Whenever the ship was loaded in Colón, Colonel Staub had men supervise it, and there was no problem. So far, the old ship had chugged into the U.S. eleven times. Three times right here in New Orleans, and they had never had a hitch. The loads had been discovered three times, once in the Port of Palm Beach, once in Miami and once in Galveston, but each time the person listed as the shipper had been blamed, and the rusty old tub had sailed on without trouble, changing its name once more.
Pelly nodded to several of the crewmen, too. They didn't know exactly who he was, but they knew he was no sailor.
Pelly used his fast stride to make it to the coffee shop in a matter of minutes. He paused once to look into the window of a jewelry store. There was an emerald necklace that he thought his mother might like. He briefly caught his reflection in the window and, seeing the light reflect his hairy face, turned quickly and moved on. He had been used to the taunts as a child. Monkey Boy was the one that had stuck. Even after all these years, he didn't like to see his face in a mirror.
He walked directly to the small table outside the coffee shop where Colonel Staub sat by himself.
Staub said, "Any problems on the ship?"
"No sir. They plan to leave early tomorrow morning."
"You might have to stay."
Pelly hesitated. He didn't like being away from home and particularly didn't like this big, dirty city. "They haven't discovered that you are also Ortíz, have they?"
"No, but I have a job for you."
"Whatever is needed, boss."
"The ATF agent. You haven't met him."
"The well-built guy with dark, short hair?"
"Yeah, that's him, Duarte."
"I saw him on the ship. What about him?"
"He may be too smart for his own good."
"I could handle him tonight and still make the ship before it leaves."
"No, we have to make it look like an accident."
"Or maybe a botched robbery."
"Perhaps." Staub considered the idea and then said, "That's very good, Pelly. But we have to act fast. He is looking into Gastlin's death."
"No problem, boss. Just give me the details of where he's staying. I can get someone to help here. We have several contacts."
If his boss had decided that this guy Duarte needed to go, then he needed to go.
Alice Brainard arrived at the office an hour early and took care of all of her assigned duties. She wanted to have enough time to see about Alex's padlock and arrange to fingerprint the severed finger the DEA was going to deliver. The idea of handling a severed finger didn't faze her personally. She had fingerprinted dead bodies a number of times; this wasn't much different. But though the lock was no big deal, the finger was way outside the lines. Technically, it should be done over at the medical examiner's office, because it was part of a corpse. It made sense, though, that with only one available digit, she should print it instead of some DEA agent who could screw it up. It was also more secure than faxing a print up for identification. It was gross, but smart. She could be fired for doing it in the lab, but she knew her way around and wasn't worried what might happen.
As she considered what she was risking for a guy who hadn't even introduced her to his parents, her intercom buzzed.
A male voice said, "Alice, there's a FedEx guy with a package."
Five minutes later, alone at her station, she carefully opened the package from New Orleans. She pulled out the two crumpled sheets of paper from the box, then carefully removed the lock with a pair of long-nose pliers. She picked up the box and looked for a note or card. Anything. She unfolded the sheets of paper. They were in Spanish and appeared to be some kind of shipping invoice. But no note from her supposed boyfriend.
She sighed. That was just so Alex Duarte.
Dusting the lock was no problem. She immediately had three decent thumbprints. There was a mark or two from the handling of the lock and the shipping, but they were identifiable. Probably AFIS quality. She was hoping the giant database of automated prints might yield a hit.
Before she could even clean up, she had another call. The DEA agent with her special "package" was here. Alice had him escorted back to the lab.
She was surprised how young he looked.
"I'm Carl Spirazza with the DEA. A mutual friend asked me to deliver this to you."
Alice looked him in the eyes. "You know what's in here?"
"I was told."
"And you guys can mail stuff like this?"
"Nope, but I was told you were cool and it was a favor. We all owe Félix for one favor or another." He paused and said, "Besides, Alex Duarte is a hard-ass. If he can find out who did this, he'll do something about it."
"You know Alex?"
"The Rocket? You bet."
She smiled at how her quiet, unassuming boyfriend was known by every cop in the county. She left on her latex gloves and used a razor to slit the corner of the small box. She tipped it up and a small plastic bag, half the size of a sandwich baggie, dropped onto the table with a meaty, sickening sound.
She used thick tweezers to open the baggie and extracted the slightly shriveled finger. There was not much blood in the bag. She held it up and examined it closely. Then she saw something that made her hesitate. She better call Alex.
In the little hotel café, Colonel Staub sipped some coffee at a tiny table with Félix Baez and Lina Cirillo. They had said little since all sitting down at about the same time.
The colonel was lost in his own little world. After snapping the girl's neck in the U-Haul the night before, he had felt almost drunk with excitement. His erection had been so intense that he had found two different prostitutes. Neither had satisfied him, and he resisted the urge to kill them. He was not in Panama and couldn't cover his tracks as well here in New Orleans.
He looked up and smiled at Lina, knowing that the FBI agent had no idea about him. They were much too focused on Mr. Ortíz.
Staub believed he could get this idiot American, Ike, to complete the mission, and then he would go back to his life in Panama while the U.S. government spent the next fifty years looking for "Mr. Ortíz."
He smiled because life was good.
Alex Duarte stepped out of the hotel lobby to use the curb to stretch his Achilles tendon and calves. It was cooler than Florida, and even though he preferred not to run in traffic, he decided it was early enough that he could make do on the sidewalks of New Orleans. He wasn't ready to leave the city yet. Something about this whole case didn't sit right with him. There was still work to do. Perhaps, with some evidence, they could charge Ortíz with the killing under the relatively new federal kingpin statute. He knew he now had a clear objective. Any army officer with a clear objective had a much better chance of completing his assignment, and Duarte's was to identify Ortíz and have him extradited to the U.S.
He stepped off the curb and used one hand to balance himself against a sign. He let his heels dip and felt his leg muscles stretch and tingle. He intended to run an hour today. It had been a stressful week.
As he stretched, his cell phone, tucked in his shorts pocket, rang. He flipped it open. "Duarte."
In a mock deep voice, he heard Alice say, "Brainard."
He smiled.
She said, "You always sound so serious when you answer. What is that?"