The Night Charter (21 page)

C
AMARO WAS HALFWAY
there when she spotted a 7-Eleven and pulled in for something to eat. She bought a burrito and a Big Gulp and sucked on Coke while she waited for the microwave. Afterward, she took a prepaid phone from a display and put that with the rest of her purchases.

It took a couple of minutes for the burrito to cool down. Camaro ate it sitting on her bike, drinking Coke between bites. She balanced her cup on the tank when her phone rang. This number she knew. “Detective,” she answered. “It's late.”

“Does it matter? You're awake.”

“I was just going to bed.”

“Busy night?”

“Something like that.”

“I'm standing in a house in Coral Way. You ever been to Coral Way?”

“I've gone through it a few times. Why?”

“Because there are two dead bodies here. A man and a woman with their throats cut. And the killer left a message about some money that's owed. I want you to tell me the truth: what do you know about it?”

Camaro took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. “I don't know anything about it,” she said.

“You ever heard the name Pablo Marquez?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“I said no.”

Ignacio exhaled. “There's a part of me that wants to take you in right now,” he said. “Tell me why I shouldn't.”

“Because I don't have anything to do with that.”

“Both you and I know that's a crock of shit, pardon my language. You're tied up with Clifford in some way, and now he's gone and killed two more people. In front of their
kid
. I can't afford to play any more games. You have to be honest with me, otherwise I will find you, and I will arrest you.”

Camaro balled up the burrito's wrapper and made a shot toward the trash can twenty feet away. It bounced off the rim and fell to the concrete. “You want me to be honest?” she asked.

“You have no idea. And listen, if you agree to spill on Matt, I will make sure that you get immunity. Anything you've done to help him, you'll be safe. I give you my word.”

“I'm not working with Matt Clifford,” Camaro said. “I'm not helping him.”

“Camaro, listen—”

“No,
you
listen. When I told you I didn't have anything to do with whatever he's pulled, that's the truth. He's getting people killed. He's killing people himself. The man is rabid. He needs to go down.”

“Who are you, anyway?” Ignacio asked quietly.

“You know who I am.”

“Lady, you're a mystery to me. What did you do up in New York? Who did you kill?”

“I told you before: I didn't kill anybody. But I know some people died. They were bad guys, just like Matt Clifford, and I'm not sorry they're gone.”

“That is cold. What did they do to you?”

“They didn't do anything to me,” Camaro said. “But they did something. And if you want to know anything about me, then you should know I wouldn't kill anybody who didn't have it coming.”

“So you're gonna kill Matt Clifford now?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You don't have to. I think maybe I know you better already.”

“Are you going to stop me?” Camaro asked.

“I should. Because killing Matt's not going to resolve whatever crazy shit is going on between him and these Cubans. It might slow things down a little, but people are dying left and right, and that doesn't clean up so easy. You sure you still want to be stuck in the middle of all that?”

Camaro drained the last of her Coke. “When I'm in the middle, I can see everything,” she said.

“Except what's coming up behind you. I'm telling you sincerely, don't go down for this. Tell me where to find Parker Story's daughter. Tell me how I can get my hands on Matt. Tell me
anything
. Tell me something I can use, because right now I'm confused as hell.”

“When it's all over, it'll make sense,” Camaro said. “I promise I'll tell you everything. But I have to do this my way.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't trust anybody else as much as I trust myself,” Camaro said.

“That's no way to live.”

“It's what I know.”

“And what's your plan? You do whatever it is you're going to do, and then you just walk away from all of this?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“That's a pretty lousy plan, if you don't mind my saying so. This kind of thing has a tendency to stick to people. Especially people with secrets.”

“I don't have any secrets,” Camaro said.

“Now you're lying again.”

“Maybe. Good-bye, Detective.”

“Good-bye, Camaro. And whatever you're doing…good luck.”

T
HE QUIET WAS
getting to him. Soto had at least brought some reading material, but there wasn't much to an issue of
Maxim,
and the pictures were not enough for Matt to get excited about. He wasn't even sure what a magazine like that was for. Without naked women, it seemed pointless.

Chapado was sleeping again. He made tinny whistling noises as he breathed. Matt thought he'd rather hear the man scream. But the time for that kind of thing was past. Soon Chapado would be transformed into a bag of money, and then the Cubans could do whatever they wanted with him.

“I'm going,” Matt announced. He stood up and his back creaked. The chairs were terrible.

“Where?”

“I'm gonna get something to eat, and then I'm gonna bed down somewhere. I'll be back by noon.”

Soto's voice pitched up. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Watch him!” Matt said. “Make sure he doesn't run off or nothing.”

“He's stuck to a chair.”

“Then make sure he doesn't get
un
stuck,” Matt returned. “I'm going. You better be here when I get back.”

“Goddamn it! This isn't fair!”

“You can talk about fair when you have your half of the money. Until then, you do what I say and shut the hell up.”

He went out before Soto could say anything more. The night was alive with the sounds of frogs and night creatures. They were right on the edge of the Everglades here, well away from everything. Why anyone would build in this spot was a mystery. The land must have been cheap as hell.

The stolen Kia started with no problem with the pliers, and he made his way out, taking special care to lock up the gates behind him. He drove for half an hour until he saw a Waffle House and pulled into the parking lot. He made sure to put the Kia away from the few other cars waiting there because if someone happened to glance inside, they would see the stripped steering column and know the car was hot.

Inside, he took a booth and accepted the menu from the waitress. He had hoped for a lady who was young and hot and maybe interested in a little something, but this woman was old and heavyset and had a hairy mole on her chin. At least she took his order without trouble and left him alone. Nothing was worse than a chatty waitress without good looks.

Eventually, she brought him his waffles and bacon and hash browns. Matt put syrup on the waffles and the bacon, too. He liked the crispy salt and the sweet together. He ordered a Coke to go with it, but then changed his mind and asked for Sprite. Sprite had no caffeine.

He had cleared the hash browns and the bacon and was starting in on his waffles when his eyes strayed to the television bolted to the ceiling in the corner of the dining room. The sound was down, but the picture was clear enough. He saw a reporter doing a stand-up at a police line, a house lit up with floodlights behind her. Matt recognized the house and stopped in midchew.

When he had first taken the job from the Cubans, he'd managed to follow one of them home. He was one of the young ones, not an old guy like Echave, and he never noticed the Charger creeping along behind him as he went to his pretty little two-story in Coral Way. That day a little girl had been playing on the front lawn with plastic toys as her mother looked on. The Cuban man swept the little girl up in his arms and twirled her around. There were laughter and smiles. Matt drove straight on.

Now he looked at the text at the bottom of the screen.
TWO SLAIN IN HOME INVASION
, it read. Matt swallowed.

His new phone was deep in his pocket, and he clawed at it. It was very late, and dawn wouldn't be too far off, but he knew when he dialed Echave's number that the old man would be awake.

Echave answered before the phone had a chance to ring a second time.
“Bueno,”
he said.

“Echave,” Matt said, “you know who this is?”

Matt heard a sharp intake of air on the other end. When Echave spoke again, his voice was tight. “You son of a bitch. You dishonorable bastard.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I'm talking about. You wouldn't call otherwise. You've killed Pablo, and now you want to gloat. Well, you can go to hell, Mr. Clifford. To
hell!
”

There were only a few people in the dining room, but Matt kept his voice down. “Hey, now, you need to get a grip on yourself. I don't know what anybody is telling you, but I don't know anything about any murders. I don't even know who Pablo is. He the one who lives out in Coral Way? The one who got home-invaded?”

“Don't play stupid with me, Mr. Clifford,” Echave said. “We
know
it was you. The message you left was unmistakable. What we don't understand is
why
. We already agreed to your terms. We were only waiting for you to tell us where to meet you and make the exchange. There was no reason to kill Pablo, and no reason to kill his wife. You've left a child an orphan. But you don't care, do you? You're an animal.
An animal
.”

“I'll take the hit for the people I killed, but I didn't have nothing to do with your boy or his wife. That man's kid is a baby.”

“Then you admit you know him!”

Matt smacked himself in the head and then again. He forced calm into his tone. “I know all kinds of things about you people, but that don't mean I killed that man. You gotta believe me. I want things to go real smooth from here on out.”

“Oh, they will go smoothly,” Echave said. “But know this: I will find you wherever our money takes you. I will ensure that you are killed slowly. Your last hours will be the most painful of your life.”

“You watch what you're saying. I still have Chapado.”

“And when will we see him?”

“Real soon. I'm working out a spot where we can do this privately.”

“You told us three days!”

“I'll make the deadline!” Matt snapped back, more loudly than he intended. A man looked over at him. Matt ducked his head and cupped his hand over the phone. “It's all gonna go down the way I said. You give me the money, you get Chapado. End of story.”

“You are a parasite,” Echave said.

“Keep talking, old man. Maybe I change my mind and decide to off
you
.”

“Fuck you!”
Echave shouted down the line.

Matt ended the call and then turned off the phone. He still had food on his plate, but he had no appetite for it now.

C
AMARO CREPT ALONG
the fence line in the dark, picking her way through the scrub and grass by the faint light of the moon. She gripped the Mossberg, conscious of the package from the porn shop in her pocket and a can of spray paint tucked into the back of her jeans. Her boots seemed to make incredible noise no matter how slowly she went. In the end, she simply hurried along and stepped as lightly as she could until she reached the gap in the chain-link fence.

She ducked inside and jogged through the compound toward the big warehouse in the back. There was no guarantee that this place was still in use. Everything depended on good fortune. Camaro wished it were different.

Before she set off toward the warehouse complex, she had stopped at a motel in Florida City to prepare for the next step. It was worse even than the place where she kept Lauren but was fairly isolated on a little-used road headed out of town. An old kind of travelers' stop, it was a single story and had a string of rooms all in a row and a porch out front. Camaro asked for the very last unit and got it. The place was completely deserted. She left ammo behind in the top drawer of the dresser.

Now she was here, and the warehouses were all dark. Only when she turned the last corner did she see the light in one of the windows of the last structure and knew that Chapado was still there. A Nissan hatchback was parked nearby.

Camaro slowed up and walked the final distance. She edged along the long wall of the building in order to see from the same spot she had on her last visit. There was no sound of talking. No radio. No anything. Chapado sat in the chair, secured with tape, his chin resting on his chest.

Turning from the window, she stole backward to the side entrance. It was as Jackson had left it, barely closed and loose in the frame. Camaro one-handed the shotgun and put her fingers to the door, pulling it open gingerly.

The hinges protested but did not shriek. Rust ground against rust, but unless someone was alert to every sound, they would have missed it entirely. Camaro opened the door just enough for her to slip through it sideways and into the shadows. She eased the door closed behind her.

She was in among a collection of boxes, all stacked higher than her head. Crouched down in the midst of them she was invisible. Quietly she moved, keeping low, aware of the light shining on the other side of the stacks, careful never to rise where the illumination that cast through the gaps might reveal her.

It took two minutes for her to work her way into position. She was sidelong to Chapado and could see him between two towers of crates. One column was shorter than the other, and she raised herself up until she could barely peer over the top.

Soto was there, sitting in a chair reading a magazine. Camaro watched him for a while and saw him rub his eyes with his free hand, the other encased in a cast.

Ducking once more, she scuttled from cover to cover until she was behind Soto, her back to the little office through which Matt and Parker had come and gone. Out of his line of sight, she straightened and approached from the rear, the shotgun up, until she was ten feet from his chair.

“Don't move,” Camaro said.

He jumped when she spoke, and the magazine tumbled from his fingers. “I'm not moving,” Soto said.

“Put your hands in the air and get up slowly,” Camaro told him.

Soto obeyed. “I knew we'd hear from you again,” he said.

“Shut up. You only talk when I ask you questions. Turn around.”

He turned and faced her. Behind him, Chapado was awake, his eyes wide in the glare of the portable lights. Camaro ignored the man. She addressed Soto. “Where's Matt?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“I don't know. He didn't tell me.”

“That's all right. It doesn't matter.”

“You come to kill him?”

“I might have. If he was here,” Camaro said. “Or maybe not.”

“What are you gonna do with me?” Soto asked.

“I'm going to have to shoot you,” Camaro said.

Soto had a gun in his waistband, and he reached for it with his left hand. His fingers closed around it at the same moment Camaro triggered the shotgun. The blast was deafening, captured and reflected by the metal walls and ceiling of the warehouse, brought crashing back against Camaro where she stood. Soto's chest split open red, and he flopped onto his back and was still.

Camaro stepped over with the shotgun ready. Soto was dead.

“Thank you,” Chapado said. “Thank you for coming.”

“Quiet,” Camaro said. She could barely hear.

The shotgun went on Soto's empty chair. Camaro caught the corpse by both ankles and dragged it out of the light to leave a wide space in front of Chapado, marked with a smearing trail of blood. She took the spray can out and shook it before proceeding to write on the floor. The paint dried quickly, but Camaro was careful not to step in it. Then she put the paint away.

She drew the karambit from her left boot. It was a forward-curving blade, gripped in the fist in a reverse hold so a forearm slash brought the hook of the edge around like a spur. Camaro didn't use it on Chapado. Instead, she cut the tape binding his wrists and ankles. She saw the injury on his arm.

Chapado rubbed his wrists where adhesive still clung to the skin. He looked as though he was about to thank Camaro again, but she silenced him with a look. From her back pocket she brought out the flat package from the porn shop and opened it. A pair of matte-black handcuffs and two keys slipped out. “Get into these,” she told Chapado. “Hands in front.”

“I don't understand.”

“You don't have to understand. Just do it.”

He locked himself into the cuffs. Camaro helped him to his feet. He was unsteady, and he reeked of feces and urine. “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

“Somewhere safe.”