Thirty-Seven —
Bringing in the Feds

DEA Agent Hank Miles walked into Duncan’s office a few days after Blanche woke up. He held a pile of notebooks, some of which belonged to Blanche. Duncan had shared some of the information, and Blanche was only too happy to get it out there to the authorities.

“The lady has a way with words,” he said, looking up at Duncan. “We can identify the driver pretty well with this description. Did you get the prints back?”

“Not yet.”

“I need to talk with her about the kidnapping,” said Miles. He scratched his red beard and ran a hand through his straight black hair. They called him “Red” when his temper flared, which was not often. So far he’d been taking on this new assignment, cool and collected.

“Blanche just woke up a few days ago out of that near coma. The scumbags drugged her, dumped her on an old cattle ranch. It’s a damn miracle we got her back.”

“Whew. You can bet on that. I know the place. We’ve uncovered a number of bodies out there, and when the animals get through with them…”

“All right, all right.” Duncan didn’t want the details. “You said you wanted to talk to Haasi? You’ll just have to be patient. I can’t get hold of her, but she’ll show up.”

She didn’t have a phone. But she must have heard the call because there she was, standing in the doorway. She wore a bright yellow beaded shirt and a long braid neatly circled her head like a crown. Her sudden appearance startled the two men. Her eyes focused on them.

“I saw you arrive,” she said to Miles. “I thought I would give you a moment with the chief.” She walked in and sat in an armchair, crossing her legs that barely touched the floor.

Miles got up out of his slouch and shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you. Thanks for coming in. Let’s talk.” And Haasi did.

I

The driver as yet had not been apprehended, but every law enforcement agency had him on the blotter. He was not traced to the license number, but a witness had come forward, under a certain amount of pressure from the chief of Bonnam County and the Feds, and matched certain details of the van and the man to one Caribbean career criminal, a Dominique Placer, whose last name was Spanish for “pleasure.” There was nothing pleasurable in Placer’s background. A native of the Dominican Republic, of mixed French, Spanish and German extraction, Placer had somehow gotten himself into the USA and obtained citizenship. He moved to Chicago in his early twenties and involved himself with a remnant of the Chicago mob, a semi-extinct bunch of racketeers who had mostly been sent up under RICO—the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. He was the quintessential go-to for any crime on the agenda and would do anything for money. That meant killing, kidnapping, and confiscating that which did not belong to him. He was also tied up with drug smuggling, and that was one of the reasons Hank Miles had come to see Aloysius Duncan.

He and Miles sauntered over to Peaches. Duncan once more tried to digest an omelet he had a weakness for, and Miles made three blueberry-nut muffins disappear.

“We’ve got a couple of threads going here,” said Duncan. “The killing, the kidnapping. And this drug business. Like a constant thorn in my shoe.” The two sat back and looked at each other. “Lord, where did we go wrong.”

“I don’t think we is the operative word. We didn’t do this, but we will figure it out.” Miles finished off the crumbs.

“Bob’s favorite,” the chief added, stacking the litter of muffin wrappers. Peaches kept her eye on the handsome agent. She’d filled his coffee cup several times and brought him a cranberry-date muffin on the house, to top it all.

“Well, he had good taste.” Then Miles frowned. “We need to get this sorted out, Dunc. A good place to start is with this hit man. He’s going to open up a lot of doors if we can get him to open his mouth.”

“Yeah. Well, first we have to find him.”

“We’re on it.”

“What have you got planned down here?”

“A bust. We’ll get into it later. We’ve already got agents in the field who are putting it together. But it’s a big one. This one reaches from Honduras to San Antonio and up to Chicago. But the net is bigger. Jack Murninghan really stepped in it.”

The omelet burned. Duncan popped a Tums and shook his head. “Jack. What do you know?”

“That trucking business. He went in full bore and didn’t look where he was going, as far as we can tell. But now he’s helping us out.”

They got up and meandered back to the office. The two had known each other for years, and along with the talk of the criminals, they always got back to fishing stories and football. They liked each other even though they were supposed to be frictional counterparts, working in different fields of law. Miles hadn’t had any official business on the island until now.

“Think there’s any relation to the Conchita Beach drops?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Miles.

They walked across the parking lot to the police department, which was no more than a squat white cinder block building on a canal near the marina. Emma had planted bougainvillea at the door and vinca and butterfly bushes under the windows, and the station had the cheery aspect of a fat lady all dressed up. Duncan called it home, at least ten hours a day lately. He opened the door for Miles.

“What I still don’t get is why you call yourself the Drug Enforcement Administration. Are you administering the enforcement of drugs?”

Miles did not take the bait. “Ha Ha. That’s funny, Al.”

Duncan fell into his chair and put his elbows on the desk. “I don’t like this business. I hope you’re here until we sort this out.”

“I am. And we will. Believe me.”

Miles put his feet on an upended wastebasket and balanced a large coffee cup on his taut stomach. He played the air guitar while he considered the Santa Maria situation. If given a real guitar, police business would have sounded a lot better. He’d been accused of stealing the ghost of Robert Johnson, a soubriquet that Miles both appreciated and feared. It was hard to walk in another man’s shoes, and sometimes it was a good idea. It was one of the reasons Miles was such a good DEA agent. He was skeptical and intuitive—with a good streak of empathy and humility. He was “down to earth,” according to his friend, Duncan.

“Jack Murninghan is next on the agenda.” Miles poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip. He made a face at the bitter taste. “Dunc, why can’t you make a decent cup of coffee?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Duncan ignored the remark about the coffee. He’d drink battery acid if it were presented in a foam cup. He pointed his finger at Miles. “Go talk to him.”

“We need your help.”

“Of course you do.”

“I want to call him in, but I wanted to talk to you first. A courtesy, if you will. That trucking business he got himself tied into. They’re into transportation for sure. Transporting heroin and cocaine, and we’re not talking only Latin American gangs here and their willing customers in the US. The bigger picture is world-wide. From Afghanistan to Paris. We can’t stop it, but we can slow it down, chuck a hole in it.”

“Bring him in. We’ll sit down.”

“We also need to talk with the women, Blanche and Haasi. They had first-hand contact with some of these goons. Haasi’s been helpful, but it’s Blanche I want to talk to.”

“For now, check out Blanche’s notes. They’ve gotten us closer to Placer. Haasi is something of a bird. I never know where she’s going to land, and when she does, look out. She has some uncanny insights and ways of finding out information.”

“That’s what I hear. Her info about this Sergi character is valuable. Let’s also talk to Blanche. And Jack. He’s the one with the trucks.”