Criminal Justice

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  Criminal Justice

  Barbara Parker

  For Andrea Lane

  my daughter

  and future attorney-at-law

  CHAPTER 1

  Two men stood looking out past the ruined terrace into the blazing light of a Sunday afternoon. One man held a pair of binoculars to his eyes; the other peered through the long lens of a telephoto camera. No one across the lake was likely to see them. The shadow of the roof and the overgrown trees cast the interior of the house into an unnatural darkness.

  The room was silent except for the clicking of a shutter.

  Along one wall a folding table held recording equipment. The woman sitting there jotted notes on a clipboard. The glow of a small lamp reflected on her face. Her movements were precise and unhurried. At her feet electrical cords were routed to a junction box. Another line ran along the wall, then across the living room, held down by strips of duct tape.

  Elaine McHale walked in hearing the slight echo of her own footsteps on the bare concrete floor of what had once been a two-million-dollar lakefront house in a development in one of those vast tracts northwest of Miami. Elaine had driven up to check out the surveillance operation. The agent in charge, Vincent Hooper, had opened the garage for her so she could park her car out of sight. As far as the neighbors knew, the place was being renovated for the new owners, who lived out of state.

  The woman at the table looked up from her notes. Daisy Estrada, petite and auburn-haired, could have been any of the wives who might be found lunching at the Lakewood Village country club, except for the pistol holstered at her waist. She greeted Elaine by name.

  Elaine knew one of the men at the windows, Carlos Herrera, a Colombian-born agent with a graying mustache. They exchanged a nod. The other man was younger, with a dark blond ponytail. She extended her hand. “Elaine McHale, assistant U.S. attorney.”

  “Glad to meet you. Scott Irwin.” The knees of his jeans were ripped, and his black T-shirt had a picture of a guitarist with spiked hair. His one earring was a silver skull.

  She took all this in, finding it impossible not to smile. “You’re the agent Vince put undercover at Coral Rock Productions. You have to be.”

  Carlos patted his stomach. “Because the rest of us are too old or too fat. Scott, show her your navel ring.” The younger man pulled up his T-shirt. A silver ring pierced his skin.

  “Ouch,” Elaine said.

  Vincent Hooper put a foot on one of the steel chairs and lit a cigarette. “Scott plays bass guitar, fits right in. He’s getting his arms tattooed next.”

  “Not even for you, sugar pie.” Scott pulled down his shirt.

  The DEA had planted an agent at a music production company because the man who lived across the lake, Miguel Salazar, was using the company to launder money for a drug cartel based in Ecuador.

  From where she sat by the tape recorders, Daisy Estrada said, “What about the wiretap? We’re ready to roll.”

  Elaine said, “The warrant should be signed any moment. They have your number here.”

  Scott laughed in disbelief. “What’s the problem? Salazar’s been making calls all morning. He’s walking around in there with his phone stuck in his ear.”

  “Take it easy. We’ve got time.” Vince watched the younger agent go sit down by the windows. Then he turned his head to look at Elaine.

  She felt a sudden weakness in her chest, a catch of breath. Vince had said nothing at the door, just opened it and let her in. She hadn’t expected that seeing him would get to her. Vince had been undercover in Ecuador since before Christmas, back in Miami for more than a week. She wanted to stare at him, to soak in the subtle changes; Vince always came back changed in some way. Following him into the room she had noticed that his skin was more deeply tanned. His shirt seemed tighter across his shoulders. He had a beard, neatly trimmed but full enough to cover the scar on his jaw where last year a cop in Panama had clubbed him with a rifle butt. There was some gray, not much.

  Elaine walked to the sliding glass doors that formed the west wall of the living room, facing the lake. One of them was broken out, replaced with plywood. She slid another back to get some air. This house stank of decay and desolation. On the patio, the screening was gone. Leaves and algae choked the pool, whose tiles had blackened with mildew.

  This time of year, late January, air conditioning wasn’t necessary. She doubted it even worked. The former owner, who had been charged with securities fraud, had broken everything in the house rather than let the government seize it. At trial he had ranted how federal agents had set him up, lied to him, led him into a trap. Before the guilty verdict came in, he had punched holes in the walls and ripped out the wiring, sloshed motor oil onto plush carpeting, shattered every sink and toilet, then poured cement down the drains. His wife had already run out on him, so what the hell. Then he went into their bedroom, bit down on the barrel of a .38 revolver, and blew his brains out.

  Beyond the glittering blue lake Miguel Salazar’s mansion soared upward, an expanse of glass and peach-colored stucco under a red tile roof, with a tennis court on one side and a pool on the other. Purple bougainvillea twined through a trellis shading the terrace. Tropical flowers bordered the brick walkway that led to a white gazebo, then to the lake, where a catamaran had been pulled to shore.

  On the terrace women in bright dresses were tying balloons to the backs of chairs set at circular tables. The balloons danced in the light breeze, and the tablecloths fluttered. Children played in the grass, laughing and shouting. A young girl came out of the house carrying a box with a ribbon on it, which she put on a table already stacked with presents. Elaine heard music—a salsa melody. Rhythmic, pulsing, fading in and out.

  She turned her head slightly. Vince stood beside her. “It’s a birthday party.”

  “I didn’t know Salazar had children.”

  “A teenage son, but he’s in boarding school. He has some relatives living with him. A sister, cousins. The party’s for his niece.”

  “What about his wife?”

  Vince took a last drag on his cigarette and flicked it into the pool. “His wife is dead. She was a girl from the country, married him at fifteen. At the time of her death they lived on his ranch outside Quito. Salazar found out she was pregnant by his foreman. He shot her. The foreman lived, minus his cojones. That’s the story, anyhow.”

  Elaine let out a breath. “Good Lord.”

  Vincent Hooper could repeat these horror stories without a flicker of emotion. He had told her worse than that, inventing nothing, and there were more things he refused to tell her. They had left their mark. He thought of himself as a soldier in a nasty war, the last line of defense. And yet Elaine had seen tenderness in this man—not often but enough to keep her from losing hope.

  She noticed a Mercedes-Benz flashing in and out of view among the big houses on Salazar’s street. A minivan appeared after that. Both cars turned into his driveway, then were blocked from view by the house. More guests. A few minutes later a couple came out onto the terrace with a little boy, who ran off to join the others. The parents sat in the shade with the adults, and a woman in a maid’s uniform brought a tray of drinks.

  “Just another happy family Sunday in the burbs.” When Elaine didn’t respond, Vince said, “What’s the matter? You’re pissed off because I haven’t come to see you.”

  “Don’t make it sound so petty.”

  His lips barely moved. “And don’t be bitchy, Elaine. I couldn’t get away.”

  She didn’t speak. It wouldn’t do any good.

  To the south she could see white m
ounds of earth and the boom of a dragline moving slowly back and forth, digging up muck and limestone, making lakes and dry land out of what had once been Everglades.

  Elaine said, “I got another call from your informant at Coral Rock Productions.”

  “Not my informant. I didn’t put her in there. I was out of the country.”

  “But she is working for you, Vince, and she doesn’t like it.”

  He made a short laugh. “Well, I’m sorry as all get out.”

  The DEA had been using a female rock guitarist to gather information about the same company that Scott Irwin had infiltrated. The young woman, whose name was Kelly Dorff, had been given a choice—help us or go to prison for possession of heroin. She had called Elaine twice already to complain that she couldn’t do it anymore.

  Elaine spoke quietly, making sure no one else in the room could hear her. “Look, Vince. What else can Kelly give you that you don’t already have? If you keep leaning on her, she could lose it. She’s not stable. If she tells Salazar what’s going on, you’re going to blow your chance to get him.”

  “She’s not going to do anything,” Vince said. “Don’t worry about it. Scott’s keeping an eye on her. She doesn’t know he’s DEA.” He added, “You know what Miss Dorff’s problem is? She’s dating a guy who may well end up as a defendant in this case. A former buddy of yours. Daniel Galindo.”

  Elaine looked at him.

  “She says he’s not involved with Salazar, but I think she’s lying to us. What’s your opinion?”

  “You can’t be serious. I know you hate Dan’s guts, but really.”

  “I don’t hate him, Elaine.” Vincent smiled slightly. “That would be a waste of energy. I only look at the facts. Dan Galindo is sleeping with a girl arrested for trafficking. The girl plays in a band that Salazar is promoting. She works part-time at Coral Rock Productions, which Salazar is using for money laundering. Coral Rock is owned by Galindo’s former brother-in-law. Don’t tell me he doesn’t know what’s going on.”

  “I’m not going to argue about it,” Elaine said.

  Before resigning from the U.S. attorney’s office, Dan Galindo had lost a case against a major drug dealer. Vincent suspected that Dan had blown the case deliberately, that he’d been paid off.

  Scott Irwin stood up, raising his binoculars. “Here comes Leon.”

  Across the lake the sun flashed on the windshield of a Jeep Wrangler turning into the driveway at the side of the house. A skinny man with long black hair got out the driver’s side. His passenger, an older man wearing sunglassses, carried a box wrapped in pink paper.

  Vincent grabbed the extra pair of binoculars. Carlos swung the telephoto toward the driveway. Daisy Estrada came over to look.

  “Who are they?” Elaine asked.

  Daisy said, “The driver is Leon Davila. He’s a drummer in the same rock band as Kelly Dorff, but his real job is playing courier for Miguel Salazar. He’s on your list of indictments, right? The other guy … I don’t know.”

  “He’s a banker,” Vince said. “Executive V.P., Banco Nacional de Quito, the branch in downtown Miami. I wonder what’s in the package.”

  Daisy laughed. “Freebasing Barbie?”

  Carlos’s finger pressed the shutter, and the camera clicked on automatic. The two men went inside, and the door closed after them. Scott trained his binoculars on the house. “Okay, I see Miguel in the living room. Handshakes, pat on the back. Now they’re on the stairs. His study’s up there, but the curtains are shut.”

  They watched for a few more minutes, but Salazar did not reappear.

  The cellular telephone rang. Vince Hooper walked to the table to pick it up. His voice was indistinct. After a few seconds he looked at the others. “That was Paxton. We’ve got the wiretap warrant.”

  “Finally.” Daisy flipped switches on the tape recorders and pen register, then put on a pair of headphones and sat down.

  Vincent Hooper stood by the open glass door. His dark eyes were fixed on the house, as if by will alone he could see beyond the curtains at the upstairs window and the glare of sun on the tinted glass.

  For another half hour Elaine waited for something to happen, but only two calls came through. As soon as Daisy determined they were not relevant to Salazar’s business, she disconnected. There were four tape recorders, one for each line at the Salazar residence, plus a pen register to record the telephone number of every call going in or coming out. The lights on the machines stayed stubbornly dark. Finally Elaine checked her watch and said she ought to be getting back to Miami.

  At the door to the garage she heard footsteps behind her, echoing in the dim hallway. She turned.

  Vince Hooper had followed. “Leaving already?”

  “I’ve seen the operation.”

  He smiled. “Is that why you drove thirty miles?”

  “Get off it, Vince.”

  “Come here.” He went into a room off the hall, standing just beyond the open door, waiting for her. She looked back toward the living room, wondering if the other agents knew where he had gone. “Come here, I said.” He held out his hand.

  They walked deeper into the house. Bits of smashed Italian tile grated under her shoes. The room they entered was—had been—a beautifully decorated study. Now green silk wallpaper hung in shreds. The blades of a ceiling fan lay twisted on the parquet floor, which had been gouged and hacked. Sunlight filtered in a crazy pattern through broken wooden louvers.

  Vince pushed her against the wall. “You think I didn’t miss you?” His knee pressed between her thighs.

  She was breathless. “Liar. How many ecuadoreñas did you sleep with?”

  “Fifty teenage whores, and thought of you every time I came.” His mouth came down on hers, and callused fingers slid under her pullover top and closed on one breast. She knew he wanted to pull up her skirt and take her standing against the wall, her legs around his waist. Crazy. She knew she would let him do it.

  There was a noise in the hall, someone stepping on glass. They looked around. The young agent, Scott, stood in the doorway with his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

  “Sorry. Daisy wants to know who’s supposed to stay tonight.”

  “She can stay till the shift change at eight o’clock.” Vince had not moved his hand.

  The other man left.

  Elaine pulled away. “Damn.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Vince laughed softly. “He’d die before he’d say anything. Any of them would.”

  “They guard you like Rottweilers.” She brushed her hair back with trembling fingers. “I’m leaving.”

  “When can I see you?”

  “Now you ask.”

  He ran a finger down her cheek, under her chin. He kissed her gently this time, and his beard prickled her skin. “I was going to call you, Elaine. Tomorrow. To take you to lunch.” In the semidarkness his eyes were almost black and so close to her they blotted out the room.

  She said, “What about tonight?”

  “Can’t. I’m going to be busy.”

  He kissed her quickly, then walked away. Elaine didn’t say his name. Not to have him turn around and explain that he had something to do with his wife tonight that he couldn’t get out of, and that tomorrow was the best he could do. Sorry.

  She leaned against the wall, eyes closed, and heard his footsteps fade. Then faint voices. Already he was back with the others. She could find her own way out.

  CHAPTER 2

  As the bubbles cleared, Dan Galindo looked up through his dive mask. The boat’s pointed shape bobbed on the surface, and a line of yellow polyester rope angled toward the bottom, ending at a grapnel hook sixty feet down, caught on a pitted white ridge in the reef.

  He inverted, kicking slowly with his fins. A school of chub eyed him, then shot away, their sides glinting silver as they turned in unison. Dan moved along at a shallow depth, ten feet or so, till he ran out of air. At the surface he blew sea water out of his snorkel, took a few deep breaths, then went under again,
deeper. A few seconds with his ears above water had been enough. The girl he’d come with had turned the radio to a rock station. Of her Dan had glimpsed only scraggly blond hair and a bikini top. She was up there getting some sun, opening another beer.

  At ten o’clock this morning Dan had staggered out of bed, panicked. What trial had he forgotten to show up for? What judge had he pissed off this time? Monday mornings were God’s revenge. He’d phoned his office. Alva—sweet Alva—told him he’d missed an appointment with a client, but she had covered for him. She read him some phone messages, but there was nothing on his schedule he couldn’t put off.

  The day half gone already. He thought of the paperwork left over from last week. There was always that. Then Kelly poked her head out from the covers. Let’s have lunch in the boat. It would be fun.

  They drove across the causeway from Miami to a marina on Key Biscayne, where he kept his boat, a twenty-foot Mako. Dan put his dive gear aboard while Kelly bought food at the marina store. Once into the bay they headed due south, leaving behind the congested waters close to shore. A few miles farther along, with the mainland reduced to a line of green in the west, Dan guided the boat through the narrow channel at Sands Cut, just north of Elliott Key, then headed east toward Triumph Reef. The depth finder held steady at thirty, then went to forty, fifty. Dan slowed. At sixty he cut the engine. Their wake caught up to them, and the boat rose and fell. Another quarter mile out, the bottom would drop quickly to a depth of hundreds of feet. He tossed the anchor over the side and cleated off the bow line.

  For a while they sat quietly, water gurgling on the hull. The winter sun blazed from a cloudless sky. They ate sandwiches and drank beer. Then Kelly started telling him about the demo tape her band was doing, and the keyboardist who was trying to take over the vocals. Dan closed his eyes behind his sunglasses and wished he was alone. It was when she started fiddling with the dial on the radio that he clipped the dive flag to a pole, then stripped off his sweatshirt and jeans and got into his wet suit. It covered him from neck to knees. He zipped up his rubber booties, put on fins, gloves, and weight belt.