Caribbean Rain (3 page)

Reaching for the sixteenth-century German rapier hanging from his belt, he gripped the hilt, drew it from the sheath, and hugged it tightly.

He’d begged her, again, to move to San Juan with him. He’d buy her a nice condo overlooking the ocean, and it would be like old times—before they’d taken her away from him. She always said she was thinking about it, but he knew it would never happen. Then finally, in October, she had agreed to fly down to see him for two weeks. They’d shopped, ate at great restaurants, and he’d taken her to beautiful El Yunque. In some ways, it was like introducing your girlfriend to your mother. He wanted her to approve, and she had—until they’d encountered those out-of-control campers. Gripping the sword tighter now at the memory, his hand dug into the ornate crosspiece, but he didn’t really feel it. He bit his lip and closed his eyes on the vivid picture of three young men, toting full camping backpacks, hurrying down the steep steps to the La Mina waterfalls.

The weather had been perfect. He could still recall the singing birds and the smell of fresh rain. She’d even commented on the difference of the air compared to the city.

They’d stopped at the bamboo-covered rest area, which was just before the last, severely abrupt set of stairs that descended to the bottom of the falls and the churning, emerald pool waiting there. They’d listened closely and heard the water rushing over the thirty-five-foot ledge. She’d grinned in anticipation.

Just then, the first camper of the three nearly ran into them both in his haste to reach the falls at the bottom of the trail, managing to avoid them at the last second. He’d turned to tell the camper to slow down and be more careful when he’d heard it. The second young man had lost his balance, and plowed directly into his mother. The third, unable to correct his path, crashed into both his mother and the second camper. In slow motion, he watched his mother tumble down the steps, entangled in a swirling mass of arms and legs. A split-second later, the sickening crack of bone on concrete echoed through the trees as the three of them churned over the steps.

By the time they’d fallen to the landing below, it was over. The two men were able to get back on their feet, but not his mother. She lay on the small deck, her head turned at an impossible angle, fractured bone sticking through the collar of her new pink blouse, her eyes staring unseeingly into a deep-blue sky. Something forever had died in him that minute.

In a swell of anger, he whirled, swinging the double-edged sword expertly at the teakwood lamp resting on the nightstand. It was slashed so cleanly and with such incredible precision that it took a few seconds for the top half to separate from the bottom. It tilted lazily, finally crashing to the carpet. He stared, trying to sort out the emotions that battered him like a hurricane.

The horror of her funeral had been the final straw, and his soul and mind grew more hollow by the second as he purged every emotion but one.

Walking away from the gravesite with the Illinois wind howling through the barren trees, he’d made a promise to his mother, himself, and to his beloved rainforest: the three most important things in his life.

He smiled, turning the rapier over in his hand.

If the government wouldn’t fix the problems in El Yunque, he would.

Chapter-4

The shorter thug reached Manny’s table, his gun never wavering as it seemed to stare intently into Manny’s face, its cold, dark, lifeless eye sizing him up.

Manny glanced up to his would-be executioner and said nothing.

“Did you hear me, white boy? Are you ready?” the man demanded.

But Manny detected the nervousness in his voice. Not exactly a pro, but the steady hand told him his assailant knew what he was doing with a gun in his hand, and he was pissed. Nervous, pissed, and good with firearms wasn’t usually a good combination, any time.

“I’m not,” he answered quietly.

The man’s voice rose higher and his accent got heavier. “Well, tough shit, man. I’ve waited a long time for this, and now it’s your turn to pay.”

“Pay for what?” Manny’s voice grew even softer.

“For screwing up my life. You sons-a-bitchin’ cops think you got all the answers, but truth is, you don’t know shit from peanut butter.”

His stout assailant stepped closer and whispered into Manny’s face. “And you ain’t even gonna know who I am.”

Manny raised his eyebrows. “Actually, I do know who you are and why you’re here. Hello, Pete Contreras.”

The short man took a step back, which was all that Manny needed. Grabbing Pete’s arm, Manny stood up and twisted it and, with his other hand, snatched the Smith and Wesson .38. He then wrapped his arm under Pete’s neck and pressed the gun to his head. The taller gunman, seeing what had happened to his partner, shuffled his feet, twisted his head to scope the room, then turned and ran through the door at breakneck speed.

He ripped the ski mask from Pete’s face. “Unless I miss my guess,” said Manny, squeezing Pete’s throat for emphasis, “I think your brave-as-ever compadre was Slim Zimmerman. Right?”

“I’m not telling you a freaking thing, and I don’t give a shit what you think. Prick,” Pete growled.

“That wasn’t very nice. And you don’t smell so good either. Put those together with threatening to shoot an FBI special agent doesn’t bode well for you, asshole. But I’m going to tell you what I think anyway. I’m thinking you’re still as dumb as the first time I busted you for armed robbery.”

“Get bent.”

“And pistol whipping that old lady was a real nice touch, you piece of shit.”

“That’ll teach the old bitch for getting in the way.”

Manny pressed the gun to Pete’s head and heard him yelp. “So, by your logic, I should, at the very least, beat you with this gun, then maybe shoot your ugly ass, just because you screwed up my breakfast. Is that right?”

“You ain’t gonna do shit, man. You’re too much of a pansy-ass do-gooder. You’re just full of bullshit.” Pete then jerked his head backward, trying to connect with Manny’s face, but he wasn’t fast enough. Manny shifted his head to the right, barely avoiding the blow.

Lifting Pete off the floor, Manny slammed him face down on the tile, shattering his nose. The crunch was more than gratifying.

“You broke my nose,” Pete screamed. “You broke my damned nose.”

“Just your nose? Maybe I should try it again and see how many scars I can leave for your next twenty years in prison, just like the scars you gave that old lady.” Manny took out his cuffs and slapped them on Pete’s thick wrists.

“I’m going to sue for police brutality,” sobbed Pete. “I’ll have your damned badge.”

“Can’t wait to hear from your lawyer.”

Just then, two LPD blues barged into the restaurant, guns pulled, followed by Gavin Crosby, Lansing’s police chief, and his son Mike, the LPD’s new sergeant detective.

Manny stood. “Looks like your ride’s here. Have a nice trip.”

“I’m gonna kill you, Williams, someday, your blonde ass will be mine,” threatened Pete, his voice growing more nasal with each word.

“Maybe, but you’ll have to get smarter and faster, dipshit. And where you’re going, I wouldn’t bend over in the shower to pick up any soap.”

The two blues lifted Pete from the floor, blood soaking the front of his coat, and hurried him out the door.

Manny moved next to Gavin and Mike. “Who called?”

“The cook,” answered Gavin. “These two are as smart as ever. We were on our way over to get something to eat, so—”

“Did you get Zimmerman?”

“Yep, about a block away. The dumbass was still wearing the mask and had the gun in his hand,” said Gavin.

“I’m guessing those two won’t be taking over the world anytime soon,” grinned Manny. “Oh, and sorry about his nose. I’ll write it up and send you the report.”

“No problem. But you do know how those reports can get lost . . .”

“Yeah, I do. But we have witnesses, and I got a little rough.”

Mike Crosby shook his head. “According to those witnesses, he tried to kill an officer, a damned Fed no less. We’re good to go.”

The waitress, Tammy, who had served Manny’s last cup of coffee, walked up and touched his hand. “We didn’t see nothin’ bad. He tried to mess up that pretty face. Hell, he should be put away for life just for that. End of story.”

He bent down and kissed Tammy on the forehead. “Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll leave a big tip.”

Her face turned red, and she looked at the floor. “I’ve been waiting for that for years. Best tip ever.” Then she hurried off to the kitchen.

Gavin rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, lover boy, we got some paperwork to do so we can get half of my damned department turned over to the Feds.”

Manny looked at his old partner Gavin and then at Mike, and couldn’t help thinking, again, how they all belonged to the same fraternity; they’d all lost their wives. Mike’s wife Lexy died at the hands of the deranged serial killer, Dr. Fredrick Argyle, on a cruise ship two years ago, and Gavin’s wife Stella was shot by a wacked-out LPD employee, who was also responsible for killing his Louise. He felt their pain.

There was an eternal kinship between them. The sleepless nights. The quick, curious glances from family and friends wanting to help but not sure how. A few too many drinks that chased the pain to some dark recess of the mind, only to creep back stronger than before. And of course, they also shared a hope—the hope that someone would take your hand and walk you from dark to light. There are few desperations like that one.

Chloe had satisfied that hope in Manny, and rumor had it that Mike had met someone new. Gavin hadn’t and probably wouldn’t. He said any woman getting a foothold in his life would have to be a reincarnation of his Stella, the pre-crazy one.

Gavin frowned. “What the hell are you staring at?”

“Nothing. Just thinking how ugly you two are and how I’m going to miss you anyway.”

“Well, you ain’t as pretty as that little waitress thinks you are, and only God knows what the perky little Irish girl sees in ya, but there’s no accounting for taste,” said Gavin, his patented twinkle pulsing from brown eyes.

“Maybe she’s blind,” grinned Mike.

“Okay. I give,” said Manny throwing up his arms. “Let’s go to your office. Sophie and Alex should be back in an hour or two, then we can wrap up this thing.”

The three turned to leave just as Manny’s cell rang. It was Chloe.

“Hey. How far out are you and Josh?”

“Manny. I’m scared.”

He stopped and switched the phone to his right hand. He’d not heard her in sheer panic mode before. Not even when her Mom had been captured by Argyle. His pulse quickened.

“Scared of what, Chloe?”

“The weather was okay when we left DC and got bad over Pennsylvania. We can’t find a place to land, and we’re dropping fast. Manny, I don’t want to die this wa—

There was a hideous crack, and the phone grew silent.

Chapter-5

Randall Fogerty didn’t take well to people who were late, for any reason. Promptness was how things were done. By God, he was living, undeniable proof. He’d made a practice—hell, more like a religion—of being early for every meeting, every commitment, whether by phone, telemeeting, or the classic face-to-face. It didn’t matter the medium . . . he was always on time and prepared for every eventuality, and he expected the same out of his associates, and particularly his family and loved ones. Yes, contrary to what some may think, he did love, perhaps jealously, when the occasion presented itself. Timeliness was how he stayed on top of things, how he’d built this empire that afforded him, his daughter, and his current wife the best things money could buy. And make no mistake, money makes the world turn, not some misguided philosophy exalting the virtues of an invisible God, or some stupid-shit process that allowed people to come back as cows, or whatever the hell they deserved when they’d completed their “first” life. Cold, hard cash changed lives, made living better. When it came right down to it, nothing else mattered.

Take the sickly kids on this island. All of them would live a hell of a lot longer with the best medical attention money could buy, not from some voodoo spell. He proved that over and over with his generous donations. Of course, the funding was also good for his image.

Randall rose from his seat on the oceanfront deck, stretched to his lean, six-foot height, and stared out to the teal ocean that ran endlessly along the white shores of Barbados’ Saint Lawrence Gap. He squeezed the smartphone a little harder. His daughter was supposed to call every morning at the same time—eight thirty sharp—for the two-week duration of her stupid-ass honeymoon that she’d insisted on taking with that harebrained shithead she’d decided to fall in love with, and for God’s sake, marry.

He appreciated lust as much as most. He even understood that little touchy-feely shiver that could run through one’s body after a hot twirl in the sack. That feeling had been the reason he’d been married four times, more or less. Big tits and long legs hadn’t hurt the “thinking” progression either.

But to have his daughter completely go against his wishes and marry a nobody was beyond his comprehension. They didn’t have that bullshit, make-believe, lovey, kissy-face relationship that dads and daughters had on those ridiculous TV shows. But he had always given her everything she’d ever wanted, and she was always well protected.

Damn. Isn’t that enough?

The kid she hitched her wagon to had checked out as far as any criminal past, but he didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out, until now. Marrying into the Fogerty family was undoubtedly the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He glanced at his reflection on the patio door and couldn’t help but smile.

No matter how long the little bastard lived.

The phone unexpectedly came to life, vibrating in his clenched hand. He drew it close to his face, fully expecting to see his daughter’s number printed across the screen. It wasn’t, and he had no desire to talk to the low life that now wanted his attention. In fact, the call pissed him off. He made a mental note to ensure that this greaser, who had the balls to interrupt his morning, never had the opportunity to disrupt him again. Ever.