Duty Bound (1995) (30 page)

Ted's eyes narrowed as he stepped out the doorway and saw the dog and Bonita walking up the sidewalk.

"It's not my fault, Ted," Ramon said, raising his hands as if protecting himself from a blow. "She wouldn't go. I told her I'd leave her but I I. . . I couldn't do it."

Ted ignored the dog that licked his hand. He growled at Bonita, "What the hell you doin' here?"

"I thought about it, Teddy. It's safer for everyone if I stay with the team," Bonita said, halting two paces away. "Don't give me that look; I'm right and you know it. I know more about Carlos than anyone, and I sure know his yacht. You need me."

Hearing the conversation from inside the room, Glenn walked to the door. "I knew it. I knew she was going to be trouble."

Ted took Bonita's arm and led her inside. "Get in here before you're seen. Ramon, go to a store and get some dog food and dog treats. When you get back, get some rest-- we're leavin' tonight and drivin' straight through to Miami."

Bonita glared at Glenn. "You should be happy now .. . you don't have to worry about me giving you up."

Glenn avoided her accusing eyes by walking over and turning off the television. "Yeah, I'm thrilled. The question now is, what the hell we're going to do with you." He turned to Ted. "And don't tell me she's going on the op."

Ted rolled his eyes. "Knock it off, Glenn. We sure as hell can't leave her here. She'll go with us to the Miami safe house, then we'll figure out what to do with her."

Bonita folded her arms across her chest. "Forget about sending me off to Kansas. You need me."

"Christ'a'mighty, Bonita, be reasonable for a change and--"

Bonita ignored him and instead said to Glenn: "You know I'm right. You're the one who's always worried about operational security. Me being with the team eliminates the problem. And you know I know more about Carlos than anyone--you need me. Come on, tell him. Tell him I'm right."

Glenn returned her stare. "If the op goes sour, you're going to be dead as us."

"So what else is new? They've already tried to kill me, remember? No, I'm safer with the team--we make it together or we die together."

Glenn sighed, and walked to the door. "She's right, Ted. It is safer for all of us to stay together. . . . I'm going to gas up the vehicles."

As soon as Glenn closed the door, Bonita faced Ted.

"Looks like you're stuck with me. I missed you, Teddy."

"I didn't want it to be this way, Bo--I wanted you to be safe and out of all this."

"I'm in it, Teddy, for better or worse. . . . Come here and give me a hug. I need you to hold me."

Putting his arm around her shoulder, Ted gave her a gentle squeeze. "It could get a lot worse, Bo."

"That's okay, Teddy . . . it's okay."

.

1:30 P. M., Lake Lanier, Georgia.

Ashley and Detective Faraday walked toward the entrance of the huge cabin and were met by a GBI detective wearing a cowboy hat. "Hi, Ed, how ya like workin' with the feds?"

Faraday shrugged. "Not as bad as I thought, LeRoy-- what ya got?"

The detective motioned to the chalk lines on the drive.

"That's where the armed bad boys bought it yesterday. One was in the car that was parked here."

"Anything on who they were?"

"Yeah, on one of 'em. Fingerprints IDed him. His name was Fred Sweet. According to his rap sheet, Freddy was a bad motor scooter, real bad. Mostly assaults with deadlies, but he had only one conviction, in eighty-six. Seems he'd been clean since then or got better at what he did and wasn't caught."

"Sweet doesn't sound like a wise-guy name to me,"

Faraday said.

"Yeah. We checked with the feds on whether he'd been associated with the mob, and they said he wasn't on their sheet . . . but he was on the other list--they got him on occasion workin' for the Latinos outta Miami. Seems Freddy worked out of D. C. as a salesman for an import company, Hispanic owned."

"What about the other dead men?" Ashley asked.

"Nothin'. At least nothin' from their prints. Their IDs were faked and they were carryin' new Uzis. We found airline tickets on all of them . . . they'd come in from D. C. The feds are checkin' the import company with photos of the dead guys to see if they worked there."

Ed glanced around. "Don't see any bullet holes. Any of them get off any shots?"

The detective shook his head. "The security guard says he walked up behind them from over there. He saw them carrying and told 'em to drop their weapons. He says the fat guy, Freddy, tried to blast him, and that's what started the shooting. 'Course it doesn't fit, but it sounds good. Freddy bought it right there without getting off a shot. A .357 bullet through the head. The other guy got it in the neck with the same weapon, but the third guy, over there, got blown away with a twelve-gauge pump. The security guard said he was holdin' both the .357 and the shotgun. Trouble is, the first two got it from about here. The third guy was hit in the back from over there at the side of the house."

"How's the guard explain what happened?" Faraday asked.

"He says it all happened so fast he doesn't remember how it went down. He's hangin' tough with his story. He's an ex--local cop so he knows to keep it vague. There were no witnesses, so he also knows he's got us over a barrel."

"What about the black woman? I understand she worked for the missing female," Ashley said.

"She wasn't here during the shooting. And she's acting really dumb about the missing lady. I'd say the two of them are hiding somethin', but we sure as hell haven't gotten 'em to come clean. They're inside, so be my guest. Maybe you can get them to tell us what really happened."

Duwane shook his head. "Look, ma'am, you asked me that already and I already told you, I was down at the pier and heard the lady's dog barkin'. I came up and saw a car drivin' out of the drive. I saw Mrs. Stone in the backseat with a dark-haired man beside her. Then I heard a car door open and I walked up and saw a fat man standing in the drive holdin' a pistol."

Ashley held up her hand. "Okay, I see you've got that part of your story memorized. Let's talk about Mrs. Stone. You said she was blond and about five-eight or -nine and weighed about 120 pounds. Is that right?"

"Yep, that's right. She took real good care of herself.

Worked out every day."

"What else did she do to pass the time?"

"Well, she stayed a lot in the office . . . and she watched a lot of movies on TV."

"What did she do in the office?" Ashley asked.

"I told you, ma'am, she had a mean-ass dog that didn't let me get none too close. I don't know what she did in there."

"And you're sure no one visited her while she was here?"

"That's what I told ya."

"And she didn't call anybody?"

"I don't know."

Ashley shifted her gaze to the elderly black woman. "And you still say you don't know what she did while she was in the house?"

"I cook and cleans. Dat white lady be a job is all. I'se paid to cook an' cleans, not be watchin' what dat white lady doin'."

Ashley walked over to Faraday and the GBI detective, who still wore his cowboy hat. She whispered, "We're getting nowhere with these two. Have the crime scene guys found anything I can use for leverage?"

Faraday shook his head. "Not yet. The old lady must do a good job of cleanin'--the place is clean. They've got prints, but right now they're all from these two and one other-- probably the Stone woman. And they didn't find anything incriminating in the stuff she left behind . . . but they did say it was strange that in the office there's a computer printer and scanner but no computer. They say there was one there because the jacks and cords are all there as if it was just unplugged."

"Phone records?" Ashley asked.

"No outside calls on the hard line except a couple to a vet in Atlanta and three or four to a catalog place in Miami.

Your CS boys did confirm the Stone woman was blond, and a real one at that, from hair they found on a brush in the bathroom. One thing more--she was loaded. The clothes and makeup she left behind are very expensive, designer stuff."

The other detective lifted his hand, holding a photograph.

"This is the only photo we found in the things she left behind."

Ashley studied the picture a moment before looking up.

"What kind of dog is it?"

"Rhodesian Ridgeback, kind of a rare breed . . . You see what's in the background of the picture?"

Ashley nodded as she handed the picture back. "It looks like palm trees."

"Royal palms to be exact, but it doesn't help us . . . picture could have been taken anywhere south of Georgia."

Tired of the whispering, Duwane stood and spoke impatiently. "You all charging me with anything? If not, me and Halley are leavin'. I know the law; you can't hold us here any longer. You asked us to come back today and we did."

The GBI detective looked at Ashley, who shook her head.

The detective motioned toward the hallway. "Go on, but don't plan on going on any vacations real soon. We'll pick you up at your house tomorrow and take you to our headquarters to look through mug shots."

"What for?"

"You said you saw a dark-haired man sitting beside Mrs.

Stone in the backseat of the car, remember?"

"Yeah, and I told ya all I saw was the back of his head, too. I told ya everything I know. Come on, Halley, we're gettin' out of here."

Ashley stepped in front of the thin security guard. "Sir, officers will take you home. You'll also have an officer staying outside your residence for your protection. When you get home, think long and hard about the statements you gave us. Tomorrow, after the lab guys are through, I'll give you a chance to tell us what really happened. I suggest you take my advice. If we find you have perjured yourself, we'll charge you--it's a felony offense."

Duwane smiled. "Ma'am, you'll be talkin' to my lawyer tomorrow. I've told ya all I know. Have a nice day."

As soon as the couple left, Ashley faced Faraday. "It stinks. They're covering up something."

Faraday wrinkled his brow. "Yeah, but what, and why?"

.

2:30 P. M., DEA field office, Miami.

Sitting alone in a small conference room, Eli held a plastic cup half-filled with coffee. A forty-something DEA agent wearing blue suspenders entered the room, placed a folder in front of Eli, and took a seat. He pushed heavy black-frame glasses farther up his nose and said, "That's everything we have on Mendez. I just ran it off from our original file so you can keep the folder."

Eli opened the file. "Thanks, Stew."

Agent Steward Hines leaned back in his chair and canted his head. "You're wasting your time, you know."

Eli shifted his gaze to the partially bald agent. "What d'ya mean?"

"Mendez retired four years ago from the heavy action we hear he had some medical problems related to stress. His doctor told him to avoid stressful situations and find something relaxing to do. Mendez took the doctor's advice and picked up golf and got into tropical plants."

Eli closed the folder. "What are you telling me, Stew?"

"I'm telling you my boss says he's not the one."

"Your boss read the report on all those guys we found up in Dahlonega? They worked for Mendez."

"He read it and so did I, Tanner. Both those crews worked for lots of players. It's changed since you were in Miami.

The players got smarter and don't keep crews around that could later finger them. Those people could have been working for any one of eight players who run big laundry operations outside the state."

Eli's jaw muscles rippled. "Stew, what's going on? I came here for an update from you guys and all I'm getting is jerked around. You give me Mendez's file then sit there and tell me you guys don't think he's the one. I thought you had him as your number one."

"No, Tanner, you guys had him as your number one; we didn't."

"I saw the C. I.'s statement naming Mendez."

"So did we, and we forgot about it. This so-called informant who talked to your people pulled the name out of a hat, Tanner. Do you think for a moment a low-level scuzzball is going to know the details of his boss's competitor's laundry operation? Come on, give me a break. Your C. I. was lookin' for a paycheck is all."

"So who is your number one, Stew?"

"We don't have one yet; we're still workin' it."

Eli nodded. "Great. I tell you what. Since I'm here, why don't you update me on Mendez anyway. My gut says he's our boy."

"Your gut isn't tellin' you that--it's your trigger finger tellin' you. I went to the scene, remember? I saw you lyin' there with that bullet in the chest. I went to your partner's funeral, too. Your wanting it to be Mendez doesn't make it so."

Eli stared into the agent's eyes. "Talk to me, Stew."

The agent returned the stare for a long moment before slowly lowering his eyes. "Like I told you, Mendez retired . . . well, at least he's semiretired. He quit the running and distribution side completely four years ago and started going legit. He could afford to. We figure he cleared somewhere over a quarter billion. Problem was, most of it was very dirty. He's still tryin' to clean it. He's into real estate, construction, and importing goods from down south, mostly Argentine beef and leather and some designer coffee blends from Colombia."