Chapter SIXTY-ONE
Jock read the pages as they spewed from the printer. There were twelve of them, double-spaced. He brought them back to the table, still reading, absorbing the information. “Our guys hit the jackpot in New Orleans,” he said. “They got the letters that the hit man Cantreras had saved, the ones from the man who paid him for the murders. There was one fingerprint on the inside of one of the flaps that didn’t belong to Cantreras. They got a hit. It belongs to one of the big guys in a drug cartel that has been on the DEA’s radar for the past year. They’ve found his prints at a couple of murder scenes that were definitely the result of drug deals gone bad. The prints belong to a dead guy named Raul Escondido, who was killed in a drug deal in Miami twenty years ago. He’s obviously not dead, but they don’t know what name he’s using now. DEA thinks the guy’s pretty high up in the chain of command.”
“What about the bartender where Cantreras gets his messages?” I asked.
“His name’s Stout,” said Jock. “He was a big help. He said that he didn’t know the name of the guy who hired Cantreras, but he knew he pulled a lot of weight in one of the smaller cartels that seems to be gaining ground on the big ones. Escondido and Stout had gone to high school together in Miami.”
“How can Stout be sure it’s the same guy?” Steve asked.
“He said Escondido came to see him about two years ago. There was no question that it was Raul. He had a scar on his neck that was pretty unusual, and he and the bartender spent a lot of time remembering old times.”
“Why now?” asked J.D. “I mean, why Escondido come out of the woodwork a couple of years ago? How did he explain to the bartender that he was still alive?”
“Raul wanted something,” said Jock. “He told Stout that he needed a place to drop messages and money with somebody he could trust. Stout was paid well for what he did, but he also understood that Raul would kill him if he didn’t do what he was supposed to do. Raul told Stout that one of his buddies was killed in the drug deal in Miami twenty years ago, and the cops had made a mistake and identified the body as his. He thought that would be a good time to drop out of sight. Acquire a new identity.”
“Anything on the phone your guys found at Flagler’s condo?” I asked.
“Yeah. The phone was a burner, one of those disposable prepaid things. The only number he called was in Miami and it belongs to another burner. We followed up on the Miami end, and found the cell towers that the signals from that phone bounced off of. We can’t pinpoint the phone, but if it’s used again, we’ll have it. The National Security Agency has its ears on it.”
“You got the NSA involved?” asked Steve, his voice carrying a hint of incredulity.
“My boss did, actually, or the deputy director,” said Jock. “The director’s been in London for the past couple of days on some big emergency, but they’re pulling in everything they can to find whoever killed Nell Alexander.”
“What do you think the chances are of intercepting that phone call?” asked Steve. “It seems pretty far-fetched, if you ask me.”
“Not for the NSA,” Jock said. “They can track any phone call in the world if they set their minds to it. In this case, there were daily calls made between the phone in Miami and the one we found at Flagler’s place. Usually late in the afternoon. Our people are thinking that the Miami connection will call this afternoon. If NSA can home in on that number, we’ll have the guy on the other end.”
“Then what?” I asked.
“DEA has a team standing by near the cell towers that we know were used for the calls. If NSA can pinpoint the phone’s location, the team will move in.”
“What is going to happen to Cantreras and the bartender?” asked J.D.
“They didn’t say,” said Jock, “and I didn’t ask. My guess is that Stout will spend a few years in jail. Cantreras won’t be so lucky. You don’t kill one of ours and keep breathing.”
“The law of the jungle,” said J.D., a look of disgust on her face.
Jock looked at her, coldly, held her eyes for a moment and said, “That’s where I live, J.D. In the jungle.”
The call came in just before five. Jock moved out to the patio and talked for a few moments. He came back into the living room. “They got him.”
There was a collective sigh in the room. “Who is he?” J.D. asked.
“I don’t have all the details yet,” said Jock, “but he’s some kind of financial advisor. Has an office in one of those high-rise buildings overlooking Biscayne Bay. His name is George Perez.”
“Did they find the burner phone?” I asked.
“In his pants pocket,” said Jock.
“Did he have anything to say for himself?” asked J.D.
“Yeah,” said Jock. “He said, ‘I want a lawyer.’”
“I don’t guess that’s going to happen,” I said.
Jock frowned. “Unfortunately, it’s a DEA bust, and he’ll get his lawyer. If we’d taken him down, it’d be a different story.”
“His arrest may not do us any good then,” I said.
“The DEA’s going for a warrant. They’ll take his office apart, and we’ll see what they find. We should know something by morning.”
“I think we need a drink,” I said. “It’s been a long day.”
“I’ll pass,” said Steve. “I need to stop by the physical therapist’s office before I go home. He’s got some new exercises for me to start on.”
I looked at J.D. She nodded. “Haye Loft?” I asked. She nodded again.
Jock said, “Why don’t I leave you to it? I’ve got some calls to make. Call me later, and I’ll meet you for dinner.”