Cut and Run (19 page)

“Whatever happened to X marks the spot?”

“At least you can stop worrying the boat is going to sink.”

“No. Now all I have to worry about is heat-stroke.”

They'd already searched the ship once, but this time they concentrated more on the structure of the craft itself. Wolfe used a smaller version of the ground-penetrating radar used to locate buried bodies to scan the hull; Delko did the same for the bulkheads, floors, and ceilings inside. If there were any hidden cavities or compartments, they'd find them.

They found nothing.

They sat outside on the GPR cases, using the bulk of an impounded camper for shade. Delko took a long slug of water from a plastic bottle. “Man, it's hot in there,” he said. “A boat turns into a big heat sink when it's not in the water.”

Wolfe wiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his coverall. “It's no picnic out here, either. Working on black asphalt is like standing in a frying pan.”

Delko put a hand to his head and winced.

“Hey, you okay?” asked Wolfe. Ever since Delko had gotten shot, Wolfe had been hyperaware of his colleague's health; he tried not to let it show, but he worried about Eric. Delko had been the one who'd raced Wolfe to the hospital when he'd taken a four-inch spike from a nailgun in the eye, and Wolfe had never forgotten it.

“Fine. Just a little dehydrated.” Delko gulped down the rest of the bottle of water. Wolfe un-capped his own bottle and joined him.

“So,” Wolfe said. “Whatever happened between you and that dancer? Haven't seen her around in a while.”

“Marie? We're not together anymore. Being taken hostage shook her up bad—she never really got over it.”

“That's too bad. She seemed nice.”

“She was.” Delko shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance. “Being with a cop, it's not easy. You go to sleep every night thinking about getting that knock on the door, opening it up to find an officer on your doorstep with that look on his or her face.”

“I know. I dated a girl once, she used to get nightmares just like that. She'd hear a doorbell, open it to find a beat cop in dress uniform—formal blues, white gloves.”

Delko nodded. “The outfit they wear to funerals.”

“Yeah. Except this cop, he doesn't have a face at all—just a skull. That's when she'd wake up.” Wolfe paused. “We didn't go out that long.”

“Well, once she got to know you, that was inevitable.” Delko grinned.

“Yeah, yeah. So says the guy who spends half his life underwater. I think I've figured out why you're so obsessed with that sunfish—it's because you have a
crush
on it.”

“Well, it is female. But from the condition of her ovary, she's already met the sunfish of her dreams.”

“That's a shame,” said Wolfe, getting to his feet. “But you know what they say: plenty of other fish in the sea…”

“Okay,” sighed Delko. “I admit it.”

“What, that you're in love with a fish?”

“No, smart-ass. I admit I can't locate whatever Dragoslav had aboard the ship—but only because it's not there anymore. I went over the entire interior, and I couldn't locate those white buckets the sushi chef mentioned. Dragoslav or one of the crew must have thrown them overboard when the shooting started.”

“Then there's only one way left to find out what was on board.”

Delko nodded. “Ask someone who knows.”

 

“Ms. Faustino,” said Delko. “Thank you for agreeing to talk with me.”

Valerie Faustino fixed him with a cold look that spoke volumes about her opinion on the meeting. Her lawyer sat beside her, a bullish young man named Bronz with close-cropped black hair.

“Let's just get this over with,” said Faustino. “I have to get back to New York. I have a business to run.”

“Of course,” said Delko. “Business is exactly what I'd like to discuss. Specifically, the business you had with Jovan Dragoslav.”

Bronz spoke first. “Ms. Faustino has no professional relationship with Mister Dragoslav.”

“Then why was she on his yacht?”

“It was for purely recreational purposes. Mister Dragoslav and Ms. Faustino were introduced by mutual friends who thought they would get along. Mister Dragoslav invited Ms. Faustino to enjoy his hospitality aboard his boat, and she accepted.”

“Sure. Tell me, who were these mutual friends of theirs?”

“I don't see how that's relevant.”

“Would these mutual friends be members of the Luccini family?”

“Ms. Faustino has no intention of incriminating herself—”

Faustino held up a hand. “Paul, please. It's no crime to admit you know someone. Yes, we were introduced by Giovanni Luccini—he's an old friend. So what?”

“So we know that was more than a pleasure cruise, Ms. Faustino. It was a business meeting. And it took place where it did so that all parties concerned could take a good look at the merchandise.”

“Really,” said Faustino, her face impassive. “And what merchandise would that be?”

“I don't think you understand how much trouble this could make for you,” said Delko. “Hiding it in the fish was clever, but that doesn't mean it didn't leave behind traces of its presence. You can forget about whether we found your shipment; what we're deciding now is who to charge. Stanley Wolchkowski is dead, which leaves Dragoslav or you. Guess who my partner is talking to right now?”

Faustino's eyes narrowed. “Oh, please. You think either Jovan or myself are amateurs? You think you can pull this play-one-against-the-other crap and see which one of us folds like a teenager caught shoplifting? Tell you what, Mister CSI; I'll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you tell me exactly what you found on that boat, and I'll tell you who it belongs to. How about that?”

Delko glared at her. She'd called his bluff, but he still had one more card to play. “What we found, Ms. Faustino, was one of the men who robbed you—and the boat they used. You think a Miami gangster wannabe who's stupid enough to take on the Russian mob
and
the Luccini family will be as tough to crack as you? The rest of his crew is dead and he's looking at homicide and piracy charges—he doesn't have a lot of bridges left to burn. So far he hasn't said much, but that's more out of stubbornness than smarts. Believe me, sooner or later he's going to realize where his best interests lie—and that means that the next conversation you and I have? You're going to be wearing handcuffs.”

Bronz held up a hand. “Okay, we're done. Ms. Faustino is not going to sit here and listen to these groundless accusations—”

His client interrupted him. “No, Paul, hang on. I've got something I want to say.”

Bronz frowned. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

“You think what I pay you to think. Right now, I'm paying you to shut up.”

Faustino crossed her arms. “Okay, Detective or Doctor or whatever the hell your title is, you want some information? I'll give you something just to get you off my back. You obviously think this is all about drugs, and you're hoping you can scare me with a trafficking rap. But you're barking up the wrong tree, which is why I'm annoyed instead of scared. I
know
you didn't find any drugs or any traces of drugs, because there
were
no drugs. You want to rattle Dragoslav's cage, go ahead—but you're not going to make him any more nervous than you are me.
Capiche?”

She got to her feet. “Okay, Paul, let's go.
Now
we're done.”

After she left, Delko sat and thought about what Faustino had said, trying to decide exactly what it meant.
No drugs. Either she's lying to try to throw me off the scent, or telling the truth because she thinks I have no chance of finding what was actually being smuggled. Which is it?

Faustino seemed pretty sure of herself. It was more likely she'd deny any involvement at all than tell him the shipment wasn't drugs—which she'd managed to do without actually admitting there
was
a shipment. He thought she was telling the truth.

So, then what had been transferred from the moonfish's guts to the buckets? Something liquid, or maybe stored in liquid?
Something worth, in Jorge's words, “at least a million dollars.”
But what?

 

“Pearls,” said Calleigh.

“Excuse me?” asked Wolfe.

Calleigh looked up from the eyepiece of the comparison microscope. “Oh, I'm sorry—didn't hear you come in. Sometimes I talk to myself when no one else is around. Anyway, that's what I'm looking at.”

Wolfe walked over. “You mind?”

“Not at all.”

Wolfe peered into the eyepiece. “So what exactly is this?”

“It's from Timothy Breakwash's lab. It was already mounted on a slide, but not labeled. Know what it is?”

“Structure's crystalline…. calcium carbonate?” He looked up for confirmation.

Calleigh favored him with a smile. “Close. It's called aragonite—found in caves sometimes, but more often inside the shells of bivalves. It's a polymorph of calcium carbonate, more commonly known as mother-of-pearl.”

“He was a biologist, right? Maybe this was part of his research.”

“Maybe. But H thinks Breakwash knew about a stash of lost art—and some of that art was in the form of pearls.”

“Don't think I've ever heard pearls referred to as art before.”

Calleigh frowned in mock disapproval. “That's because you've never worn a necklace worth more than your house. When a single pearl can list “part of the crown jewels” more than once on their resume, it's definitely closer to art than decoration. Pearls have even done duty as a cocktail.”

“I don't follow.”

“There's an apocryphal story about Cleopatra betting Marc Antony she could provide a more expensive banquet than he could. When it came time to eat, she had a single glass of sour wine placed in front of her, then took off one of her earrings—pearl, of course—crushed it, and dumped it in the wine. She drank hers and offered the other earring to her guest.”

Wolfe grinned. “Sour wine equals vinegar—around six percent acetic acid. Strong enough to dissolve calcium carbonate. Cleopatra knew her chemistry.”

“She won the bet, too.”

“You think this sample is proof Breakwash found what he was looking for?”

“I don't know. It's definitely mother-of-pearl, but its provenance is a mystery.”

Wolfe shook his head. “At least you know what you're looking for. According to Delko, about the only thing we know is what we're
not
looking for—drugs. And even that's not confirmed.”

“Still no luck, huh? You talk to the owner of the yacht, yet?”

“Yeah, he's in interview room two. Just letting him cool his heels for a while.”

“Think you can get anything from him?”

Wolfe sighed. “The guy's Red Mafiya, so he's not going to be easy to crack. All we have for ammunition is a big, dead fish—which is just what this case is starting to remind me of.”

J
OVAN
D
RAGOSLAV
looked as relaxed and at ease in the interview room as someone lounging at poolside. He wore a simple blue polo shirt and jeans, with white deck shoes. He had even told his lawyer to go home, a sign Wolfe didn't like at all.

Wolfe sat down across from him without saying a word. Instead, he flipped open a file folder and studied what was inside.

Dragoslav said nothing, either. Wolfe finished reading the first page, flipped to another.

A few minutes passed.

“You know,” Dragoslav finally said in an amused tone, “if you think you can outwait a Russian, you are bound to be disappointed.”

I think that's what I just did, though.
Wolfe looked up from his reading. “But you're not Russian, Jovan. You're Serbian. You just like
playing
with the big boys.”

“I suppose that is my file?”

“It's
our
file, Jovan—you're just the subject.”

“Interesting reading?”

“Disappointing, actually.” Wolfe closed the folder and tossed it down on the table in front of him. “See, I've been laboring under a misconception, Jovan. I thought you were a player. Big yacht, lots of security, meeting with a member of the Luccini family? I was sure you were up to something big. So were the crew that hit you. But you fooled us all, didn't you?”

Jovan's easy smile stayed in place, but he raised his eyebrows in a question.

Wolfe nodded. “None of it holds up once you take a close look. And that's what I do, Jovan—I look at things very, very closely. And the closer I looked at you, the more I realized what it was I was looking at.”

Wolfe spread his hands. “Nothing.”

“Pardon me?”

“It's all there in your record. Petty thefts. Dealing in stolen merchandise. A little penny-ante loan-sharking with cheap, dumb muscle backing you up. You're not a player, Jovan; you're a wannabe.” Wolfe put as much amused contempt into his voice as he could. “That yacht isn't yours—it's leased. The so-called member of the Luccini family is a grandmother who inherited her son's trucking business.”

Wolfe crossed his arms and leaned forward. “You know, we searched that boat from top to bottom. Even X-rayed the superstructure. We were sure you were smuggling in something illegal and expensive—probably narcotics, but we wouldn't have been surprised to find guns, gemstones, even counterfeit money. But—of course—we found exactly what I just told you: nothing.”

“So you admit that—”

Wolfe talked right over him. “None of those things are in your league, are they? You're more a bootleg-blue jeans kind of guy, right? Made a little cash in the black market back home, thought you could move up in the world? But this isn't the old country, Jovan. This is America. You can only play at being a gangster so long before you get in over your head—and that's just what happened.”

“You Americans,” Jovan said. He was still smiling, but there was an edge in his voice. “So arrogant, so self-righteous. You think you rule the world, and we should all be grateful. You think Miami is a dangerous city? You wouldn't last a week in Sarajevo.”

Wolfe smiled back. He hated playing the Ugly American, but his only hope was to get Dragoslav angry enough to say something revealing. He knew it was a long shot, but Dragoslav was plainly feeling cocky; attacking his ego now might get an unguarded response. “Yeah, right. What did you do there, peddle illegal DVDs of
Desperate Housewives
?”

Dragoslav's smile had faded. “I did what I had to in order to survive. As I do here.”

“Sure. You're all talk, Jovan. Am I supposed to be impressed by the fact that you had Stanley Wolchkowski on your rented boat? A guy who buys and sells produce for a living? Hey, that must be it—you were bringing in a big load of illicit lettuce, right?”

Jovan's smile returned. “Yes, that's it. You are so clever, Mister Wolfe. You have cracked this case wide open. Please, handcuff me and take me to prison.”

The anger had mutated into mockery. For just a moment, Wolfe had been sure Dragoslav was going to let something slip…but the moment had passed, and the man's self-assured façade was firmly back in place.

Dragoslav nodded. “I understand why you are treating me this way. You are frustrated. You seek to blame your failings on someone else. Perhaps I should simply accept your jealousy and accusations as a sad but inevitable consequence of my own success—but I feel you need a lesson in courtesy more than my pity.”

“Really.”

“Really. The reason your search was fruitless has nothing to do with me. It is the fault of your own stupidity, your own preconceptions, your own prejudices. You say your business is to examine things closely, but to me you are a blind fool.”

Dragoslav got to his feet. “I have nothing further to say. Since you obviously have nothing to charge me with, I will be leaving. I sincerely hope I do not suffer your company again, Mister Wolfe. If I do, it will be in a courtroom, and you will be the one facing charges—for harassment, for false arrest, for anything else my lawyer can find.”

“Looking forward to it,” said Wolfe.

 

If Fredo Bolivar is lying,
Horatio thought,
he has at least three friends willing to lie along with him.
It reminded him of an old saying: lie down with dogs, get up with fleas. But Horatio intended to deliver a lot more discomfort than a little itching.

The three were Kevin Laza, Domingo Rivas, and Michael Gomez. Horatio had all of them waiting in interview rooms, but he wasn't ready to talk to them yet. He was in his office, studying their files.

There was an art to breaking an alibi based on a lying witness. Fortunately, Bolivar had already made his first mistake; the best alibi was the simplest, and the fact that Fredo thought three eyewitnesses were better than one was a serious error on his part. An alibi was like a diamond; if it was real, it provided a hard, impenetrable surface that reflected truth like a gem refracted light. If it was fake it could be shattered, either by pressure or one well-placed blow. Success depended on knowing exactly where to apply that pressure, exactly how and where to strike.

Fredo Bolivar had provided Horatio with three possible targets. He considered each carefully, looking for a flaw to exploit, an angle to attack.

Kevin Laza. Youngest of the three. Arrested for assault, drunk and disorderly, possession of a controlled substance. A hothead, prone to acting without thinking. Probably has less status than the others, may be trying to prove himself to them.
He looked at the mug shot, studied the heavy jaw of the boy, the sullenness in his eyes. Laza radiated resentment, a barely concealed rage at the unfairness of the world and what it had done to him. Black stubble bristled on his skull, and a pink scar ran from his forehead into the hairline.

Domingo Rivas. Arrested for illegal possession of a firearm, multiple counts of assault, possession of a controlled substance for the purpose of trafficking. Older than Laza by a decade. Obviously more experienced. Drug dealer, carries a gun, not afraid to use it. Knows the system, won't be easy to intimidate.
The photo showed a heavyset man in his late twenties, with a shaved head and tattoos on his neck. His lips were thick, his eyes almost sleepy. Horatio wasn't fooled.

The last one was Michael Gomez.
Arrested only once, for possession of a controlled substance. Younger than Domingo, about the same age as Bolivar himself.
Gomez was skinny, with a sallow, bony face and longer hair, worn slicked back and close to his skull. There was something in his eyes, too, something none of the others had, and Horatio smiled when he recognized it.

Fear.

“Hello, Domingo,” Horatio said.

The man sitting opposite him shifted his bulk in his chair, leaning back and sticking his legs out. “Hey,” Rivas said.

“I'd just like to go over a few points of your statement, if that's all right.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

Horatio smiled at him. It was a soft smile, a gentle smile, the kind of smile a pastor would bestow on a member of his congregation. “I understand you spent the evening in question in the company of your friends?”

“That's right. All night.”

“Uh-huh. And what did you do to pass the time?”

“Not much. Y'know, drank a little gin and juice, listened t'some music, watched some DVDs. Shot some pool.”

“You do anything else? Take a dip in the hot tub, maybe?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Just trying to get things straight, Domingo. What did you watch on DVD?”

“I don' remember.”

“Really? Well, lucky for you I have a list of all the DVDs in your house right here. Nice of you to have them all labeled and in plain view like that.” Horatio pushed a sheet of paper across the table. “Take a look. It was less than twenty-four hours ago—it would certainly look odd if you couldn't remember something that easy.”

Domingo picked up the list, read it carefully. “Know what?” he said when he was finished. “I know why I'm havin' such a hard time rememberin'. See, I had a little too much t'drink. Think I passed out right aroun' when the other guys started talkin' bout watchin' somethin'.”

“Was the movie over by the time you woke up?”

“Musta been.”

“So there was a period of at least an hour and a half when you couldn't account for your friends' whereabouts.”

“What? No. No, they was there the whole time.”

“Really? How would you know?”

“I didn't sleep that long. Maybe twenty minutes. I remember looking at my watch.”

“At what time?”

“Two
A.M
.”

“Sure. So the movie was still playing?”

“No. I mean, yeah, I guess it was, but it was on in the background. I didn't pay no attention to it—that's why I can't remember.”

“Right. How many games of pool did you play?”

“I don't know—three or four. Maybe five.”

“Did you win any of them?”

“What?”

Horatio leaned forward, his smile still gentle. “Did you
win
any of them, Domingo? If you were sober enough to play, you must have been sober enough to remember something like that, right?”

“Yeah, of course. No, I didn't win any of 'em.”

“Not your night, I guess. Who else played?”

“Everyone. We all did.”

“So everyone else beat you at least once.”

“I guess so.”

Horatio nodded. “Did everyone go in the hot tub?”

“Yeah.”

“How long were you in there?”

“I don't know.”

“An hour? Two hours?”

Domingo shrugged. “I don't remember.”

“Okay, Domingo. Thank you for cooperating—you've been very helpful.”

“That's it? I can go?”

Horatio stood up, and his smile got a little brighter. “Not just yet.”

 

He'd been careful with Domingo, but he approached Kevin Laza with even more caution. The boy was only nineteen, and had the odd combination of cockiness and suspicion that life on the street often produced. Horatio treated him as gently as he would a ticking bomb, probing for answers without setting him off. An emotional explosion would produce nothing but a retreat into sullen silence; he knew he'd get better results by playing on the boy's insecurities, making him prove his worth to his friends. He talked to Laza for over an hour, and when he was done he was finally ready to tackle Michael Gomez.