Robert Crais - The sentry

"Smith's real name is William Allan Rainey. He smuggled cash out of the country for some boys down here hooked up with a Bolivian cartel. My guy says, all told, he probably transported six or seven hundred million dollars before he was done."

"Drug money?"

"Where else you gonna see that kind of cash?"

Drugs were a cash business, and the problem for foreign drug suppliers was getting their cash out of the country. Experienced cops had told him it was far easier for suppliers to get their drugs in than to get their cash out. They couldn't deposit it in banks or transfer it in meaningful amounts because banks were watched by the government, and transferring a few thousand here and there was useless to an organization that generated hundreds of millions in cash.

Cole said, "Smuggling cash doesn't rate a sealed file."

"That was the DEA. They broke him, then cut a deal with him for info about the cartel's business."

"He was an informant."

"Yeah, for a couple of years, and maybe that's why he did what he did. Rainey and the woman disappeared two weeks before Katrina with twelve million dollars of Bolivian money. They've been on the run ever since."

Cole leaned back.

"Twelve million. Get out."

Lucy said, "Cash."

"The cartel boys put a million dollar reward on Rainey's head and sent up a specialist to find him."

"Specialist as in a killer?"

"Specialist as in finding people the Bolivians want found, and doing whatever it is they want done. Over at the DOJ, they called him the executioner. That's who you have runnin' around out there."

Cole felt a second chill, and listened as Terry continued.

According to Terry's contact, William Allan Rainey had spent his life jumping between small-time criminal activity and questionable business ventures. Rainey opened several restaurants and bars that failed, but eventually created a stable business for himself as a wholesale seafood supplier, buying shrimp and fish from local fishermen to sell to other people's restaurants. The fishermen Rainey dealt with were one-boat operators who fished the Gulf from pinprick towns in the bayous along the Louisiana coast. Investigators believed it was during this period that Rainey became involved with people who were in business with the Bolivian cartel, and Rainey, who had always been attracted to easy money, saw a way to cut himself in on the partnership. The Bolivians needed a way to sneak their cash out of the country, and Rainey provided the method. His daily contact with fishermen allowed him to recruit people who were open to carrying questionable cargo. Especially if they were behind on their rent and needed the money.

Cole stopped him.

"Did these people know what they were carrying?"

"The deal was, no questions asked, but Rainey told at least two fishermen they were carrying pot on its way to Miami. That's the way it was packaged, in black, waterproof bales. How it worked was, Rainey and a couple of guards would hand off the bales to a fisherman on his way out, along with waypoint coordinates to meet up with a vessel out past the rigs. All they had to do was hand over the bales, then get on with their fishing."

"Rainey was telling the DEA about this?"

Terry laughed.

"Uh-uh. He fed them an occasional inbound shipment or dropped the dime on small-time players. Just enough to keep the DEA off his back. They didn't know he was smuggling cash until everything blew up."

"What happened?"

Lucy said, "The woman. Dru Rayne's true name is Rose Marie Platt. Rainey met her when she worked at a restaurant down in the Quarter for a man named Tolliver James. She and James were living together."

Terry jumped in again.

"James bought fish and shrimp from Rainey, so the speculation is this was how Rainey and Platt met. Couple of months later, she broke up with James and moved in with Rainey. Couple of months after that, which puts us two weeks before the storm, Rainey and Platt disappeared with the Bolivians' money. On or about that same day, a shrimper named Mike Fourchet went fishing, but didn't come back. Mike and his boat were found at a landing on Quarantine Bay. Fourchet had been shot in the back of the head."

"Was Fourchet one of Rainey's fishermen?"

"That's how the DEA made the connection. They found Fourchet's name in Rainey's business records. Then they really got stoked when they found out the woman's ex-boyfriend, Tolliver James, was murdered during the storm."

"Did Rainey do it?"

"Not even close. The DEA believes he was killed by your specialist. He was beaten to death-beat real bad, too, like he was tortured. The bones in his legs were broken so bad they were nothing but splinters down in the meat."

Terry paused as if he realized he was being too graphic with Lucy in the room.

"Sorry, Ms. Chenier."

"Terry, please."

"Anyway, all this stuff I'm telling you, it took the Feds and the DOJ two or three years to figure out. You know how investigations come together-you build'm a piece at a time."

"You said Rainey was good for a murder."

"Fourchet. The case dicks learned Rainey delivered the twelve mil to Fourchet the morning he went out. They believe Rainey went back later without the guards, or maybe told Fourchet to meet up with him on his way out, but either way, Fourchet ended up dead, and Rainey and Platt split with the money."

"So Rainey and Platt murdered Fourchet?"

"Everyone down here thinks so, including the Bolivians. That's why they put out the reward and sent their man up here. This guy's been after them for years."

"Do you know who he is?"

"All I know is what I've told you. He's their go-to executioner."

"Executioner."

"That's how my guy described him before he shut down. An executioner. What else you gonna call an animal who racks up nine killings?"

Terry corrected himself.

"Eleven."

Nobody spoke for a moment, then Terry remembered something.

"Wait, I guess there is something else. All these people he's killed have been connected to Rainey or Platt-someone in the family, someone they worked with, someone who might know how to find them. He's been eating his way through their friends and family. Like with Tolliver James."

A silence settled between the three of them that no one seemed anxious to fill.

Finally, Cole said, "If the FBI comes back to you, give them my name."

Lucy said, "Are you sure? We can delay this or stall it. I don't want you in jeopardy."

Cole smiled, and for the first time during the call felt a flush of comfort.

"You're the best, Lucille."

"Sometimes."

"Yes, you are, but give them my name. Terry, I appreciate this, man, but if they call, put them on me. We'll have to bring in the locals here anyway. They need to know this."

Cole told Lucy he would call later, then printed the new pictures of Wilson and Dru. Cole corrected himself. William Rainey and Rose Platt.

Cole said, "It just keeps getting better."

He heard Pike pull up outside as the second picture emerged from the printer, and met him in the kitchen. Cole thought Pike looked tired, his gaunt face hollow and lined behind the gleaming dark glasses. Pike drank an entire bottle of water before he came up for air.

Cole said, "How long have you been awake?"

"I'm good."

Cole figured he was going on forty-eight hours.

"Grab something to eat."

"I'm good to go."

"Okay, we finally have something. Lucy found out who they are. It isn't good news."

Pike leaned against the counter as Cole went through it, arms crossed, as still as a hardwood statue. Pike only moved once as Cole related the information.

He said, "The names."

Cole didn't understand, and asked what Pike meant.

"Rainey. Rayne. You think she picked her name because it was so close to his? Maybe he picked it for her."