Square Snapper (Detective Inspector Burgess) (19 page)

“Well, how can he cut a deal?” queried Butterfield. “Surely, he needs to be able to barter information to be able to plea bargain. If he doesn’t have access to anything worthwhile, then he’s screwed.”

There were nods of agreement around the table and, perhaps because he felt like a loser and perhaps to make himself feel more important, Furbert chimed in with his new nugget of latest information.

“That’s true, but according to my understanding,” Furbert lowered his voice and leaned in for effect, “and this had better go no further than between us four… they’re planning a raid on the house of a guy called ‘Captain’. He could be the one behind all of this. They could only have got his address from the Jamaican.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” agreed Butterfield. “Must have come from him. Can’t see how else. So when can we expect to read all about this?”

Was it his imagination or did Butterfield seem just a little sly? Furbert couldn’t tell. He decided to tread carefully.

“Don’t know for sure; maybe in a couple of days. It takes time to put these things together. We could sure use a break, though.”

“I dunno. The more of ‘em you lock up, the more work for me,” quipped the lawyer. “We’ll be the only ones left on the outside!” The room grew quiet again as their host dealt another round. Furbert’s heart lifted as he looked at his cards trying to steady the shake in his hands. He knew the lawyer would be watching him like a hawk.

Butterfield and their host decided to fold, leaving only Furbert and the lawyer. Furbert’s mouth was dry. Taking another swig of his beer, he continued to study his cards. Out of the five in his hand, he had two nines. He decided to keep the pair and discard the other three.

Out of the corner of his eye, Furbert saw the others tense as he put in $1,000 borrowed earlier from Butterfield, praying that lady luck would make an appearance in this round.
They probably think I
’
m crazy, but I think I
’
ve got a chance this time. Just stay calm, just stay calm.

Looking Furbert full in the eyes the lawyer called him. Furbert’s stomach lurched. He hoped his fear had not reflected in his eyes.

Their host looked anxiously at Furbert, fully aware of how much money he had been losing and worried. Heart pounding, Furbert turned towards him and said, “Hit me again.”

Reluctantly his host dealt him another three cards. The lawyer also received another three.

Furbert could feel the sweat beading again on his top lip. He picked up his cards hoping the others would not notice the tremor in his hands. His fingers felt numb as he fanned them out.
This could be it. This could be the break he so badly needed.
The new cards were an eight, a nine and a three. Good. With the two nines from before, he now had three of a kind. This was looking promising.
Should he go for broke? Hell, it was the best hand he
’
d had for a long time.

The others watched in silence. The air was thick with smoke and the tension circled like a fifth player in the room. He felt, rather than heard, a collective gasp from the group as he put another two thousand into the pot. Using his best acting skills, he prayed that he looked confident. After all, wasn’t this a game about bluffing?

The lawyer took his time considering his cards and then, avoiding Furbert’s eyes, uttered those fateful words: “Call!”

Furbert showed his three nines. The lawyer studied them and then calmly turned over three jacks. The others exhaled. Furbert felt as if the lawyer had physically punched him. A wave of nausea swept over him and his breath tasted sour in his mouth.

“You win,” he mumbled as the lawyer took his winnings. “I’d better be getting going.”

“Don’t you want to see if you can recoup?” Butterfield seemed to be indicating that he would lend him some more if he wanted to stay.

“Nah, I better go into hibernation until my luck changes. Maybe it’s something to do with my stars! Neptune must be in conflict with Mars or some such shit!” Furbert tried to sound light-hearted but he knew he wasn’t kidding anybody. Inwardly he was devastated and knew he would be tossing and turning that night. How was he going to keep this from his wife? She would kill him. Maybe worse, divorce him.

Later that night, the man known as Frenchie received a call from a certain Police Recreation Club bartender. He had proven to be one of his best sources of information. Nobody thought of him as an informant. He was removed from the police themselves and yet, in his position at the Club, he overheard and reported back on a vast number of potential raids and police initiatives that allowed Frenchie to keep his dealers one step ahead of the law. He blended into the scenery when the police came in for some time to relax and they just talked as if he were not there. Some, like Furbert, even confided in him. Now that had been a real coup. Great that both Butterfield and Furbert were avid poker players. He’d been able to give Butterfield the money to subsidize Furbert’s losing streak. If this Furbert character kept losing, they would be able to turn him into regular informant… and he was right in the heart of CID. Things were looking very promising in that regard; now to alert the Captain about the raid on his house. That would be a real feather in his cap. Captain would owe him for that one and he’d make damn sure he collected. That tainted heroin had caused him no end of trouble with his dealers and the Captain still had to square it with him. Frenchie lit a cigar and began to dial, savouring the taste of the smoke as he exhaled slowly. Hell, he was so pleased next he’d be blowing smoke rings.

Chapter 37

Thousands of miles away the Croatian sat in a bar in Zagreb nursing his first espresso of the day and munching on a croissant. He felt at home here. The owner and bar tender knew him and if he came in of an evening, always gave him his favourite drink, a Pernod and water, without his ever having to ask. He also enjoyed the sound of laughter and the banter from the other patrons, some of whom were reading the morning papers and others, evidently pensioners, who had already set up their games of dominoes on the sidewalk tables. Waiters were bustling about accommodating the morning crowd who needed to finish their breakfasts in time to get to work. Thankfully, the takeaway culture of coffee to go in a cardboard cup had yet to reach this European city. He had to admit that he also enjoyed the fact that here they were aware of his celebrity status as an Olympic biathlete. Once or twice he had even been asked for an autograph but the regulars rarely bothered him.

As was his custom, he had positioned himself close to the corridor that led to the rest rooms which also housed a public payphone. With his back to the wall, he kept one eye on the entrance. It was a habit that had saved his life on more than one occasion and, even in social situations, he found himself falling back on it. There was nothing he could do about it; by now it was ingrained in him. He would never be one of those naïve innocents who enjoyed a life without worry. His teenage years spent in a war zone had killed any sense of innate security. Ignorance truly was bliss and that was a luxury that had long since passed him by.

Not long later he heard the telephone. Taking his coffee with him, he answered on the second ring. After listening intently, he fired off a barrage of questions.

“Where exactly? What’s the best way to get there? When does delivery have to take place?”

From what he heard, he was intrigued. This was not going to be a simple “in and out” mission. The location and challenge piqued his interest. This would be a difficult and exacting task. He relished the opportunity to test his skills in an unknown environment. While the voice on the other end of the line droned on, his mind was calculating all the permutations.
How hard could it really be?
An island of 21 square miles; surely it would be a piece of cake
. He was much too professional, however, to underestimate the job. In his experience, sometimes the most routine mission could prove the most life threatening and other times, a kill that looked potentially difficult was, in fact, a walk in the park. He knew that getting off the island unnoticed after the kill would be the hardest part of the job. Already, his mind was running through different plans. The voice on the other end of the telephone already knew he was hooked.
Oh hell. Why not? Let
’
s go to Bermuda and let
’
s get paid for it!

“The usual arrangements and I’ll give you a list of my dietary requirements tomorrow. I’ll book my own hotel and flights.” He hung up.

The “arrangements” were always the same; payment in Swiss Francs into a numbered account in Zurich. The intermediary understood that “dietary requirements” referred to the Croatian’s choice of weaponry. The assassin knew that he would not be able to smuggle his sniper scope through customs. In the winter, he could break it down and disguise it with his ski equipment but, flying to a subtropical island in the height of summer was another issue. He surmised that its proximity to the U.S. east coast might mean that customs would be more rigorous than in other laid back Caribbean destinations to the south.
That makes it more exciting. I
’
ll have to improvise with what they have over there.

The assassin always made his own accommodation and travel arrangements, sometimes booking himself on multiple flights and into several different hotels under various false names. You never knew if someone was watching and you needed to keep all your options open for safe houses and escape when away from home. He was patently aware of the potential for being stranded on a small island in the middle of the Atlantic and knew he was going to have to be especially careful.

He found himself getting excited about the assignment. He loved the hunt and he loved the final kill. He knew that normal people did not feel like him… but then, he was not normal. He was smarter than the average man in the street. Sometimes he envied them their ignorance of all the potential danger around them. Other times he felt superior. He put the phone down deep in thought, went back to the bar and ordered a bottle of mineral water. No more caffeine from now on. He needed steady hands and to stay as relaxed as he could in preparation for the assignment. It was time to go back to the house and work out in the gym and on the shooting range on his grounds.

At the precinct back in Miami, Gonzalez was swearing loudly and profoundly.

“Coño! Ese hijo de puta se nos ha escapado. Cómo es posible?”

Both he and Hofstein were at the station waiting for news of the capture of Cujo who had managed to elude the SWAT team quite by chance. Apparently, he had spent the night at a new girlfriend’s house and the SWAT team had only captured a couple of his heavies who were enjoying the delights of his South Beach mansion. One thing they had found out, however, was that Cujo also had two apartments side by side in Miami. If the police raided one, he was able to escape through a hidden door to the one next door, climb over the roof, and make his way to safety. This was news to the Vice Squad who understood now how he had managed to escape from them on previous occasions.

“I’m feeling your pain, hermano,” quipped Hofstein.

“Y’know, sometimes I ever wonder if we’re gonna get a break. These perps always seem to end up laughing at us. It makes me want to hit somebody real hard.”

“I hear ya, my friend. Sometimes you wonder whose side God is on. Is he ever gonna be on our side? That I would like to know. Hey, why don’t we call it a day and get us a beer. The chicken has flown the coop and I doubt we’ll have any joy today.”

“Okay, I’m sure as hell tired of writing reports, especially when I don’t have much to tell. Maybe we’ll have better news tomorrow after they’ve finished interviewing the rest of the prisoners. At least we’ve cleaned out that little lab. Knowing Cujo though, he’s probably got several outfits.” He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “It’s beginning to get to me. You’re right. Let’s get outta here.”

Gonzalez was putting on his jacket when his phone rang. “Gonzalez,” he answered impatiently.

“Detective, this is Aaron Jacobs from the Forensic Computer Lab. I’ve been working on the computers found at the drug lab and may have something for you. Would you prefer to come now or wait until tomorrow morning?”

“Are you kidding? We’ll come now.” Gonzalez hung up, grinning.

“Come on Hof. They always say the darkest hour is just before dawn. Who knows, maybe dawn has arrived for us. The FCL computer tech may have something. Shall we forego that beer and find out what he’s got?”

“You bet. I’m sure tired of looking at you moping around this place!”

“Yeah, yeah, like you’re not frustrated as hell too!”

They both made their way downstairs to the car with a sense of excitement. Sometimes the smallest break could come when least expected that could blow a case wide open. They both secretly hoped that this was one of those special occasions.

Chapter 38

The weather had finally broken and it was raining that heavy, warm, tropical rain of the summer. Burgess was in his car following a motorcyclist who was dressed like the crew member of a deep sea trawler – bright yellow heavy-weather rain gear with - he could hardly believe it - lime green plastic bags from a local department store attached over his shoes with elastic bands.
Only in Bermuda
… and he’
s probably the President of some fancy company!
The rain was a great leveller, Oh yes!

He parked his car and literally ran to his office battling the wind with his “gustbuster” umbrella, a complimentary gift from a well-regarded reinsurance company. He noticed a garbage can with several dumped umbrellas, their metal skeletons a testament to their inability to do their job.
Thank God for the insurance industry!