27
Hands on her ample hips, Consuelo Amardara stared at the food between Gershwin and me as if it were too Spartan for her liking. “If that’s not enough I can bring a nice slice of cake.”
“I think we’re fine, Miz Amardara,” I said, reaching for my Consuelo’s Delight. I had planned to order a beer, but she had the drink in my hands before we’d settled into the back booth. After the bushwhacking by Rayles, we’d retreated to Tiki Tiki to review our only road into the case: Carosso. Amardara had already loaded the table with tortillas, matzo balls, carnitas, chunks of baked salami, garlic dills, guacamole and chips, ceviche, sliced limes, pickled herring and three kinds of salsa. It seemed the kitchen at Tiki Tiki was also used for Ms Amardara’s sideline businesses: catering for Jewish or Latino events, presumably even Polynesian.
Carosso was now Miami-Dade’s case and Delmara seemed happy for any input we could supply. To me it seemed a tremendous oversight by Rayles’s people, but I was happy to have a road into the trafficking case, no matter how slender. We revisited Carosso’s financial records, still intrigued by the anomalous two grand deposited in Carosso’s account thirteen months back.
Gershwin drizzled a matzo ball with lime and salsa picante and popped it in his mouth. “Maybe Carosso got a big payoff and spent it on something, had two grand left.”
“I don’t think the guy owned anything that cost more than fifty bucks.”
“Maybe he has stuff elsewhere. An offshore account.”
“I doubt Carosso had that kind of fiscal sophistication. But then, I don’t know how much he made helping ditch a batch of dead bodies. Maybe he owed someone a favor.”
Gershwin’s turn to think. “Reverse it,” he said, flipping his hands over one another. “Maybe he got a favor instead of money. Or a favor with a little sugar added to the pot.”
His point dawned as I was sipping my drink, slowing today’s rum intake by using a pink straw. “Like his own personal slave, maybe? A young toy to play with for a couple months?”
“Maybe it was enough to make Carosso fill his truck with dead bodies and drive to the cistern. That’s a huge chance for an ex-con. If caught, he’d have spent twenty years in the iron-bar Hilton.”
I couldn’t think well, sitting and jamming food into my mouth. I stood and began pacing, but Ms Amardara zeroed in on my motion like a hawk on a mouse. “Sit, Detective!” she called, patting a hand in the down motion. “Don’t strain your legs. I’ll bring you a fresh drink.”
I glanced at the drink in my hand; she thought I was looking for a refill. “It’s fine, Miz Amard—”
“Connie!” she shrieked. “It’s Connie.”
“It’s fine, Connie. I’m just stretching.”
“Then stretch, stretch. You need something, anything, wave. An eyeblink and I’ll be there.”
I smiled and retreated to the restroom, thinking in the quiet for a couple minutes before coming back to the booth, careful not to blink or do anything that might be construed as a wave. “It’s pure speculation …” I said as I sat, “but if the girl was a gift, it could mean someone knew Carosso well enough to pull his secret strings. And that person was either one of the traffickers or tight with them.”
“Someone Carosso worked with?” Gershwin said. “A buddy at the plant?”
I looked at my watch. “Redi-flow will be closed by the time we get there. I think we kick off tomorrow with another talk with Mr Kazankis. Could you pass the tortillas?”
Leala knew her escape would have been noticed by now and every eye turned her way held potential danger. The day’s project had been finding a hiding place. She’d noticed empty houses fronted with signs saying POR SALE, or POR SALE – FORECLOSURE. Her first thought was to break a window and slip inside, but that was the work of a thief and Leala was not a thief.
She had been passing such a house – which, like many, had a yard where the plants and lawn were untended and the house seemed to be sinking into the mouth of a green monster – and saw the roof tip of a building in the rear. There was an alley behind the house and the gate opened with a nervous creak.
The building was a tiny shed with no lock. It smelled of petrol and in the corner was a lawnmower with a missing wheel. A rake and shovel hung from pegs on the wall alongside a bicycle wheel with a flat tire. There were two oily cases of Corona beer bottles, empty, and a rotting cardboard box filled with mechanical parts from the inside of a car.
But there was soft light through one dusty window and room on the concrete floor to stretch out. The backyard was overgrown with palms and palmettos and the ground was covered with fallen fronds. Staying low, Leala gathered the fronds and used them to make a pallet on the hard floor. It was crunchy, but softer than the concreto.