Square Snapper (Detective Inspector Burgess) (10 page)

“What’s our next move?” Hofstein wiped some mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth.

“You know, I’m stumped. I wish forensics could give us some lead other than how they died. That’s something we do know and it’s been repeated about fifty times. You’d think someone would break the code of silence. I guess nobody really cares about these people.” As he was speaking his cell phone began to ring. He took it out of his pocket, expertly flicking it open with one hand.

“Gonzalez.” It was the station.

“You might want to get on back here. There’s a ‘gentleman’ here to see you. Says he has some information on the poisoned heroin.” It was evident from the way the clerk said “gentleman” that it was probably another down-at-heel citizen willing to cash in on a few bucks in exchange for some bogus information but Gonzalez and Hofstein had nothing to lose by going back to their desks… and at least the office was air conditioned.

“I’m not surprised,” said Hofstein as he peered through the two-way mirror. “That’s a runner for Cujo, a big dope dealer on Banyan and Calle Cuatro. Small wonder he doesn’t want to be seen here. I wonder why he didn’t just give us an anonymous call.”

They went into Interview Room 2, a beat up old room smelling of disinfectant and painted a now faded flamingo pink. Several windows placed high up were barred. This was no sleek set from CSI: Miami. The obligatory wall of two way mirrors was on one side whilst the coffee pot and water dispenser stood on a chipped and battered steel cabinet that had once sported a joyful Florida green paint job. There was a spatter of something brown on the walls behind the interview table which looked very much like dried blood. No doubt the Dade County police had preferred to leave it as a subtle warning to any potentially intransigent interviewees.

The door clicked shut and the two detectives faced their guest. He was a short, wiry Latino with a baseball cap turned backwards. His hair was greased back in a pony tail and the nail on the pinky of his left hand was worn long and filed to a sharp point. On the skin in the space between each knuckle of his right hand were tattooed the letters o-d-i-o meaning “hate” in Spanish. If he were to touch fists in the currently popular greeting, many non-Hispanics would likely not realize what message he was really relaying to them; clearly, an individual with a lot of attitude. Gonzalez was immediately on guard.

“I hear you wanted to see us.”

“Twitchy” was shifting uncomfortably in his seat, a light film of perspiration on his forehead which was contributing to the stain around the edge of his cap.

“I heard there was a big ‘recompensa’ for information on the heroin that’s killin’ everyone.” He had the trademark Hispanic accent to go with his looks.

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Hofstein. “There’s a reward for any
real
information on the heroin.”

“Oye, vato, don’t go wasting our time with no bullshit, ‘cause we’re not in the mood. Comprendes?” Gonzalez added his two cents’ worth with a peppering of Cuban slang for good measure.

Twitchy was looking more and more agitated. Clearly he was in two minds as to whether to talk or not. Both Gonzalez and Hofstein knew that the situation could go either way at this point. He could lose his nerve and leave, or make up his mind the money was more important. At these times Gonzalez always felt that he was back on his brother’s charter fishing boat, ‘Bottom Tyme‘ about to land “a big one.” It was important to know when to let them struggle on the hook and when to reel them in. He let the silence grow like a third presence in the room and was pleased to note that Hofstein was following his lead.

Twitchy exhaled and looked at them both. “What if I tell you that I have a sister who just OD’d on this junk? What if I tell you that I overheard a conversation regarding a lab that might be messin’ with the stuff? What if I tell you that maybe Menendez’s people - ”

“You mean Cujo Menendez?” interjected Hofstein.

“Yeah. Cujo’s people are involved.” Both Hofstein and Gonzalez tried not to register any particular interest although internally both were on tenterhooks. Neither acknowledged the fact that they knew Twitchy was one of Cujo’s “People.” Evidently, Twitchy was turning in his boss and this was a big thing. So, blood really was thicker than water. His sister’s death must have hit him hard and he wanted to see Cujo pay. Gonzalez didn’t dare hope that this might be the big break he’d been praying for.

“Okay, we’re listening.” Gonzalez casually pushed a pad and pen across the table. “We want names and addresses.”

“And the money?”
(He pronounced it
“
monny
”
)
Twitchy tried to keep up the tough guy approach but by now both detectives knew it was just an act. His little sister’s death, not the money, was the motivation for him to turn state’s evidence.

“You’ll get the reward once we’ve checked out your information – if it’s for real. Now give us the details.” Gonzalez pretended to be losing patience.

Twitchy spent the better part of an hour giving names, descriptions and the address of a house on the outskirts of Miami which had been turned into a makeshift laboratory. It turned out that Twitchy’s sister had been Cujo’s girlfriend until he grew tired of her and her heroin habit. Apparently, he had tested out the poisoned dope on her and had his goons dump her body in a back alley in town. Twitchy had found out later and taken it very hard. She had just celebrated her nineteenth birthday. He had not been back to Cujo’s headquarters, even though he knew that by going missing, he was essentially telegraphing a message that he was no longer part of his operation. He also knew that he had signed his own death warrant and Cujo’s henchmen, once his brothers in arms, would be out looking for him. He didn’t feel any safer in the police station than he did outside because Cujo, for all he knew, could also have someone there on his payroll. He had heard that Gonzalez was on the up and up and fervently hoped so otherwise he was as good as dead. The Jew boy, well he would have to take his chances with him. He continued to sweat and while his heart was pumping like a freight train, it felt as if it were calcifying into something ice cold. There was no turning back now yet he felt curiously light headed. For the first time in his life he was being a leader, not a follower, even though he had no illusions. He knew that his new found courage would be about as short lived as his future on the planet, once Cujo got wind of what he had done. Fuck him, he thought. Now, finally,
he
was someone to be reckoned with and, if he came out of this alive, he was never going to look back. If he had really stopped to think, it was not hate for Cujo that was motivating him, but love for his sister. Twitchy, however, was not a great one for introspection.

Gonzalez and Hofstein put the informant, who now had a name, Ramon Alvarez Goicoechea, for obvious reasons better known to his friends as “Gecko”, in a holding cell for his own protection and then went to their lieutenant with the information. For the first time in days they felt that they had a concrete lead which could turn into a major breakthrough in the case. At least now they had penetrated another tier of the operation. If all went well, they might get to the next level. It reminded Gonzalez of a Game Boy game. You had to eliminate the bad guys on Level One in order to advance to Level Two which, naturally, would become increasingly more difficult and, in Gonzalez’s case, increasingly dangerous. Cujo was a bad-ass criminal but the ones higher up that controlled the Cujos of the world, were the ones that Gonzalez really feared. They could walk around unsuspected, perhaps even admired, in their fancy business suits, buying allegiances and penetrating even the highest halls of justice. Their money could buy your death and you wouldn’t even see it coming. Yes, those were the ones that Gonzalez wanted to see behind bars.

Now came the time to plan the raids. They needed to round up Cujo and company as well as shut down the lab. He hated the wait and much preferred the execution, however, he knew that if they did not have a good plan, the raids might fail. He hoped the Lieutenant would keep the numbers of officers involved as small as possible. Both Gonzalez and Hofstein were not oblivious to the fact that the more people involved, the more chance it might go wrong, and they did not want their lives on the line because of some leak. They sure didn’t get paid enough for that.

Chapter 20

While the Dade County Police considered their next move, back in Bermuda the decision to publicize the danger of the poisoned heroin was causing a massive hue and cry. The Bermuda Gazette had published the fact that the Minister of Tourism was at odds with the Minister of Health. Clearly, tainted dope with its attendant deaths was not a good advertisement for tourism, especially during the high season. Planes and hotels were booked to capacity and the Minister did not want anything to scupper efforts for a record-setting summer for the island. The Minister for Health did not see it that way. His constituents were the local residents as well as tourists and it was his responsibility to ensure that all were made aware of the danger. With Cup Match just two days away, he did not want a spate of heroin-related deaths laid at his door at the end of the long weekend. Besides, he reasoned, if you didn’t do drugs, you didn’t need to worry. Both ministers were acutely aware of their standing in the polls and that the proper handling of this crisis would have a direct impact on their ratings with the voters.

The news of the dramatic chase and arrest of the Jamaican was all over the island. Scarcely a thing got done in any of the offices, so busy was everyone e-mailing the latest news, adding to or correcting the latest rumour, or phoning friends at home who had the radio on. Johnny McCabe was on radio and TV with a special bulletin announcing the arrest and with footage of the taxi driver and witness interviews at the scene of the accident. The island was delighted to have the murderer apprehended. Of course, there was no question of innocent until proven guilty. By now, in the eyes of the islanders, the Jamaican was the culprit and the people wanted his head to roll.

The Premier, like any good politician, wanted to get maximum leverage from the arrest and had decided to call a press conference praising the superior efforts of the Bermuda Police and advising Bermuda’s youth to stay away from drugs. Detective Inspector Burgess and Detective Sergeant Carmichael had been summoned to the Cabinet Office to be filmed and interviewed at the press conference. They were the men of the moment and the Premier understood the value, both in terms of encouraging good relations with the police, and the need for the island to have a couple of heroes after a few dark days, to jump start Cup Match and his flagging popularity. Burgess, Archie and the Police Commissioner arrived at the Cabinet Office to be introduced to the Premier, the Minister of Tourism, Minister of Immigration and the Minister of Health.

Reporters from the Evening Sun, The Bermuda Gazette and the TV and radio stations were all present to tape the press conference which went off as anticipated with commentary from the reluctant heroes who clearly would have preferred to have been elsewhere.

Chapter 21

“Goddamnit.” Up in his corner office, he closed the TV cabinet with the remote and took a sip of his McCallans, subconsciously noting that he was drinking more than usual and that a whisky at midday was not something he normally did. The tremor was back in his hands and he found the whisky increasingly helpful to get him to relax. He despised his reliance on something artificial. He saw - and traded in - the effect of drugs on the system. He saw himself as above all of that - a controller, not a victim - yet here he was using alcohol, a drug by another name. It only served to increase his frustration and make him even meaner. When he was uptight like this, he was particularly dangerous. He had once heard an employee refer to him as Darth Vader. Well, things were looking a little dark right now and he was not happy. He walked over to the door of his office and glanced outside. Empty. Good. Closing the door, he went back to the telephone on his desk.

“Have you seen the news?” he hissed.

“Yes.” The gravelly voice replied. “They’ve caught the Jamaican. Frankly, I’m amazed. I didn’t think the police would have been on top of this so quick. If that idiot hadn’t killed off White and the girl, this would never have happened.”

“Well, it won’t be long before he starts talking. Can anything be linked to us?”

“I don’t think so. He’s only ever received instructions through Frenchie over on Court Street. Frenchie’s okay. He needs us too much. We supply most of his merchandise. Besides, we have too much on him.”

“I’m worried about the police. Now they will have built up a head of steam and I’m worried they’re going to get confident and really start digging. This Burgess guy, you know him?”

“Only by reputation. He’s smart and like a dog with a bone when he gets interested in a case. It’s bad news for us that he’s heading this up. Apparently, my guy on the force tells me his boss is not nearly as good but he’s away in the US having treatment for cancer, so Burgess got the case.”

“Goddamn it! I have a very bad feeling about this. Everything has gone wrong from the moment we got in that screwed-up shipment. I think we need to keep an eye on this Burgess and his sidekick, that Bajan fellow. I’ve got a name for you in London - Brixton to be exact - if we need to cool things down, if you get my drift.”