Straits of Fortune - Anthony Gagliano [83]
“A lot depends on your father and Williams,” I said. “And a lot also depends on how much the cops know or think they know. I’m betting that at this stage of the game all they care about is your father’s drug business. You can be sure they’ve been watching him for a long time. So far as I know, the feds have no idea what happened to Matson or Duncan. Let’s hope it stays that way. It’ll be better for everybody.”
“What about you?” Vivian asked.
“If they catch Williams and ask about the yacht…well, let me put it to you like this: Either Williams can tell them the truth—in which case I go down—or he can plead ignorance. If I had to put money on it, I’d pick the second choice. Not to protect me, mind you. Williams doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone except the Colonel. It would just be less complicated to say he didn’t know what happened to The Carrousel. That’s what I would do.”
I took the flash drive out of my pocket and held it up for Vivian to see.
“What happens next depends on this,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that once Williams gets hold of this, he and your papa—wherever he is—will disappear, fade away, go off somewhere and find a friendly Third World country that will help them manufacture Morphitrex and whatever else they can come up with. My money is on Cuba.”
“Why Cuba?” Vivian asked.
I looked out past the pool and east toward the ocean just as a pelican made a nosedive into the sea.
“A couple of things. One, it’s close. Two, Duncan, Matson’s boat buddy, was a Cuban spy. Three, and juiciest of all, is that Cuba has a world-class biotech industry—as good as anything we have here, or damned close. A party drug like Morphitrex would mean a lot of money for Castro. Of course, he wouldn’t be involved in it directly. He’s too smart for that, but you can bet he’ll have a hand in it, like a puppet master, from a distance.”
I took one last sip of my coffee. The sugar at the bottom of the Styrofoam cup slid into my mouth as slowly as maple syrup, and I gulped a glass of water down to wash away the harsh sweetness.
“Go get your brother,” I said.
“I thought you were going to go into business with Nick and me.”
“You’re not the only one who can lie.”
“But you’d look so good in money, baby. Now you’ll have to work.”
She made it sound like I was doomed to a life in the tin mines of Bolivia.
“What’s with you and the money thing?” I demanded. “You still have that cash in the Caymans, don’t you?” I asked.
“How can I get it now, with Matson dead? It’s in escrow, and besides, he never gave us the account number.”
“Go up and get your brother. Forget the money. We’ll be lucky if we get out of this alive.”
Vivian stood up, hooked her thumbs under the spaghetti straps of her dress and straightened them out, then gave her miniskirt just enough of a downward tug to keep it from becoming a sash. Every time I looked at her, I understood once again why hell would always be crowded.
“I’m not sure I trust you anymore,” she said.
“Now we’re even.”
When the door of the elevator closed, I walked quickly out of the lobby and across the street to the cybercafé on the corner. They had just opened up, and the sleepy-eyed kid behind the counter moved in slow motion as he set me up at a desktop near the front window. I wasn’t high-tech enough to know exactly how to do what I wanted to do and had to ask him for help downloading the information on the drive we’d swiped from Vivian’s room into an e-mail attachment, which I then sent to Susan with a brief explanation of its contents. All this was to buy myself a little leverage with the feds when everything hit the fan.
Ten minutes later I was back in the lobby of the Holiday Inn. I walked past the concierge toward the coffee stand, expecting to find Vivian and Nick waiting for me. My plan was simple: I would find Williams, give him the information, and try to convince him that he and the Colonel were free to go on their merry way without interference. I had no intention of trying to be a hero or of turning anybody in to the cops. As far as I could see,