Fallen Honor: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 7) (21 page)

“We’re going to need your driver’s license,” Travis said to Michal. “We have someone that can do a better fake background than anyone you might find here.”

“It was stolen in Miami. A crackhead has it, but he’s here in town.”

“Ugly little guy that smells like a sewer?” I asked.

“How’d you know that?”

I grinned. “I’m a psychic, kid.”

“We don’t really need it,” Travis said. “Just the photo on it. But we can make a new one.”

“I know someone that can do that,” Coral spoke up. “She’s a pro photographer and she’s done pictures before for people to have new IDs made.”

“Call her and see if she’s busy,” I said. “We can go over there right now.”

“Ask her if she can provide a digital copy,” Travis said. “On a memory stick, or disk, doesn’t matter. After that, we can go back to the boat and email it to our person in Homestead and I’ll have the finished ID sent down here by courier.”

“All that sounds really expensive,” Michal said.

“Don’t worry about the cost, son,” Travis said. “Your dad paid the debt a long time ago.”

“
I
think they’re leaving, boss.”

Sitting forward, GT looked at the mirror on his side. The tall guy from the bar and the guy he’d arrived with were standing outside talking. After a few minutes they seemed to agree on something and went back inside.

“Who the hell is this guy and what’s his connection to Grabowski?” GT mumbled.

Ten minutes later, the same taxi that brought Grabowski, pulled over to the curb behind the Caddy once more. Grabowski, the blonde, and the two big men left the psychic’s shop and climbed into the cab, and it pulled away from the curb.

“Follow them,” GT growled. “But not too close.”

Erik started the SUV and waited for a car to pass, then pulled out onto Eaton Street behind it, the black taxi about a half block ahead. The cab turned left at the next intersection onto Whitehead. Erik let the cab get a little further ahead of them and allowed another car to turn in front of them, putting two cars between them and the cab.

At the lighthouse, the cab turned left onto Truman, and Erik slowed to allow a little more space before turning after it. A few blocks later, just past a large Catholic school, the cab pulled over to the curb and all four passengers got out.

“Pull over here,” GT said.

Erik eased over to the curb at the corner of the school property and they watched as Grabowski and the other three entered a photography studio and the cab pulled away, only to stop a block later at a sandwich deli.

“The cabbie’s taking his lunch break,” GT surmised. “Pull up to the deli. Maybe we can find out from the driver just who those two are.”

As Erik drove past the photo studio, GT looked over to see if he could see Grabowski and the others, but the blinds were drawn on the windows and door. Erik eased the big SUV up behind the idling cab and GT opened the door. “Wait here, Erik.”

GT made it to the door of the deli, just a step behind the cab driver. “Say, brother, the passengers you just dropped off. One looked like an old friend, the tall guy, but I don’t want to embarrass myself if it’s not him. You didn’t get his name, did you?”

The cabbie turned and looked squarely at GT. He was an older man, with graying hair, but he still looked robust. “If you a friend a dat mon, yuh need bettah friends and I not be yuh bruddah. Dat was Mistuh Buchannan. His friends call him Stretch. He a big-time drug smuggluh from up island. Di udduh man is his bodyguard. I heah dem talking about hiring di third man.”

Surprised, GT asked, “A drug smuggler?”

“Ya, mon, he brings tons of dat white powduh into Key Largo. He a mon yuh bettuh stay clear of.”

Returning to his car, GT took out his phone and made a call. Climbing in, he said into the phone, “Stewie, look someone up for me. A guy named Stretch Buchannan in Key Largo. Supposed to be a big-time mover there. Call me back when you get something.”

“He’s a distributor?” Erik asked.

“Turn around and pull into that little hotel parking lot across the street from the studio. Yeah, that’s what the cabbie said. Stewie’s checking him out.”

Having no more than said it, GT’s phone rang as Erik wheeled into the parking lot and turned around. Checking the caller ID, GT answered his phone immediately. “You found something already?”

Listening for a minute, GT frowned as he watched the storefront across the street. Without a word, he ended the call and put the phone in his pocket, his expression growing more venomous.

“That turd fondler sold my product,” GT hissed, his blood pressure beginning to pound in his temples.

Erik had seen his boss this way a few times and knew he needed to keep GT talking, so the man wouldn’t explode. “The guy checks out?”

“Yeah, he checks out. The guy’s supposed to be one of the biggest coke importers in South Florida. Operates out of Key Largo, and the whole Keys are like his own personal playground or something. According to the cabbie, he just hired Grabowski.”

“That means…”

“Yeah, Grabowski gave him my product.” GT pointed across the street. “They’re coming out and the cabbie’s back.”

As GT and Erik watched, Grabowski and the girl got in the backseat of the cab. The two men hesitated at the front passenger-side door, the bodyguard looking around as they talked. Then he looked straight at the white Escalade and said something to his boss, who followed his gaze.

“They made us,” GT said.

As GT watched, the man named Buchannan said something to the bodyguard and then got in the front seat of the cab, like he owned it. The bodyguard closed the door for his boss and then started to cross the street toward where GT and Erik sat in the big SUV. As he approached, he held his hands out to his side, showing them to be empty, and simply walked straight up to Erik’s window.

“See what he wants,” GT snarled.

Erik buzzed the window down as the man came up to the door. He was older, probably in his fifties, hair graying at the temples and cut short. He leaned on the car with his left forearm, tanned and corded with muscle, his hand rough-looking and scarred. He was obviously no stranger to physical altercations. Erik looked into the man’s steely gray eyes and said, “What the fuck you want?”

The look on the man’s face was one of idle curiosity, no sign of fear or even care. Erik wasn’t accustomed to this. Bending slightly, the man stared past him, ignoring Erik completely. “Mister Bradley, I presume?”

GT’s head snapped around. “Who’s asking?”

The man’s face changed to an expression of amusement. “I am,” he replied. “Mister Buchannan is curious as to what you’re doing here in his town, so far from home. He’d gotten word that you were sticking your face in places you shouldn’t. Stretch Buchannan runs everything from Card Sound to Key West.”

In the past, there had been a number of people who’d tried to muscle in on GT’s own territory back in Pittsburgh and he remembered exactly how he’d taken care of it. Unarmed, the memory of how he’d handled those occasions caused his voice to come out strained and uneven. “The man with your boss. He stole something that belongs to me, and I either want it back or to be paid for it.”

“Mister Cavanaugh? No, he didn’t steal anything from you. Mister Buchannan thinks you might be trying to move in down here. That wouldn’t be wise, Mister Bradley.”

GT missed the obvious threat. “Cavanaugh? His name’s Michal Grabowski.”

“No, it’s not,” the man countered in a cold, flat tone, his eyes sharp and clear, showing no sign of anxiety. The man’s right hand slowly moved toward his back, where GT was certain he had a gun. “Why are you really down here, Mister Bradley?”

Without having to be told, Erik slammed the car into gear and hit the gas, the big Escalade’s engine roaring as he turned hard right, one of the rear tires spinning in the grass and bouncing over the curb. Afraid that the man might start shooting, Erik cut the wheel back and forth, accelerating east on Truman, causing other motorists to veer out of his way and two pedestrians to jump toward the safety of a parked car.

Turning the wheel sharply, the tires squealed in protest as Erik turned onto Windsor Street. He kept his foot hard on the gas, noting with some irony a huge cemetery on the right.

Not yet, Grim Reaper
, he thought. After he’d weaved through a couple of residential streets and was sure they weren’t being followed, Erik finally slowed.

“Fast thinking, Erik. You just earned your keep.”

“What now, boss?”

“Head back to the hotel. I’m not leaving this hellhole of an island without my stuff, or the money it cost. It don’t represent a whole lot in the grand scheme of things, but it’s the principle. Word gets out that some two-bit steelworker can just run off with my stuff and sell it to another distributor, it’ll hurt our accounting and collections. How fast do you think Brown and his crew can get down here?”

“From Miami? You really think we need him?”

“This Buchannan has a really nasty reputation and lots of soldiers. Our guys are two days away by car and they can’t fly with guns.”

Erik remembered the mile markers and how the first ones he’d noticed were after they left Miami. “Gotta be three or four hours for him to get here from Miami.”

A
fter the two black guys left, Byers slowly got to his feet. He’d been wrong. Being a punching bag for a former pro football linebacker hurt a lot more than being sodomized. He looked at himself in the mirror, turning his head so he could see out of the one eye that was still open. Moving his tongue around inside his mouth, he counted three places where he used to have teeth, the taste of blood still on his tongue.

When he breathed too deeply, he was certain the pain he felt was at least one broken rib. There was a cut above his left eye, and the whole side of his face was swollen and puffy, dark blue around his eye, which was swollen shut. Wetting one of the hotel hand towels, he carefully wiped away the crusty dried blood.

In the end, he’d told GT Bradley everything he knew. Then Bradley had surprised him by offering him a job, as if the beating had never happened. Then the man had given Byers two hundred dollars and reminded him how easy finding him had been. Byers had accepted the job offer, and Bradley had beaten him again until he was unconscious, slumped in the corner.

Strangely, Byers thought it was a good idea. Why sell bits of information now and then, when he could be on someone’s payroll to root around for it? He still had his stash in the room and if push came to shove, he knew he could liquidate and disappear.

Leaving the hotel, Byers went straight to the nearest bar, which was just opening. It was only a few steps across the street, a place called the Rum Barrel.

Byers made his way to the far end of the bar as the bartender approached him. Byers laid a twenty on the bar top. “Anything you got that’ll ease the pain.”

“Damn, mister! You step in front of a bus? Maybe you need to see a doctor instead of a bartender.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Byers said, which was the plain and simple truth. “Just pour me a double shot of whatever’s handy.”

The bartender grabbed a bottle and poured a shot glass nearly half-full. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out two single packs of powdered pain reliever and placed them in front of Byers, along with the drink.