Ruby awoke with her head resting on the warmth of Rafe’s shoulder and an arm thrown across his chest. She had set her internal alarm clock for eight o’clock, and the clock radio on Rafe’s headboard told her that at least that system was working. She was feeling some doubt about her other instincts. She smiled, feeling her right arm and breast rise and fall with every breath Rafe took. She did not think of him the way she knew she should think of a professional criminal, or at best a man in league with one. Worse, she was poised to trust him to support her against a group of terrorists who held life as cheap and, she suspected, already saw her as the enemy.
“Oh well,” she murmured to herself, “faint heart never won shit.” She nudged Rafe awake. Eyes still closed, he turned his head and kissed her forehead and hugged her to himself. Then his eyes opened and his brow knit, as if he had first remembered their warm loving from the night before, and only afterward remembered the conversation that led up to it.
“Is it time?”
“Yeah,” Ruby said. “Let’s go find out what your friends have sent you.”
After a final hug, they slipped out from between the covers. They both dressed, Ruby wishing she had shorts or jeans instead of the dress she wore the day before. Of course there were things she wanted a lot more.
“Rafe, baby, do you have a piece around here?” Ruby asked as they tiptoed out of the room. Rafe shook his head and seemed to silently laugh at himself. No, Ruby thought, he really wasn’t a criminal. In fact, that was probably the kind of thing he came to the USA to get away from. He had traded the AK spray down for the smooth, uptown kind of operation that would distance him from crime. If he broke the law, it was the kind of crime that was only a small step down from the white-collar variety. He had turned out to be exactly what the Shining Path needed, a smuggler who never wanted to touch the merchandise.
At the top of the stairs Ruby motioned to Rafe to stop. Frozen in place, she sent her senses out into the silence, searching for any hint of a movement, a sound, or even an errant scent. Convinced that the house was still asleep, she motioned him forward again
Ruby stopped again at the basement door to listen for movement. Again confident that only she and Rafe were awake, she headed down the stairs. With the door closed behind him, Rafe turned on the light. Then he watched with something close to disbelief when Ruby opened the furnace room door.
“How did you know it was in here?”
“Because, sugar, I looked everywhere else first.” With that, she pulled the duct loose again and reached inside. She carried the small plastic bag into the larger room and laid it on the pool table.
“Sure looks like cocaine,” Rafe said after a moment. “What makes you think it’s not?”
“How would you check it?” Ruby countered.
“The usual way.” Rafe poked a hole in the back with his index finger and brought out what would cling to his finger and nail. “Well, it’s not a crystal, and not white enough to be cocaine. Could still be heroin, but if it is, it’s the finest powder I’ve ever seen smack come in.” Then he rubbed his finger on his gums under his upper lip, and wiped the back of his fingernail on his tongue. He paused as if waiting for something, finally just shrugging his shoulders.
“No freeze?” Ruby asked.
“Nothing, Chica. I don’t know what this powder is, but it didn’t come from any coca plant. And if it was an amphetamine I’d feel something by now.”
Ruby grinned. “Well, your pupils ain’t dilated or anything, so I’m thinking it’s no kind of hallucinogen either. So the question is, what the hell is it, and why do these guys want you to sneak it into country?”
A voice from behind and above Rafe said, “There was no reason for him to know, or his halfwit brother for that matter, as long as he was well paid.”
Ruby looked up to see de La Fuente stepping down the stairs. His gold tooth glinted in the midst of an evil smile.
“Well ain’t this a bitch?” Ruby said. She didn’t have a gun. Rafe didn’t have a gun. But this clown, less than twenty-four hours in the country, he had a fistful of Glock to point at them.
“Where’d you get that?” she asked loudly in her high-pitched squeal.
“Hector is a better host than Rafael here,” de La Fuente said. “We can discuss it further after we get you and your friend upstairs,”
Rafe stepped in front of Ruby. “I’m not sure I’m in such a hurry to go up there until I know what’s going on.”
“Well you should be in a hurry,” de La Fuente said from the base of the stairs. “Especially since you’ve just committed suicide unless we see to you immediately.”
Sunlight flooded Irv Jerome’s Park Avenue office as it did most days, and he adjusted his chair to keep it out of his eyes. He was scrawling on a legal pad. As usual, his designer coffee sat at his right hand, his bagel at his left. His custom made shirtsleeves were rolled up to mid-forearm, his suit coat hanging behind his office door. He was so focused that he hardly noticed the sound of the main door to his office suite open.
“Good morning, Minerva,” Jerome called. “You’re awfully early today.”
“Actually, I think we’re right on time.”
Jerome looked up to find the big black man who had driven Linda away after that unfortunate business in Greenwich Village. He strode across the floor in front of Jerome’s desk, not bothering to remove his coat or gloves. His partner, the big cowboy, remained at the door. He was grinning, with a toothpick in his mouth, which might be why he didn’t seem as scary as the black guy. But Jerome had made a career of never showing his fear. Instead, he looked from Stone’s shiny black shoes up to his short crinkly hair and poked his lips out as he appraised his visitor. He gave a slow nod.
“On balance, I’d say you must be the one they call Stone. What can I do for you?”
“We figured we’d stop by to explain to you what your options are right now,” Stone said in his sepulchral voice. “You see, we know your entire operation now. We can see to it that you do some serious jail time, counselor, if you don’t cooperate with us.”
Jacob smiled, despite the fact that the roof of his mouth had suddenly turned to sandpaper. He stared into Stone’s hard eyes and said, “What, am I supposed to be scared of you? You’re not the police.”
Instead of answering, Stone stepped closer to Jerome’s desk. He reached forward, sliding the fingers of his right hand down the front of Jerome’s shirt collar. He made a fist and twisted his hand, tightening the collar so that Jerome could not breathe. Even with both hands locked around Stone’s fist, he was not able to ease the pressure one bit.
“We are not the police,” Stone said slowly. “That is exactly why you should fear us. We go beyond the boys in blue.”
Jerome struggled for breath, knowing on some level that the greater danger was the pressure on his jugular and carotid, the major vein and artery that, at that moment were not carrying blood to or away from his brain. He could feel the veil of gray lowering over his consciousness. Just before his eyes rolled up into his head, he heard the cowboy at the door say, “You scared yet?”
Jerome nodded, and suddenly the pressure was gone. He gasped a couple of times, opening his top button and pulling his tie down a couple of inches.
“So, now we understand each other,” Stone continued as if nothing had happened.
“I…I think we can work something out,” Jerome said. The sandpaper lining had moved down his throat.
“Good,” Stone said. He walked to the side window, leaning against it, making Jerome squint into the sun to see him. “Consider first, option one. We take what we have to the police. They arrest you for racketeering, falsifying evidence, conspiracy to commit perjury, and any number of other little things that an officer of the court just ought not do. To avoid major punishment, you admit your ties to a number of criminals. We have the records and have decoded them, but your confession would drive the final nail into their defense.”
Jerome sipped his coffee, burning his mouth and not caring. “Assuming you’re not Robin Hood and he’s not The Saint, we can agree that that’s an ugly set of circumstances to consider.”
“Enter option two,” Steele said, stepping into the room. When he put his hands in his hip pockets it pulled his jacket back, flashing the handle of his Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum. “In this scenario, you tell us the name of the contact person at each of the businesses you’re so cozy with. We explain the new vision of the world to them, and they share their ill-gotten gains with us. They get protection from the information you so carelessly let us have, and you continue your business setup. Everybody’s happy.”
“Look, buddy, I don’t even know the names in most of those cases.” This Steele was easier to talk to, so Jerome focused on him.
“Come on,” Steele smiled. “Take D’Elia’s Cartage. You give me the man you work with over there, and your contact at Hercules Trash removal, and the people at the Fidelity Pawn Shop chain. We’ll take it from there. And you stay out of jail.”
“You don’t know these people,” Jerome said. “They’re where they are because they’re cold-blooded killers. As scary as you guys are, I’m more afraid of that crew. And if you want to give my ledgers to the police, you go ahead.”
“You’d go to jail,” Mason said.
“I’ll take my chances in a court of law. Besides, you know what I’ve got on the police in this town. If I go down, I’ll take a lot of them with me.
Stone looked at Steele and gave a shallow nod. Steele smiled and to Jerome’s surprise, drew his gun from its holster. Jerome pressed himself backward into his chair. Steele took one long step forward and pressed the muzzle of his gun against Jerome’s chest. Jerome’s eyes went from the big gun, up Steele’s arm to his big white teeth. The teeth were on display, but it was no more a smile than a German Shepherd gives when he shows his teeth.
“Look here, dickhead. My partner, he’s all about the money. Me, I’m all about the cops. We won’t kill you for the money, but you get one more cop jacked up with faked evidence or a bullshit charge and I will put a hole in your chest where your heart ought to be. The police won’t mean shit to me, the mobsters won’t mean shit to me. I’ll just hunt you down and take you out. Do you believe that?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Yes!” Jerome said, louder. His breath was shallow, and the pressure against his chest seemed to be squeezing perspiration out of his forehead. Steele paused a moment for emphasis, then eased the long barrel back and slid it into the holster under his arm.
“By the way, how are the three stooges?”
It took Jerome a second to make the transition. “Oh, you mean the boys. Just bruises and bumps, and one broken arm between them.”
“That’s good,” Stone said, passing behind Steele to leave. “If we see them again, they’ll have to die.”
“But that shouldn’t be a problem, now should it?” Steele asked, also turning to go. “You don’t need bully boys anymore, because you’re out of the organized crime protection business, right?”
Jerome nodded again, and slumped back into his chair when they were gone. He was drained and not certain what he would do next. He reached for the telephone but stopped before lifting the receiver. Warning any of his clients could sound like threatening to them, like a subtle warning of what he could do to hurt them. Besides, these two were dangerous and hard men, but they were out there alone. They might go out on a limb to protect a stray, like his ex-receptionist, but they’d never have the stones to go up against any of the organizations he worked for.
Jerome was already regaining his cockiness, but he would have to wait a few more seconds before his hand was steady enough to pick up his coffee.
Once on the street, Steele turned up Fifth Avenue, leading Stone toward his SUV.
“So, what do you think?”
“He’s not stopping,” Stone said. “I could see it in his eyes. In an hour he’ll be back to thinking he’s invincible.”
“It was worth a shot,” Steele said, unlocking the doors of the Hyundai, “but some guys are too stupid to take a hint. So now what?”
“Now we go to plan B,” Stone said as he settled into the passenger seat.
“Wait a minute. Your plan B or my plan B?”
“Aw, your plan B sucks,” Stone said.
Steele grinned. “Sherry liked it.”
“Sherry’s not a cop. That’s why it’ll be my plan B, which means we need to visit that friend of yours at the radio station. Then I need a lift to the body shop to see if they’re going to be able to save my poor old Grand Am.”
“Sure thing,” Steele said, pulling out into the morning traffic. He drove without speaking for the better part of a block. Just when Mason thought he might stay quiet, he said, “You know, we could try them both. Mine first and if it doesn’t work, we’ve still got yours.”
Mason considered this long enough for Steele to yell at the woman in front of him who caused him to get stuck behind the same red light twice. “I suppose we could try it that way, since you’re dealing with all the frustration of driving for both of us for a couple of days.”
Stone slammed on the brakes again, barely avoiding the same woman’s bumper and jerked his SUV around a corner to get away from her. “You know, I hate to step out of character or anything, but considering both these ideas will require us to sort of wander off the reservation a bit, do you think we ought to call in?”
“No point,” Stone replied. “When I talked to Gorman last night I found out there won’t be anybody in the office this morning.”
New York, like most major cities, is dotted with police stations and precinct houses where the business of law enforcement takes place. The locations are open to the public because citizens need to know where to go or call for assistance. The people who protect and serve work out of these centers.
The city also maintains a number of administrative sites. These are offices like any others where the administrative side of law enforcement is done. These locations are less public, generally known only to government officials and selected officers of the courts. The people who work there keep the machinery running that allows the real police work to get done.
Finally, there are a few locations maintained by the New York police that are neither known nor open to the public. These are the places from which special task forces operate. Control units direct undercover operations from these sites. In order to conduct their business with reasonable security, these operations are often conducted out of apartment buildings or, in some cases, residential homes. A very small number of workers come and go on a daily basis, often through concealed entrances. Rarely does anyone actually walk up to the front door.
It was at exactly one such residence on a quiet street in Brooklyn that Paul Gorman walked up and rang the doorbell at one minute after nine on Monday morning. The lawn was well kept, the hedges trimmed to mechanical precision, and the small flowerbeds obsessively weeded.
Paul had tried harder than usual to tame his lion’s mane of thick black hair this morning, but the autumn wind had brought it back to life during his walk from the bus stop. His heavy houndstooth overcoat should have taken him out of the salesman class. His well-shined black shoes were solid, not flashy, as was the style. His big hands, neither in gloves nor in his pockets, might hint at a military background.
Could the observer see the frustration in the creases of his face? Gorman had gotten up early that morning and left the house before his beloved Patsy even stirred. He chose to ride the bus so that he could work undisturbed. Work in this case meant pencil work on a yellow pad, continually reconfiguring the snippets of data he had gathered from his agents in the previous forty-eight hours. He was not liking the configuration of the cases they were running. Most importantly, he didn’t like the fact that all of them seemed to be coming to a head on the same day. He wanted to coordinate his resources better, perhaps defuse some and delay others, so that the cases could be wound up in a more orderly manner. Sadly, the world was rarely as orderly as Paul Gorman thought it should be. That was why he had walked the neighborhood for nearly thirty minutes, pushing people around in his head like the multicolored squares on a Rubik’s Cube until a pattern emerged that he could live with.
Gorman allowed one minute to pass after ringing the bell, then pressed the button again. Nearly a minute later he heard a chain slide out of its place, and two bolts getting thrown. A young blond woman in jeans and a halter top opened the door and smiled up at him.
“Can I help you?”
“They let you come to work like that?” Gorman asked. “Oh, of course they do. Paul Gorman to see Mr. - or is it Captain? - Victor Warner.”
“Gee, I’m sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong address,” the woman said. “I’m just the babysitter, but this is the Winters residence.”
“Uh-huh. Look, you’d be better calling yourself the au pair in this neighborhood. Go tell Warner that I’m here about Lorenzo Lucania, and that my next stop is the mayor’s office. Make sure he gets my name too, okay? Paul Gorman.”
“I think you’d better go, Mister,” the girl said, affecting a passable degree of discomfort. She closed the door and Gorman waited. He waited two long minutes and was just contemplating the long bus ride to City Hall when the door opened again. The man in the doorway had a great hawk nose and small, dangerous eyes. He reminded Gorman of the picture on the front of old paperback novels of The Shadow except that, instead of a black mantle he wore a gray wool suit cut sharp as a razor. After a few seconds of appraisal he flashed a shark’s grin.
“You’re him?” he asked in an old school Brooklyn accent.
“I’m me,” Gorman said. “Presumably, you are you, and would be Mr. Victor Warner. Or…”
“Captain,” Warner said. “But you can call me Vic.”
“Then I’ll be Paul. May I come in?”
Warner waved Gorman into a medium sized living room that was furnished for comfort and showed signs of being dusted and vacuumed every day. Warner stepped past him and headed for the kitchen.
“The operation is downstairs. You want coffee?”
Gorman nodded, and Warner poured into two big black mugs. His assumption that Gorman wanted no cream or sugar implied either great confidence in his own judgment or deep research into Gorman’s habits. The coffee was strong and hot and Gorman was content to learn more about Warner’s motivations later.
They proceeded down a narrow flight of stairs to what the people there probably called the nerve center when they spoke to less elite officers. The large finished basement had been divided up into a prairie dog city of cubicles. The hum of electronics and the banks of flashing lights and screens made Gorman wonder if he was at risk from the massive electromagnetic field that this place must generate. He had visited NASA once, and this place rivaled anything he saw there. It made him realize just how low tech his own operation remained.
“People!” Warner called out, and a dozen faces spun to focus on him. “I know you’re all working hard, but I wanted you to know that you’re in the presence of a legend. This is Paul Gorman. After a brilliant Army career in the military police he retired and created a second brilliant career in civilian law enforcement. He ran at least three major metropolitan police forces and was consulted by just about every police chief or commissioner in the country. And today…” Warner stopped and turned to Gorman as if he expected him to address the group of younger officers. Instead he spoke directly to Warner.
“Today I’m a private consultant, and manage a local detective agency. Guess that makes me semi-retired,” he said with a self-deprecating smile.
“Yes, well we are humbled by your presence,” Warner said, razor wire smile in place. “Please join me in my office.” Warner turned and marched up the stairs. Gorman nodded to the group and followed.
Three bedrooms and a bathroom filled the second floor of the house. The master bedroom had been converted into Warner’s office, which provided enough space for a large desk, two chairs, a bench and a row of filing cabinets that Gorman would have thought unnecessary in this electronic age. Either Warner, like Gorman, had trouble letting go of the old ways, or he was a fanatic who needed double redundancy to feel comfortable. This time, Gorman was pretty sure which it was.
Warner parked in his big wooden rolling chair and clasped his hands on the desk. The posture reminded Gorman of a vulture bending over a tree limb, watching his prey walk into range. Gorman settled into a chair directly in front of him. He noticed that his chair was lower than Warner’s, forcing Gorman to look up.
“So, what does the legend want with me?”
Gorman hoped Warner didn’t think he was the first arrogant asshole Gorman ever had to deal with. Gorman kept his soft smile in place and stepped confidently into range.
“You embarrass me, Vic. I’m not here as a legend, for God’s sake, but as a friend of the force who might be able to help a little.”
“I see,” Warner said. “And just what is it that I might need help with?”
“Through an odd set of coincidences, my people have encountered one of your people in one of our investigations. Lorenzo Lucania. As I understand it, a good man in a tough spot.”
“He’s up to the challenge,” Warner said. “Trained him myself.”
Of course, Gorman thought. People close to the edge sometimes reveal more than they might be expected to. “It has come to my attention that Lucania has been under for you for six years. I’ll bet you don’t drive the same car that long.”
“Tell me, Paul, why didn’t you ever go into politics?”
“That lifestyle just didn’t appeal to me. Now, about Lucania?”
Was it any of this clown’s business that Gorman had refused the Republicans’ overtures because he was busy trying to salvage his failing first marriage? It was a cruel irony that the woman died just when they were on the verge of reconciliation.
“How long an operative on this task force stays in place is my decision,” Warner said, maintaining a fierce eye contact.
Gorman sipped his coffee and listened to the ceiling fan spin for a moment before responding. “You’re right of course. It’s your call. And that decision can be influenced by a number of factors, especially if you’ve got a man who’s getting very close to the target of a really important investigation. But ultimately, the case can’t become more important than the man, can it?”
“You think Lucania’s at risk of flipping?”
“I’m just a concerned citizen,” Paul said. “You’ve got to agree that six years is, well, a little unusual.”
“It’s an unusually good chance to bring down a major crime family,” Warner countered.
“I’m sure, but I think we’d both hate to see a good officer cross the line and find he can’t get back.”
Warner sat up straighter and squared his shoulders. He unfolded his hands and placed his palms flat on the desk. If this were the Old West, Gorman would expect Warner to go for his gun right about….now.
“Now, you listen to me, Paul,” Warner began. “I know all about Beyond Blue Investigations. I know most cops don’t unless they’ve been a client of yours, but my people talk to me and I keep my ear to the ground. I figure the only way you can know about Lucania is if he sent up a cry for help. See, you represent a dangerous thing here. A lifeline people can reach for. Now, Lucania’s a little nervous so he calls out. When he sees that he can’t just walk off the case, he’ll buckle down and get the job done.”
It was time for Gorman’s nonsequitor. “This is the career maker, isn’t it, Vic?”
“This is an important potential breakthrough for the City of New York.”
“This is the one that can get the mayor’s attention,” Gorman said, standing and placing his coffee on Warner’s desk. “This is the one that will propel you into the political arena, and you’ll walk on a good man’s grave if necessary to get there.”
Warner also stood, and the two men faced each other, both with their hands on the desk.
“I will not have some has-been coming in here telling me how to run an operation I’ve been heading up for seven successful years.”
“I will not see a good cop destroyed by your blind ambition. You find a way to bring Lucania in today, before you lose control.” Gorman backed off a step, giving Warner room to make the decision on his own. Warner maintained his position.
“Thank you for stopping by, but I believe this interview is over. Good day, Mister Gorman.”
Dr. Benson heard his receptionist squeal in protest just before the Asian woman burst into his Park Avenue office. He had been going over his notes in preparation for his nine-thirty appointment. Now he had some petty functionary shoving a badge into his face and demanding information.
“I’m quite busy here, but tell me how I can help Miss…”
“Kwan,” the girl said. “Detective Kwan.” The girl was small, the way Japanese women are, and the suit she was wearing seemed more appropriate to a secretary than a police detective. Her long black hair carried blonde streaks, or perhaps they would be called highlights. Her hips were narrow but her bust seemed unusually large, at least by Eastern standards. Large, thick glasses dominated her face, and they magnified her bright green eyes to twice their actual size.
“Just a few routine questions,” the woman said. She spoke in that accent that Benson associated with waitresses in Chinatown. She stood before his desk in an aggressive manner he found most annoying. Benson maintained his seat.
“Yes, well I always like to cooperate with the police,” Benson said, lying through a smile. “Could you be more specific?”
“You want specific?” the woman said in a thin voice. “Here’s specific. You have a patient named Amy Brooks. What can you tell me about her?”
“What can I tell you? Well, I have her file right here.” Benson riffed through a half-dozen folders on his desk. He flipped one open. He brushed his stringy brown hair out of his eyes to read.
“Well, she’s fourteen years old and lives in Bensonhurst with both her parents. She’s an A and B student in the public school and does not represent any risk to society.” Benson looked up with a saccharine smile. “And that, detective, is all I can tell you. As someone must have told you during your training, psychiatric records are like any other medical records. Confidential.”
“Of course they are,” the woman said, removing her glasses and sitting them on Benson’s desk. “I was hoping, however, that there might be something in there about her father. He is not your patient and therefore, you might share anything you’ve learned about any unusual habits.”
Benson considered the woman squinting at him across the desk. If he played this just right, it just might promote the situation he was being paid to present. He drummed his fingers on his desk for just a moment.
“I’m not sure what I can tell you, detective,” Benson said. “However, let’s take a look.”
Benson had one eye on his wall clock as he slowly turned the pages in the folder, his brow furrowed as if he was looking for something. The woman sat patiently, making it clear that she understood her place. She was being good. He would throw her a bone. Just short of the last page of the file he stabbed his finger at a random paragraph.
“There is something here you might be concerned about. Have you heard anything about the father’s relationship with Amy?”
“Nothing definite,” the girl said. “But you should know that I’m with internal affairs and we are looking closely at Officer Brooks. Right now we have nothing but rumors and implications. Can you give me anything more?”
Benson was almost trembling with inner tension. If he did this just right, he might be able to avoid having to testify on the witness stand, which would allow him to bypass the necessity to perjure himself. He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts.
“Detective Kwan, all I have is the word of the little girl I’m treating, and those words are confidential. However, I believe that if you were to interview her mother, you would find that she has her own fears. There is good reason to believe that Officer Brooks has touched Amy in inappropriate ways.”
“You mean, in places a father doesn’t touch a daughter?”
“Exactly,” Benson said. “Do you think you can do something about that, without my having to take action?”
“Perhaps.” The girl stood up, returning her glasses to her face. “I want to thank you, Dr. Benson. You have been a big help. When we’ve analyzed this information I’ll get back to you.”
The Japanese woman left the psychiatrist’s office without a backward glance, and suspected that Dr. Benson had forgotten her as soon as she was out of his sight. Each step she took was driven with a little more force. By the time she reached the sidewalk she was seething with rage. She stalked to her car with lips tightly pressed together. She unlocked her car with the remote key signal, but just before she slid into her powder blue Mazda MX-5 she unbuttoned her business suit, pulled the foam enhancer out of her shirt and tossed into the back seat. As soon as she was comfortable, Chastity Chiba sat her glasses on the passenger seat and dropped her green contact lenses into their little case.
She knew that Benson would walk right past her if he saw her on the street. After all, to most whites, all Asian women looked alike. Even if they didn’t, she knew what men remembered most about a woman. This fool would look right at her and never see the big-chested, green-eyed, bespectacled policewoman who sat in his office.
Damn, she wished she could have just slapped that evil bastard upside his pointy little head. But she needed to follow the steps in the right order, and now she felt she had the ammunition to take down Francine Brooks’ evil house of cards. The camera in her eyeglass frames should have captured just about everything in Amy’s file. Combining those images with the shrink’s recorded words should be enough to convince anyone that any child molestation charge against Alex Brooks was a fabrication. Of course, she couldn’t be sure just yet. She needed to see the images the tiny camera had captured. Then she could confront Francine and try to make her see reason. But first she would wash those stupid highlights out of her hair.
“What do you mean, suicide?” Ruby Sanchez screamed in her high squeal. “What kind of poison you had my man’s halfwit brother bringing up in here?”
“Watch your mouth, bitch,” Hector said.
No one else spoke. She knew there would be no answer forthcoming from the three fake Colombians in front of her. They had directed her and Rafe to one end of the big living room while they stood with Hector a dozen feet away. One man held his Glock pointed at Rafe, while another aimed at Ruby’s stomach. Did that mean they recognized her as the greater danger? No, more likely they thought that anger might drive Rafe to risk his own life, but that he would not do anything that might get her shot.
Her shouted question had not been meant for them, but for their leader who had left the room. But since it seemed there would be no answer from that direction, she turned to Hector instead.
“These guys are friends of yours?”
Hector snarled at her and stomped out of the room. Rafe looked like a man in shock. Or maybe he looked like a man who knew he might die soon. She understood the feeling. The score stood three guns to nothing and they were not about to let her out of their sight so she could find anything that might serve as a weapon. The carpet was warm and soft beneath her bare feet, but it did not stop the chill rolling down her spine.
When Hector returned, he was trailing de La Fuente, who carried a small case about the size of the first aid kit in Ruby’s glove compartment. He continued to smile, in contrast to the grim look on the faces of his followers. It sure felt like he wanted to talk. Maybe she needed to change the question.
“So, where’d you get the guns?” Ruby asked in a calmer voice. “You sure as hell didn’t bring them into the country with you. Even a Glock has too much steel in the barrel to get past the metal detectors.”
de La Fuente dropped the little case on the coffee table. “Oh, no, I would never try to travel with a firearm. Luckily, Hector is a good host. These were given to us by some friends of mine he has been in contact with, friends who were already here in the United States. They arrived not long after you two went to bed. I didn’t see any reason to disturb you.”
“Uh-huh. And where are these friends now?”
“Oh, they stayed outside,” de La Fuente said, opening the case. From it he drew a small syringe and a medicine bottle. “I thought it wise, just in case you decided to try to leave the house with any of our secrets.”
“Gee, how many friends do you have around here?” Ruby asked.
“Enough,” was all de La Fuente would tell her. He drove the needle into the top of the bottle and tipped it to fill the body of the needle. “Now Rafael, I need you to come over here.”
“Not until you tell me what this is all about, and what that stuff was I stuck in my mouth.”
“Suit yourself,” de La Fuente said. “Up to this point, your little brother here has been accepting, and shipping, parcels of the cocaine that fuels our movement and funds our activities. We had to be sure you had a workable distribution system before sending our real cargo.”
“Which is?” Ruby asked.
de La Fuente laughed even as his three gunmen remained silent. “You are persistently curious, my girl. You know what that did for the cat, don’t you? But since Hector has asked that we keep Rafael with us for a while I will tell you that the powder in the bags downstairs contains a dense population of weaponized anthrax spores. The trick, you see, is to get them to be negatively charged so that they will float on the air as they do, instead of sitting like an inert clump.”
“Wait a minute. Rafe’s going to have anthrax? People die from that shit!” Ruby’s fingers formed claws and if not for the gunmen it was obvious that she would have tried to take de La Fuente’s eyes out.
“You needn’t be so concerned,” de La Fuente said. “His total exposure was not that great. A course of antibiotics will be enough to help his body resist the disease. Which is why he needs this shot right away.”
Ruby swallowed her anger, turned to Rafe and snapped her head toward de La Fuente. After a moment of reluctance he leaned forward to kiss Ruby quickly and walked to the other side of the room.
“So what’s the plan?” Ruby asked. “You going to mail a bunch of letters to politicians again? Or, wait, you’re against capitalism so maybe just to the rich oil barons? Hell, I might help with that plan.”
“Oh, I think we can be more sophisticated than those religious fanatics,” de La Fuente said while swabbing Rafe’s arm with alcohol. “You see, Hector and his connections have already established our delivery system.”
It came to Ruby in a wave of shock and grudging respect. “The cocaine. Only people with money snort coke in this country. Poor people smoke crack.”
“Very good,” de La Fuente said. “We will simply substitute this powder for the inert materials the dealers usually cut their cocaine with. Each customer will draw our spores deeply into their own lungs. The victims will target themselves.”
“And it might be weeks before enough of them admit to drug use for anyone to pick up the pattern of transmission,” Ruby said.
Ruby was sick with self-hate, for letting these fools take her phone. She should have told Gorman to bring the cavalry the last time she spoke to him. She knew she was facing the Shining Path. Why did she think she could handle this alone? The only bit of gratification she could feel was the reaction on the faces of the Sandoval boys. Rafael looked sickened by what the visitors planned, and Hector could not hide his surprise. He really hadn’t signed on for this kind of action.
Through the window Ruby watched the tail end of morning traffic in motion and heard the cars easing past at safe suburban speeds. She saw a couple of school children hurry past, bundled against the weather. Then the heater fired again under her feet and that chill returned to her spine.
“Wait a minute,” Ruby called as de La Fuente slid the syringe into Rafe’s arm. “That stuff’s been in the heater duct, and I poked a hole in it yesterday morning to get a sample. That stuff’s been blowing all over the house. I think we all need a shot.”
“Not really.” de La Fuente put his needle and kit away. “The rest of us are vaccinated against the disease.”
Rafe’s hand hit de La Fuente’s chest like a loud pistol shot before his fist curled into the taller man’s shirt and he pulled him down so they were eye to eye. “Then Ruby needs the same shot, and she needs it right now.”
“No!” Ruby shouted, paralyzed with fear as the gunman following Rafe raised his pistol. But de La Fuente held up a palm before the gunman could fire. Then he locked eyes with Rafe and again flashed his gold tooth.
“Your concern is touching, Rafael,” de La Fuente said, grasping Rafe’s arm. “However, you needn’t worry. If she gets the right antibiotics within two or three days of her exposure, she should be fine. I assure you that as long as you do as I ask for just one more day, she will receive what she needs. Until then, she is my insurance that you will remain compliant.”
Rafe slowly released his grip. “You saying that tomorrow you’ll be gone from here?”
“Rafael, by tomorrow this time my friends and I, and our precious cargo, will be out of your life.”
Yes, Ruby thought, and enough anthrax spores to kill hundreds will be gone and untraceable somewhere in the United States.