought your cracker goose was cooked.”

“So did I, Rico. But I think he feels it, too. Someone’s trying too hard to make this look random.”

“I found it, Sonny.” Trudy smiled, holding up a fax. “He used to work for the uncle’s charter service. Jesus Estevez is the uncle’s name.”

“I know that name. Guy’s a legend with the sports fishing crowd.” Sonny stubbed out his cigarette in the full ashtray on his desk. “He’s been taking people out for about thirty years, I think. Knows more about the Keys than anyone alive, and the rest of the northern Caribbean as well.”

“So if this cat worked for him…”

“He’s going to be a walking chart of that area, too. At least the routes he worked.” Sonny grinned. “I think it’s time we developed a special interest in Pasqual Benitez.”

 

The moon was a silver crescent on the calm water, and Enrique Mendoza smiled. Let the others stick to their nights of the new moon. With the routes he knew, light on the water held no terrors. They can’t see you if you’re close to land. He looked over at Pasqual. “The pick-up went smoothly enough.”

“Yeah. I don’t trust those Bolivians yet, though. Too jumpy for my taste.”

“Sure, but they’re freighter’s untraceable. And this beast can outrun anything the Coast Guard has.” He nodded toward the dark shadow sitting in the aft bay. “And that big ape would settle any jumpy Bolivian quick enough.”

“I know. Hell, he settles me quick enough, and I’m on his side.”

“Miguel’s right, though. We need security on both ends of this thing now.” Enrique checked the radar one last time. “Looks like that idiot in the cabin cruiser is clear. Let’s make the last leg and get this stuff on dry land. Then it becomes someone else’s problem.”

Pasqual nodded and opened the throttles wide, the boom of the twin V-8s echoing across the flat water and bouncing off the low coastline to starboard. Soon the boat and its cargo, forty kilos of prime Bolivian flake, was skimming over the water.

This was always Enrique’s favorite part of the job, and he had to work to keep from shouting as the wind whipped at his thick hair. Miguel doesn’t know what he’s missing cooped up in that old pile of bricks. This is the real life! He kept one eye on the radar as the boat raced on, poised to give a command if anything popped up on the scope. But it stayed clear, as it almost always did in this stretch of water at this time of night.

When the lights of Miami started banishing the stars, Enrique laid a hand on Pasqual’s shoulder. “Better bring her down now. Too many ears soon enough.”

Nodding, Pasqual cut back on the throttles and sighed as the boat’s prow dipped down to touch the water. “Seems like we have to do that farther out with each run.”

“In a way we do. Too many assholes trying to make high speed runs around here always brings out the Coast Guard.”

Pasqual nodded. Than his brow furrowed. “Did the Bolivians tell you anything about why tonight’s package was light?”

“Nothing I believed. The fat one was going on about production problems or something, but his eyes kept shifting. I think we were outbid. That or they got ripped off somewhere between Bolivia and the drop site and he was trying to figure out how to lie to his boss about it.”

“I thought we had an exclusive deal.”

“So did I. You can be sure Miguel will hear all about it when we’re done.” Enrique chuckled. “The good news is the idiots we’re delivering to won’t know the difference. Hell, I don’t think they can even count to forty without help.”

The deal went down at one of the crumbling docks dotting the coast north of Miami…the remains of some fisherman’s dream converted to other, more profitable uses. Enrique saw the two BMWs before he saw the men, and he made sure they saw the big Cuban with the shotgun before they saw him. “Let’s get this done,” he said. “I’ve got places to be. You got the money?”

“Sure.” The spokesman was a rail-thin Haitian with hooded eyes and a wide-brimmed fedora he thought made him look tough. Taking two steps forward, he dropped a gym bag on the rotting planks of the dock.

“Unzip it. The bag, asshole, not something else.” Enrique took two steps back toward the boat, taking a matching bag from Pasqual. He unzipped it, letting the plastic-wrapped bricks show before he dropped it next to the money. It was joined by three more bags while the silent Cuban checked the money and gave a nod of approval.

“We need to check it.”

“Knock yourselves out.” Enrique made sure he was in arm’s reach of the money while the Haitian used a folding knife to cut slits in three bricks, one from each bag, and ran test kits on each one.

When the last one turned bright blue, he grinned. “Good to go, mon. Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Likewise.” The lie slid of Enrique’s tongue. “You know who to call if you need more of the same.” He picked up the gym back full of cash and zipped it shut. Turning, he walked back to the boat and jumped aboard, knowing the Cuban was backing down the dock behind him. They never turned their backs on customers.

It was a short run down the coast to the boat’s current home, and soon enough Enrique was driving his Corvette back toward the family estate. His eyes were heavy once the rush of the run wore off, but he wanted to let Miguel know about the Bolivians while it was still in his mind. He grinned, thinking of the gym bag locked in his trunk. And get the money taken care of.

Even though it was almost three in the morning, he found Miguel up and waiting in the downstairs parlor. “I had a feeling,” he explained, accepting the gym bag and dropping it on the floor next to his feet. “How did it go? And why the second bag?”

“Good. Aside from the Bolivians shorting us half of the load. They had forty kilos instead of eighty, and the fat one was making thin excuses.”

“Really.” Miguel’s eyes grew darker, and Enrique always thought he looked more like a pirate when he was angry. “I trust they only got paid for forty.”

“Of course. The remainder of the buy money’s in the second bag.” Taking a step forward, he dropped the second bag next to the first. “I counted it in front of them so there were no misunderstandings.”

“I suppose it saves us the trouble of trying to store it, but it’s still disappointing.” Miguel paused, looking down at the bags by his feet. “Do you think it was intentional?”

“Yes. Either we were outbid or the fat one decided to go into business for himself. I don’t think he has the balls for that, so we’re left with the first option.”

“I see.” Another pause. “And the Haitians?”

“Dumb as usual. They sent the one with the stupid hat again. But they paid for their forty, and got forty. No problems from them or the run. Only the Bolivians.”

“Go home. Get some rest, brother. You look tired as hell.” Miguel smiled. “I’ll look into the Bolivians and let you know what I learn.”

 

As soon as Enrique left, Miguel let out a low curse. Then a series of curses. He’d expected Santos to pull something, but not this soon in their arrangement. He would never have called it a partnership. What was it his father said? The Mendozas don’t have partners. They have allies of convenience. And the old man was right about that.

There was a phone on a small table just to the left of the overstuffed leather sofa, and Miguel was to it in three steps. Punching in a number, he waited and was rewarded in six rings with a sleepy “Hello?”

“Esteban. My apologies for waking you so early. But we have a problem with our friend to the south.”

It always amazed him how quickly the Cuban could become fully awake. Maybe there was something to that swamp training, after all. “I see. A big problem or a little one?”

“An annoyance for now, but with the potential to get big quickly. I need some background. It seems our shipment was less than expected.”

There was a moment of silence. “I’ll get on it. It might take some time…”

“Take what you need. I want accuracy, not speed. And we both know our friends can be a bit…touchy.”

Once Esteban hung up, Miguel replaced the receiver and stood in the dim room. The only light came from a pair of small wall sconces near the door, and he saw no reason to turn on any other lights. He did some of his best thinking in the darkness.

The last month had been good. Regular shipments once a week, all the same quantity and all moved within days. Some, he knew, moved to Fort Lauderdale, while a few kilos likely ended up in Daytona Beach and other locations. It didn’t matter. The money was all the same, and they got paid no matter where the product went next. And the routes Jesus provided helped Enrique spread the traffic around, preventing patterns some bright spark in the Coast Guard might notice. Things had been going good…maybe too good.

He hated having to deal with the Bolivians, especially since he lacked the firepower to take them out. Their product was good, and the supply dependable. Until now. It was a fairly easy thing to find cocaine…Columbia, Bolivia, and Peru were all producing it by the ton. But a dependable supply was another thing. So far they’d been dependable. Maybe there was a good explanation for what happened tonight. Maybe… And if not, he’d show them the Mendoza family was not to be trifled with.

 

The single-wide trailer had seen better days. Fifteen years ago. Now the roof sagged in one corner, the windows were covered with clear construction plastic instead of glass, and the inside reeked of mildew and rotting garbage. No one lived here, except for maybe an occasional wandering junkie looking for a place out of the rain to get high. Located at the end of a winding dirt road vanishing into the wetlands, it didn’t even see many of them. But that’s what made it attractive to Esteban Morales.

The man tied to the chair was somewhere between fat and thin, sliding down the steep slope to forty. His lank black hair was plastered to his head by sweat, and blood leaked from a number of cuts on his face. Wires clipped to various parts of his body led away to a hand-cranked radio generator…another trick learned from the old men. They used to say it was ‘the call everyone answered eventually.’

Two of his men stood guard outside, Mini-14s cradled in their arms. A third sat at a small table, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and his hand on the generator’s crank handle. Esteban stood just outside the bound man’s vision, close enough to hear him but not close enough to risk shock from the generator. “I want you to think before you answer.” The Spanish rolled smoothly off his tongue. “Think very carefully. I will know when you lie, and you’ll get another taste. You don’t want that, do you?”

The close air was thick with the smell of fear, sweat, and piss. Already the man had soiled his pants, and the evening was still young. But he was alert enough to shake his head. “No.”

“Good. Then let’s talk. Why was the cocaine shipment short forty kilos? Did your fat friend take it, or was it short when it left Bolivia?”

“I…don’t know.”

“Oh, I think you do know.” Turning, Esteban nodded to his man. The handle turned twice, and the man’s screams startled birds from the surrounding trees. “See? That helped your memory, did it not? Now…again. Was it the fat man or the boss?”

“I think it was the fat man.” Spit dribbled from the man’s broken lips onto his chest. “I know we had the full eighty on the boat, and he told us to only move half. Please. I don’t know if it was his idea alone or if he was following orders.”

“But there were eighty kilos on the boat?”

The man tied to the chair was one of the freighter’s deck hands. He’d worked this trip and the one before, but he wasn’t one of Santos’s regular men. Esteban’s hunters had snatched him up outside a run-down bar near the port of entry after learning he’d been paid off in Miami and wasn’t making a return trip. “Yes. I helped load it. There were eighty kilos on the boat. I swear on my mother.”

“Shall I give him another?”

Esteban shook his head. “No. He’s told us what he knows. It doesn’t answer the whole question, but it’s a start.” He turned back to the man. “Thank you.” Then he pulled his Colt and shot him through the head. The boom of the shot echoed off the thin metal walls. “Let’s move. Make sure you get all your gear.” He holstered his smoking pistol and headed for the door. “I have a report to make.”

“What about the body?”

“Leave it. The swamp will claim it soon enough.” He paused at the top of the collapsing wooden stairs. “On second thought, burn it. Judging from the crap in the back it’s been used by speed cooks more than once. A fire here won’t seem unusual to anyone. And by the time they figure out our friend’s been shot…it won’t really matter. They’ll just figure he was a guard who got in someone’s way, or maybe a cook who tried to fight back.”

The man nodded. “Collateral damage.”

“Exactly. See to it, please.”

 

“Explain to me again why we got the call.” Larry ZIto leaned forward in the bug van’s passenger seat and shot Stanly Switek an inquisitive look.

“Because this ain’t a flashy coke bust at a swanky club.” Stan made the last turn, sending the van rocking down a narrow dirt road he would have missed if dispatch hadn’t given clear directions. He could just see the red cruiser lights flashing their pattern through the trees and underbrush. “Someone’s meth lab blows up? Send Stan and Larry.” He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but knew he’d failed.

“You think it’s someone we know?”

“Naw. The cooks we know of are too careful. Or in lockup. If this was a cook, it’s someone new. I’d bet my Elvis wig on it.”

“Which one? The good one or that one you got at the Graceland gift shop a couple of years back?”

“Come on, Lar. You know I ain’t gonna risk the good one.” Stan grinned, glad as usual Larry had been able to lighten his mood. “Looks like the coroner’s team beat us here. Crime Scene, too.”

“Bet they called us last. Homicide probably punted as soon as they thought there might be even a trace of speed here.”

Nodding, Stan stopped the van and jumped out. “Have no fear! Vice is here!” He grinned when a couple of the patrol guys chuckled. “What do we have?”

One of the ME’s people turned away from the smoking rubble. “Looks like someone’s single wide went up in smoke. We’re just waiting on crime scene to release the body so we can haul him off.”

Stan nodded. “Come on, Lar. Let’s go see if it’s anyone we know.”

Whatever had been in the trailer had burned hot, melting some of the metal toward the back and turning the interior to so much charcoal. Stan picked his way around two techs poking through what might have been the kitchen and stopped next to two other techs taking pictures of what might have once been a man handcuffed to a chair. The cuffs and the steel chair frame were the only things keeping the body in place, and the stench of burned flesh, hair, and metal filled the air.

Larry cleared his throat. “Fire kill him?”

“Only if the fire was packing heat.” The tech chuckled at his own bad joke. “We’ll know more once the ME’s boys can do their thing, but it looks like this one was shot in the head.” He pointed to a dark circle and waved to take in the entire shattered skull. “Probably killed before the fire. You know him?”

“Sure. I go to clubs all the time with crispy critters.” Stan shook his head. “Doesn’t look like a speed cook, though. He’s too big.”

“Someone cooked here once, though.” The tech jabbed his thumb toward the smoking remains. “Looks like a small lab in the back there. Where the fire started.”

“Fire or explosion?”

“I’d say fire, but we’re not done with the scene yet. Doesn’t seem to be enough shrapnel for an explosion.” He turned back to Stan. “How’d you two catch this one?”

“Homicide must be busy, and the Hardy Boys are out looking for leads in those fancy new clubs.”

“Yeah. I feel ya.” The man grinned. “We’re done with the back if you want to have a look around.”

Stan looked at Larry, who shrugged. “Why not? Might as well do something to justify the gas we burned getting out here.” He pulled a flashlight out of his back pocket. “Come on, Lar. Let’s see what this fella was cooking.”

Stan had just made his way into what might have been the back bedroom before the walls melted when Larry let out a long sigh. “I don’t think anyone was cooking here, Stan. At least not in the last month or so.”

“Yeah, I gotta agree.” Stan played his light along the remains of the back wall before shutting it off. “No chemicals I can see, and like the man said this don’t look like an explosion. More like someone stacked some greasy rags in the corner and tossed in a match.”

Larry nodded. “Maybe a gas can or two, if this melted red plastic is anything to go by.” He stepped out of the small side bedroom. “So what do we do?”

“Head back in and report. Won’t be able to say more until the final stuff comes in from the ME and crime scene, but whatever happened here didn’t have anything to do with speed or cooking. And I WILL bet my good Elvis wig on that.”

 

“You’re positive?”

Stan looked at Larry and nodded. “We won’t know for sure until the reports come back, lieutenant, but based on what we saw I’m sure this had nothing to do with speed. Maybe a deal gone bad, but there was no cooking going on in that dump.” He eased back in his chair, pleased with the report.

“And there’s nothing on the street?”

Larry shook his head. “No word we’ve heard about any big deals going down. Since the Hell’s Angels took their show north it’s been pretty quiet on that front, lieutenant. A few small operations, but nothing big enough to kill someone over.”

Sonny Crockett snorted. “Come on, Zito. You know as well as I do those speed cowboys will shoot each other over damned near anything.”

Stan looked over at Sonny. “Not like this. This guy was handcuffed to a chair and shot in the head. That’s not how this crowd plays. They like shotguns and stuff like that.” He paused, thinking back to the burned cinder that had once been a man. “Besides, guy didn’t look right. What was left of him., anyhow. You know coke dealers, Lar and I know this crowd.”

“Yeah. He was too big. And no chains. The biker speed freaks always have chains on their wallets or some crap.” Larry looked down at his fingernails. “Stan’s right. This guy wasn’t part of that crowd.”

“That and there were no bikes around. No tire tracks. Not one left behind. Crankheads would have torched the guy’s bike if it was a deal gone bad. Crime scene said they found tire tracks, but from passenger cars. They’re trying to ID them now.” Stan paused. Gathering his courage. “The thing is, lieutenant, someone wanted this to look like a lab explosion. They started the fire back where someone had cooked once, but not recently. Why go to that much trouble to try to keep us from IDing the body?”

Martin Castillo nodded. “We’ll stay on it until the lab reports come back. I want to know how this man died, and possibly who he is.”

“Aw come on, lieutenant. We’ve got other…”

“If it doesn’t pan out, we’ll hand it back to Homicide.” Castillo looked up. “That’s all. Switek, Zito. Stay on this one. Crockett, Tubbs, keep looking for someone who can lead us to Pasqual Benitez. I expect updates as soon as you know something. Follow every lead you can. We need a way in to the Mendoza organization, if that’s what it is.”

OCB shifts to King’s Pawn