Trader of Secrets: A Paul Madriani Novel (9 page)

“Yeah, well, it’s pretty hard when your daughter comes within a whisper of being murdered,” I tell her.

“Yes, but she wasn’t. You have to let it go and move on,” says Joselyn.

“On to what?”

“You can pour your own coffee. Cups are in the cupboard over there.” She gestures with her head. “Sugar and cream are on the table. Silverware is in the drawer. Help yourself.” She turns and sets the dish of sandwiches in the center of the table. “Napkins, I don’t know. You’ll have to use your sleeve. I forgot to put ’em on the list the last time they went for groceries.”

“The FBI does our housekeeping,” I tell Harry.

“So what’s the gig this time? Protective custody, witness protection, or are we under arrest?” He looks at me.

“It’s not entirely clear,” I tell him. “I don’t think we’re in custody. As far as I understand it, we’re just cooperating with their investigation. For the time being, they’re happy to provide security, at least while we’re here and on their terms.”

“What’s Thorpe saying?”

“He’s suggesting we stick around, at least for a while. This thing with Sarah rattled him. They squeezed Joselyn and me for information, whatever we knew. They questioned Herman as soon as he could talk. Now they’re working on Sarah.”

“They talked to her at the farm,” says Harry. “Questioned me as well. They lost interest when I told them I hadn’t seen or talked to either of you in almost a month, that I’d been hanging out on the farm in Ohio since we split from California. I couldn’t tell them anything. Didn’t even see Liquida. They trampled all over the farm looking for anything that might give them a lead. They would have grilled the Doberman but his English wasn’t that good.”

“Sarah tells me the dog saved her life,” says Joselyn.

“If he’d been just a few seconds faster, the FBI could be doing DNA on a hunk out of Liquida’s ass, I suspect,” says Harry. “She’s quite attached to him. The dog, I mean. He’s been sleeping at the bottom of her bed ever since it happened. He’s getting spoiled. Kibble and bacon bits out of her hand. I take it you met him last night?”

“Lie down with dogs, wake up with fleas,” I tell him, “but that’s one animal I’d kiss. I’m glad she has him. At least for the time being.”

“Which reminds me,” says Harry. “Where is he? You didn’t lock him in the bedroom, did you? Cuz he’ll chew the carpet off the floor. He doesn’t like to be locked in a room where he can’t see out. And he tends to get antsy when he’s separated from her.”

“Sarah took him to her meeting at the FBI office,” I tell him.

“They let her do that?” says Joselyn.

“It’s hard to say no when you have a snarling dog with his nose in your crotch,” I tell her.

We pour coffee, settle into chairs around the table, and start to eat.

“Thorpe give you any idea as to whether they have any leads on Liquida?” Harry talks with his mouth half full.

“They’re looking. But without a name or something else to track, it’s difficult. All they can do is print a sketch, put it on their website, hang it in the post office, circulate it to local law enforcement, and hope somebody calls in.”

“I would think that after the bombing near the Capitol he’s going to draw a pretty high number on their wanted list,” says Joselyn.

“Depends whether they put him on their terror list or regular most wanted list. They put him on the terror list, there’s no way he’s going to get near the top. There’s too many big names already,” I tell her.

“The last time I checked, bin Laden was still number one. And that’s going on ten years now,” says Harry. “And, of course, while they’re looking, we don’t have a life. Can’t go home cuz Liquida may be waiting for us.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve thought about it. I can’t speak for either of you, but I don’t intend to sit around growing old, waiting and hoping that somebody snags the crazy bastard before he kills me or murders my daughter.” I look at both of them. “He came within a breath of killing Herman. He’s made one attempt on Sarah’s life and murdered one of her friends.”

Liquida killed Jenny, one of Sarah’s girlfriends, after following the two of them to a club in San Diego. It was Liquida’s twisted way of sending a message that my family and I were next.

“So you think he’ll try again?” says Joselyn.

“Hell, yes,” says Harry. “Unless he dies of cancer or gets hit by a truck.”

Harry, Herman, and I had become entangled with this psychotic as a result of a case that turned out to have connections with terrorism south of the border. Ever since then Liquida has been crossing our path with the constancy of an orbiting death star, making it crystal clear that he has declared war on us even if we refuse to realize it.

“It’s cultural,” I tell her. “Liquida has his roots in the Mexican cartels. These are people to whom vengeance is a religion. Only heretics allow the flame of revenge to go out.”

“What did you do to him?” she asks.

“I don’t know. But it wouldn’t matter even if I knew. Assuming I could undo whatever it was, it would make no difference to Liquida. He has no sense of proper proportion. Look at him without genuflecting and he’ll kill your entire family, shoot your dog, and burn your house. When he’s finished, he’ll dig up your ancestors and grind their bones to dust for fertilizer. He may have gone upwardly mobile and branched out to service the international terror trade, but his instincts come from the cartels.”

“So what do we do?” says Joselyn. “Stay here? Hope the FBI will provide protection? Pray they’ll catch him?”

“For how long?” says Harry. “We’ve been through this before. Hiding out in an FBI safe house. You weren’t with us.”

“Harry’s right. And when we came out into the open, Liquida came back. He killed Jenny. While we were looking for him he was busy hunting down Sarah. He’s smart and he’s very patient. He knows sooner or later we have to surface again. He’ll simply wait. When we feel safe, when we get into the routine of life with the illusion of security, that’s when he’ll hit us. And this time we may not be so lucky.”

“I can’t disagree with your logic, but it still doesn’t answer the question of what we do,” says Joselyn.

“Simple, we find him before he finds us,” says Harry.

“Unless you have a better idea,” I tell her.

“We tried that; it didn’t work, remember? Herman very nearly got killed,” says Joselyn. “It’s too dangerous. We don’t have the resources. Look around the table. There’s three of us. None of us has a gun or, for that matter, knows how to use one. Herman was your only real backup in terms of security and he’s down. Let the FBI do it.”

“We could die of old age hiding out in this hole,” says Harry. “The FBI’s got a full plate, and Liquida probably doesn’t even show up on their list of hors d’oeuvres. We could be here for years. I’m not that patient. You want to know the truth, I’d just as soon be dead.”

“If you go after him, you probably will be,” says Joselyn.

“I don’t intend to go toe to toe with Liquida. But if I can find a lead, hand it off to Thorpe, or let the local police take him down, I’ll settle for that,” I tell them.

“Only if they lock him up at Supermax and I can swallow the key,” says Harry. “On the other hand, there’s nothing more permanent than death.”

“Listen to him,” says Joselyn. “Dirty Harry wants to kill him?”

“Why not? He wants to kill us.”

“Harry is a different kind of criminal defense lawyer,” I tell her.

“And how would you go about this?” asks Joselyn.

“Well, I wouldn’t try to take him in a knife fight, if that’s what you mean,” says Harry. “But then, this isn’t a duel, and Liquida doesn’t necessarily get to choose the weapons.”

“So what’s it to be, water pistols at twenty feet?” she asks.

“Show me where he hides his coffin and I’ll rent a cement truck, fly it through his window, and run over him in his sleep,” says Harry. “That way I can take my time driving the stake through his heart.”

“Listen to this man.” Joselyn thinks he’s joking.

The fact is, Harry is one of the few people I know whose capacity to kill I would never question, not if the motivation was sufficient. And knowing Harry, he wouldn’t lose a lot of sleep after he did it.

Harry has what you call a hair trigger. Some might call it an anger management problem. Rub him the wrong way and there’s no way of telling what might come out of the barrel. More than once I have had to pull him off someone before he did serious damage. I have seen Harry kick the crap out of drunks in bars who got in his face thinking it might be fun to push the guy in the rumpled suit with the bow tie. He once pounded the shit out of a client using a casebook off his shelf when the guy started slapping his wife around in Harry’s office. The fact that the man was there on a manslaughter rap didn’t even enter the equation. Not to Harry. It was all in a day’s work.

It’s not that Harry brawls. But if you push his button, he can go crazy all over you. His victims are often stunned and defenseless in the same way you might be if you stepped on a pit viper you thought was a common variety garden snake.

In a crowded room Harry is the guy you never notice, the one holding the smoking gun.

If I got a phone call in the middle of the night telling me that my partner was in the clink on a homicide charge, it wouldn’t exactly shatter my image of who Harry is.

“Fine, now that we know how we’re going to kill him,” says Joselyn, “how do we find him? What about that address in Thailand?” She looks at me.

“What address?” says Harry.

“Herman and I found a notepad in a hotel room in Puerto Rico when we were trying to track down Thorn. You remember, Liquida’s client in the D.C. bombing.”

“Yeah?”

“The note was from an impression left on the inside cover of a notepad. It mentioned something called ‘Waters of Death’ with an address in Thailand. It was something Thorn had jotted down. To me it looked like a contact address for Liquida.”

“Was it?” says Harry.

“We don’t know. I turned the information over to Thorpe. He had two of his agents from the U.S. Embassy in Bangkok check it out. A few days later he told me they struck out. The address was for an office in a place called Pattaya. Thorpe told me his people found the office, but it was locked up and dark. There was nobody inside. There was nothing on the door or anywhere else in the building with the name ‘Waters of Death.’ ”

“Maybe they got the address wrong,” says Joselyn.

“No, according to Thorpe it was the right address. The one on the note. It even had the suite number. They had the local police check with the landlord. The office was on a year-to-year lease. The tenant was a Thai businessman. The local authorities told the FBI agents that the guy had no apparent criminal history. The cops found him, and the agents talked to him. The man told them that he used the office only to store business records. He said he never heard of anything called Waters of Death. He had no idea what it was.”

“He could have been lying,” says Harry.

“Chances are, if he had dealings with Liquida, it would have been under a different name,” I tell them, “an alias.”

“God knows he’s used a few of those,” says Harry. “All of his banking records here were under aliases, remember?”

“And, of course, they couldn’t show him a picture of Liquida,” said Joselyn. “The FBI was still working on that.”

“You’re right.”

“Do you know, did the agents actually get inside the office to look around?” says Harry. “Any kind of a search of the premises?”

“I asked Thorpe. He said he didn’t know, but that it was difficult sometimes to get local authorities to go along with a search unless there were formal documents.”

“What does that mean?” says Harry.

“He didn’t say. I’m assuming maybe a search warrant from a judge in the States, an affidavit, maybe something from the State Department by way of an official request.”

“Or maybe crossing the palm of the local cops with some coin,” says Harry. “But whatever it takes, it sounds like they didn’t do it. So the fact is, they don’t know any more about what’s in that office than we do.”

“It sounds like all they know is what the tenant told them,” I say. “Thorpe told me he’d have his people at the embassy keep an eye on the place. No round-the-clock surveillance—they don’t have the manpower over there—but they’d check back in a while. I looked on Google Earth. It’s a long way between the embassy in Bangkok and Pattaya. I’m guessing maybe two hours by car; that’s if the highway is good.”

“We know what that means,” says Harry.

“They think it’s a dead end,” I tell him.

“And they’re not likely to waste their time,” he says.

“No.”

“Do we have anything else?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“So it looks like we either sit tight right here . . .”

“We’re not going to waste a lot of money, take a chance, and fly off to Thailand?” says Joselyn.

“No, we’re not. I was thinking more along the lines of Harry and me,” I tell her. “Somebody has to stay here with Sarah.”

“Don’t look at me,” she says. “Besides, Harry already has experience in that field.”

“And you saw how much good it did,” says Harry.