The Perfect Crime (23 page)

CHAPTER 29

GRADY CREPT AS QUIETLY as he could around to the back of the warehouse. From the ventilation windows at the top of the building, he could see a faint glow of light coming from the north end. He decided to look for a way in on the opposite end where hopefully it’d be dark enough so he could get in without being noticed. There was no way of knowing how many were in there, but even if there were only a couple, he figured they’d be heavily armed. He only wanted information, not confrontation. See what was going on.

Still, to be on the safe side, he checked his sidearm, the only gun he’d brought with him. Not the .38 Special he’d carried while a cop, but the old .45 automatic he’d kept from the Navy. He patted his pocket to make sure his extra clips were still there.

He went swiftly across the open space to the shelter of the building and its shadows.

Yes. There was a door on this end. It was locked, but looked easy enough to pick. He worked quickly, cursing softly beneath his breath when he dropped his tools once. At first, he couldn’t find them in the dark. Feeling with both hands he felt the picks after a minute, picked them up and began trying the lock again. He didn’t know whether it was the heat or tension that was making the sweat run down into his good eye makin it burn. The fucking heat he decided. Why doesn’t it cool off when it gets dark! If he lived here, he’d never go outside. He’d stay in air conditioning all the time.

He kept working the lock.

***

“Mr. St. Ives. Buenos noches, senor. You look very warm tonight.”

The warehouse office they entered was small and cramped, what with St. Ives, Castro, and one of his men inside, but the air was on and St. Ives was the only one of the trio who was sweating. C.J. could see the suitcases Castro always transported the money in, sitting beside the desk. Over in the corner were piled kilo upon kilo--dozens it appeared--of what he knew to be product. Coke. Looked like they’d gotten a major shipment.

“Yes. I am. Think I caught something, a bug maybe.” He tried to laugh, but only managed a weak smile. “The money ready? I’ll get it and go. Got to get it to the bank before it gets too late and somebody sees me and gets suspicious.” He looked at the Cuban, then looked away nervously.

Castro smiled. St. Ives felt a chill. He saw no mirth in the man’s eyes.

“Oh yes, the bank. Would that be the bank where you said I shouldn’t be seen? The bank you’re the president of? Is that the bank you speak of, senor?”

C.J. St. Ives didn’t like this at all. Now, the sweat began to roll in earnest and he could feel the pressure of the cables and the package on his back.

“Yes. The bank.”

“You know, Senor St. Ives, I been meaning to talk to you about the bank.
Your
bank. It is your bank, is it not?”

“Well, sure. Our family’s bank. What are you talking about?”

He tried to go on the offensive, but couldn’t quite make it. God, this was not going right. Something was up. Castro suspected something. He was going to die. If not by the bomb strapped to his body, then by this fucking animal. Let me have the money, Fidel. Let me get out of here!

“You know, Senor St. Ives,” Castro sat down, on a corner of the small desk up against the wall. “You know, my cousin Fidel? The one I was named after?”

C.J. nodded, feeling a tremendous urge to urinate. He tried to meet Castro’s eyes and experienced the sinking feeling the man could see right through to his brain, see everything that was recorded there.

“Of course.”

“You want a drink of water? You look overheated, senor. Maybe you should sit down for a minute. You don’t look well. This bug--she make a fever, eh?” He laughed.

“I know all about fevers, amigo. Well. Perhaps the fever will abate in a little while. I was saying, about my cousin, the very famous Fidel after who I am named.” He paused. “Do you know he is a very suspicious person?” He shrugged, the way Latins do, in a way that is different from
norteamericanos
, the way that is a phrase and not merely a gesture. “It is perhaps very sad that a man should be so suspicious, is it not? A man should feel at ease in his world. It is too bad one becomes suspicious--cynical. Is it not?”

C.J. said nothing, wondering where this was leading and dreading the direction.

“He is suspicious because he is an important man and there are many people who are jealous of his importance. That is the price you pay, I think, for being an important man. I, too, have felt this suspicion much of my life. I, too, am perhaps too cynical. Too much distrust. That is sad. I think maybe this is inherited. All the Castros have this feeling.”

He stood up and C.J. watched the Cuban, the s smile vanish, replaced by a look that froze the moisture on C.J.’s forehead.

“I am sorry I did not believe your story about this detective. I am sorry that men such as ourselves cannot have trust between us. This is a sad state of affairs, senor, very sad indeed. But perhaps essential to one’s safety. Yes, I think it is absolutely essential. Do you know what I have done?”

C.J. managed to shake his head. God, he wanted to pee!

“I received a phone call. From someone you and I both know. Maybe you didn’t know I knew him. Your father-in-law. Senòr Derbigny. We’ve been friends for a very long time. Even longer than you and I have been. Interesting, no? Have you spoken with him lately? He had a very interesting story to tell me. It was a little bit different than the story you told me. Do you remember the story you told me?”

Oh, God, oh, God. I’m fucked. I’m dead. What do I do? What can I do? C.J. looked at the chair and sat down. “Fidel, I need to go to the bathroom. Could I please use the bathroom?”

Castro’s smile returned. “Oh, surely, Senor St. Ives. Please forgive my manners. But if you could wait a minute or two,
por favor.
I have a little bit more to talk with you about and you can go relieve yourself. This is muy important. You will want to hear this.”

He stepped over in front of St. Ives and bent down, putting his hands on the banker’s knees and staring directly at him, his eyes inches from the banker’s. C.J. could smell his breath and his stomach roiled at the sweetness of it.

“Senor, I do not think you remember our talk. Do you know why? Because you are no longer
el presidente
, it would seem. Did you know that? I assure you, I was surprised to receive this information. I learned other things as well. It seems there are lots of people who like to give me information these days. Some of it is quite puzzling, I must admit. Would you like to hear them? Maybe you could help me understand some of these things. There is one I really don’t understand. Have you been to the DEA?”

“Fidel, I have to go to the bathroom.
Now
.” C.J. stood up, terror visible in his expression. “If I don’t go to the bathroom
right now
I am going to piss all over your floor. Let me go to the bathroom and I’ll explain everything.”

Castro took his hands and put them on the banker’s shoulders and pushed him back down into the chair.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to piss on my floor, senòr.” He turned to the other man, a short, swarthy man who remained silent during the conversation. “Felipe, go see if they are here and bring them in.”

When the man left, Castro walked over behind his desk, picked up something and came back and handed C.J. a large tin can, the bottom of which was littered with cigarette butts.

“You can use this.”

Completely degraded, but in absolute distress from his bladder, C.J. got up, turned his back and urinated into the can. As he finished, the office door opened and three men came in--Felipe, another of Castro’s men he thought was named Octavio, and Eddie. Felipe held a gun on the other two. Octavio looked sick. C.J. could see both of his eyes were almost closed and there was blood on his shirt.

C.J. felt his knees buckle and he stumbled, dropping the can. Everybody jumped as liquid splashed. He sat down heavily in the chair and tried to zip up with sore fingers.

“Is this the detective your wife set on you?” Castro gestured toward Eddie.

C.J. looked up at Castro. He couldn’t stop the shudder at the look in the man’s eyes.

“Maybe. No. I don’t know.”

Castro reached over and slapped him. The way he slapped him looked like it was in slow motion, casual-like, but it knocked out one of his front teeth. C.J. felt his mouth fill with blood. All his strength drained from him and he felt himself growing faint. And then, from somewhere deep inside, the adrenaline kicked in and he felt the energy return, more energy than he’d ever experienced and he stood up, ripped his coat off and tore his shirt open, buttons flying. In the same instant, so quickly that no one had time to react, C.J. ran to the door, but instead of opening it and attempting to flee, he stood in front of it and hooked his fingers behind the connector cable that went around his waist.

“Eddie,” he said, new-found power in his voice. “Eddie, tell them what will happen if I pull this cable apart. Explain it to these greasers, Eddie. Tell them we’ll all blow up. That I’m wired with a bomb.” The man called Felipe made a move with his hand to the inside of his jacket, but Castro held a restraining hand up and the man lowered his hand.

When Eddie finished confirming his story, Felipe aimed his pistol at C.J. He said, “
Patron
, how ‘bout I shoot this piece ‘a shit.”

***

Fidel Castro, drug baron and one of the toughest and most ruthless mothers in all of the Southeast, was enjoying all this, although you couldn’t tell from the way he acted. It was all going down just as he’d learned it would. Felipe was doing a fine job of acting himself. There wasn’t the remotest possibility he was going to shoot the banker and they both knew it.

That St. Ives showed up to steal his money was no surprise. That, he’d been expecting. Two days ago, a familiar voice had told him all kinds of amazing things. That St. Ives was no longer connected to the bank in any way. That phone call had come seconds after C.J.’s call from the Fairmont. After C.J.’s call, Castro would have contacted Senòr Derbigny himself if he hadn’t called first. C.J. wasn’t the best liar.

He might have been surprised that the man was wired with explosives, except that he knew about that, too. Another valuable phone call, one telling him about his employee’s treachery, led him to that information. He’d admired the way Octavio had hung tough, for many hours, even, but nobody could hold out forever against the kind of torture a Cuban with experience in The Revolution could administer.

He forced down the smile that threatened to emerge. He’d love to be there when Kincaid opened up those suitcases and found they weren’t filled with stacks of hundred dollar bills. He wondered if he’d appreciate the joke.

A day before, in planning this with his lieutenant, Felipe, he’d told him to wait a minute before shooting C.J. and exploding the two of them as he handed the suitcases over to Reader. Felipe was to follow C.J. when he left and exterminate the two of them when he made the delivery.

“Watch Senòr Kincaid’s eyes,” he’d said, the two of them sitting in this same office only a few hours before. “I want to know exactly what this chinga’s face looks like when he opens them up and sees phone books in there!” They both howled at the thought.

He thought about playing out the little drama a bit longer and then grew tired of the idea. It was time to get on with business. A powerful man awaited him and he didn’t like to be kept waiting. It was time to play out the charade.

***

“No, Felipe,” said Castro, slowly, getting back to the moment. “Put your gun away. I believe this man speaks the truth. What is it you want, Senor C.J.? You want to leave, I think? Go ahead, leave, puta. I’ll find you.”

C.J. was feeling the glow of authority and power. His Cajun upbringing was coming back, memories of the days when he hunted alligators in the swamp with his father, fearless boyhood days spent in the swamp wresting a hard living from the bayou. “Yes, Castro. I want to leave. I want the money. If I don’t show up with the money, I’m dead. So, I’m not leaving without it. You don’t give me the money, I’m pulling this right now.”

Castro hesitated, but only momentarily when C.J. lifted his elbow away from his side in an exaggerated gesture, to show him he would pull the connector cable if he didn’t do as he’d ordered.

“Now,” he said, once the suitcases were placed on the floor beside him. “Lie down. All of you.” He looked at his former partner in crime and for the first time his features relaxed somewhat. “Give me your gun.” Castro shrugged, reached to his back holster and complied. He’d already unloaded it in anticipation of what C.J. would do. He nodded to his men and they dropped to the floor on their stomachs and he did the same.

Except Eddie. “Hey, you gotta take me with you, St. Ives. You don’t take me with you, Reader’ll kill you. I’m his partner.”

C.J. smiled. “I don’t think so, asshole. I think maybe your boss will thank me. Saves him the trouble of having to kill you himself. You don’t really think he planned to split this with you, do you?”

Eddie stood there, his body trembling with a mixture of rage and fear. He took a step toward C.J. and the banker pointed the gun at him.

“Lie down, you slimy fucker. I’d love to shoot you.”

Eddie’s face darkened, but he did as C.J. ordered.

As soon as Eddie hit the floor, C.J. was gone, running through the door out into the warehouse, adrenaline making the suitcases lighter than they would be normally.

Immediately, Castro’s men jumped up, Castro himself rising more slowly, brushing off his clothes, holding up his hand to his men. “No. Let him go. It’s all right.”

He said to Felipe, “Give him a minute or two. Don’t let him know he’s being followed. Take Orlando with you. Meet me across the lake afterwards. I want to know everything. Remember his face. I want to know what his face looked like.”

Felipe nodded, gestured to Orlando and the two men went out the door at a trot.

Grady saw the two men rush out of the office, just a few feet from where he was hidden. Beautiful! Just the way he thought it might happen. Jack would be proud of him, figuring this out.