The Tangled Web: an international web of intrigue, murder and romance (11 page)

For a moment, he seemed miles away. Eventually he said, “The whole narcotics business is like a giant octopus with tentacles everywhere, Logan. The bottom line is these drug lords have enough money to get away with murder, as I discovered when I did that research for you. The lady you asked me to check out was indicted twice. She walked scot-free each time. Offered the proverbial choices – lead or silver. As it transpired, she never resorted to lead. Didn’t have to. Thirty pieces of silver did the trick. People in Colombia talk about her with a kind of hushed deference. It’s said she’s not above bribing top ranking members of government to make sure business runs smoothly. Seems like nobody is outside her reach, not in that country anyway.”

“From what I read, the lady is something else,” Logan concurred. “But at least the violence has toned down in Colombia. I remember back in the mid to late eighties a frightening number of high-profile people who spoke out against the Medellín cartel were assassinated by cartel hit men.”

“Mike nodded. “Yep, supreme court justices, ministers of government, you name it. They killed forty judges around that time. Complete lawlessness.”

Logan’s eyes hardened as a strange look flitted across them. “Well, it will never come to that here,” he said.

Mike noticed it had stopped raining. He downed the last of his Scotch and got up to leave. “Thanks for the drink. I’m glad I ran this by you. It’s taken a load off my chest.”

“And dumped a load on mine,” Logan teased as he saw him out.

They stood at the door watching the after-rain mist rise from the earth. “I’ll tell you one thing,” Mike said, his eyes moving upward to the mountains still covered in cloud. “If something isn’t done soon, we’re going to wind up the same way as Colombia in our little country here.”

SIXTEEN

Robert Palmer rose from his desk and shook Mike’s hand warmly. As they sat, he got straight to the point. “Can’t say I’m not surprised to see you, Mike,” he admitted. “I’m a bit curious about why you’re here. You didn’t give much of a clue when you called yesterday.”

Now that Mike was sitting opposite Robert Palmer, he was unsure how to broach the subject. It was a delicate balance between complying with the law and what amounted to squealing on an acquaintance. “I have information concerning the McGuire murders which may be of interest to you,” he said cautiously.

Palmer’s eyes lit with interest. “Oh?”

Mike cleared his throat. “I just want to say what I’m about to share with you was told to me in confidence. To tell you the truth, I’ve been a bit reticent about coming forward with this. I have no reason to believe the person who confided in me was involved in any way. I’d hate to see him suffer any negative repercussions because of what I tell you.”

Palmer’s smile was weary as he eased back in his chair. “It’s ironic how in this country, where no secret can find a hiding place, the last people to hear anything are the people in law enforcement – that’s if we ever have the good fortune of hearing anything. But before you go on, I should warn you there’s a possibility I may have to use what you say as testimony.”

“I understand that’s a given. Though for obvious reasons I’d rather be involved as little as possible.”

“I understand,” Palmer assured Mike. “I’ll try and keep you out of it. So, what is it you know?”

“Do you happen to know of a man named Dave Evans?” Mike asked.

“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of him. Does he have something to do with it?”

“No, but he knows who committed the murders, or so he says.”

Palmer began doodling idly on a notepad. “How does Evans know who committed the murders? Was he an eye witness?”

“No, he wasn’t an eyewitness. Someone confided to Evans he committed the murders.”

“There’s someone going around town confessing to murder?” Palmer shook his head doubtfully. “The person would have to be completely crazy or whacked out on drugs.”

“Well, it is Evans’ opinion the man is a cokehead. I wouldn’t know. I don’t know the person, or even who it is. But from all Evans said, it appears there was more to the whole thing than some cokehead going crazy.”

Palmer stopped doodling and looked at Mike intently. “What do you mean when you say there was more to it?”

“There appears to have been a drug drop going down at Fisherman’s Key. The party who claims he committed the murders told Evans he was waiting for the drop when the McGuire boat appeared unexpectedly.”

“Were you told how the drugs were dropped?” Palmer asked with growing interest.

“By a seaplane is what I was told.”

“Did Evans say more?”

“No, that’s about it.”

Palmer whistled through his teeth. For a minute he was silent. In his estimation, the seaplane wasn’t coming from shore. It was coming from Florida, or another island, though the latter was unlikely. “Let me make sure I have the name right,” he said flipping to a clean page on his notepad. “What did you say your man’s first name was?”

“Dave.”

“Got a telephone number for him?”

“Sorry, I don’t.”

“That’s not a problem. We’ll track him down.”

Mike began having second thoughts. He knew he had done the right thing by reporting the conversation between Evans and himself, but at the same time, he was concerned for Evans. “I hope what I’ve told you doesn’t implicate Evans in any way,” he said worriedly. “I don’t see Dave Evans as the kind of man who would be involved in murder.”

Palmer gave Mike a long look. His smile was jaded as he said, “Let me tell you something, Mike. I can draw a line connecting almost every crime committed in this country and the sale of narcotics. Whether your man was involved, who’s to say? The jury is out on that one. But I’m interested in finding out what he knows. Let’s leave it at that for now. No point in either of us jumping the gun.”

It was not without trepidation that Dave Evans pulled into the parking lot of the Criminal Investigation Department. He got out of his car and walked slowly towards the building he had driven by almost every day of his adult life, but had never given much thought until now. As he climbed the steps leading up to the entrance of the four-story grey fortress, Evans went through every imaginable scenario he might encounter while there. His nerves were already raw as he entered the lobby and faced the intimidating welcome of a reception desk caged in bulletproof glass.

Engrossed in something on her computer, the uniformed woman at the desk didn’t appear to notice Evans as he stood nervously at the panel of glass separating them. Tentatively, Evans rapped on the window to get her attention. She slid open the panel.

“I’m Dave Evans. I’m here to see Detective Doran,” Evans announced uncertainly.

“You have an appointment?”

“Yes.”

The woman slid the panel shut and continued clicking away on her keyboard. Evans stood waiting for what seemed like an interminable time. At last the woman opened the panel again. “What did you say your name was?” she asked.

“Dave Evans… I’m here to see Detective Doran.”

“Wait a minute.” She picked up a phone. “He’ll be right with you,” she said putting the phone back down. “Have a seat over there,” she instructed, pointing Evans to the metal chairs lining the room on either side.

Evans sat anxiously jiggling a leg. It had been a hell of a week, the last straw being a call from the C.I.D. Why hadn’t they just visited him at his home instead of asking him to come to headquarters, and then wait in some godforsaken room surrounded by the reek of common street criminals who were staring at him as if he was some alien just arrived from outer space?

Seeking refuge from the stares, he fixed his eyes on his Cole Haan loafers. It was then that he realized his Ralph Lauren shirt and Italian linen slacks must stick out like a sore thumb. He dragged his eyes away from his shoes and fixed his stare on a room beyond the glass cage. In it were a dozen or so men in street clothes, plainclothes detectives from what Evans could tell. One got up and came toward the waiting area. Without hesitation, he singled out Evans.

“Mr. Evans?”

“Yes,” Evans said standing nervously.

“I’m Detective Doran. Please come with me.”

Palmer was buried in a file when they walked into his office. The chief closed the file and raised his eyes, fixing them on Evans.

“So, Mr. Evans, thanks for taking the time to come in.”

Evans regarded Palmer apprehensively. He realized whatever he had been called in for was no small thing if the C.I.D. chief was involved.

Palmer gestured for Evans to sit. Picking up on Evans’ apprehension, he said, “You’re probably wondering what this is about.”

“As a matter of fact I am,” Evans replied, steadying his voice with effort.

Palmer got straight to the point. “We have reason to believe you might have information about the McGuire case which may be of value to us.”

Evan’s jaw tightened. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Chief Inspector.”

Palmer eyed Evans skeptically. There was a sharp edge to his otherwise cordial tone as he said, “Accessory to murder is a serious crime, Mr. Evans. Non-compliance with the law could be viewed as that. It would be helpful if you could tell us what you know about those murders.”

Evans glanced from the detective to Palmer. Palmer returned his look with one of studied patience. “Come now, Mr. Evans,” he said in a placatory tone, “We wouldn’t have asked you to come here unless we had good reason to believe you know something.”

Evans did not respond.

Palmer drummed his fingers on his desk.

Finally, Palmer said, “We have a report from someone that you know who committed those murders.”

Evans tensed visibly. Frantically, he began taking stock of whom he had spoken with about the murders. There were only three people. He struggled to remember how much he had revealed during those conversations. He was sure he never mentioned Jackson’s name. And Jackson hadn’t told him who the other perpetrators were, thank God for that.

The detective quickly stepped in. “Mr. Evans,” Doran said in a sympathetic tone, “We know how it goes. We have enough crimes to solve without having to chase after everyone who wants to make a quick buck on the side.”

Dave Evans said nothing for the longest minute of his life. His voice shook when he finally spoke again. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I have nothing more to say without an attorney.”

Palmer leaned forward. “Are you sure you want to do that, Mr. Evans? Do you really want this dragged out in some legal soap opera to be witnessed by all and sundry?”

Evans paled.

“Consider this, Mr. Evans,” Palmer continued solicitously. “We’re willing to make a bargain before it goes as far as you being
forced
to seek a plea bargain. Give us the information we want and we’ll look the other way as far as your little business on the side goes.”

Evans realized his back was up against a wall. “What is it you want to know?” he asked, fear and desperation showing in his eyes.

“As much as you know,” Palmer said, drumming on his desk again.

“What guarantee do I have what I tell you won’t be used against me?” Evans asked shakily.

“If you tell us what you know, you have my guarantee. That’s as good a deal as you’ll ever get. So, what do you know about those murders, Dave?”

“I only know what somebody told me.”

“Was that person involved?”

“I can’t say. I wasn’t there. I can only tell you what he said.”

Evans confided as much as he deemed necessary in order to extricate himself from a difficult situation. He knew he had omitted something vitally important, but these were shark-infested waters the C.I.D. chief was leading him into. Five people had already been killed. He did not wish to be the sixth casualty.

You wouldn’t happen to know where the drop came from, would you?” Palmer asked when Evans had finished giving his partial account.

Evans didn’t reply.

“I would think if the boats were waiting for a drop, then the merchandise had to have been coming from somewhere,” Palmer said casually.

Evans hesitated. “Look Inspector,” he pleaded, “I’m doing my best to cooperate, but you being involved in this investigation points to something bigger than what happened out at Fisherman’s Key. I don’t want to wind up dead.”

“You won’t be put in such a position, Mr. Evans,” Palmer smiled thinly. “You have my word on that. If you know more, I’d like to hear. It could very well help us solve this case.”

Evans thought for a minute. He finally decided telling Palmer about the seaplane was harmless enough.

“Where would a seaplane have been coming from?” Palmer asked with feigned surprise.

Evans hedged again.

Palmer thick brows rose in a question mark.

“It was coming from a ship not too far out at sea,” Evans said in a barely audible voice.

There was an almost imperceptible glimmer of victory in Robert Palmer’s eyes. The pieces of the puzzle were finally coming together. The ship was very likely the freighter from Nicaragua Detective Wallace had been observing at the port, though where the seaplane and the Cigarette boats fit in was a mystery. Palmer knew it was a long shot, but it was possible Evans knew more about the ship than he was letting on. “Do you know anything about this ship?” he asked Evans.

Evans became visibly frightened.

“We have a deal,” Palmer reminded him.

Evans took a deep breath. “Look, if I tell you anything more I’m going to need police protection. My suspicion is that ship was big business, big enough for somebody to do anything it takes to protect their interests.”

At last Evans conceded, “Okay, you want to know everything? From what I understand, Jackson and company were looting a big coke shipment coming out of Nicaragua. The ship’s captain was in on the deal.”

SEVENTEEN

Jorgé Caicedo Rojas, second only to Maria in the Echevarría Cartel hierarchy and a member of the cocaine industry elite, stared at the phone on his desk. Maria’s desire to eliminate their associate on the island weighed heavily on his mind. Jorgé had assumed now the industry had been taken to a sophisticated level, such methods of doing business had become as archaic as the makeshift cocaine laboratories of the old days. But, he concluded unhappily, he was obviously wrong. Violence was beginning to rear its ugly head again, and for no good reason as far as he could tell. He remembered well there had been violent times. That was the way it had been when he started at the bottom of the cartel ladder as an accountant of little consequence. Those were the days when the pioneer capos – Pablo Escobar, the Ochoa brothers, Carlos Lehder, the Rodriguez Orejuela brothers and Maria’s father Pablo Echevarría had trafficked the white powder to the United States themselves.