Heat Wave Page 4

  Caine’s eyes were tight. “And smuggled into this country.”

  She nodded, sunnily. “And smuggled into this country.”

  Speedle scratched his head and gave her a look. “How do you even know this stuff? The thing’s been illegal in the U.S.A. for thirty-five years, way before you were even born—none of us has ever even heard of them, let alone seen one, and you know everything about it.”

  She gave him a compassionate smile. “It’s what I do, Tim.”

  Speed’s eyes widened. “Well, that explains everything.”

  “Ask her if she knows who Ed Norton is,” Delko said to Speed, with a little half-grin.

  “Oh, I love The Honeymooners,” Calleigh said.

  “Before this degenerates any further,” Caine said, rising, “let’s get Eric’s discovery back to the lab…I don’t see how it could’ve been used in this crime, but the casings were and I want to find out whatever we can as soon as we can.”

  Everyone nodded.

  As they began to move away, Caine held up a “stop” hand, and his crew froze.

  “People,” their supervisor said, “a drive-by on South Beach is going to get everyone’s hackles up—the mayor, the media, the chief. They’re all going to be breathing down our necks in the next twenty-four hours. So. Let’s have something to tell them. Oh, and Eric?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good work.”

  Delko grinned and Speed patted him on the back. Calleigh bestowed one of her lovely trademark smiles…and a wink.

  Few had liked Kurt Wallace, and fewer still would mourn his passing; but after the death of Peter Venici, Wallace had kept the gangs from going at each other’s throats.

  Truth was, Horatio Caine knew well, there weren’t many people in the city who gave a damn if the gangs wanted to slaughter each other—all they asked was that no civilians become casualties of war. This was a view that Caine found not only cynical but immoral.

  But tonight the innocent had died along with the guilty, which meant public opinion would be behind him. Caine found this hypocritical, to say the least. And yet he would run with the mandate.

  He didn’t want anyone else to die, innocent or guilty.

  Call him old-fashioned.

  As the CSI team gathered their equipment and headed back to the Hummers, Detective Tripp hung back with Caine.

  The detective wiped his face with a towel for about the twentieth time since they’d come in out of the rain, and he locked eyes with the CSI. “You think it was Antonio Mendoza and Las Culebras that hit Wallace?”

  “I don’t think anything yet.”

  “No?”

  “Frank, wouldn’t you rather wait to see what the evidence says before we start talking about who did it?”

  Tripp snorted. “Hell, Horatio—I don’t want to go to court! Just asking your opinion.”

  “Not sure I even have one.”

  “Let’s pretend you do.”

  Caine flinched a non-smile. “Lotta people on this planet who didn’t like Kurt Wallace. Mendoza for one, Chevalier of the Faucones, for another.”

  “How about the Haitians?”

  “Among others.”

  “Hell, I didn’t like the bastard, either.”

  Caine smiled. “How’s your alibi, Frank?”

  With another snort, Tripp mopped his brow again. “Wits said the shooter was Hispanic. That sort of lets out the Faucones.”

  “Unless they hired it out.” Caine shrugged. “Could have been one of Manny Calisto’s boys, too.”

  “The Mitus, yeah—those pricks didn’t love Wallace either. They thought his getting product from Calisto was an insult to them and their pipeline from their hometown.”

  Caine shook his head slowly. “Plenty of suspects, Frank. See why we should let the evidence have its say before we decide who to chase?”

  “Great. What about in the meantime?”

  “You consider yourself an expert on these gangs?”

  “You just heard about the extent of what I know.”

  “Me, too. That’s why I’m going to talk to somebody who deals with this world on a more regular basis than we do.”

  Tripp frowned thoughtfully. “Who do you have in mind?”

  “Jeremy Burnett.”

  “The DEA agent,” Tripp said, nodding. “Yeah—I can see that.”

  “Last few years, he’s been at the forefront of dealing with the various gangs. If anybody knows who’s up to what, Burnett’s the guy.”

  Tripp kicked at a piece of broken glass absently, moving it around with his toe. “Uh…wasn’t Burnett part of the Narco task force? With Ray?”

  Raymond, Caine’s younger brother, had been gunned down in a drug heist shoot-out three years ago.

  Caine understood why Tripp seemed reluctant to bring the subject up. He also knew why Tripp felt he had to do so, even if he risked touching a sore point with Caine.

  A lot of cops in Miami—both local and federal—believed Ray had been a dirty cop, a “tweaker” who got more crank off the street by snorting it than he’d ever confiscated.

  Caine had always believed those rumors to be lies…and the liar with the most to gain had been a tweaker named Chaz, who had been the source of most of the drug scuttlebutt about Ray. Caine knew his brother had sometimes lacked focus and had held onto cases a little too tightly; but that hadn’t made Ray a bad cop.

  Caine gave the detective a tired nod. “Yeah, they worked together, time to time.”

  Tripp had never said anything negative about Ray to Caine, though the detective obviously had heard the same unsubstantiated dirt that every cop in town had been privy to. John Hagen, Ray’s former partner, shared a locker room with Tripp and the rest of the detectives, and Caine knew damn well that Hagen still had doubts about Ray’s honesty.

  For that matter, Hagen didn’t trust Caine, either, apparently figuring one dirty cop in the family, whether the allegations were true or not, meant that both brothers had to be bent.

  Irony was, when Ray had been alive, the balance had tilted the other way, everybody expecting the “kid” to live up to his older, highly decorated brother’s reputation.

  Tightly Caine said to Tripp, “You raise this why?”

  “Nothing. Just…wondered if it would be a problem, that’s all. With Burnett, I mean. He’s the original straight shooter, after all.”

  “Well, then,” Caine said with strained friendliness, “why don’t I find out? If you’ll excuse me.”

  Walking away to get some privacy, Caine withdrew his cell phone. He checked his watch, then punched in a number he still knew by heart, despite not having used it for some time.

  On the same ring came a familiar baritone: “Burnett.”

  “Jeremy, Horatio Caine—sorry to call so late.”

  “Crime scenes don’t keep regular hours, and neither do we. Don’t sweat it—just in bed reading. What can I do for you?”

  “Kurt Wallace got himself assassinated tonight.”

  “Do tell. I hope you’re not calling to ask me to give the eulogy. I don’t think the family would like what I’d have to say.”

  Caine let the dark joke slide. “I was just hoping—”

  “That I could tell you the most likely candidate for hitting him.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Aren’t you the guy that likes evidence to lead the way?”

  “I am. But it would be nice to have a context going in.”

  “What do you need, Horatio?”

  “I was hoping you could stop by my office tomorrow, give me your thoughts on who might want Wallace dead, and just generally get me up to speed on gang activity.”

  “Why don’t you buy me breakfast?”

  “It’s a plan.”

  “Know Lobito’s? Coffee shop corner of Collins and Marti?”

  “Sure,” Caine said.

  “Good. Eight o’clock, and don’t forget—you’re buying.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Caine said with a smile and
clicked off.

  Feds—they always wanted something for free, even the honest ones.

  And Jeremy Burnett had always been one of those, a hard worker with an enviable record and a formidable list of commendations.

  Burnett might be the one guy in the entire state who could help Caine stave off the gang war that the CSI feared had kicked itself off this evening.

  The coolness of the night was deceptive, Caine knew; things were about to get hot. Very damn hot indeed.

  3

  Burnett Down

  LOBITO’S—A COFFEE SHOP that attracted the edgier denizens of the city, particularly after dark—had been a Miami Beach institution for as long as Caine could remember. The onetime wholesome, family-style restaurant had turned into a 24/7 joint when the original Lobito had passed away fifteen years ago and his sons had expanded their hours, unintentionally narrowing their clientele.

  Typical of Miami Beach, the exterior of Lobito’s was a combination of pink and aqua, with its name spelled out in twinkling lightbulbs that alternated gold and white. What once had been classy now looked every bit the dive it was; but that kept away the tourists, who never found out how good the food was, leaving it a secret shared by locals.

  Inside, the tile floors, once pastel colored, were now a dingy black and gray. With its Naugahyde booths and Formica lunch counter and tables, the place would have been a nostalgia trip, if most of the Naugahyde wasn’t torn and the tables weren’t all cigarette scarred, scratched, and stained.

  Horatio Caine sat in a back booth waiting for DEA agent Jeremy Burnett, nursing a second cup of coffee, wondering why he didn’t eat here more often—the food was good, in its greasy spoon way, and the coffee gave a guy a real jump start on the day.

  Idly, he watched a miniskirted, mesh-stockinged trio of transvestites at the next table trying to look nonchalant as one of them passed a tiny folded piece of paper to another across the table.

  Oh yeah, he thought, smiling wryly to himself. Now I remember why I don’t eat here more often.

  “By the way,” he said over the rim of his cup, not looking at them. “I’m the heat.”

  One of them turned to him and said, “Yeah, and I’m Britney fuh—”

  The epithet caught in the transvestite’s throat as Caine held his badge up, still without looking at them.

  Turning toward the counter across the room, the nearest one raised a hand and said, “Check please!”

  Caine couldn’t help but chuckle.

  A minute past 8 A.M., Jeremy Burnett strolled through the door with a loose-limbed confidence that Caine admired. Tall and thin but packed with sinewy muscle, Burnett wore his black hair short, tiny Caesar bangs just touching his forehead. Sideburns came to the middle of his ears, but otherwise he was clean shaven.

  Like the late Kurt Wallace, the DEA agent had a conventionally handsome appearance, with his strong, square chin, straight nose, and a thin, nearly lipless smile that often made him look pained even when happy.

  Today, Burnett wore a white linen suit (which had been in style for a century or so in Miami), white shirt, and gray tie, with black oxfords. He spotted Caine and moved over quickly, sliding into the booth across from the CSI supervisor.

  “You look bright-eyed, Horatio, considering how late you must’ve been up.”

  “I find sleep overrated.”

  “In our line of work it is. Yours wasn’t the last call to wake me up last night.”

  “Oh?”

  “My boss—Matthers?”

  A good man, Caine knew, hard-nosed, but reputedly a micro-manager.

  “Yeah?”

  “He rang me maybe an hour after you. Says we’re on a Code Orange.”

  Caine smiled lazily. “Afraid I don’t keep up with the federal color chart.”

  “Well, it varies agency to agency. But Matthers reads this as the starting gun of a gang war, and since I’ve kind of been on the front line in that arena, my people and I are on alert.”

  “Which means?”

  Burnett grunted a laugh. “Which means Kevlar underwear until further notice.”

  A waitress came, freshened Caine’s coffee, provided Burnett with a cup of the stalwart stuff, then took their breakfast order.

  Caine had not sat down with Burnett for several months; before they dove into business, some catching up was needed. “How’s Joanna?” he asked.

  Burnett’s wife—a striking brunette—had been as much a friend to Caine after his brother’s death as Burnett himself. Not everyone in law enforcement had been supportive in the cloudy wake of Ray’s demise. Caine would always value the Burnetts for their friendship in a dark time.

  “She’s beautiful,” Burnett said with a grin, “but then you know that.” He shrugged elaborately; he was one of those guys with a really lovely wife who seemed vaguely embarrassed about it, as if unworthy of such luck.

  “You know Joanie,” Burnett was saying, “jumping from lost cause to lost cause. Always staying busy.”

  “Beats the hell out of boredom.”

  “Does indeed, Horatio. Does indeed.”

  Less cynical than her husband, over the years Joanna had been involved saving whales, manatees, libraries, and some Everglades plant that Horatio had never heard of; currently she was working with Habitat for Humanity, a charity in which Caine had been involved.

  As they waited for their food, Burnett got to business. “And so, Kurt Wallace went and got himself whacked. Will Western civilization survive, do you suppose?”

  “Have you seen the papers this morning or watched the news?”

  Burnett said, “No—all I know is what Matthers told me, which was pretty skeletal. Flesh it in, would you, Horatio?”

  “Eight dead altogether. Eleven wounded, two of them seriously.”

  Frowning, Burnett said, “That can’t be strictly Wallace’s people, unless he was travelling with a small army.”

  “He wasn’t—just three bodyguards and a small-timer from upstate he was having dinner with. All of whom currently reside in the morgue.”

  Burnett’s expression was grave. “The rest civilians?”

  With a grim nod, Caine pulled out a photo of the central crime scene—Wallace and his dinner companions—and pushed it across the table to Burnett, who looked down at it.

  “These are the obvious targets,” Caine said. “But you know how indiscriminating a drive-by is. With an AK-47, no less.”

  With an “ouch” squint, the DEA agent said, “The wounded?”

  “Strictly civilians, seems—though we’re of course running checks on all of them.”

  Burnett tapped the photo. “The blond boy? That’s Sonny Spencer—Billy Joe Spencer’s nephew.”

  “What’s that—Dixie Mafia?”

  Burnett nodded. “Makes sense, Wallace tying in with those neo-Nazi boneheads.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, there’s surprisingly little racial tension between these ethnic gangs—it’s strictly business with them.”

  “Assimilation into the capitalist system?”

  “Oh yeah. But Spencer’s yo-yos? Wallace could have manipulated them not only on business grounds, but good old-fashioned bigotry. See, the other gangs have been plotting against Wallace, ever since he took down Venici.”

  “Plotting together?”

  Burnett shook his head. “I don’t think so. With their business rivalries, I doubt they could get along with each other long enough to take out Wallace…but individually, each gang makes a prime suspect.”

  “Not exactly a shortage of those.”

  “No. Each faction wants a piece of that Venici pie sittin’ on Wallace’s windowsill.”

  Caine squinted in thought. “So—Sonny and Wallace would have been meeting to work out an alliance?”

  “I’d say more a preliminary meeting. Sonny was a dim bulb, so he must’ve been an emissary. After all, this went down at a public place.”

  “Which suggests what?”

  Burnett smiled slyly. “You alre
ady figure it for a rat, don’t you, Horatio?”

  Nodding slowly and sipping his coffee as he decided how much he wanted to share, Caine finally said, “Somebody who knew where Wallace and his boys would be…”

  “…told the hitters. And if not someone in his own organization, then who?”

  “The Dixie boys?”

  “Possible—but of all the factions, they had the least reason to hit Wallace. Why hit a guy who was going to share a piece of the pie with you?”

  “I don’t know, Jeremy—maybe a greedy bastard who wants the whole pan?”

  “Good point.”

  The waitress brought their food, and they lapsed into silence as they ate.

  Minutes later, pushing his plate away, Caine asked, “Do you have a favorite among these factions—an informed hunch about who’s the most likely to be behind something like this?”

  Burnett chewed a corner of dark toast and shrugged. “Well, Mendoza and Las Culebras are probably the only ones who could cap Wallace and then actually hold the territory they took.”

  “So you like Mendoza for this.”

  Burnett rubbed his chin. “Not necessarily. Mendoza’s a madman, that’s a given; but he’s a smart madman, and well aware he’s the most likely suspect if Wallace gets hit.”

  “Smart enough not to do it?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way—smart enough not to hit Wallace in a place like the Archer Hotel and take out civilians and get himself on the radar of the legendary Horatio Caine and his CSI crew.”

  Caine laughed, once. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Jeremy. So—who does that leave?”

  A slash of thought-furrow appeared between Burnett’s dark eyes. “Probably not the meth freaks—they don’t have the power or the money or, for that matter, the drive.”

  Caine half-smiled. “Meth freaks are busy being meth freaks.”

  “Yeah, it’s a full-time gig. You can probably rule them out. Chevalier and the Faucones? I don’t think they have the wherewithal to pull off anything of this magnitude, either. Witnesses say the shooter was Hispanic, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, Chevalier wouldn’t have shit to do with any Hispanics if he could help it.”