"Lift some prints from a padlock."
"When will I get it?"
"Tomorrow. I just sent it overnight express."
"You were pretty sure of yourself."
He kept an easy tone. "Alice, this could be serious. I just want to keep it simple for now."
"How'd you pack it? Will it be stable and not disturb any potential prints?"
"I packed in a small box with some paper wadded up and holding it in place."
"That sounds pretty good."
"Will doing these things get you in any trouble?"
"Less trouble than dating you."
"Alice, you're the best."
"You better show it when you get back."
"Thanks." He waited to hear her, but there was silence. Almost like she expected him to say something else. Then he did. "I gotta go. I'll talk to you soon."
She didn't even say goodbye, so he hung up.
Ike looked at Faith and knew with certainty that he couldn't just let her walk away. The problem was he didn't know what to do with her. He didn't know who would miss the young lady. He didn't know how hard it might be to silence her or if she'd fight and escape. That would bring way too much heat on him.
He felt in his pocket for his buck knife. The only thing he had ever used it for was opening boxes and once for cutting chicken at a new place off Florence Avenue in Omaha. He looked into her eyes, and even with his limited experience, realized she wanted him to kiss her.
Slipping the knife out of his pocket, he said, "You wanna see what I'm haulin'?"
"Sure." She took a small step back then fell in step with him to the truck. He used the only extra key he had to the sturdy Master Lock. The door slid up easily as he kept track of where she was standing.
He stepped up into the truck. "C'mon." He motioned her up with his empty left hand, the knife still folded in his right.
Once she was inside, he opened the knife in front of her and acted like he was prying off one of the boards to the crate.
"What is it?" she asked, inching closer to him.
He gripped the knife, saying, "It's unusual. I was tapped special just to transport it because of my record for this kind of stuff." He flexed his arm, knowing she had no clue what he was poised to do. He had never killed anyone up close before.
Faith ran her small hand over the wooden crate and stared at it like it was a magic lamp.
The fact that his first up-close victim was a woman didn't make it harder; it didn't surprise him either. He had spent so little time with women other than his mom, that he didn't really understand the differences between them and men.
Ike looked at her, with the knife still ready. He knew he had to keep her quiet but couldn't seem to force his arm forward. No matter how important this was to him and the country, he could not seem to will his hand to plunge the knife into her exposed stomach.
As her shirt inched up her midriff, she leaned closer to him, looking for something other than a kiss.
"Shit," he shouted.
Faith cowered slightly. "What? What is it now?"
"Look, you'll thank me for this later, but for now, I'm gonna have to close you in here."
"What?"
"And if you make any noise, like scream or pound on the door, I'm gonna have to kill you." He held up the buck knife. "You understand?"
She stared at the knife with a new expression.
He raised his voice. "You understand, Faith?"
She shook herself out of her daze and stared at him for a moment. "Why? I'll keep quiet." A sob crept into her voice.
He slid the door down and slapped the lock back on it as he muttered, "I know."
18
ALEX DUARTE SAT WITH THE OTHER INVESTIGATORS AROUND A conference table at the Port of New Orleans and said, "I don't know what else we can do. The pot is in evidence. Gastlin is dead. I'd say the case is closed."
Félix, who continued to glare at Lina every time she touched Staub's arm or spoke to him, said, "We got the pot, that's something. But we can't forget Gastlin."
Lina nodded. "I'm gonna stay in New Orleans a day or two longer. Lázaro knows the city a little, and we're going to look around."
Duarte remained silent, but he wanted to see if Alice could lift any prints off the container's padlock before he left. He and Félix felt like they owed that much to Byron Gastlin. If the person who'd gotten into the container knew anything about Gastlin in Panama, Duarte intended to find out, and he didn't care what it took to get the information.
Lina said, "Let's all go out tonight."
Félix looked at Duarte, who shrugged.
Staub said, "A wonderful idea."
"How about we meet at five?"
Staub said, "I'm sorry, I have the errands to run. What about seven?"
Lina smiled. "Sure."
Duarte and Félix just nodded. Duarte was distracted by how much he had relied on Alice for forensic work. The ATF had a good lab, but if he went through channels, it would take weeks to get anything back. He didn't think Lina would even believe his theory that someone entered the container. Besides, she had a different agenda, and Gastlin's death wasn't part of it. She was focused on Ortíz's contacts here in the U.S. He also doubted she would approve of what he was willing to do to find out if the two incidents were related.
Félix mumbled to him. "Let's get out of here."
The two men stood, and Lina said, "We'll meet you in the hotel lobby at seven."
Duarte said, "Can't wait." And realized that he might have been sarcastic for the first time in his life.
Lázaro Staub rented a Chevrolet Impala from the Hertz office in the lobby of the hotel. He didn't want the others to see he had a car. He left early, around three o'clock, so he could see a little of New Orleans before his appointment. The colonel drove down Robert E. Lee Boulevard and looked out over Lake Pontchartrain. The white mansions on the other side of the street looked like they had survived the last two centuries without seeing any turmoil. That was not the truth. He was an amateur historian, and several trips to New Orleans over the years had taught him the hard lessons of the region. He knew that the American Civil War had reached this far, as had the War of 1812.
He knew the story of how Andrew Jackson, one of the country's most aggressive and bloodthirsty presidents, had fought the British near here in the swampy bayous surrounding the city before ascending to the nation's highest office. The arrogant Old Hickory didn't even realize the War of 1812 had been over for almost two weeks when he drove back the British.
He looked at the mansions and wondered how they would've fared against Stealth bombers.
Staub had also read about the floods after hurricane Katrina and laughed at the government response. When it was time to invade a small country like Panama, they could muster overwhelming strength, but when their own citizens were in need, the country moved like a snail.
He drove slowly through some of the streets near the French Quarter and past Tulane University. Finally he crossed the I-10 bridge and could see a U-Haul truck already parked near the base of the bridge. They were both an hour early. He was glad that this man took the matter so seriously.
Because of his status in the country as a visiting Panamanian official, he was not supposed to possess weapons. One of his assistants had circumvented this prohibition by bringing in a Beretta for him on the ship. Now he hid the automatic pistol under his loose shirt.
As he pulled the small white Chevy next to the truck, he was surprised at how large William "Ike" Floyd was. His broad shoulders and short legs made him look more simian than most, but at five-nine he was still impressive. Staub would hate to find himself engaged in an unarmed fight with him.