Джон Сэндфорд - Ocean Prey [calibre]

“Because you’re going to deliver it to the guys at the car wash and get another brick of dope,” Lucas said.

“What?”

Wright explained it: Curry was going to get in his pickup and drive up to the car wash and buy another brick of heroin, his usual order, and deliver whatever money he needed to cover it. That money would be delivered to Sansone and then Sansone would be picked up with the cash in his pocket and would go to prison.

“We need to tie him to the dope, and the dope ties him to the murders.”

“Those guys in the garage . . . they’re sorta my friends,” Curry said.

Wright nodded and said, “I know.” She smiled at him. “Tough shit.”

Sophia Curry began crying and then Carol Bruno. They cried for a while and the copy machine kept grinding away in the background.

Curry said he couldn’t show up with a pile of cash and check out with a kilo of heroin. He had to call ahead to see if it was even available.

“Then call,” Lucas said.

Curry said he had to use a burner phone that he kept hidden in his truck. If the people in the garage got a call from an unrecognized number, they simply wouldn’t answer. Lucas sent him out to get it, warning that the house was surrounded by FBI agents, and that if he tried to run, he wouldn’t get a block. Curry nodded miserably and went to the truck to get the phone. When he was back, Lucas, Wright, and Curry talked about what he’d say. When everyone was satisfied, Curry punched in the number, which was picked up on the second ring.

“Clean N Go.”

Curry said, “Hey, man. This is me.”

“Hey, you. How’s things?”

“Need to get a rapid wash. Got really dirty last night. What’s the situation there?”

“Not too busy. Which wash?”

“I’m thinking the gold.”

“Gold, it is. When you coming?”

“Five o’clock?”

“Make it five-thirty. We got a little line-up.”

“See you then,” Curry said, and he punched off. To Wright and Lucas: “It’s done.”

Lucas wanted to drive along with one of the SSG members while Curry delivered the cash to the car wash, and left with another bag of heroin. He took a few minutes to change out of the gas company uniform and back into his suit and overcoat, and after Wright issued a series of warnings and threats to Paul Curry, they left the house in the dark. Lucas drove the gas van around the block, where he transferred to the SSG RAV4, and then he and the SSG agent dropped in behind Curry, two blocks back.

The drop was routine: Curry drove into the car wash garage, and ten minutes later, backed out, and drove back toward his house.

“He could have said anything in there,” the SSG driver said. “He could have called anyone.”

“Yeah, but we were afraid to wire him up, and we didn’t have a wire anyway,” Lucas said. “At this point, I’m willing to believe he’s come over.”

“I hope.”

Lucas was dropped at the gas van, which he drove back to Curry’s. The pickup was already parked in the driveway.

In the house, Curry was telling Wright about the currency delivery and the purchase of the new bag of heroin, which lay on the living room table.

Lucas: “Did it go right?”

Curry said, “Yeah, just like every day. They were surprised that I got rid of a whole kilo last night. I said there was some hunger out there, that the new bag wouldn’t hold me more than a few days. They said more was on the way.”

Wright said, “We have a couple of SUVs coming by to transport the four of you to Manhattan . . .”

“All four? Do we all have to go?” Sophia wailed.

Her mother said, “Shut up.”

Wright: “For seventy-two hours. Then we can arrange for everybody but Paul to be released on their own recognizance. When you get back here, you might want to talk to a Realtor. Sansone won’t know for a while that Paul has agreed to cooperate with us, but . . . you might want to get started on that.”

Sophia started crying again and Wright went into the kitchen to call her boss at the U.S. Attorney’s Office. When she’d finished, she came back through the living room, put on her coat, and gathered up her briefcase. On the way out, she touched Lucas’s arm and said, quietly, “We’re very pleased. And by the way, that’s a great suit, but your tie’s a little crooked.” She straightened his tie, said, “There,” patted him on the chest, and went out the door.

Devlin said, “Wow.”

Lucas: “Happens all the time.”

The old man said, “You’re fulla shit,” but then he cackled and shook his head. “Fuckin’ women.”

As they waited for the transport vans, Carol Bruno asked, “How come you were in such a big hurry? We shoulda been able to talk to a lawyer before we decided what to do.”

Lucas said, “This . . . investigation . . . has a lot of moving parts. The FBI’s organized crime guys told us if we let you talk to one of your regular lawyers, that guy would run outside and call up Sansone and everybody else he could think of, and warn them off.”

Paul Curry asked, “Didn’t you say you’d arrested Kent Pruitt?”

“Yeah. He’s already over in Manhattan.”

“Did you let him make a call to Sansone?”

Lucas felt a chill of apprehension: “No. Should we have?”

“I want credit if I tell you about this.”

“You’ll get it,” Lucas said.

“Well, if Kent didn’t make a call . . . then Sansone knows. We all call in, we all have our times. When I’m working, when I’m moving a big load, I call between five and six. I even got an alarm set on my phone. If I get picked up by the cops, I don’t make a call and a bunch of shit starts happening. For one thing, nobody knows me until it all gets straightened out. Until somebody talks to me, to see why I didn’t call. A lawyer starts looking for me. If Kent didn’t make a call, you’re fucked: Sansone knows.”

Lucas looked at his watch. Ten minutes to six. Virgil was certainly on the boat, maybe already in the water. If Sansone was looking for Pruitt, if he realized that one of his top salesmen had gone missing and if he had called Behan in Miami Beach . . . then Virgil and Rae could be in trouble.

Lucas turned to Devlin: “We want Curry on the phone to Sansone, right now. Everything is okay, everything is perfect.” He headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Devlin called.

“Gotta make a car insurance call . . .”

Lucas jogged out to the van, got his pack, retrieved the burner phone, and punched in the number for Rae’s phone, feeling the sweat start on the back of his neck.

But Rae answered on the third ring.

Lucas put a big smile on his face, because a big fake smile turns your voice into a salesman’s, and said, “We’re calling to alert you to an opportunity to insure your car against . . .”

At the word insure , Rae said, “Fuck you,” and hung up.

Lucas sat back. She was on the boat, she was with Cattaneo and the other hoods, and couldn’t talk.

And she was alive.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

Virgil and Rae helped carry the scuba gear down to the boat. The water was dead quiet, dark and smooth as oil; a man in a sleeveless white shirt went by in a rowing shell, the only one they’d seen on the Intracoastal.

When the last of the gear was stowed, Virgil and Rae went to the bow of the boat while Cattaneo was doing an engine check, and Rae slipped an arm around Virgil’s waist and muttered, “Are you okay with this? We could be pushing our luck.”

They’d talked earlier with Lucas and knew that an arrest had been made but without a deal and another one was imminent. Sooner or later, the word would get out.

“I don’t think we have anything to worry about until I get back on the boat,” Virgil said. “They want the shit too bad. The danger point will be when I’m in the water and they’ve got a hold on the lift bag. If they want to get rid of me, that’s the time.”