Lost (26 page)

“You sure about that?” Shane interjects. “No name?”

“I told you, he don’t share,” the egg man says indignantly. He’s tottering heel-to-toe on his Nike running shoes, gathering himself for a move or maybe looking for a way to regain his dignity. “I told you something,” he says to Shane. “Now you tell me something, awright? How the hell did you know we’d be here? You’re a New York guy.”

Shane chuckles. “I’m an everywhere guy, Sally. Seriously, you’re not that hard to find. I followed the money and here we are. You’re in charge of Mr. Manning’s security, is that correct?”

“Yeah, for the moment,” he says, jutting out his chin with pride and defiance. “So what?”

“So you better get out there and help calm him down before he gets arrested,” Shane says, indicating the commotion that has continued out into the parking lot. “And if you want to do your boss a big favor, have him call me. I can help. No cops, no FBI, and no charge. Just someone very discreet who has done this before.”

“You, huh?”

Shane tucks a business card into Sally the egg man’s pocket.

“Me,” he says. “Go on, get out there and help the poor man.”

Under the brutal, incandescent sun, Edwin Manning seems to have recovered the gift of language. Dumped from the chair to his own two feet, he stands his ground like a belligerent little general, reading the riot act to the squad of Nakosha security goons who ejected him from the casino complex.

“Are you people completely stupid?” he demands, strutting the hot pavement. He adjusts his striped club tie, squares his shoulders. “What happens when the money dries up? What happens when the casino closes? What happens when the federal government revisits your tribal status? You really think you can get away with protecting a monster? You think you’re above all laws? You think you can walk away from this? No, no, the world doesn’t work that way. You made this man, this beast, you can’t deny your responsibility. You can’t pretend he’s no longer yours.”

But they do walk away, without acknowledging his pleas and threats. To them Manning is simply white noise in a tailored suit.

Having been abandoned by the Nakosha goon squad, he’s left with his own. Sally Pop approaches the boss like he’s a live grenade, imparts some comment to which Manning reacts with cold fury, shouting, “No! I told you, no! Absolutely not!”

Shane and I have been taking all this in from a distance, but at the moment Sally retreats, Manning looks up, searching the parking lot. He’s drawn quite an audience, entertainment for the curious, the bored and the broke, but he spots us immediately. More likely he spots Shane rising above the herd and I’m just part of the package.

He stares at us with eyes that have the charm and welcome of black holes sucking all light from the universe, and shakes his head firmly.

No, no, a zillion times no. The absolute zero of no.

17. Quantum Physics

When the show is over and the burnt-orange Hummer has exited the parking lot, Randall Shane decides the time has come for straight talk.

“Coffee?” he asks. “Can we sit down, take a load off?”

His client remains agitated, wanting to do something, anything. As if perpetual motion means not having to think about the possibility of it all ending badly. “Aren’t we going to follow them?” she asks plaintively.

“No point,” Shane tells her gently. “I’ll buy you a coffee and tell you why.”

“I don’t need a coffee,” she says, still eyeing the exit road where the Hummer vanished.

“We need to sit,” he insists.

Together they reenter the casino complex, where business has resumed, pretty much as if nothing had happened.
Which Shane thinks may be close to the truth. Just beyond the giant phony tiki hut he finds a pseudo-Starbucks, scores a tall, no sugar, for himself and a bottled water for Mrs. Garner. Want it or not, she needs to hydrate, if only to replenish the tears. Not that she’s blubbering or complaining or throwing herself on his willing shoulder. Just weeping silent rivers that drip from the cute little cleft in her chin.

“This is so messed up,” she says, accepting the bottle of water.

“Agreed.”

“A man like that flips out, it must be really bad.”

“It’s not good,” he concedes.

“Kelly’s already dead,” she says miserably. “That’s what kidnappers do. I knew that, I just didn’t want to think about it, you know?”

He clears his throat and says, “Look at me, Jane.”

Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, she studies him with glistening eyes.

“When there’s no hope, I’ll let you know,” he promises. “Good, bad or tragic, I’ll tell you the truth. We’re not there yet.”

“But you gave up,” she reminds him. “You didn’t follow them.”

“Because the action is right here,” he says, tapping his finger on the laminate of little café table. “Manning was on a mission—he wanted information or cooperation, or both—and they blew him off. The interesting thing is that it wasn’t casino security that chucked him out, it was the tribe. Called in from outside. They have adequate security in place, uniforms working for the casino, so why bring in the tribal heavies, armed with carbines?”

“Because the tribe is involved?” she responds, perking up. The tears have stopped flowing.

“That appears to be a certainty,” he agrees. “The tribe, or some individual member of the tribe who may be a rogue actor. According to Popkin, quote, ‘some crazy big-shot Indian everybody’s scared of,’ unquote.”

“But he didn’t know who, exactly. And Manning isn’t going to tell us.”

“There’s another way,” he suggests. “It starts with you going back to the hotel.”

“And what do I do at the hotel?” she asks warily.

“Couple of things. You can monitor the GPS tracker from there, see where Manning goes.”

“But not follow him?”

“No. They’ll be looking for us now and if they spot a tail his behavior will change.” He leans forward, speaking intimately, confidentially. “Detective work may not be rocket science, but it really is like quantum physics—by observing something you change it. So we back off and let the tracker software do its thing, logging locations. The other thing, and this is your primary mission, I want you to locate the best, most aggressive criminal attorney in Miami. Be ready to contact him or her.”

She looks puzzled. “Why do I need a lawyer?”

“You don’t,” he says, and grimaces.

“But you might?”

He nods. “I’m going to rattle some cages, see what falls out.”

After the lady departs, somewhat reluctantly, Shane gets down to business. Keenly aware that he’s not operating in familiar or friendly territory, in terms of legal jeopardy. Special Agent Healy spelled it out—if he gets his butt in a
sling on Nakosha territory, don’t expect the cavalry to come to his rescue. He will not be backed up, picked up or bailed out, not by the friendlies. Mess up and he’ll be on his own, dealing with tribal law enforcement.

Worrisome, but he sees no alternative. Jane Garner has it mostly right. Edwin Manning’s behavior indicates a deteriorating situation. The man looked like he’d seen a ghost or, more likely, evidence that the captors were willing to inflict harm on his son. Which means they had started cutting, always a bad sign.

Ears, noses, toes, fingers. Shane has seen it all, the savage proof of savage intentions, designed to frighten, intimidate, extort. One case, the abductors drained a pint of blood from the victim, sent it along with a ransom note. The lab determined the blood came from the vic, and that he was alive at the time—everybody found that very encouraging—but what the lab couldn’t determine was the intention of the perpetrators, who had in fact let their captive to bleed out. Not a happy ending.

Shane figures he’s got a day, maybe two. After that it will be a body search.

The boss of casino security is, as Shane had already surmised, a former police officer. City of Miami, not the beach, and nowhere near old enough to take retirement.

“Sixteen wonderful years,” Tony Carlos says, folding his hands over his flat, forty-year-old stomach. Obviously an area he works on, refining his abs, watching his diet. Goes with the manicure and the haircut and the hair gel and the perfect spa tan. His lime-green casino security blazer rests on a padded hanger. No tie—this isn’t exactly tie country—but he’s wearing a crisp white dress shirt, not a wrinkle on it, and his light-gray dress slacks are similarly flawless. On
his dapper feet, spit-shined Bruno Magli oxfords with extra thick soft rubber soles, the better to walk on acres of carpeted concrete.

The man tends to his generically handsome self like a faithful gardener, that’s the impression. Snap judgments can be wrong, but Shane decides to play it that way, assuming the security chief will respond with alacrity to any threats to his comfort and well-being.

“Sixteen wonderful years but you didn’t go twenty,” Shane points out. “Most guys, they do sixteen, they’ll go for the full twenty, get it on the books.”

The security chief shakes his carefully coiffed head. He’s smiling, showing off his nice dental work, but not in a particularly friendly way.

“Tribe made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Same benefits, more money, regular hours.”

“I bet it was the regular hours did the trick.”

“It helped. So what can we do for you, Mr. Shane?” he says, allowing his impatience to show. “My girl said you wanted an application, I should check you out with my own eyes.”

Shane gives him a flat, humorless smile. “If I wanted a job, Mr. Carlos, it would be your job. Guys on the floor, they’re making what, ten an hour?”

“Something like that. Says here on your application you were FBI. But since you don’t want a job, I guess that was just to impress me, huh?”

“Get your attention, not impress. I doubt you impress that easily.”

“My girl was impressed by your size, not your résumé,” the security chief says, forcing a laugh.

“Is she your girl?”

“Excuse me?”

“The female person at the desk. Daughter? Wife? Girlfriend?”

“My secretary,” says the security chief, getting pissed.

“Ah,” says Shane.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“
Ah
means
ah,
Mr. Carlos. We FBI men are trained to be sensitive in all matters regarding female persons.”

“Former FBI, and I don’t much care for your attitude. Is this how you’re spending your leisure years, harassing security personnel?”

“No,” says Shane. “I’m spending my leisure years working for the man who owns this casino.”

The security chief smirks. “The Nakosha people own this casino. And I know damn well you don’t work for them.”

“Think harder,” Shane suggests. “You’ll figure it out.”

The security chief thinks about it, and as he does so his expression morphs from smug to chagrined.

“Shit.”

“Technically you’re correct,” Shane concedes. “My boss doesn’t own the casino. He controls the various financial instruments that allowed the casino to be built, staffed, promoted and run on a day-to-day basis. He owns the money. In the neighborhood of three hundred million dollars. Which I’m sure you’ll agree is a pretty nice neighborhood.”

Carlos raises his hands in supplication. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“With what, Mr. Carlos?”

“Him being escorted from the premises.”

If birds of prey could chuckle they would sound like Randall Shane. “Oh really. Is that what you call it? ‘Escorted from the premises.’ I’ll be sure to mention that in my report, so Mr. Manning can factor it in when he garnishees your
salary, and the salary of all casino employees, and uses every legal means to obtain satisfaction by attaching liens to your assets. House, boat, vehicle, whatever.”

“He can’t do that,” Carlos blusters.

“I wouldn’t bet your retirement on what Edwin Manning can and cannot do.”

“It was out of my hands! What the council wants, the council gets.”

Shane sits back, rocking a little in the undersize chair, as if getting comfortable for the long haul. For his purposes it helps to think of Tony Carlos as a simple instrument. Press certain keys and he will respond favorably. Keep playing and he will divulge whatever he knows. No torture required, just good musical skills.

“So what are you saying?” Shane asks, as if he’s open to reasonable explanations. “The council asked you to remove Mr. Manning and you refused? And that’s why they resorted to the tribal police?”

Carlos utters a short, humorless laugh. “That bunch? Please. Tribal police look and act like cops. That was the, um, special squad.”

“Okay. Why not you and your men? Why not the tribal cops, if you refused? Why call in the goon squad?”

Carlos considers his answer, deciding what to lie about, where to tweak the truth in his own favor. “Me, they never asked. Probably knew I’d never agree to bounce a guy like Mr. Manning. Nakosha cops, I doubt they’d respond. Policy is, stay out of the casino. More than policy, it’s tribal law. You may have noticed, no Nakosha in the house. Not for employment purposes, not for gambling. The council members are the only ones inside, and they pretty much keep to their office. Counting receipts, I assume, or doing whatever.”

“Doing whatever?”

“I wouldn’t know. Security personnel are not allowed in the council chambers, only members of the council.”

“You know why Manning was in the house?”

Carlos shakes his head. “Why would I? I assume he was here on business. It’s not unusual, him checking in. Happens every month or two. Except he usually comes on his own, without an entourage.”

“Ever bring his son along? Fly down on the corporate aircraft, pop in to check on their investment?”

Carlos decides to get cagey. “I don’t know. Maybe. If so, I was never introduced.”

Shane nods thoughtfully, studying the security chief. “The reason my boss is so upset? The reason he’s asking questions? His boy Seth has been abducted.”

The security chief’s complexion goes from spa tan to fish-belly gray in a heartbeat. “You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s not a joking matter, Mr. Carlos. That’s why I’m here, to help Edwin Manning recover his son, dead or alive. We’d prefer alive.”