Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [94]
Nelson staggered to the kitchen for coffee. Roberto could wait a few goddamn minutes. What was he doing calling up at nine o’clock on my day off? What was he doing calling up at all? That one Nelson knew.
Roberto didn’t bother with hello. “Octavio, they put a bullet in my car.”
“What a shame. Your fancy sedan?”
“Jesus, listen to me. I walked outside this morning, and there’s a hole as big as a bowling ball in the door on the driver’s side. I can put my fist through it. They must have used a cannon. Right in front of my house, Octavio!”
“You want me to make a report?”
“No, hermano.” Roberto was whimpering now. “I want your help. They think I stole some stuff.”
“Stuff?” Nelson seemed amused. “You mean cocaine?”
“At a party. Some lawyer had a pound or so stashed in his desk, and somebody ripped it off. They think I did it.”
“Did you?”
“No! Christ, I’m not stupid, Octavio. I know these guys. I see them every day. I’m not about to fuck ’em out of their dope. I know what happens to people who do.”
“Obviously they don’t trust you, Roberto.” The coffee burned in Nelson’s stomach.
“I was in the room for about two minutes. With a chick. That was it.”
“Sounds like a storybook romance,” Nelson said.
“God, Octavio, I’m not jerking you around. These guys mean to kill me. You should see the car.”
Nelson felt very tired. He almost hung up. “What do you want from me?”
“I’ve got to go out of town for a couple of days. I need a ride to the airport.”
“Call a cab.”
“They’re probably watching the house. A taxi is no good. A taxi won’t discourage them.”
“Oh, but a police escort will? I see.” Octavio Nelson was boiling. “Where are you?”
“At the house.”
“Alone?”
“Almost,” Roberto Nelson answered.
“Send her home. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah. Don’t go anywhere,” Octavio Nelson ordered. Then he hung up and drained the last of the harsh, hot coffee.
A FILE WAS NO good unless it was neat.
That was one of Wilbur Pincus’s convictions about organized police work, and that was why he always typed his notes. In a cardboard box in a suit closet of his apartment, there were forty or so spiral notebooks. All of Pincus’s initial casework, long since reduced to typed memorandums.
Except for one. It was a blue notebook with the numbers 10-17-80 and the letters WP on the cover. Only half the pages were full, but the notes inside pertained to only one case.
Pincus knew the facts by heart; if it had ever gotten to court, he would have needed absolutely no coaching from the state attorney. Of course, it never did get to court, never would.…
There was a deal involving about ten pounds of cocaine. It was about to go down in a parking lot outside a suburban mall, fifteen minutes from Miami. Octavio Nelson got the tip from one of his “phone freaks” and decided on a lark to check it out. It was a long shot, so he didn’t ask for a backup.
Pincus and Nelson waited ninety minutes, changing parking spots every now and then, circling the lot in Nelson’s Dodge. A burgundy van arrived, and one man got out. He walked to another car, a blue Chevrolet Malibu, and used a key out of his pocket to open the trunk. He lifted an Adidas athletic bag, dark blue, closed the trunk and toted it back to the van.
“Let’s go,” Octavio Nelson said calmly, opening the door. The detectives briskly crossed the parking lot and approached the van.
“Buenos días,” Nelson greeted the driver.
“Buenos días.”
Nelson flashed his badge. “I want to talk to you.”
“Sure,” the driver said. He was only nineteen or twenty. He wore a cranberry Dior tennis shirt and a pair of blue jeans. His sideburns were cut very high, and the modest shadow of a new mustache darkened his upper lip.
“Can I see a driver’s license?” Nelson asked.
“I’m sorry, man. Don’t have it with me.” The kid shrugged and gave a forced laugh.
“I’m sorry, too,” Nelson said. “What is your name?”
“Aristidio Cruz.”
“Wilbur, start checking around the stores. Find out who owns the blue Malibu,” Nelson said. “I’m going to talk to Mr. Cruz some more.”
Pincus thought it would make