Gamma Blade (8 page)

*

The intern who examined him was impossibly young looking, nervous when she realized from Venn’s air of authority that he was a cop, and even more uneasy when she discovered Beth was an attending physician. But she did a thorough job, prodding and squeezing and testing his reflexes and sensation and power, and by the end Venn was impressed by her quiet competence.

“So I’ll live,” he grunted.

By now, the intern was a little more relaxed. “You’ll most likely wake up tomorrow with a neck as stiff as a two-by-four,” she said. “Take a bunch of ibuprofen through the day. I’ll put it on your ward prescription chart.”

“Hold on,” said Venn. “What
ward
?”

She looked nervous again. “It’s standard procedure. A history of loss of consciousness requires admission at least overnight, with neuro obs.”

Venn tried to give her his most winning smile, but a twinge in the back of his head turned it into a grimace which he guessed made him look more like a shark baring its teeth. “Doc, I appreciate what you’ve done, and your advice, but I’m had my lights punched out before. I know what it’s like. And I feel fine. Really. So there’s no admission needed.”

The intern glanced at Beth, who shrugged ruefully and almost apologetically.

“I’ll sign the release forms, to say I’m discharging myself against medical advice,” Venn said, remembering that doctors were big on that kind of stuff. The intern looked visibly relieved.

Venn sat on the edge of the bed in the examination cubicle, Beth perched in a chair alongside, while they waited for the intern to return with the paperwork.

He said, “You okay?”

Beth swept a hand across her face. “Sure. No harm done.”

“Hell of a way to start your conference weekend,” he said. “And our weekend away together.”

She smiled. “But we can still salvage it. A good night’s sleep, and then tomorrow’s a new day. This is out of our hands now, Venn. My patient’s in safe hands, and the thug you were chasing, as well as the one who hit you, are the business of the Miami Police Department now.”

“Yeah,” said Venn. “I guess.”

But he knew, and he knew Beth knew, that he couldn’t just let it drop. He’d come close to death, and however much Beth herself hadn’t been directly threatened, she and the baby had been in danger.

He was personally involved, and he could no more simply walk away than he could ignore the throbbing of an infected tooth in his mouth.

The curtain twitched aside and Venn and Beth looked up.

A woman stood there. It wasn’t the young intern, back with the release papers.

The woman was Cuban-looking, in her late forties, with a narrow, dour face and gray-streaked straight hair pulled back in an indifferent ponytail. Her eyes were sharp and intense, and small, with the whites barely visible. She wore a pair of cargo pants and a polo shirt under a denim jacket. A leather bag was lung over one shoulder.

In her right hand she held a detective’s shield.

“Lauren Estrada,” she said, in a voice soaked brown with nicotine. “I’m a detective lieutenant with the Miami PD. Need to speak with you both.”

*

She led them to an office down a far-flung corridor of the hospital, away from the ER. It looked like the kind of place a bunch of administrators shared during office hours, with no personal touches on the walls or the desk such as family photos or certificates of qualification. Estrada dropped into the chair behind the desk as if she was used to it, and Venn wondered if this was a place the cops often used when they were conducting interviews in the hospital.

Venn was surprised that Estrada was alone. Cops, whether detectives or uniformed officers, normally worked in pairs. It was standard practice across the United States, and as far as he knew in police departments all over the world. It reduced the risks of one cop getting the wrong information, and also protected them in case of claims of brutality or harassment or whatever. But no partner had joined Estrada as she’d taken them out of the ER - the intern had appeared as they walked, and Venn signed the waiver - and toward the admin wing.

“Sit,” said Estrada, without preamble, indicating two chairs on the opposite side of the desk. Then: “Coffee?” She said it like she hoped they’d say no.

Venn and Beth both declined.

He half-expected her to prop her booted feet up on the desk, but she didn’t. She sat back in the chair and folded her hands in front of her - Venn watched her fingers writhe, as if she was itching to crack her knuckles - and said: “So. Lieutenant Joseph Venn, from New York.”

“That’s right.”

“What you doing here?”

She didn’t mess around, Venn realized.

He said, “I already told your patrolmen. I’m here with my fiancée, Dr Colby, on a weekend break.”

Estrada didn’t so much as glance at Beth when Venn said her name. Her small, black eyes seemed to glitter.

“Never mind the bullshit,” she said crisply. Her accent held only the faintest tinge of Cuban. Venn guessed she’d been born in the US, or emigrated here at a very young age. “Why are you
really
here?”

He gazed at her levelly. “That honestly is all there is to it, Lieutenant. Yeah, I know what it looks like. I show up in the middle of what looks like some kind of imminent rendezvous on the waterfront, and I chase a guy who’s just knocked a man unconscious. But it’s a coincidence. Nothing more.”

Estrada continued to appraise him for what felt like ten seconds. Her face gave nothing away. There was no disbelief there, no contempt. But no acceptance either.

Without breaking eye contact, she reached into her jacket pocket. Venn heard the crackle of foil paper, saw her extract a small square of white and pop it in her mouth. She began to chew slowly.

Nicotine gum, he guessed.

Venn spread his hands. “So. You believe me?”

Estrada glanced away, as if she were considering. Instead of answering Venn’s question, she said, “I checked you out. You’re from the Division of Special Projects. Never heard of it. But from what I’ve been able to piece together, you’re kind of an investigator for political stuff.”

“That’s correct.”

“So, what, you keep crimes by big-shots quiet? Solve them and take care of them with minimum embarrassment for the perpetrators? Because they’re rich, and powerful, and the NYPD needs to keep them happy?” This time there was an edge to her voice, though her expression didn’t change from its customary sourness.

Venn sighed inwardly. He’d had this kind of accusation leveled at him before, from cops within the Manhattan force and elsewhere. Most people hadn’t heard of his Division, which he was grateful for. He guessed the guys in Internal Affairs had a tougher time of it. Every cop knew who
they
were, and every cop detested them.

“Wrong,” he said easily. “I take on cases the regular force is too scared to investigate. I get to go where money and power can’t protect the criminals.”

Was that a shift in Estrada’s expression? Just a tiny relaxation of the tension in her face? Venn wasn’t sure.

She placed her hands flat on the desktop. Venn noted that her nails were bitten to the quick, all of them.

“Okay,” she said. “Take me through it. What you saw, what happened.”

Venn didn’t bother protesting that he’d already given a statement to the patrolmen who’d showed up at the scene. As a detective himself, he always wanted to hear his own version of events from the person concerned. Not least, because he got to read the interviewee’s body language at the same time.

And spot clues that they might be lying.

He told Estrada, in as much detail as he could about the events of the evening. The row of men standing on the pier, watching the yacht. The stranger over to the left, who’d dropped after the guy had hit him. The chase down the alleyway, and the man who’d gotten the drop on Venn from behind.

He described everything he could recall about
that
guy. His voice, his turn of phrase. The sound of his sneakers on the ground.

Estrada took it all in without comment or interruption. When Venn was finished, she watched him for a couple of seconds.

Then she turned her head to Beth.

“Dr Colby,” she said. “Your turn.”

While Beth relayed her account of events, Venn studied Estrada. She looked tough. The kind of cop who’d bitten and clawed her way up the ranks, not by screwing people over, necessarily, but in the course of battling an establishment that was even more macho down here in Miami than it was in New York or Chicago, and was arrayed against her every step of the way. She’d more than likely cut a few corners along the way, bent a few rules. Kicked one or two scumbags’ asses without worrying too much about respecting the letter of due process.

Venn thought she was the kind of cop he’d enjoy working with. And the kind he wouldn’t especially want as an enemy.

Beth finished her account. Estrada hadn’t made notes, just as she hadn’t when Venn was speaking. Venn wondered if she was recording all of this - it was illegal to do so without informing the interviewees of the fact, but that didn’t mean Estrada wasn’t doing it - or if she simply had strong powers of recall.

She slapped the desk top, leaned back once more.

“Okay.” Her glance flicked to Venn, then Beth, then back to Venn, where it stayed. “I need to talk to you, Lieutenant. Doctor, this doesn’t concern you. You can go. And thank you for your cooperation.”

“Hold on.” Venn wasn’t having that. “Beth and I are together, as you know. She was there too.”

“Venn.” Beth stood up, gave him a quick smile. “It’s okay. Cop stuff. I’ll head on back to the hotel. Get a cab.”

He looked at her, then at Estrada.

“Really,” said Beth. To Estrada: “Is this going to take long?”

“As long as it takes.” Estrada’s tone wasn’t hostile, just factual.

“Okay.” Beth gave Venn’s shoulder a squeeze. “Wake me up if I’m asleep, yes?”

And she was gone.

It was as if somebody had pressed Estrada’s ‘on’ switch. As soon as the door was closed, she leaned forward, her face more animated.

“Here’s the deal. I have an idea who the asshole that hit you was. I need you to listen to some voice recordings, see if they match up to his voice.”

“Sure,” Venn said.

Estrada had put her leather shoulder bag on the floor beside her when she sat down. She reached into it and took out an iPad. Placed it on the desk between them, touched the screen.

A male voice issued forth, tinny and scratchy. The guy was speaking English, with a thick Spanish accent. Venn shook his head.

Estrada held up a hand. “No. Don’t tell me yet. Listen to them all. There are six of them. I’ll play them back afterward, if necessary.”

The clips played, one after another, some lasting ten seconds, others closer to thirty. They were of variable sound quality. Two of the men spoke only Spanish.

After the last one, Venn said: “Play them again.”

Estrada did so.

Venn didn’t need to listen a third time.

He said, “The third one. That’s him.”

Chapter 11

Estrada said, “You sure?”

“Maybe eighty per cent. Eighty-five. Couldn’t swear to it in court.”

“You couldn’t. Our DAs would never rely on testimony based on this kind of evidence.” Estrada stared at the iPad between them. She chewed her lips. Venn thought she looked buzzed, as if he’d given the answer she was hoping for.

He said, “So who is this guy?”

She raised her eyes. “Ernesto Justice Brull. He’s a local gangbanger. Head of his own crew. Been around five, six years, maybe. Cautious, growing his business organically. He’s still considered small fry by the MPD. But I
know
this guy’s going to be massive. He’s smart. Ambitious. And he’s going to pull something off. A coup, that will catapult him into the top echelons of the Miami underworld.”

“Why’d you guess he was the one I encountered?” said Venn.

Estrada paused, her expression wary again.

“Venn,” she said. “One last time. You’re who you say you are? A weekend tripper, here with your doctor girlfriend? You’re not here to dip your New York stick into our particular pot of shit and give it a stir?”

“I’m not even going to answer that again.”

“Okay.” She began gripping her hands together again, squeezing the fingers together. “For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been waiting for Brull to make a move. In what way, exactly, I don’t know. But the intelligence that’s been coming in - low-level informants, undercover cops, so forth - has suggested his area of interest concerns the waterfront. That isn’t exactly unusual, of course. Most of the gangs here have some connection with the sea. Drugs, mostly. Gunrunning, also. But Brull’s focus seems to be on the marina, specifically. The wealthier end of the spectrum.”

“Drugs and guns involve rich people, too,” Venn pointed out.

“Yeah. So that may be what Brull’s business is all about. Still, I’ve been watching the marina for a couple weeks now, like I said.” Estrada paused again. “Tonight, you saw those guys lined up along the pier. Then some stranger gets knocked out cold, and when you give chase, another guy pulls a gun on you and toys with you a little, before deciding not to kill you. You describe this guy as at least a little educated, and obviously smart enough not to shoot a cop. That fits Brull. Fits a lot of other guys, too, but still.”

Venn thought about it. “That boat the men on the pier were watching,” he said.

“The
Merry May
. I’ve checked it out. It belongs to an Irishman named Paul O’Reilly. He owns a small boat rental firm on the marina. The kind of business that caters to folks who aren’t really sailing enthusiasts but want to try their hand at it, just so they can say they’ve done it.”

“Is he clean?” asked Venn.

Estrada said, “Far as I can tell. No record, locally or with the Feds. This O’Reilly seems to be a fairly wealthy sailor who runs his business as a sideline, to keep his income topped up, but mostly because he just enjoys the whole marina atmosphere.”

“You talk to him yet?” Venn suspected she hadn’t, because she wouldn’t have had time before coming to the hospital.