IN THE LOBBY OF THEIR HOTEL, ALEX DUARTE SHOOK HIS HEAD. He had just recounted all that Cal Linley had told him the night before.
Lina looked at Félix, then back to the ATF agent and said, "Oil doesn't fit in with our sources here in the U.S. I don't see it as a possibility."
He looked over at Félix. The DEA man had seemed more and more disturbed by the death of his informant, Gastlin. Often cops took the full brunt of responsibility for the deaths of people who worked for them. Duarte had seen the subtle signs that Félix was being eaten alive by this. Félix had made a note of Cal Linley's name on a small pad.
Félix finally said, "He does sound a little crazy, bro. Why would he do shit like that for no money? And what would 'help the country' in a crate that fit in the back of a truck? Could oil equipment be more valuable than pot?"
Lina sounded interested now. "What would be more valuable than the pot?"
"Coke or maybe even heroin. That would bring in a hell of a lot more cash than pot."
Duarte sighed. "There's something wrong here. It may have to do with our load, and it maybe points to Ortíz."
Lina said, "Or it might distract us from working on the case. It could work both ways."
Duarte nodded and said, "Regardless, I'm staying a few more days until I'm satisfied."
Félix said, "I'm with you then, bro. Maybe I can help." He paused and then said, "You really think this guy Linley might know something about Gastlin?"
"He might know someone who does. It's a long shot, but I feel like I have to follow up on it."
Lina became more agitated and said, "You're both foolish. It was a load of pot, and you feel guilty your snitch got killed. That's it."
Duarte kept his dark eyes on the FBI agent. "Lina, it's not like I'm asking you to jump in on this. I just have a few leads to run down. Maybe it is nothing."
"You have a report on your interview?"
"No report on that interview."
She shook her head like a frustrated teacher.
Duarte let her calm down a little and said, "Have you seen the colonel? I've got a few questions for him."
Lina shook her head. "No, he's been gone since early this morning."
Félix shot a look at her. "Keeping pretty close watch over him, aren't you?"
"That depends, Félix."
"On what?"
"On whether it's any of your fucking business." She turned and stalked off toward the elevators, leaving Duarte and Félix in the little sitting area of the hotel lobby.
Lázaro Staub let his eyes burn at the terrified man from Omaha who was sitting on the trunk of the rented Impala. Pelly leaned against the car's driver-side door with that perpetual smirk under his five o'clock shadow even though it wasn't yet nine in the morning. And he was in a town named Lafayette, about three hours from New Orleans.
Staub shook his head and glanced at Pelly. "I'm surrounded by idiots. First you and your hired asses, then this moron manages to lose our package altogether."
Ike said, "There were just too many of them. I'm sorry, Mr. Ortíz, but they surprised me."
"I'm afraid you'll be in for a horrible surprise if we don't have the truck with my package back in our possession in the next few hours." He looked up at the clear sky and the expanse to the north. "How big is this town?"
"What, Lafayette? I dunno, hundred thousand maybe."
"Where would one take a rental truck?"
Ike shrugged and shook his head.
Pelly cleared his throat.
Staub looked at him, "What? What is it, Pelly?"
He started in Spanish.
Staub said, "Speak English, so we don't have to translate for this idiot."
"If you look at it like a business, who would want the truck?"
Staub thought about it until he heard Ike say, "The rental company?"
Pelly nodded. "For parts, if the truck is not working. Perhaps the reward, no?"
Staub's narrow eyes darted from side to side. "You may be right, Pelly." He looked at his assistant. "Get on it." He glared at Ike, wondering the exact cost if he were to eliminate this problem right now.
Duarte showed his ID to get into the New Orleans office of the ATF. The office had moved since Katrina and seemed a little cramped in the temporary building on the outskirts of New Orleans.
He needed some analytical help and knew the best person for that would be one of the office's intelligence analysts. After a few greetings and small talk, he caught up to a young agent named Hugh O'Conner who had been through the academy with him.
The New Orleans agent slapped Duarte on the back. "Heard you were out here on a case, but I thought it was at the port."
"It was. I'm just doing some follow-up."
"How's South Florida?"
"Good."
"Miss the army at all?"
"Nope."
O'Conner smiled. "Still the talkative one, huh, Alex?"
Duarte just smiled and said, "You guys have a 'go-to' analyst?"
"Yeah, doesn't everyone?" He looked down the hall to a tall, pretty woman with red hair. "Jan Stern is the best. She's got the lowdown on every database you can think of."
"Will she give me a few minutes?"
"Jan? Sure. Loves Latins. Lived in Spain for a while. She'll do anything you ask."
"Thanks."
"Still all business."
Duarte shrugged as he started toward the analyst. He eased up to her cubicle and smiled. "Jan, hello. I'm Alex Duarte from the West Palm Beach office."
She looked up from her report, then smiled herself. "What can I do for you, Agent Duarte?"
"I need to identify someone, and all I have is a description and nickname." He pulled out the registration sheet from the motel in Metairie where Linley had said he delivered the crate. It had taken a while to find the exact motel, but the owner was cooperative if it meant getting rid of a federal agent. "His registration at a motel just says 'Ike Floyd, Neb.'"
"No problem." She scooted out a second chair and slid it next to her. "Have a seat, and we'll see what we can find."
After a half hour of more conversation than he wanted but some dynamite computer work, she had narrowed it down to five possibilities for "Ike" Floyd in the Omaha area.
As he prepared to leave, she said, "How long you out here for?"
"Few more days, at least."
"Are you free for dinner?" She had a bright, flawless smile.
He smiled and knew his answer immediately. "I'd like that, but I have a girlfriend." He'd finally taken the plunge.
William "Ike" Floyd had tried to strike up a conversation with the man named Pelly, but so far he hadn't had much luck. He wasn't unfriendly or nasty, just focused on finding the truck. He spoke English. He had an accent, but he knew what words to string together and how to put in a little inflection. In most sentences. But he didn't have much to say.
They pulled up to the fourth place that rented U-Hauls. This was a grimy, former gas station that wasn't one of the nice, roomy corporate sites.
Pelly nodded. "This kind of place might buy stolen parts."
Ike looked over at the man whose face seemed to grow darker with hair by the minute and said, "You think we got a chance? What if he doesn't want to say anything?"
"If he knows something, he'll talk."
Just the way the trim, furry man said it made Ike believe it. Ike pulled the rented Impala into the lot next to the old station, and they walked through the empty office and into the covered work bay. Inside, a sloppy, fat man in a T-shirt too small for his girth unscrewed the grill to a step van.
Ike said in a low voice, "I think that's my truck."
Pelly stepped into the bay and said, "Excuse me, sir."
The fat man jumped at his voice and turned to face his visitors. He stood to his full six-three and tried to pull down the greasy white T-shirt. "What can I do for you boys?"
Pelly smiled and eased closer. Ike noticed him reach under the back of his shirt for his automatic pistol. He had seen how quick Ortíz was to kill. The image of Faith's open, staring, dead eyes was still burned into his head. He was about to see another version of the brutal way these guys did business.