Джон Сэндфорд - Ocean Prey [calibre]

“Okay,” Lange said. “But if it does get hit, we’ll need a closer look at Willy. I-I-I guess I don’t think it’ll happen. After the other night, I think Willy and Ally are on the level. I’m just sayin’, if that cargo does get hit, we’ll need to take a real close look. Because, let’s face it, we all know each other, we’re all watertight. If there’s a leak . . .”

“’Nuff said,” said Behan. “You’re right. If the hearse gets hit, anywhere along the line, we’ll look to Willy.”

“Willy’s okay,” Cattaneo said. “He’s in as deep as we are, now . . .”

Behan was watching him closely, and Cattaneo faltered, then asked, “What?”

“An odd thing happened yesterday,” Behan said, “which is why I brought up the whole subject.”

He pointed at Regio. “You told me that you stopped by their place yesterday around what, three o’clock, to tell them to ease off the dope? And they just got back from Bal Harbour?”

“Yeah, our guy saw them in a Hollywood bar the night before, a block down the street from their apartment. A Willy-style shithole called Ouroboros. They bought some cocaine from a dealer named Richard. He’s a well-known dealer, been around for a while. Not a cop.”

“So that looks good, that’s what we expected,” Behan said. “Then we thought they’d probably go out and shoot up some of the cash.”

“Yeah,” Regio said. “They did. Like I told you, it looked like they hit every shoe store in Bal Harbour Shops. Ally must have had ten bags stacked up in that apartment. Willy bought a pair of crocodile cowboy boots, which I didn’t even know they sold over there. Is that bad?”

“No, but a curious thing. Jack, you know Lauren Hopps, right?”

“Sure, I know Lauren.”

“Who’s Lauren Hopps?” Lange asked.

“Nice lady, smart, she’s with the Beach guys,” Behan said. “I knew her up in New York, she’s down here now, she supervises the girls working the South Beach. Anyway, she was up at the St. Regis Hotel yesterday for a late lunch, and as she was going in, she sees this FBI guy, Weaver, go by with what looked like a bunch of feds, on their way out of the hotel. Weaver was the task force guy up in Lauderdale, he was down at Romano’s place in that fight. So Lauren thinks I might be interested, because she kinda knows what we do, and she gives me a call.”

Regio: “Yeah? Does that mean something?”

“The St. Regis is right across the street from the Bal Harbour Shops. I mean right across the street. A one-minute walk. The feds would have been at the St. Regis at the same time as Willy and the hand-jive were supposedly shopping.”

Lange said, “Oh, shit.”

Behan shrugged. “Doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but it’s a curious coincidence. The Bal Harbour Shops are where I would have guessed those two would go. The feds? I don’t know about the feds, why the whole bunch of them would be at the St. Regis.”

They stood in silence for a moment, and then Cattaneo said, “You’re letting the shit go north?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want Willy back in the water until we find out what happens up there.”

“Can’t go back in anyway, not for a couple more days,” Cattaneo said. “Jesus, I’d hate to lose that shit. Three and a half bucks.”

“Only a small slice of what’s down there,” Behan said.

“Yeah, but . . .”

“Have you told Dougie about this?” Cattaneo asked.

“Of course. He told me to make the call, and I did.”

They stood around, not talking, nipping at the whiskey, until Behan said, “So, we’ll see. I thanked Lauren for the information, told her I knew some guys who might want to tap into her highest-end girls. If any of you guys are inclined, I’m buying.”

Lange and Regio shook their heads; faithful married men. Cattaneo said, “Well, if you’re buying. I hear they got some wild women down there.”

“That’s what I hear,” Behan said. “Feel free.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

Lucas and Devlin watched the heroin leave downtown Hallandale and head out to I-95, tagged by a half dozen FBI surveillance teams in Toyotas. The teams were rarely in sight of the target hearse, except at exits. The hearse cruised north at five miles an hour above the speed limit, which was about ten miles an hour slower than the traffic; that might normally make a state trooper suspicious, but not with a hearse.

“We still going to New York?” Devlin asked, as he and Lucas headed back to the hotel.

“Washington first,” Lucas said. “I need to talk to some people. I don’t like the way these guys want to go for the easy kill.”

“I don’t really think . . .”

“Oh, they will. They’ll say they’re not gonna do it, but something will come up in New York and they’ll get anxious and they’ll pull the trigger,” Lucas said. “They’ll probably be careful about not dropping Virgil and Rae in hot water, but they’ll miss Sansone.”

“They’ll still get everybody down here.”

“They won’t cut the head off the snake,” Lucas said.

“What’s in Washington?” Devlin asked.

“An old FBI friend named Louis Mallard. He’s a deputy director, he’s already involved with the task force. I’ll squeeze him—get him to tell Weaver and the boys in New York that if they fuck up and jump too soon, they’ll all wind up in a field office in West Jesus, Idaho.”

“Think that’ll work?”

“Yeah, if Louis will do it. There’s also a Florida senator I might talk to . . . that I might refer Louis to, if the going gets tough. Louis is very politically aware.”

“Is this gonna ruin my career?” Devlin asked.

“No, you’re too obscure to ruin. Get a few more years under your belt and a little more status, get closer to a pension, then you’ll be worth ruining. Ruining you now would be like shooting a squirrel and mounting its head. Nobody would be impressed.”

“Thank you.”

“Always happy to advise young people,” Lucas said.

After a final meeting with Weaver and his team, Lucas called Senator Christopher Colles and was told by the woman who answered the phone that Colles was about to get on an airplane to Miami. “Ask the senator to call me as soon as he’s on the ground. He’ll know what it’s about. I’ll need about ten or fifteen minutes of his time.”

“I will tell him you called—and you’ll be at this number?”

“Yes, but I’m leaving Miami myself at three o’clock, flying to Washington. If we cross in the airport, we could talk face-to-face.”

“I’ll alert him to that possibility,” the woman said. “When will you be at the airport?”

“At one o’clock.”

“That could work. I’ll tell him.”

Lucas and Devlin were walking into MIA when Colles called: “We’re taxiing to the terminal now. There’s a Cuban restaurant called La Carreta. I’ll meet you there.”

Both Lucas and Devlin had TSA passes and approval to fly with their weapons. They printed tickets and badged themselves through security, and were at La Carreta in twenty. Lucas spotted Colles with a redheaded woman at a corner table.

Colles looked like a movie version of a senator: tall, ruddy face, big white teeth, carefully groomed gray hair. He stood to shake hands with Lucas and Devlin, nodded to the woman, and said, “This is Andrea Thompson, my PA. She knows more about everything than I do, so she’ll be sitting in. She’s the one you talked to this morning . . .”

Thompson was in her late thirties or early forties, pretty enough, but with the tough demeanor of somebody who’d fought the DC wars for a decade or two. She nodded at Lucas and the two marshals took their seats. Lucas looked around: the nearest customers were two tables away, two Hispanic women, both looking at phones, and his back would be to them.