Bloodline (26 page)

Chapter Forty-three

Eugene flipped the phone shut and let out a long breath. Rastano had the cell phone. That was the end of their communication, unless Pedro called him. He didn't like it, but there was nothing he could do. And from what Pedro had said, calling out from Rastano's estate wasn't easy. Eugene slipped the phone into his pocket and glanced back to where Ben and Andrew were hunched over the Quigley woman's computer. He glanced at his watch. Three-thirty in the morning. He watched the two young men for another minute, then took a stroll about the house.

It was a pale yellow two-story Victorian with elaborate lattice work and trim around the doors, windows and portico. A wraparound front porch, enclosed by ornate white spindles, sported wicker chairs and a tarnished brass table, despite the cool weather. The house was set back from the road on a large, well-treed lot that Eugene guessed was close to an acre. There was little to no traffic, the road a cul-de-sac with the Quigley house sharing the end of the street with two other large homes.

Eugene paused at a recent picture of the owner. “Old Lady” Quigley was not so old. She appeared to be in her forties and damn good looking. Three different degrees hung on one wall, a BSc, MSc, and PhD. An accomplished woman. He returned to the computer room and asked how things were going.

“Here's the list of registered guests during November and December of last year,” Andrew said, handing him three sheets of paper from the printer. “Ben's just working on the DMV right now.”

“How's it going?” Eugene asked.

“I need a coffee,” Ben said, looking up with bloodshot eyes.

“I'll make some,” Eugene said. He retreated to the kitchen, found the coffeemaker and filters and brewed a full pot. When it had stopped dripping, he took two cups back to the boys. “Coffee. What do you take in it?”

“Black,” Ben said. “Oh, God, thank you.” He sipped on the dark roast, and smiled. “Next to beer and water, this stuff's the best.”

Andrew accepted his cup without the fanfare, and they both watched as Ben worked at hacking into the Department of Motor Vehicles. There was a firewall, which was expected, but whoever had built the primary firewall had installed a secondary firewall of a sort that was giving Ben trouble. He worked at it until almost five in the morning, then threw his hands up in despair. “Can't get through it without some help.”

“What sort of help?” Eugene asked.

“I've got some programs at school that could probably break this, but that means coming back tomorrow night. There's no way I can get them from FLCC, get back here and hack into the DMV before the whole neighborhood is up. In fact, we'd better go now or some early riser is going to see us leaving.”

They left through the back door and walked the two blocks to where Bill was parked and waiting. “How was the hacking?” he asked, a hint of a smile on his face. He was enjoying the departure from his daily routine.

“Great, but we have to go back tomorrow night,” Eugene said.

“At five hundred a day, I'm still your man,” he said.

They dropped Ben and Andrew off at their residence with the promise that the boys would be waiting for Eugene in the park just down from the dorms at one in the morning. Bill headed back to Henrietta to drop Eugene off at his motel. Eugene told him to go home, get some sleep and be back at two in the afternoon. He paid Bill the daily rate, got a thank you and a smile in return, then headed for bed. The last thought he had before crashing into a dreamless sleep was how lucky he had been so far in his search for Pablo.

Luck. At least
that
seemed to be on his side right now.

Chapter Forty-four

They rose early, ate breakfast and were reading when the guards poked their heads in for the morning check. Julie glanced up, then looked back to her text. One of the men, an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder, took a quick tour of their apartment, then left without saying a word. The moment the door closed the two women were in motion.

“Just see if you can get the screws started,” Julie said, as Shiara prepared to enter the air duct. Once you've got them turning, we'll be able to get them out.”

“Okay,” Shiara said, taking a deep breath and starting into the dark and narrow hole. “I'll be as quick as possible.”

“All right, honey. Just don't cut yourself on the metal.”

Shiara nodded, and was gone. She slithered into the duct and disappeared after a few feet, the darkness swallowing up the white soles on her running shoes. Julie replaced the grill, tightened one screw to keep it flush to the wall and went back to her reading. She stared at the page, but the words didn't register. They melded together into a backdrop of black on white, meaningless and irrelevant. She was amazed at how few things in life were really important when the cards were on the table. If Javier Rastano was serious, and she had no doubt he was, she and Shiara had forty-eight hours to live. And faced with imminent death, she saw the whole picture more clearly than ever before in her life.

Shiara and Miguel were everything in her life. Her children were the heart and soul of her very being, and without them she doubted she could continue. For certain, if either were taken from her, her life would never be the same. She would protect Shiara with her life, of that she had no doubt. And Eugene, her husband, her lover, her best friend. She knew he was working nonstop to satisfy Javier Rastano's demands. Julie was aware of her husband's abilities under pressure and had confidence that he could do the impossible. He wouldn't fail them; he couldn't.

She focused on the text, and one passage jumped off the page at her. She read it again and again, finding strength in the simplicity of the words.

“
Dark moments are short corridors leading to sunlit rooms,
” she spoke the words aloud. And in that moment, she knew that if they did go down, they would go down fighting.

 

Javier walked briskly to the phone, and answered with a simple, “Yes?”

“The team has fractured,” the voice said. “Some are still in El Paso, some in Rochester. Eugene has disappeared.”

“How?” Rastano asked.

“He left El Paso sometime Tuesday night. He's in Rochester, New York.”

“What's he doing there?” Javier asked.

“He met with Mario Correa. We don't know where or when or what they talked about. And we don't know where he is right now.”

“Where are you?” Rastano asked.

“It doesn't matter where I am,” the voice snapped back. “It's enough that I call and keep you in the loop.”

“Okay, okay. Anything else?”

“Sure, lots. But none of it's of any concern to you. Except, perhaps, that your name came up in passing. It's now common knowledge that you have Eugene's wife and daughter.”

“That's irrelevant,” Javier said. “They can't touch me.”

“I've got to go. I'll call you when the team finds Eugene.” The line went dead.

Javier replaced the receiver and walked back through the house to the patio. Pedro was just leaving the house on his way to the pool and they exchanged greetings. The boxer was talented, and he hoped that Luis had been the rat and that he wouldn't have to kill Pedro. For a fighter, he was good looking and articulate, two things the American media honed in on. And if the American public liked Pedro, then the chances of a title match at some point were a real possibility. Pedro had the moves in the ring; his footwork, his punches and his cerebral approach to the bout. But none of that would matter if he was in league with Eugenio Escobar. Pedro would simply be another corpse littering the streets of San Salvador.

Javier sat at the table and toyed with a glass of lemonade. A few new orchids had sprouted, but that brought him no pleasure today. The deadline for Eugenio to dig Pablo out of the woodwork was fast approaching with no success to date. He would have to kill the women, that was certain. If he failed to follow through on his threat, his reputation as a man true to his word would be destroyed. And that image was one that he had carefully nurtured his entire adult life. He decided on six o'clock Saturday evening as the time for their execution if the account number wasn't in his hand. He glanced at his watch and did the math.

Fifty-five hours. Time was running out on Eugenio.

Chapter Forty-five

Landry and Maxwell ate lunch at Braddock Bay Restaurant, which was actually on the banks of Salmon Creek, not Braddock Bay. The fare was beef and seafood and their table had an excellent view of the narrow waterway leading to Lake Ontario. They hit the restaurant at quarter to twelve and by the time their meals were being served every table was full, and it was noisy. That suited them just fine, in case someone was trying to listen in.

Alexander Landry cut into his steak, and said, “I can't believe we didn't get one hit from the rental cars or taxis. How did he get out of the airport?”

“He may have taken a cab to the city center and the driver just didn't recognize him. Eugene doesn't exactly stand out in a crowd. His skin is white for a Colombian, and his English is perfect.”

“I suppose. There is that one cabbie who's taking a couple of days off. We haven't talked to him yet.”

Cathy studied her notes. “Bulbinder Chadi. He lives in Hilton, close to here. We could pay him a visit after lunch if you want.”

“If nothing else turns up, we'll stop by,” Landry sipped on his Pepsi, and glanced around the crowded restaurant. It was decorated with historical pieces and pictures and had a warm, rustic feel to it. He liked it, and the food was good. “How close do you think Eugene is to finding Pablo?”

Cathy shrugged. “God only knows. But I'm willing to bet Mario Correa wanted to meet Eugene in Rochester because Pablo is nearby. That's what my gut is saying.”

“When do you want to call Crandle?” Landry asked.

“After lunch,” Cathy said. She fiddled with her food for a minute, then set her fork on the side of her plate. “If we're closing in, he knows we're here.”

Landry finished chewing his steak and nodded. “I would think so.”

“And he'll know who is after him. He'll know it's us, Alexander.”

“Probably. Why?”

Cathy Maxwell was silent for a minute, gazing over Salmon Creek and the wetlands beyond. Finally she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed a number. When the other party answered, she said, “Darren, get yourself and the kids out of the house. Go somewhere safe. I don't care where, and I don't want to know. Just do it. And do it now.”

Landry could hear a muffled response but couldn't make out the words.

“No, Darren. I mean right now. Within the hour.” Again, there was a response, but this time she simply said, “Bye,” and hung up.

She locked eyes with the DEA agent across the table. “It's not going to happen again, Alexander. My parents are dead. I'll do what's necessary to keep my family safe.”

Chapter Forty-six

Eugene spent Thursday's daylight hours jotting down ideas and making notes on each EPIC team member. Pablo was close by. That was a given. But close didn't count; he needed to get face-to-face with his cousin. And that wasn't going to happen without some good deductive reasoning. The facts were in front of him but he just had to sort them out.

Someone was informing both Javier Rastano and Pablo of the team's progress. One person was undoing all the investigative work of the team and eliminating any chance of taking Pablo by surprise. But who? There was precious little to go on.

Alexander Landry had withheld Rastano's name, but according to him, he was about to tell the group when Senator Crandle had noticed the fax. Maybe Landry knew all along it was Rastano holding Julie and Shiara. Then there was the financial drain of having all those kids in college, yet he didn't seem bothered by it. And, of course, Landry had spent time in Colombia in the wild days when the cartel was throwing money every which way. Maybe Landry had been on the payroll since the hunt for Pablo. Maybe.

Cathy Maxwell appeared innocent, but Eugene had noted one telling bit of information on Tuesday at EPIC. When she had complained about her hotel room and the pillows, Landry had accused her of missing her multimillion dollar home. Multi-million, not just million. What kind of civil servant makes enough money to live in that kind of luxury? And Maxwell was as entrenched in Colombia as anyone on the team. Then she had visited Pablo during his incarceration at La Catedral. But Pablo had struck back at her for stemming the flow of chemicals to the cocaine labs by sending his
sicarios
to Boston. No one questioned the sacrifice she had made to the cause, losing her parents in a brutal execution. Perhaps, Eugene thought, the money from her parents' estate explained the dream house she and her family lived in. Perhaps.

Senator Irwin Crandle was an enigma. Eugene saw him as shadowy, almost untrustworthy. But the ability to lie at will and manipulate people had taken him far, especially in his political life. He certainly didn't hurt for money, jetting about in his own private Lear. His political connections in Washington were with some of the most powerful people on the Hill, including the president. If Crandle was dirty, toppling him would be a monumental task. He was insulated from any sort of attack, unless concrete proof could be laid on the table. If the senator
was
the informant, he hadn't likely left any incriminating evidence lying about.

Bud Reid was just as shadowy as the senator, but without the trappings of success and power. He had run roughshod over the
narcos
during the late '80s and early '90s, and his allegiance was to the field troops. He brought his men back from the sorties, busted the labs, took apart the jungle airstrips and brought down Cessnas filled with processed cocaine with greater skill than any other DEA man. He was revered by both Delta and Centra Spike, and that respect had to be earned. Still, Reid could have led successful raids on a few of the cartel's labs and airstrips as a cover, while allowing the majority to thrive. Every DEA agent who spent time in Colombia agreed that they only managed to bust the tip of the iceberg. Tons of cocaine still made it through to the States.

And that left Eduardo Garcia. He was most inconspicuous of the five, having no prior DEA experience in Colombia, and thus no opportunity to cement ties with the former drug lords. But the sudden appearance of his uncle, Fernando Garcia, was a wrinkle. Did the veteran Garcia have a deal in place with Pablo and the Rastano clan prior to his death? Perhaps Eduardo was continuing the Garcia tradition. Mario Correa had described Fernando Garcia as a loose cannon, the kind of person who sometimes stepped over the line. And the Garcia brothers were in college in Dallas, even though their father was still cleaning swimming pools. What had changed there that the money was now available for tuition and living expenses in a major city like Dallas? That took money. Serious money.

Eugene rubbed his hands across his eyes. He was tired from thinking, but something was telling him that the answer was right in front of him, in black and white. He reviewed his notes, but nothing jumped out at him. There was a light knock on the door and he checked the time. Two o'clock. That would be Bill. And the cab arriving meant he could get out of the dingy hotel room and get some lunch.

Tonight was key. He was picking up Andrew and Ben outside their residence at one in the morning and they were heading back to Sarah Quigley's house. Maybe the key he needed to put everything together was in a database out there somewhere. And maybe Ben would find it.

Maybe.