Trapped (31 page)

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, uni-

forms working for the casino, so why bring in the tribal

heavies, armed with carbines?”

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235

“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 aggres-

sive 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

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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 dete-

riorating 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 sur-

mised, 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

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237

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 par-

ticularly 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?”

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Chris Jordan

“The female person at the desk. Daughter? Wife? Girl-

friend?”

“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 secu-

rity 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 in-

struments that allowed the casino to be built, staffed, pro-

moted 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

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239

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 employ-

ment 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.”

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“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 ques-

tions? 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.”

The man exhales slowly, seems to shrink a little as beads

of sweat the size of small, oily bullets form on his brow. “You

know I had nothing to do with this, right?”

“Do I? We have information that the abduction was carried

out by a member of the tribe. I believe the description was

‘some crazy big-shot Indian everybody is scared of.’ I’m

guessing the crazy part is right on, considering the conse-

quences and, from the panicked way the tribal council is re-

sponding, the gentleman really does inspire fear. I’m also

guessing, from the little lightbulb that just went on over your

head, that a name popped into your mind.”

The security chief nods miserably.

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241

18. Begging Is Good

My first wedding gown was for my friend Fern. Fern’s

January wedding to Edgar who was impossibly slim and

good-looking at the time. Fern, always gorgeous in her own

unique way, had put on fifty pounds in pregnancy but still

managed to glow. She had insisted that I not attempt to hide

her baby-full belly when draping the gown. As if. There she

is on the steps outside the church, posing for the formal pho-

tograph, looking like she was having quintuplets at least.

But that smile, and her fabulous eyes, and the way she’s

looking at Edgar, like she’s ready to eat him in one big bite.

I’m there, too, a skinny, nervous, teenage bridesmaid, one of

three in identical blue satin gowns. We look like frosting

accents on Fern’s fabulous white wedding cake.

That was the idea, that the bridesmaids would echo the

colors on the cake. A totally stupid concept, all mine, but

somehow it worked because somehow a wedding always

seems to work, even if the marriage itself is doomed to end

badly, with poor Edgar begging for his favorite recliner and

Fern crossing her arms and saying no, like a scene out of a

bad sitcom,
Men Behaving Pathetically.

All these years later, I’m still not sure what got into me,

volunteering to make the gowns. There was more to it than

Fern not having the money for a proper bridal shop gown,

which even then were outrageous. Maybe it was about me

wanting to be involved in the wedding itself, as more than a

best friend and bridesmaid. Putting my mark on the event.

All I really remember is looking in the shop window with

Fern, announcing with great virginal confidence that I could

make her a gown like that, no problem. I’d been sewing my

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own stuff for a year or two at that point, what was the big

deal? A pattern, a little nice lace, a few ruffles, nothing to it.

Could I have been that naive? Or maybe I knew what I was

getting into, the panic and the endless fittings, all the hand-

stitching because the lovely silk kept bunching in the

machine. The other two bridesmaids squirming like eels,