The Night Charter (14 page)

C
AMARO DROVE UNTIL
she found a motel in Coral Terrace that fit her needs. She wanted something with parking off the street and rooms to let by the week, and it had to be the sort of place that blended with the surrounding buildings. The place could not be shiny and scrubbed and part of a chain, but rather something that had melted into the neighborhood over years until it was all but invisible.

The night manager was asleep in the back office, but the buzzer woke him up. Camaro paid him with money from the attaché case and asked for a room on the third and highest floor, something that did not face the road. He complied. Their door was tucked down a short hallway where the stairs came up, down by the ice machine.

Inside there were two full-sized beds made up with simple but neat spreads. The carpeting was industrial and thinning in places, but it didn't matter. The television was old, not a flat screen, and was bolted to the ceiling in a steel frame. The phone, too, was affixed to the immobile nightstand with a metal bracket. It would have still been possible to steal the TV remote.

Camaro sat on one bed and Lauren on the other. Each said nothing to the other for a long time. A deep tiredness had sunk into Camaro's limbs, and she allowed herself to slump in place. Finally she said, “I'm going to take a shower. Will you be all right out here by yourself?”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

“See if you can get a little rest. Turn off the lights if you want.”

She let herself into the tiny room that held the toilet and the shower stall. First she took off her boots and put her knife and gun on top of the toilet tank. Afterward, she stripped out of her clothing and tried to make it neat on the toilet seat before getting under a lukewarm spray and scrubbing herself with the cheap, pink bar of soap the motel provided.

The towels were thin and barely dried her. She let her damp hair fall to her shoulders and dressed again. Her clothes smelled like sweat, but she had smelled far worse and gone without clean clothes for far longer.

When she came out of the bathroom the lights were out, but there was enough illumination from the open corner of the blinds to let Camaro find her bed. She lay down on top of the bedspread and rested her gun on the mattress beside her with her hand covering it.

Lauren was not asleep. Camaro heard her breathing, but it was not the sound of slumber. It did not surprise her when Lauren spoke. “I forgot your name,” she said.

“It's Camaro.”

“That's kind of funny.”

“A little.”

“You already know my name.”

“I do.”

“What else do you know about me?”

“Not a whole lot. That you're smart and pretty and you've had a tough time. And that your dad loved you very much.”

Lauren stayed quiet, and Camaro heard her sniffle once. “Can you tell me what's happening?” Lauren asked.

“Your dad got into something he shouldn't have,” Camaro said. “Some people turned out to be more dangerous than he thought. Things went wrong.”

“Were you there when he died?”

Camaro weighed her answer. “I was.”

“Did he die in pain?”

She flashed on the shuddering in his body and the sucking noise of his chest wound. The blood on his lips. Three terrible injuries, two of them inevitably mortal. “No. He never felt anything.”

“How did you know him?”

“I was his friend.”

“How come I never met you before tonight?”

“We weren't best friends,” Camaro said.

A springing sound carried to Camaro from outside, and she tensed before she realized it was the compressor on the ice machine firing up. She let the sudden rush of nerves pass and listened to Lauren crying instead.

“Uncle Matt wanted to kill me,” Lauren managed after a while.

“You don't know that.”

“I do. He killed my dad, didn't he?”

“No,” Camaro said. “But it was his fault. All of this is his fault.”

“What can I do?”

“The first thing you can do is go to sleep,” Camaro said. “Always sleep when you have the chance, even if you don't feel tired. You never know when you'll have to move, so you don't want to be ragged out. So close your eyes and try not to think about tonight. I know it's not going to be easy, but you have to try.”

“Are you going to sleep?”

“I'm going to try.”

“Will you be gone when I wake up?”

Camaro shook her head in the dark. “No. I won't be gone. But I'll have to go eventually. I'll need to get back to my house, pick up some things there. After that, we'll see how it goes.”

“Just don't go right away, okay?”

“I said I wouldn't,” Camaro said.

“All right. Good night...Camaro.”

“Good night, Lauren.”

She stayed awake until she was certain Lauren had finally drifted off. Only then did she allow sleep to come rising up through her body, to submerge her and carry her away in its currents.

I
GNACIO LOOKED AT
the clock on his phone. It was ten o'clock in the morning.

They had turned him away at central booking, insisting that he must wait until Sandro Soto was processed. Then they had turned him away because Soto had to see a doctor about his broken finger. After that was done he had been informed that there could be no questions until after Soto was put in front of a judge, at which point he could be sent downtown for an interview.

Ignacio spent the time eating. First, he attacked the vending machines at central booking, washing candy bars and pastries down with coffee. Then he stopped off at a place near headquarters to get a toasted bagel loaded with meat and cheese, a large orange juice, and still more coffee. No matter how much he ate, he still felt like he was spread too thin.

He was at his desk when the call came. Soto was there and in the interview room. He took a legal pad and a pair of pens with him.

Soto had not been changed into a uniform, but wore his street clothes. Immediately, Ignacio wished he had checked the charge sheet before coming in, but now it was too late. A quick appearance and a hasty exit would make him look stupid, and he could not afford that with a stack of bodies waiting for his attention.

The legal pad went on the plain metal table between them and the pens on top of that. The chairs in the interview room were made of hollow aluminum and barely weighed anything at all to keep them from being used as weapons. Ignacio was convinced they would fold under his weight every time he sat, but they held. Soto put his hands on the table. One of his hands was covered to the wrist with a cast, his index finger completely encased. He wore cuffs.

“Still have you hooked up, huh?” Ignacio asked.

“Can you help a guy out?”

Ignacio got out his keys and unlocked the cuffs. He left them in the center of the table where they would remain a presence but also an indicator of goodwill. Soto moved to rub his wrists, but one was covered and his right hand was in no condition for much of anything at all. “Thanks,” he said.

“Hand's all messed up,” Ignacio said.

“Yeah.”

“How did that happen?”

“I just twisted it, is all.”

“Must have twisted it pretty bad to get a cast like that. Did they have to cover up your whole hand?”

“That's what I told 'em, but they wouldn't listen. They said I couldn't have just a splint because the whole thing can't move. Gonna be weeks with this on.”

“Can you pick anything up?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

Ignacio nodded amiably. “Let me ask you something: do you remember me?”

Soto squinted at him. “Maybe.”

“There was this crew going around knocking over pawnshops a few years back,” Ignacio said. “They didn't kill anybody at first, but they were working their way up to it. Eventually, they managed to drop three people and make off with a serious haul. Antique gold coins. Jewelry. That kind of thing. The guys who died didn't like banks too much, so they kept everything in their safe, you know? Got themselves killed.”

“That's too bad,” Soto said. “Sad story.”

“Anyway, I'm surprised you don't remember me, because I came around asking questions about that night. You told me you didn't know anything, and the very next day you picked up and moved out of town.”

Soto made a show of screwing up his face in concentration. “Oh, yeah, I remember you now. You used to be thinner.”

“Yeah, I was,” Ignacio said. “You look about the same. Working out?”

“Always. Got to lift.”

“Sure, sure. Anyway, Sandro, I have a problem: last night a whole bunch of people got killed in Liberty City, including your old friend Jackson Dewey. Now, I don't have proof yet that you were there, but I'm going to find it eventually. Plus, there's this whole other scene where a lot of shooting went on. And officers find you fleeing with an unlicensed handgun.”

“I don't know nothing about it.”

“Of course not,” Ignacio said. “But let me tell it to you straight: I know this all has to do with Matt Clifford.”

Soto hid it, but Ignacio saw the name register. The man rubbed the back of his cast with his good hand. A sign.

“I know Matt's back in town, I know you've been sleeping on his couch, and I know that whatever happened last night has to do with him.
Seven bodies
got pulled out of that auto yard in Liberty City. And I will bet my next mixto you were there. You were there both times. We have your gun, and we'll match it to the shell casings at the scenes. If we dig any bullets out of anywhere, we'll be able to tell if they were yours. I'll be able to lay it all down on
your
head.”

Soto stared at him. He still rubbed the cast. “But you can't right now.”

“No, no I can't. But I will.”

“The judge said I could walk until my court date.”

“I can hold you,” Ignacio said.

“But you won't. Because you don't have anything. You think I'm gonna roll over just because you think you have some smart guy in a lab somewhere? You come to me when you got some proof, and then I'll talk.”

“Sandro,” Ignacio said. “Listen to me. I'll get you. I'll get Matt Clifford. And whichever one of you cuts the deal first is the one who doesn't go down for first-degree murder. It's just like that. So why don't you save you and me a whole bunch of headaches and tell me exactly what happened last night? Come on, bro! Confession is good for the soul!”

Soto was quiet. He leaned forward over the table.
“Vete a la mierda.”

“That's all you have to say?”

“That's all I have to say.”

Ignacio got up and collected the legal pad, the pens, and the handcuffs. “I'll send someone to let you out,” he said. “See you soon, Sandro.”

He left the interview room and nearly walked into Pool. Like him, Pool was still dressed in his clothes from the early morning call and had a lined face fueled by coffee and sugar. “Hey, Nacho,” Pool said. “I was looking for you.”

“What is it?”

Pool presented him with a printout. “Something you'll like.”

J
ACKSON'S BLOOD WAS
on the car. Matt stopped at a do-it-yourself carwash and pulled down the doors to get some privacy before feeding dollar bills into the machine and starting up the high-powered spray. He hosed down the Charger from nose to tail, careful to avoid the open window on the right-hand side. When it was done, he pulled out to the vacuums and paid more money to suction the floors and seats free of broken glass.

The passenger-side window had been completely blown out, and there were bullet tears in the cushions of the bucket seat on that side. The rear window was not broken totally but looked as though it had been pelted by heavy hail, some of which had punched through. It was impossible to see through the cracks and stars in the glass from the inside.

More upsetting were the holes in the bodywork. The Charger had taken a dozen rounds, the bullets puncturing neat holes in the metal skin. None had compromised the engine, which was a miracle all by itself, but anyone who happened to look the car over closely would see the marks of a gun battle and know immediately what had happened.

He knew the smartest thing to do would be to ditch the car. A 1970 Dodge Charger was conspicuous enough, but the yellow-and-black coloring stood out like a warning sign. As he drove, he found himself scouring the street ahead, looking to catch sight of cops before they caught sight of him.

In the parking lot of a grocery store, he got out his tools and stole a license plate off the back of an old Buick. He replaced the plate with the one from the Charger, despite the fact that it said it was a historic vehicle.

A switch like that wouldn't work miracles. Even as he drove away from the grocery store, he was aware that it was something he did only to ease his mind and not to truly hide from the police. Again he knew the Charger had to go. He could not do it.

When he had made the score four years before and left Miami with his portion of what they'd taken from the pawnshop owners, he was flush. He smoked a little of it. Maybe a lot of it. But a chunk of the rest he put into the Charger. It had been blue back then and had no interior left except the seats. Everything else had slipped away as he labored to bring the car back from the dead, scrubbing every bolt in the engine and checking every last part down to an original steering wheel. The pleasure of receiving his historic vehicle registration had been almost equal to a high.

The good move now would be to pull back to the warehouse and wait out the worst of what was to come. Down there, past the last bit of civilization, he could keep the Charger safe from suspicious eyes. But he wasn't ready to head back yet. Chapado could stew. Maybe he had shit his own pants. The thought of the man having to sit in his own filth was even more amusing than when Chapado wet himself.

He could use a high. Not a lot, but maybe a hit or two to take the edge off. He'd been using a bit more lately, but that wasn't unusual; he liked the amperage he got from smoking before a big job. Some said it made them feel fuzzy, but Matt felt jazzed. He would stay up all night and all day, and his mind would race through a thousand permutations of what was to come next. Smoking made him a human computer with a billion connections. That was nothing but good.

It was getting on in the morning when he pulled over to the side of the road and placed a call. He was pleased that it didn't take long for Echave to answer. The man had no time for greetings. “What have you done?” he asked Matt.

“What have
I
done? I can ask you the same question. This was a deal I made with you, and this time it was you guys who tried to screw
me
. But you missed, asshole. I don't have a scratch on me. Your guys were no good.”

“Mr. Clifford,” Echave said, “this must end. It's true that we tried to take Señor Chapado from you, but you must understand why we did it. We didn't know if we could trust you. Once already you betrayed us. How could we know if we could trust you this time?”

“I was gonna let you have him,” Matt said. “If you came with the money. But you didn't come with the money. You brought a case full of paper. And then you tried to
kill me!
”

“I'm sorry,” Echave said. “It was a miscalculation. Now we know where each of us stands. But I must know: is Señor Chapado still alive?”

Matt looked in the rearview mirror for cops, but the shattered back window blocked the angle. He adjusted the side mirror instead, turning it up the street so he could see the cars coming on. Nothing. “Yeah, he's still alive,” he said.

“May I speak to him?”

“No, you
can't
speak to him. Maybe in twenty-four hours when I'm not feeling so pissed off, but not now. He's all mine.”

“All right. What is it that you want?”

Matt smacked the steering wheel. “What do you
think
I want? I want the
money
. For reals this time, not some bullshit paper. I want one hundred thousand dollars, and I want it delivered to me at a place and a time of my choosing.”

“Of course. Whatever you want. When will this be?”

“We'll do it in three days.”

“Why not now? We have the money.”

“I said
three days
. I want you to think about what you did, and I want you to think about this, too: if I don't have my hands on that money when I ask for it, I'm going to start cutting pieces off your guy and mailing them to you.”

“I understand,” Echave said.

“Good. I'll call back. Stay by the phone.”

Matt ended the call and tossed the phone into the passenger seat. He turned the engine over and moved on.