“How is that, Orlando?”
“Like an egg in its nest, Chaku. A nest egg … how perfect! A symbol of our new wealth. There are other Chalks out there, and an endless supply of Lealas. Close the trunk, my large friend. Time to vamos.”
Leala’s world turned dark. Her fingers began clawing the fabric of the short dress higher.
We hovered afar for twenty minutes before a line of vehicles roared to Redi-flow like a cavalry charge, sirens their bugle, the blue lights beating like volleys from Remington rifles. Within five minutes a dozen men were belly-down on the lot with hands behind their heads. I aimed the glasses toward the hut, another four men on their bellies as the former slaves-to-be huddled in fear and confusion. It was time to put our feet on the ground.
We landed in the lot and the pilot buzzed off, the chopper replaced by Roy at the wheel of his Yukon. “Come look at something interesting,” Roy said, waving us inside. “You’re gonna love it.”
He roared across the lot to a semi rig carrying a bus-sized metal tank marked Redi-flow Porta-Plant. An opened hatch revealed a line of rickety benches bolted inside the tank. Gershwin and I stared in amazement.
“How’s that for a slave-delivery system?” Roy asked. “Even if the rig gets stopped by a cop, who’d look inside mixing machinery?”
We saw a black SUV barreling in, the door bearing the insignia of Homeland Security. The driver stopped beside us and Rayles exited, the implacable and chin-led face now looking worn and too far from sleep. I waited for Pinker to exit, but Rayles seemed to have left the pet monkey at home.
“There’s been a troubling discovery,” Rayles said as his weary face nodded toward the office. “Let’s go inside to talk.”
I shot a look at Roy and we followed Rayles toward the empty office, all occupants outside and being readied for a trip downtown. Kazankis stood to the side with hands cuffed behind his back and doing his best to look distraught. He saw me and did several frantic come-hither nods.
I kept walking. I’d get to Kazankis soon enough. We entered the spare meeting room and Rayles closed the door. Roy gave Rayles a what’s happening? look.
“It’s Robert Pinker, my adjutant, assistant, whatever …” Rayles stopped and seemed lost for words.
“What is it, sir?” I asked.
“Pinker is … He’s dirty, I suppose, as you people say.”
“Come again?” Roy said, eyes wide.
Rayles sighed and leaned against the wall with arms crossed. “I’ve been bothered by Robert. It started that day at the crime scene when I passed the case back to the FCLE, reluctantly, I admit. Did you find Robert’s behavior odd?”
“He almost went physical,” I said. “It seemed unprofessional.”
Rayles nodded at my assessment. “It wasn’t the deferential Robert Pinker I knew, respectful of my decisions. I asked him about it later, what had angered him so. His answers were plausible: lack of sleep, a lingering sinus infection, a touch of nerves.”
“You didn’t buy it?” I asked.
“His answers came with troubling microfacial shifts. It was like seeing a different face, another Robert Pinker breaking the surface.”
I hid my surprise. “You’re acquainted with microfacial analysis, Major?” Though the minute shifts in facial musculature were termed “lie-detector expressions” by some, they were not, though an experienced professional could glean such traits as evasion and stress.
Rayles nodded. “I spent ten years at Gitmo in interrogation and studied all the techniques and situational adaptations. I analyzed faces as the interrogators asked questions. Got pretty decent at it, actually. I became intrigued by Robert’s insincerity and took a background interest in the cistern case, finding he chose an inexperienced team for a complex assignment. Then Robert handed the Paul Carosso investigation to the Miami-Dade department, which made little sense unless it was to keep HS out of the loop.”
I looked at Rayles with fresh eyes. He was a lot sharper than I’d given him credit for.
“Three days ago I put Robert under surveillance by our best people,” Rayles continued. “This morning he and two confederates on the Miami docks falsified records on an incoming shipment, essentially making it disappear. That cargo module is now on a truck by the Quonset hut, where it seems our investigations have become one.”
“Jeeeeezle,” Roy said. “Pinker would be the perfect insider, access to shipment dates, cargo manifests, backgrounds of dock workers. You know how Kazankis got his claws into your man?”
“I figure Robert happened onto the trafficking operation and approached Kazankis or someone in his operation. The bane of our business, gentlemen, a weak employee near large amounts of money.”