Castro Directive (18 page)

He turned over every aspect of the case in his mind. He prodded and poked at everyone's story, looking for the soft underbelly, the weak points, the duplicity. Then there was the matter of the cop who was involved. Who the hell was that? Was he nearby, keeping track of everything, or was he staying away, out of sight?

He was halfway through his second beer when he felt a hand on his shoulder and slowly turned his head, figuring someone was about to hit him up for a beer, or tell his hard-luck story. He was in no mood for it.

"Amigo, what's going on?"

He smiled, relieved that it was Fuego. "Just enjoying a beer at happy hour."

"You look like happy hour just ended," the slender Cuban said as he slid onto the seat next to Pierce.

"Got a lot on my mind." Pierce reached for his beer and took a deep swallow. "What are you doing here?"

"I stopped by your office. Gibby was just leaving and told me I'd find you here. Said I should cheer you up."

Pierce smiled, shook his head, and picked at the sweating label on his beer bottle. "So what's new?"

"What do you know about Ginger Andrews?"

Pierce lowered his beer. "I know she's dead. Died of an overdose last year."

Fuego's cheek twitched. "It may not have been accidental or suicide. I'm looking for a woman named Marisol who used to be Loften's girlfiend. She knew Andrews's wife, did some work for her, don't know what. I hear she stopped seeing Loften right after Ginger died. Just sort of disappeared. She may have been supplying Ginger with drugs, maybe even knocked her off with the OD. Don't know why. Or maybe Andrews did it to get rid of her, and this Marisol went into hiding."

Pierce drank the last swallow of the beer. "Sounds like a fishing expedition to me."

"It's the best lead I've got."

"Yeah, well, don't waste your time."

Fuego looked at him suspiciously, his cheek twitching spasmodically. "You telling me to drop it?"

"I'm telling you that's not really relevant."

"What about the money you paid me? I haven't earned all of it."

Pierce waved a hand at him. "Don't worry about it." Before Fuego could protest, Pierce called out to Leni and ordered another beer for himself and one for Fuego.

"You feeling okay?" Fuego asked as Pierce guzzled his beer.

"Hey, I'm feeling great. I'm happy. It's happy hour, right?"

"Tell me the truth, amigo."

Pierce took another swallow. "Tell you the truth. Okay. No offense, but your cousin, you know, my ex-wife, is driving me nuts."

"Again? If that's how you feel, stop seeing her."

"Yeah."

Fuego motioned toward the crowd around them. "You think you got problems. Look at these guys. They got problems."

Lightning flashed in the window, and a clap of thunder followed. "About time that storm hits," Pierce said. "It's been threatening all afternoon."

After finishing his third beer, he decided he'd had enough. Of the Jack, of beer, of his forlorn thoughts. He wished Fuego a good evening, slid off the bar stool, and walked out the door and into a downpour. He was soaked by the time he reached the car. He dropped his keys, then couldn't find the lock.

"Fuck it." If he had this much trouble unlocking the car, he shouldn't drive. He'd walk. He was wet already. He made no effort to hurry, and didn't even bother to avoid the puddles. The rain pelted him, the wind gusted down the street.

He'd almost reached his building when he heard a car honk twice. He glanced up; the street was empty except for the parked cars. He heard another blast of the horn and realized it was coming from across the street. He stopped, shielded his face from the rain, and saw a blue Mercedes. The windows were too dark to see inside it. He wasn't sure that was the one that had honked, but it caught his attention because he'd never seen it on the block. Maybe one of his neighbors had come upon sudden affluence. Or it was simply a tourist staying with a friend or relative.

Just then a bright bolt of lightning flashed and was followed almost instantly by a deafening crack of thunder. Too close. He turned and hurried into the apartment building.

His deck shoes squeaked as he climbed the stairs to his apartment. Thunder boomed, echoing eerily along the stairway, and the hall light at the landing momentarily blinked off and on. He jammed his hand into his wet pocket, extracted his keys. The walk and the rain had been sobering, and this time the key fit easily into the lock. He flipped on the light switch.

The living room remained dark, except for a ray of light from the hallway. Damn, electricity's out, he thought, then realized something didn't mesh. Why the hell was the hall light still on? He flipped the switch again. Maybe the bulb was burned out.

"Shit," he said aloud as he stumbled over a coffee table. He recovered his footing and moved ahead. Lightning momentarily illuminated the kitchen, but when he turned the switch nothing happened. No lights. He felt his way along the kitchen counter until he found the drawer where he kept his flashlight. He flicked it on and moved to the utility closet. He shone the flashlight on the metal door of the fuse box, opened it, and leaned forward, studying the fuses.

He heard a noise—raspy breathing—inside the closet. He jerked his head, redirected the flashlight beam. He saw a blur of movement, a figure lunging at him, a fist driving toward his head. He flinched and deflected the blow with the flashlight, which flew out of his grasp. The attacker slammed his fist into Pierce's stomach, grabbed him by the collar, jerked him forward, drew back his arm to aim another blow. Pierce's reactions were slowed from the beers, but his adrenaline surged, and his survival instinct drove him to retaliate.

He kneed the man in the crotch. The intruder grunted, fell back, and Pierce scrambled forward, grabbed him under the jaw, and battered his head against the cement floor. Once, twice . . . another blow or two and— A flash of lightning illuminated the man's face. He instantly recognized the jagged scar, and the moment of hesitation was all Scarjaw needed. His hand must have fallen on the flashlight, because he slammed it against Pierce's head, striking him precisely on the spot where he'd been bashed a few days ago. He fell back, blacked out.

He thought he was trying to get up, but maybe he was dreaming. He felt fuzzy, his skin tingled, and his head throbbed. Spittle drooled from his mouth. He was sure his eyes were open now, but there was only darkness and a sharp pain on the side of his head.

His hands moved; he felt the cool floor beneath him, and he remembered the fight. But how tong ago had it been? Minutes, hours—he didn't know. He couldn't hear the sound of rain any longer, but it was still dark. He pushed off the floor onto his hands and knees, crawled forward until he bumped into a wall. He waved his hand in front of him, patting the wall until he found the doorway and felt the kitchen tile beneath him.

Testing his legs and arms, he rose to his feet and slowly made his way to the bathroom. The light didn't work, which was just as well. He sponged his face and head with cool water. He had a nasty headache, his lip was swollen, but he didn't seem badly injured. He fumbled in the cabinet, found the aspirin, cursed the container when it wouldn't open. Finally he dumped three tablets into his palm, popped them into his mouth, and gulped them down with a splash of water from the faucet.

An hour later, his headache had subsided to a dull throb. He'd flipped the breaker switch and the lights were on. The apartment looked as if the storm had blown right through it, tossing and tearing at his belongings. Scarjaw had trashed the place. The drawers of his desk hung open, their contents strewn on the floor. His photos had been knocked from the wall, shelves swept clean. Drawers had been dumped, his closet pillaged. Pierce had apparently interrupted him before he'd had a chance to attack the kitchen.

He heard a knock and knew it was Carver. He'd found the lieutenant's card lying on the floor and had called him. He didn't like Carver much, but knew he should report the incident. Loften's murderer, after all, had made another appearance.

Carver was alone and looked as if he'd been called from home. He wore tennis shoes, chinos, and a sweatshirt that did nothing to disguise his bulk. His deep-set eyes quickly took in everything around him.

"Well, we're making a real habit of this, aren't we, Mr. Pierce?"

He settled his gaze on Pierce, assessing the extent of his injuries. "You call me because you want a ride to the emergency room?"

Pierce shook his head. "I'll be all right."

"Good. What happened?"

He told him.

"Anything missing?"

"I don't know. Can't tell yet."

"I see a stereo, I see a television." Carver walked into the kitchen. "You've got a microwave."

"I don't think theft was the motivation," Pierce said. "At least not theft of valuables. I've got a little box of gold coins in the bedroom. They were dumped out, but they're all there. I counted them."

Carver moved over to the bedroom and stood in the doorway, quietly studying the room. "You know, it sure does look a helluva lot like what happened to your girlfriend's place."

Pierce didn't answer. He didn't appreciate Carver's calling Elise his girlfriend.

Carver turned, stared at Pierce, and he ran a hand through his thinning, frizzy hair. "You know, I think you're getting the business, Mr. Pierce. Elise Simms is giving you the business."

The way Carver called him Mr. Pierce grated on him. He knew the cop did it for that very effect. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm thinking now that I made a mistake about you and Andrews. You're working for him, which is what he told me in the first place. But you're not killers, or even accomplices or thieves."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he said, relieved that Carver was finally seeing clearly.

"Here's the way I figure it. Andrews hired you to look for the stolen crystal skull because he wants it for himself."

"He wants to buy it."

"Right. You stumbled on Simms, who knows something and seems like a nice, reasonable lady. But she's a spider lady, and she's woven the entire web. She and Loften were after the skull for themselves, but Spider Lady worked it out so this Scarjaw fellow not only steals the skull but kills her partner as well. Then he tosses her place and she blames Andrews, hoping to get you on her side."

He shook his head and continued. "And you swallow the whole fucking thing. Christ, she is attractive, and you are as gullible as they come."

Pierce was slow to anger, but Carver was badgering him. And he was ready to fire back. "You're overlooking one thing, Lieutenant."

"What's that?"

"You heard the tape." Pierce winced as a hot stab of pain lanced the side of his head, but he pushed on. "Who's the corrupt cop involved? The middleman—the one who set the whole thing up. And where does he fit?"

Carver's dark, deep-set eyes stared at him; a furrow formed a V on his brow. "I don't know. Wish I did." Pierce wondered about that.

T
he kapok tree Thor was standing under rose a hundred and twenty-five feet and was covered with clusters of white flowers. Its buttressed trunk spanned fifteen feet, and its thick, wide-spreading branches were almost horizontal to the ground. Only a tree with immense strength in its limbs could manage that feat. Thor knew all about the kapok. Its fruit formed in an oblong, leathery casing, and when it matured and dried, the casing cracked open, releasing a cottony fiber. Before synthetic fibers, it was used as a stuffing for pillows and life preservers. He knew the kapok was also called a ceiba, but he didn't like the name. To him it sounded somehow weak, utterly unlike the tree. What impressed Thor more than its flowers or magnificent trunk or useful fiber were the perfect crosses that the branches formed naturally. A symbol of good fortune.

"What's so interesting?" Frey asked, coming up behind him.

Thor had been here for fifteen minutes, and had seen Frey walking across the park toward him. "It's a sacred tree."

Frey frowned and looked up into the leafy canopy. "What are you talking about?"

"Kapoks are good luck."

"They got these up North, too?"

Thor gave Frey a look of disdain. The man was ignorant and unappreciative of his environment. That was another count against him. "They grow only in the tropics," he said condescendingly.

"Okay, listen. This ain't Arbor Day. We've got some business to attend to, and it's something Gore can't handle."

Thor turned his attention fully to Frey and waited for him to continue.

"Odin wants him out of the game. Eliminated. He knows too much, and he's not one of us."

Thor nodded. He wasn't surprised. Frey had brought Gore in for the hands-on work, and it was a mistake. He wasn't the crafty ex-con that Frey had described. He was just another fuck-up, a small-time crook who was asking too many questions. When they were driving to Pierce's apartment, he'd complained that he didn't like being called Gore, and wanted to know what the bullshit was about the weird names. That was the way Gore had put it.

Thor had patiently explained that in Norse mythology Odin is like Zeus, the most important god, a god of war who brought victory and defeat to warriors. Thor is the son of Odin, the second most important god, while Frey is the third ranked.