Chasing the Lost Page 8

  Properly motivated, Ivan used his good hand to grab his partner’s collar. He dragged him through the door. The bells on the front door jingled.

  Gator put the gun down, then turned to Erin. “You okay, sweet-thing?”

  “I am,” Erin said. “Thanks to you.”

  “Aww, it was nothing.” Gator shuffled his feet and blushed in embarrassment.

  “You’re my hero,” Erin said. She climbed up one rung on a stool next to them, and pecked him on the cheek before going back down to the floor. Gator beamed and turned even redder, if that were possible. He went to the table.

  Gator bent over the dog. He gently ran a massive hand through the mane. “Poor boy.”

  “Girl,” Erin said.

  “Poor girl,” Gator said, cradling Chelsea’s large head in his own paw. He looked up at Erin. “So whose dog is this?”

  Chapter Five

  Dave Riley started up the 125cc dirt bike he kept parked at Haig Point on Hilton Head. After the meeting at the Shack broke up, he’d piloted his F-470 Zodiac across the Intracoastal and into Broad Creek to the landing underneath the Cross-Island Parkway Bridge.

  Hilton Head was twelve miles long by five across at its widest, the northern end. It was shaped like a shoe, the ankle to the northeast, tapering to the toe in the southwest. But where the toes met the front of the ankle, the island was almost split in two by Broad Creek, which came within a mile of actually separating the original northern island from the southern barrier island. The main drag coming in 30 miles from the west off I-95 was Highway 278, which looped around the island. A spur was built as tourism grew: the Cross Island reached over Broad Creek, making a shortcut for the those coming onto the island to more quickly reach the toes and the broad, white, and firm-packed sand of the Atlantic beach, which was what drew a couple of million visitors every summer.

  It wasn’t summer, so things were relatively quiet as Riley took the Cross Island to Sea Pines Circle, where tourists routinely caused accidents as Americans found traffic circles as strange as Europeans found Americans.

  He drove down Pope, and turned left into a shopping center featuring New York Pizza on the right, and a set of darkened windows on the left. Riley parked the bike and went to the door on the left. He pulled it open. A dim, upscale interior set up as a restaurant beckoned.

  The large man wearing a suit did not.

  “Leave,” he rumbled in a voice graveled out somewhere in New Jersey, or Joisy as they used to say in the Bronx when Riley was growing up.

  “I’d like to talk to Mister Farrelli.”

  “Leave.” The man emphasized the point by not just repeating it, but taking a step closer.

  Looking past the doorman, Riley could see a man seated at a bar to the left. None of the tables were occupied, which wasn’t unusual in that most restaurants closed for the off-season, except Riley had never seen this one open, even in-season. There was no sign on the outside to indicate what it was.

  “Can you at least ask him for an audience?” Riley asked. “I’m Dave Riley, from Dafuskie.”

  “How’s the numbers, Riley?” a voice called from the vicinity of the bar. “Let him in.”

  The doorman stepped aside, looking disappointed he didn’t get a chance to do a little pummeling.

  “The numbers add up,” Riley said as he walked into the bar. Farrelli was on a stool, his long legs stretched out. He had a large nose, almost a beak, and deep-set, hooded eyes.

  “Sometimes,” Farrelli said, New Jersey not as apparent in his voice as the doorman’s, “I think of this island and all around it as Deadwood. You ever watch that show?”

  “Yeah, I watched it,” Riley said. He halted about six feet away. Farrelli had a glass in front of him, half-full of something red.

  “You know, the guy with the idea for that, he vacations here. I’ve talked to him. He originally wanted to do a show about Rome,” Farrelli said. “Roma.” He savored the word. “I never thought of it before talking to this guy, but you ever hear of cops in ancient Rome?”

  Riley thought about it, and had to agree. “Nope.”

  “That’s cause there weren’t any,” Farrelli said. “They paid the street gangs to enforce law and order. ‘They’ being whoever held the most power: the Emperor, the Senate, whoever held sway. I think it was much more effective than cops. Cut out the middleman. Anyway,” Farrelli continued, “when the smart guy went to HBO, they loved the idea but not the locale, since they had a series already in production called Rome.”

  “That must have sucked for the idea guy,” Riley said.

  Farrelli waved, indicating a stool two away from him. “Yeah, but he didn’t let it stop him. He took the idea of a place with no real police, and he searched for another locale fitting the bill. And he found Deadwood. A town in an unincorporated territory outside anyone’s jurisdiction. Interesting.” Farrelli paused. “Could have just as easily set that story here. Beaufort County technically has jurisdiction here, but Beaufort is a long way away. And the tax revenue from tourism for the rest of the county makes them keep a light touch on the island. There’s a lot of money on this island, and people with a lot of money want to be left alone.”

  Riley sat down. “You know the thing I remember most about Deadwood, Mister Farrelli?”

  “What’s that?”

  “How over the course of the first season, the protagonist, the hero, Bullock, even though he becomes sheriff, isn’t the hero any more. It’s the bad guy, Swearingen, the saloon keeper, the killer, who becomes the hero.”

  The hint of a smile cracked Farrelli’s thin lips. “And why do you think that happened?”

  “Because he was the more interesting of the two,” Riley said. “Bullock just had anger and a sense of honor and righteousness. Swearingen had a lot of people loyal to him.”

  Farrelli nodded. “Exactly. You big on loyalty, Riley?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about honor?”

  “It’s external,” Riley said. “Can get you killed.”

  Farrelli got up and went around the bar. “Some vino?”

  “I’m just a beer guy.”

  Farrelli laughed. “Black Irish father and Puerto Rican mother, right? What a mix that is: don’t know whether to get drunk or cut you. Beer it is.” He reached into a cooler and extracted a bottle of Harp beer. “Here’s for the Irish half of you.” He hit the bottle expertly on the opener screwed into the backside of the bar, then slid the bottle in front of Riley. “I’m assuming you do without a glass?”

  “I do.” Riley picked up the bottle and took a drag.

  “You run a nickels-and-dimes business over there on Dafuskie,” Farrelli said, and his Jersey showed on the island name: Dafooskie. He topped off his own glass of wine.

  “I’m content.”

  “Most people aren’t.” Farrelli came back around the bar and reclaimed his stool. “Your uncle, Xavier, was a stand-up guy. Honorable and loyal.”

  “He was.”

  Farrelli looked Riley in the eyes. “It’s why I’ve never taken the ferry over there for business. Played a couple rounds now and then.”

  “I appreciate that,” Riley said.

  “If you’re content and appreciative, why are you here?”

  “A kid got kidnapped in Spanish Wells last night,” Riley said. “There was some shooting. I’m trying to help a friend find the kid.” As he said it, Riley wondered when Horace Chase had become his friend. The word felt awkward coming off his tongue and he knew it wasn’t true. Yet. Chase would have to earn that term.

  Farrelli picked up the same thing. “A friend? A kid getting kidnapped? Call the cops. The Feds.”

  “As you just noted,” Riley said, “we’re kind of in the wild west here. Or ancient Rome. Take your pick. And my friend went to the cops. They said he could do better taking care of it on his own.”

  Farrelli laughed. “Nice. You mean the Beaufort Sheriff.” He pronounced it boofoot. “You know, you could hook your business up with mine. Make
a lot more. I could direct some high rollers to you. They’d think you were easy. That would make them bet stupid.”

  “High rollers tend to be pains in the ass,” Riley said.

  “True. And you aren’t easy, are you?”

  “You asking me out for a date?” Riley asked, and Farrelli gave an honest laugh.

  “Your uncle had a sense of humor, too. Nothing seemed to get to him.”

  “Cancer did,” Riley said.

  “Death gets to all of us, sooner or later,” Farrelli said.

  “This place ever really serve food?” Riley indicated the tables, complete with white tablecloths and cutlery.

  “Got a great chef in-season,” Farrelli replied.

  “Yeah, but no sign, who are the customers?”

  “We don’t advertise,” Farrelli said, “but I’ve got enough private customers to more than pay for the chef.”

  “You got reach,” Riley summarized.

  “Stop by in-season,” Farrelli said. “As my guest.”

  “I appreciate that.” Riley took another pull on the beer. “So. Anything on a kidnapping?”

  “Who is the kid?”

  “Cole Briggs. His father helps run some off-shore gambling site called SAS. The kidnappers want the Super Bowl action diverted.”

  “And how much will that be?”

  “A lot.”

  Farrelli laughed again. “Your ‘a lot’ and my ‘a lot’ probably vary considerably.”

  The front door opened and two men walked in. Suits, aviator sunglasses, muscles bulging from steroids. They joined the doorman, whispering with him and nodding toward the bar several times in the discussion.

  “It’s way past my ‘a lot,’” Riley said. “Probably even bigger than your ‘a lot.’”

  Farrelli tapped the edge of his wine glass with his pinkie rung. “I know of SAS. Nice scam. I believe Congress will make online gambling legal in the States soon, so they can tax it, otherwise it might be a place to, hmm, let’s say investigate further. But I can wait for Congress to do the job for me. Already got a couple kids, what do ya call ‘em, geeks, working on some mock-ups of an online site for me.”

  “I’m not a threat,” Riley said, gesturing with the bottle of Harp toward the extra muscle.

  “Oh, I disagree,” Farrelli said. “Your Uncle Xavier was a potential threat. I respected him. And I knew he wouldn’t be worth going after. As I’ve known you haven’t been worth going after. Profit and loss statements, and all that. I think your P&L would be in the red.”

  It was Riley’s turn to laugh. “You sure you’re from Jersey?”

  “You ask what exit, I will have them kill you.” Farrelli sounded serious.

  “Do you know SAS was taken off-line during the conference championship games?” Riley asked.

  “Yes.”

  “The Russians do it?”

  Farrelli shrugged. “Most likely. I offered SAS protection. They did not accept it. I would say the facts have now proven that was foolish on their part.”

  “Which opens up the possibility that you staged the kidnapping to prove how vulnerable they are.”

  Farrelli’s face tightened in anger.

  Riley held up his hands. “All right. Not you. But could you protect them from an Internet takedown? From the Russians?”

  “I have a reputation that they might not want to mess with. And, as I said, I have some Internet guys working for me. They tell me it was the Russians who hijacked the site. SAS should have taken me up on my offer of help. Walter Briggs, the man who is part of SAS, is not the most threatening persona.”

  “‘Part of SAS?’” Riley asked. “What’s the other part?”

  Farrelli shook his head. “I don’t know. Briggs is a computer guy, but not the type who could get an operation like that running and keep it running. He’s got to have a partner with brains and balls.”

  “No idea who? His wife thinks it’s someone down in Antigua.”

  “That would be logical. Think this is the wild west, the islands are crazy. Everything goes to the highest bidder there.”

  “And it doesn’t here? Aren’t we in Deadwood?”

  Farrelli laughed.

  “What about Peter Rollins?” Riley asked.

  “What about him?”

  “I heard he’s into SAS for a million,” Riley said.

  Farrelli smiled. “He’s into me for a dime since I played golf with him the other day. He’d bet on whether the grass was green. A fucking degenerate gambler.” He sat silent for a little while, then shook his head. “I don’t think Rollins has the balls to try something like kidnapping.”

  “Desperate men do desperate things,” Riley said.

  Farrelli nodded. “It’s why I try not to make men desperate.”

  “I’m sure it keeps you up at night,” Riley said, and Farrelli laughed.

  “Yes. That was a bit of bullshit. But Rollins? He’s got financial trouble beyond owing SAS. He’s been butting heads with the Quad.”

  “I’ve heard of them, but who are they, exactly?” Riley said.

  “You’ve probably seen all of ‘em,” Farrelli said, “either on the golf course out there, or drinking in the Shack. Citadel grads. Sort of like the Outfit, except they act fancier because they all went to the same school there in Charleston. They run most of South Carolina, especially Charleston. A lot of old families.

  “Except the Quad carved up Savannah, leaving Charleston to their classmates with better pedigrees South of Broad. Pecking orders to everything.” Farrelli shook his head, obviously honestly befuddled. “I mean, it ain’t like we boast about who got off on Ellis Island first up in Jersey. But these snoots down here, act like their ancestors got rowed over by God, especially in Charleston. It’s a pretty town, but the snobbishness, is that a word?” He paused for confirmation from Riley.

  “I think it is in Charleston.”

  Farrelli continued. “It’s overwhelming. Like we shouldn’t even be able to breathe their air. Savannah ain’t as bad, but Karralkov is muscling in down there. While their business interests seem different, they tangentially—is that a word?”

  “Yes, sir,” Riley said.

  “Their businesses tangentially intersect,” Farrelli said. “Thus, there is bound to be more and more friction as time goes by.”

  “Between the Quad and Karralkov,” Riley said. “How does Rollins play into this?”

  “He overreached before the economy went south. Ended up holding the bag on a lot of property that’s worth a lot less than what he paid. The Quad is trying to buy him out of a number of places, at a big loss for him. I wouldn’t be surprised if Karralkov is doing the same, except using front companies. Rollins is caught in the middle.”

  “You know Savannah was founded using convicts?” Riley asked, processing that information.

  “I suppose that’s why they ain’t as snooty,” Farrelli agreed.

  “Any other thoughts on who might be going after SAS and kidnapped the kid?”

  Farrelli stared at Riley. “I believe it is dishonorable to attack someone’s family. There must be some rules.”

  “So the kid,” Riley pressed. “Anything?”

  “No.” Farrelli slid off his stool, indicating the meeting was over. “But given it was a child, I’ll ask around. Shouldn’t mess with people’s families.”

  Riley stuck his hand out. “I appreciate the conversation.”

  Farrelli stared at the hand like it was a snake for a moment, then took it. His grip was firm and warm. “How’d you know to find me in here?”

  Riley nodded his head to the door. “New York Pizza? How much cash do you clean through there every night in-season?”

  “Uh-huh,” was Farrelli’s only response to that.

  “And why not New Jersey Pizza?”

  “No one eats New Jersey pizza,” Farrelli said.

  “That’s true.” Riley went to the door. He paused before leaving, then looked over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

  “For?” />
  “Looking into it,” Riley said. “But also for letting my Uncle alone. He died in pain, but not threatened.”

  * * * * *

  Horace Chase had his sweater on, with a windbreaker on top, as the wind whistled through his Jeep. Chase could put the top up, but he preferred the chill wind on his face, a futile attempt to cool off his anger. He was on South Okatie Highway, heading south toward Savannah, skirting the tidal flats that extended miles in from the Atlantic.

  Chase was not fond of Russians. He’d battled them in Afghanistan, and he’d almost been killed by one in Boulder, Colorado during his last assignment working for the government. If they were the ones who’d grabbed Cody, this was going to be an uphill battle to get the boy back.

  History books said the Soviet Army withdrew in defeat from Afghanistan in 1989 after ten years of bitter fighting. Officially, they did. Unofficially, they left a criminal presence in country that flourished, working the opium trade, at least until the Taliban took over the country in 1996 and imposed sanctions. At first the drug was suppressed, but like any government, the Taliban needed money, so they took over the opium fields, eventually controlling well over ninety percent and imposing high taxes. The displaced Russian criminals were among the biggest rooting section when the Americans invaded in 2001 to take down the Taliban, and they picked up where they had left off.

  An exiled Russian drug dealer had been put into the CIA Witness Protection Program and relocated to Boulder. After many bodies, including that of a baby, Chase had finally tracked Vladislav high into the Rocky Mountains, and the result had been bloody. The Russian mindset was paranoia layered with crazy, mixed with ruthlessness. A country that had absorbed Tsars, Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin, and more invasions than one could count, produced a certain type of criminal. One that adapted to their environment, and then literally carved out their place in it. They didn’t assimilate, they infested.

  Chase’s cell phone buzzed.