Chasing the Lost (8 page)

“How do you know all that?” Sarah asked.

Riley shrugged. “I listen. People talk too much.” He gestured with his thumb at the bar. “They think some dark-skinned fellow dressed like me, sitting at the end of the bar with a beer, probably doesn’t even speak English. Blows leaves for a living.”

Kono snorted. “Rich people think poor people stupid. Rich don’t equal smart, but they think it do. I take folk out on charters, they talk like I not even there on the bridge, working the boat.”

“Is this Quad leveraging Rollins?” Sarah asked. “Maybe he’s desperate. Desperate people do desperate things.”

“Like ask a stranger to help rescue their child,” Riley pointed out.

“Yes,” Sarah said. She took a deep breath. “I don’t see it, either,” she added, lightly placing a hand on Chase’s arm. “Walter never mentioned Rollins as possibly being involved. He’s convinced it’s the Russians. Plus, if it was Rollins, he’d have the money from the payout two weeks ago.”

“He saw you yesterday with your son,” Chase said. “Maybe that got him thinking.”

Sarah got to her feet. “Let me ask Walter again.” She walked outside, pulling out her cell phone.

“They came by water,” Kono said.

Riley and Chase turned to him.

“Many places to hide out there,” Kono nodded toward the Intracoastal.

“And you know most of them,” Riley noted, not a question.

“I know most. The Russians have boats. Like you,” he indicated Riley, “I have stayed clear of them. Their business is their own.”

“Are you going to look into that business now?” Riley asked him.

Kono nodded. “They are bad people.”

“Will you help?” Chase asked Riley.

“I don’t know this Sarah Briggs or her husband,” Riley protested weakly, the lure of action bringing an undercurrent to his nerves, something that had been missing for a long time. This wasn’t a suit who owed a couple thousand. He finished his beer as he considered it.

Chase picked up his beer and drained half of it. Kono finished his as Riley struggled with the decision. It wasn’t an epic battle.

“I’m in. What’s next?”

Chase finished the last half of his bottle and tossed it across the room, into an open garbage can where it landed with a crash of glass on glass. Kono tossed his in a perfect arc, and Chase followed suit. Sarah’s full bottle dripped condensation onto the table.

Sarah came in the door. “Walter says it can’t be Rollins. It’s too sophisticated, and it’s too much like what happened two weeks ago. Even the bank is the same routing number in the Caymans, just a different account number.”

“And you’re sure it was the Russians, then?” Riley pressed.

Sarah slapped her hand down on the table top, knocking over her untouched bottle of beer. No one moved to upright it. The beer poured out, pooling on the table, then dripping down off the nearest edge. “I’m not sure of a damn thing! I just know someone snatched Cole off the dock and came for me. They shot Chase’s dog. They’re texting Walter and demanding he divert the funnel to their account. And I know that while we’re sitting around discussing this, Cole is sitting in some dark hole someplace, scared out of his wits.”

Chase stood and wrapped an arm around Sarah’s shoulder. “We’re on it.” He indicated Riley and Kono with his free hand. “We’ve got a team.” Letting go of Sarah, Chase pointed at Kono. “You scout the islands, ask around. See if anyone saw whoever kidnapped Cole off the dock. Find out what the Russians are doing with their boats. They’ve got to park them somewhere. I’ll go down toward Savannah and chat with Mister Karralkov.”

“I’m coming with you,” Sarah said.

“They tried to grab you the other night,” Chase said.

“People like Karralkov act differently in daylight,” Sarah said.

“And you know this how?” Riley asked.

“And I’ll be with you,” Sarah added, ignoring Riley and focusing on Chase.

“Not a good idea,” Riley said in a voice that indicated he didn’t want to argue a stupid point.

“I’ll take her,” Kono said. “She be safe on the water with me.”

“I—” Sarah began.

Chase cut her off. “You can’t go to Karralkov’s with me. You go with Kono on his boat.”

Riley folded his arms across his chest. “What do you want me to do?”

“You talk to Mister Farrelli,” Chase told him.

“You don’t want me backing you with the Russians?” Riley asked as he got to his feet.

“I have some experience with Russians,” Chase said.

“How’d that turn out,” Riley said, and it wasn’t a question, so Chase chose to ignore it.

* * * * *

Erin checked Chelsea’s vitals when the bells hanging on the front door of her office jingled.

“Be right out,” she yelled.

Chelsea was irritable from the wound and the IV, so Erin put her under once more. It would take a little while for the wound to be healed enough to let the dog fully regain consciousness. Satisfied the dog was stable, Erin pulled off her gloves and peered through the crack in the door into the front part of her business.

Two men were waiting for her, and although one resembled a bulldog and the other had a furtive, hound dog look, unless once was turning the other in for treatment, this wasn’t a business call. They had nothing on a leash, in a cage, or carried in their arms, although Hound Dog had an arm in a sling.

Erin pressed autodial one on the cell phone, while flipping off the lever for the ringer. It was answered on the first ring.

“Yo, sweet-thing.” The voice was male, deep, and cooked slightly southern.

“I might have a problem here,” she whispered into the phone.

“On my way. Give me three, leave the phone live.”

Erin tucked the phone into the breast pocket on her scrubs, then waited.

“Hello!” one of the men called out. “You coming?” His voice was deeply accented: Russian.

Erin stepped back from the door and faced the other way before she yelled, “Be right there.”

“We ain’t got all day,” one of the men complained.

Erin pushed through the door and stopped behind the counter. “Can I help you?”

“You got a dog that been shot?” Bulldog asked.

“I do not got a dog that been shot,” Erin said.

Hound Dog’s forehead furrowed as he tried to decipher if she were being a smartass, but Bulldog had no doubt. He put both meaty hands on the counter and leaned toward Erin. “Did someone bring a dog in here last night suffering from a gunshot wound.”

“It’s none of your business,” Erin said.

Bulldog leapt past the truth. “Whose dog?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Erin said, taking a step back.

Bulldog sighed and nodded his head at his partner, and they started around the counter, one to each side.

“Hold on, hold on!” Erin said, her hands in the air.

Both men paused at the diminutive redhead’s plea.

“What?” Bulldog asked.

“The unicorn,” Erin said.

Bulldog blinked in confusion and Hound Dog’s mouth was hanging open. Erin expected to see a long tongue roll out any second.

“‘Unicorn?’” Bulldog repeated.

“The unicorn rides with the night,” Erin said in a low voice, looking past them. “It holds magic in its horn, and love in its heart.”

The two men exchanged looks, then Bulldog shook himself out of the confusion of her babbling and pushed past her into the back. He saw Chelsea on the table. Erin slid into the room, moving to the other side of the operating table as Hound Dog crowded in behind her, forcing her aside. “This is a sterile environment. You could catch something.”

Bulldog actually laughed. “You’re funny, chick.” The humor left his voice. “But don’t fuck with us any more.” He leaned over and lifted the tag on Chelsea’s collar. “Chelsea. Boulder, Colorado? What the fuck?”

“Whose dog is that?” she asked, pointing at Hound Dog. “Someone hurt his shoulder.”

Bulldog dropped the collar and turned to her. “Whose fucking dog is this?”

“Mine.”

Both men turned to the figure standing in the door, and even though they were large men, they took a step back. Six-six, two hundred and fifty pounds of packed muscle, encased in a pair of loose cargo shorts and a black T-shirt with RANGER stenciled in gold across the chest, stood there. The shirt was so tight, each of the six letters appeared to be tattooed across rippling muscles.

“Who are you?” Hound Dog spoke for the first time.

And the last, as the Ranger took one step toward him and snapped a jab into his temple. He went down like a stone.

Bulldog fumbled under his loose shirt, going for a gun, but the Ranger moved faster than one would think possible for such a big man. He flowed around the operating table, grabbed the gun hand, then twisted the hand down at the wrist. Bulldog went to knees with a whimper of pain as the Ranger exerted pressure.

“I can snap it,” the Ranger said. “And I really don’t like Russians.”

Erin placed her hand on his arm. “Please don’t, Gator.” Her hand barely covered a quarter of the bulging bicep.

Gator sighed. He didn’t break the wrist, but he didn’t release the pressure. With his other hand, he reached under Bulldog’s shirt and retrieved a Glock pistol, which he tossed to Erin, who fumbled and almost dropped it. “Who sent you?”

Bulldog swallowed and shook his head. “You can break my wrist, but I never tell you.”

“Okay,” Gator said, and he twitched his forearm.

The sound of the bone breaking echoed in the room, and Bulldog screamed.

“Gator!” Erin said sternly.

Gator blushed. “He said I could.”

“He said you
can
,” Erin corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“He had a gun!” Gator said in his own defense. “Come on, Erin.”

“Well,” she said, “since you’ve started.”

Gator turned his attention back to the man whose body was writhing in pain, his hand still in Gator’s, trying to avoid moving that limb. Gator gave it a little jiggle and the man screamed again, not quite as loudly.

“I got all day, you commie piece of scum,” Gator said in a tone that indicated he did indeed have nowhere else better to be for a while. “Who sent you?”

Tears of pain were crawling out of Bulldog’s eyes and sliding down his ruddy cheeks. “Can’t. He’ll kill us. You can—” but he caught himself before giving Gator permission to do anything else.

With a sigh, Gator let go of Bulldog’s wrist. As the man bent over, cradling the damaged limb, Gator reached into the man’s back pocket and extracted his wallet. He tossed that to Erin also. “Who is he?” He folded his arms and considered the man kneeling at his feet as if considering a choice steak that he was trying to figure out how to have cooked.

Erin opened the wallet and extracted a driver’s license. “Says Ivan Oronsky. Maybe he works for that Russian mobster?”

“You work for Karralkov?” Gator asked.

Bulldog looked up, fear in his eyes. Gator lifted a large hand, fingers curling into a tiger’s paw fist, designed for maximum impact on minimum surface area, in essence to cause extreme damage.

Erin stepped between Gator and Ivan. “You don’t have to say anything,” she said to the Russian. “Just nod. Do you work for Karralkov?”

Ivan looked over to make sure his partner was still out of it, then twitched a nod.

“Get the fu—” Gator caught himself before he completed the curse. “Get out of here. And take him with you.” As he was saying it, Gator went over to the unconscious man and removed his gun and wallet also.

Ivan got to his feet unsteadily. “I can’t—”

“Sure, you can,” Gator said, checking the gun. He pulled the slide back. “You boys don’t even carry a round in the chamber, and you left the safeties on. What kind of wusses are you?” He chambered a round and waved it, generally in Ivan’s direction. “You got thirty seconds to get out of here.”

Properly motivated, Ivan used his good hand to grab his partner’s collar. He dragged him through the door. The bells on the front door jingled.

Gator put the gun down, then turned to Erin. “You okay, sweet-thing?”

“I am,” Erin said. “Thanks to you.”

“Aww, it was nothing.” Gator shuffled his feet and blushed in embarrassment.

“You’re my hero,” Erin said. She climbed up one rung on a stool next to them, and pecked him on the cheek before going back down to the floor. Gator beamed and turned even redder, if that were possible. He went to the table.

Gator bent over the dog. He gently ran a massive hand through the mane. “Poor boy.”

“Girl,” Erin said.

“Poor girl,” Gator said, cradling Chelsea’s large head in his own paw. He looked up at Erin. “So whose dog is this?”

Dave Riley started up the 125cc dirt bike he kept parked at Haig Point on Hilton Head. After the meeting at the Shack broke up, he’d piloted his F-470 Zodiac across the Intracoastal and into Broad Creek to the landing underneath the Cross-Island Parkway Bridge.

Hilton Head was twelve miles long by five across at its widest, the northern end. It was shaped like a shoe, the ankle to the northeast, tapering to the toe in the southwest. But where the toes met the front of the ankle, the island was almost split in two by Broad Creek, which came within a mile of actually separating the original northern island from the southern barrier island. The main drag coming in 30 miles from the west off I-95 was Highway 278, which looped around the island. A spur was built as tourism grew: the Cross Island reached over Broad Creek, making a shortcut for the those coming onto the island to more quickly reach the toes and the broad, white, and firm-packed sand of the Atlantic beach, which was what drew a couple of million visitors every summer.

It wasn’t summer, so things were relatively quiet as Riley took the Cross Island to Sea Pines Circle, where tourists routinely caused accidents as Americans found traffic circles as strange as Europeans found Americans.

He drove down Pope, and turned left into a shopping center featuring New York Pizza on the right, and a set of darkened windows on the left. Riley parked the bike and went to the door on the left. He pulled it open. A dim, upscale interior set up as a restaurant beckoned.

The large man wearing a suit did not.

“Leave,” he rumbled in a voice graveled out somewhere in New Jersey, or Joisy as they used to say in the Bronx when Riley was growing up.

“I’d like to talk to Mister Farrelli.”

“Leave.” The man emphasized the point by not just repeating it, but taking a step closer.

Looking past the doorman, Riley could see a man seated at a bar to the left. None of the tables were occupied, which wasn’t unusual in that most restaurants closed for the off-season, except Riley had never seen this one open, even in-season. There was no sign on the outside to indicate what it was.

“Can you at least ask him for an audience?” Riley asked. “I’m Dave Riley, from Dafuskie.”

“How’s the numbers, Riley?” a voice called from the vicinity of the bar. “Let him in.”

The doorman stepped aside, looking disappointed he didn’t get a chance to do a little pummeling.

“The numbers add up,” Riley said as he walked into the bar. Farrelli was on a stool, his long legs stretched out. He had a large nose, almost a beak, and deep-set, hooded eyes.

“Sometimes,” Farrelli said, New Jersey not as apparent in his voice as the doorman’s, “I think of this island and all around it as Deadwood. You ever watch that show?”

“Yeah, I watched it,” Riley said. He halted about six feet away. Farrelli had a glass in front of him, half-f of something red.

“You know, the guy with the idea for that, he vacations here. I’ve talked to him. He originally wanted to do a show about Rome,” Farrelli said. “Roma.” He savored the word. “I never thought of it before talking to this guy, but you ever hear of cops in ancient Rome?”

Riley thought about it, and had to agree. “Nope.”

“That’s cause there weren’t any,” Farrelli said. “They paid the street gangs to enforce law and order. ‘They’ being whoever held the most power: the Emperor, the Senate, whoever held sway. I think it was much more effective than cops. Cut out the middleman. Anyway,” Farrelli continued, “when the smart guy went to HBO, they loved the idea but not the locale, since they had a series already in production called Rome.”

“That must have sucked for the idea guy,” Riley said.

Farrelli waved, indicating a stool two away from him. “Yeah, but he didn’t let it stop him. He took the idea of a place with no real police, and he searched for another locale fitting the bill. And he found Deadwood. A town in an unincorporated territory outside anyone’s jurisdiction. Interesting.” Farrelli paused. “Could have just as easily set that story here. Beaufort County technically has jurisdiction here, but Beaufort is a long way away. And the tax revenue from tourism for the rest of the county makes them keep a light touch on the island. There’s a lot of money on this island, and people with a lot of money want to be left alone.”

Riley sat down. “You know the thing I remember most about Deadwood, Mister Farrelli?”

“What’s that?”

“How over the course of the first season, the protagonist, the hero, Bullock, even though he becomes sheriff, isn’t the hero any more. It’s the bad guy, Swearingen, the saloon keeper, the killer, who becomes the hero.”

The hint of a smile cracked Farrelli’s thin lips. “And why do you think that happened?”

“Because he was the more interesting of the two,” Riley said. “Bullock just had anger and a sense of honor and righteousness. Swearingen had a lot of people loyal to him.”

Farrelli nodded. “Exactly. You big on loyalty, Riley?”

“Yes.”

“What about honor?”

“It’s external,” Riley said. “Can get you killed.”

Farrelli got up and went around the bar. “Some
vino
?”

“I’m just a beer guy.”

Farrelli laughed. “Black Irish father and Puerto Rican mother, right? What a mix that is: don’t know whether to get drunk or cut you. Beer it is.” He reached into a cooler and extracted a bottle of Harp beer. “Here’s for the Irish half of you.” He hit the bottle expertly on the opener screwed into the backside of the bar, then slid the bottle in front of Riley. “I’m assuming you do without a glass?”

“I do.” Riley picked up the bottle and took a drag.

“You run a nickels-and-dimes business over there on Dafuskie,” Farrelli said, and his Jersey showed on the island name:
Dafooskie
. He topped off his own glass of wine.

“I’m content.”

“Most people aren’t.” Farrelli came back around the bar and reclaimed his stool. “Your uncle, Xavier, was a stand-up guy. Honorable and loyal.”

“He was.”

Farrelli looked Riley in the eyes. “It’s why I’ve never taken the ferry over there for business. Played a couple rounds now and then.”

“I appreciate that,” Riley said.

“If you’re content and appreciative, why are you here?”

“A kid got kidnapped in Spanish Wells last night,” Riley said. “There was some shooting. I’m trying to help a friend find the kid.” As he said it, Riley wondered when Horace Chase had become his friend. The word felt awkward coming off his tongue and he knew it wasn’t true. Yet. Chase would have to earn that term.

Farrelli picked up the same thing. “A friend? A kid getting kidnapped? Call the cops. The Feds.”

“As you just noted,” Riley said, “we’re kind of in the wild west here. Or ancient Rome. Take your pick. And my friend went to the cops. They said he could do better taking care of it on his own.”

Farrelli laughed. “Nice. You mean the Beaufort Sheriff.” He pronounced it
boofoot
. “You know, you could hook your business up with mine. Make a lot more. I could direct some high rollers to you. They’d think you were easy. That would make them bet stupid.”

“High rollers tend to be pains in the ass,” Riley said.

“True. And you aren’t easy, are you?”

“You asking me out for a date?” Riley asked, and Farrelli gave an honest laugh.

“Your uncle had a sense of humor, too. Nothing seemed to get to him.”

“Cancer did,” Riley said.

“Death gets to all of us, sooner or later,” Farrelli said.

“This place ever really serve food?” Riley indicated the tables, complete with white tablecloths and cutlery.

“Got a great chef in-season,” Farrelli replied.

“Yeah, but no sign, who are the customers?”

“We don’t advertise,” Farrelli said, “but I’ve got enough private customers to more than pay for the chef.”

“You got reach,” Riley summarized.

“Stop by in-season,” Farrelli said. “As my guest.”

“I appreciate that.” Riley took another pull on the beer. “So. Anything on a kidnapping?”

“Who is the kid?”

“Cole Briggs. His father helps run some off-shore gambling site called SAS. The kidnappers want the Super Bowl action diverted.”

“And how much will that be?”

“A lot.”

Farrelli laughed again. “Your ‘a lot’ and my ‘a lot’ probably vary considerably.”

The front door opened and two men walked in. Suits, aviator sunglasses, muscles bulging from steroids. They joined the doorman, whispering with him and nodding toward the bar several times in the discussion.

“It’s way past my ‘a lot,’” Riley said. “Probably even bigger than your ‘a lot.’”

Farrelli tapped the edge of his wine glass with his pinkie rung. “I know of SAS. Nice scam. I believe Congress will make online gambling legal in the States soon, so they can tax it, otherwise it might be a place to, hmm, let’s say investigate further. But I can wait for Congress to do the job for me. Already got a couple kids, what do ya call ‘em, geeks, working on some mock-ups of an online site for me.”

“I’m not a threat,” Riley said, gesturing with the bottle of Harp toward the extra muscle.

“Oh, I disagree,” Farrelli said. “Your Uncle Xavier was a potential threat. I respected him. And I knew he wouldn’t be worth going after. As I’ve known you haven’t been worth going after. Profit and loss statements, and all that. I think your P&L would be in the red.”

It was Riley’s turn to laugh. “You sure you’re from Jersey?”

“You ask what exit, I will have them kill you.” Farrelli sounded serious.

“Do you know SAS was taken off-line during the conference championship games?” Riley asked.

“Yes.”

“The Russians do it?”

Farrelli shrugged. “Most likely. I offered SAS protection. They did not accept it. I would say the facts have now proven that was foolish on their part.”

“Which opens up the possibility that you staged the kidnapping to prove how vulnerable they are.”

Farrelli’s face tightened in anger.

Riley held up his hands. “All right. Not you. But could you protect them from an Internet takedown? From the Russians?”

“I have a reputation that they might not want to mess with. And, as I said, I have some Internet guys working for me. They tell me it was the Russians who hijacked the site. SAS should have taken me up on my offer of help. Walter Briggs, the man who is part of SAS, is not the most threatening persona.”

“‘Part of SAS?’” Riley asked. “What’s the other part?”

Farrelli shook his head. “I don’t know. Briggs is a computer guy, but not the type who could get an operation like that running and keep it running. He’s got to have a partner with brains and balls.”

“No idea who? His wife thinks it’s someone down in Antigua.”

“That would be logical. Think this is the wild west, the islands are crazy. Everything goes to the highest bidder there.”

“And it doesn’t here? Aren’t we in Deadwood?”

Farrelli laughed.

“What about Peter Rollins?” Riley asked.

“What about him?”

“I heard he’s into SAS for a million,” Riley said.

Farrelli smiled. “He’s into me for a dime since I played golf with him the other day. He’d bet on whether the grass was green. A fucking degenerate gambler.” He sat silent for a little while, then shook his head. “I don’t think Rollins has the balls to try something like kidnapping.”

“Desperate men do desperate things,” Riley said.

Farrelli nodded. “It’s why I try not to make men desperate.”

“I’m sure it keeps you up at night,” Riley said, and Farrelli laughed.

“Yes. That was a bit of bullshit. But Rollins? He’s got financial trouble beyond owing SAS. He’s been butting heads with the Quad.”

“I’ve heard of them, but who are they, exactly?” Riley said.

“You’ve probably seen all of ‘em,” Farrelli said, “either on the golf course out there, or drinking in the Shack. Citadel grads. Sort of like the Outfit, except they act fancier because they all went to the same school there in Charleston. They run most of South Carolina, especially Charleston. A lot of old families.

“Except the Quad carved up Savannah, leaving Charleston to their classmates with better pedigrees South of Broad. Pecking orders to everything.” Farrelli shook his head, obviously honestly befuddled. “I mean, it ain’t like we boast about who got off on Ellis Island first up in Jersey. But these snoots down here, act like their ancestors got rowed over by God, especially in Charleston. It’s a pretty town, but the snobbishness, is that a word?” He paused for confirmation from Riley.

“I think it is in Charleston.”

Farrelli continued. “It’s overwhelming. Like we shouldn’t even be able to breathe their air. Savannah ain’t as bad, but Karralkov is muscling in down there. While their business interests seem different, they tangentially—is that a word?”

“Yes, sir,” Riley said.

“Their businesses tangentially intersect,” Farrelli said. “Thus, there is bound to be more and more friction as time goes by.”

“Between the Quad and Karralkov,” Riley said. “How does Rollins play into this?”

“He overreached before the economy went south. Ended up holding the bag on a lot of property that’s worth a lot less than what he paid. The Quad is trying to buy him out of a number of places, at a big loss for him. I wouldn’t be surprised if Karralkov is doing the same, except using front companies. Rollins is caught in the middle.”

“You know Savannah was founded using convicts?” Riley asked, processing that information.

“I suppose that’s why they ain’t as snooty,” Farrelli agreed.

“Any other thoughts on who might be going after SAS and kidnapped the kid?”

Farrelli stared at Riley. “I believe it is dishonorable to attack someone’s family. There must be some rules.”

“So the kid,” Riley pressed. “Anything?”

“No.” Farrelli slid off his stool, indicating the meeting was over. “But given it was a child, I’ll ask around. Shouldn’t mess with people’s families.”

Riley stuck his hand out. “I appreciate the conversation.”

Farrelli stared at the hand like it was a snake for a moment, then took it. His grip was firm and warm. “How’d you know to find me in here?”