Work Text:
§
The early June weather began the inevitable atmospheric saturation leading to hurricane season. Tropical rains popped up at a pace that outstripped the Weather Channel’s ability to predict – forcing businesses that catered to tourists into a fitful cycle of opening and closing. Included in that stuttering cycle of lock/unlock, umbrellas up/umbrellas down was a grumbling subset of local criminals unable to make the contacts needed for daily business. It was a natural lull – and a good time to bring a new team up to the speeds required for late summer and early fall drug traffic.
Metro-Dade division of Organized Crime had tallied big losses earlier in the year. The Chief of Police had been gunned down while serving notice to a large drug cartel out of Columbia, the Captain of Major Crimes had suddenly retired due to ‘health’ after being investigated for a sex-for-protection scandal, Robbery leadership had changed every year since the unit’s long term Lieutenant retired in ’85, and OCBs Vice division had lost seven officers and several support members overnight in a department shake up that was still spoken about in hushed whispers.
Out of the Vice-seven, two had thrown their badges on the street after the incident that cost the Chief of Police his life, one had been slated to move to head a new technical services division, and four were moved to other departments. The remaining detectives took the probies on walk-alongs to bring them up to speed and the office fumbled along as new clerks and secretaries learned how to support a fluid, ever changing environment.
From his desk, Lieutenant Martin Castillo could hear his new assistant talking on the phone. Recent renovations to the space funneled all sound from the outer room into the Supervisor’s office and her voice was pitched high enough to carry over the department rumble. She would have to learn to control that quirk if she wanted to remain on the desk. All MDPD managers required discretion from their Assistants, but for Organized Crime units, there was too much at stake for incautious behaviors.
“I know, Cathy, they told me taciturn but… I mean, there’s ‘doesn’t like small talk’ and then there’s ‘dour, border-lining on sullen’… pretty sure he hates me.” She was sent to the unit from Human Resources because she was efficient, fluent in Spanish, and interested in promoting. Balancing the phone between her shoulder and ear, she shuffled the files on her desk. “Okay. Yeah. Yes… yes… okay. Thanks Cath.”
‘Dour, border-lining on sullen’ — if Castillo were being honest with himself, that was a fair call.
Staring at the open file in front of him, Martin realized he was reading the same paragraph for the fourth time. Exhaling slowly, he closed the folder. He was done. This was habit. Reviewing the cases from the previous week – looking for the threads that connected the minor players to the major player was business as usual when the Medellin Cartel had been his focus. But the cartel was in shambles – as was his life — and, at best, he was pretending to pretend that any of this was important.
Laying the case file on the manilla tower to his left, he called out, “Daniella. Come here please.”
The flash of expression from the young secretary stung with honesty. None of this was her fault and he had been remiss. Perhaps a fresh start was in order.
“I’m done with these files. Send them to records, please.”
“To records?” She stood rigidly beside the desk. “Cathy suggested keeping files on hold for one week. Is that…” Their eyes met as she reached for the block of papers. “Records. Right.”
Putting a hand on the stack to forestall her, Martin blinked. He had been in his office feigning work – thumbing through reports, barely taking in the information that his eyes saw, half-aware of the office activities, buried in hazy awareness of planning life beyond Vice, experiencing that gnawing feeling of being out of sync with his environment. Looking into the big dark eyes of this young woman trying to find her way through the chaos of a new position in a complex unit with a prickly, new boss, he stopped to breathe.
“You prefer Dani, don’t you?” He wasn’t at his best, but that was his fault. Castillo’s years of undercover work gave him the skills to turn on a shot and be someone else. Someone he wasn’t. Someone the situation needed him to be. Standing up, he indicated the leather sofa against the wall, “Let’s take a moment.” His voice was softly adjuring and when he smiled at her, she relaxed immediately.
As they settled on either side of the black settee, Martin glanced at the activity in the outer office. Even with the door open, they would not be heard. Sound flowed one way in this new configuration. The wall of windows had been replaced with a fiberglass and steel reinforced partition containing two long narrow windows spaced for maximum view of the department. The door, too, was steel, providing security and sound dampening for privacy. It gave the impression of being in an announcer’s booth at Joe Robbie Stadium — a spectator’s place, not a space for a team player.
Watching his department through the bullet-proof glass, listening to the sounds from the room beyond, Martin realized it was the voices he didn’t hear that made him uneasy in this new space. This new structure built over old, housed a new squad with old and new officers trying to become something cohesive before being tested. Trying to learn to live without the consuming memory of their previous Senior Detective. Trying to work through the glitches without evoking the name: “Sonny Crockett”. For a moment, Martin watched and listened before turning to the young woman on the sofa and donning the mask of ‘the good boss’. It was obvious to him, now: this was no longer his place.
§
“It’s been a long time.” Erendira Garcia slid onto the barstool next to Martin. “Didn’t see that fabulously ordinary Fury out there. Thought, for once, I was early enough to beat you.”
“Wasn’t sure you were available when I left the message,” Martin said, nodding to the barman. “Turned the Fury in today. Mine’s the Cherokee.”
“Whiskey sour, please.” Garcia waited until the bartender turned his attention to the order before asking, “The Jeep with the boxes… so, you are leaving.” Turning, her dark eyes locked with his.
Her emphasis on the verb made Castillo smile. She knew. Of course, she knew. She always knew – maybe not the whole story, but she always had pieces to play with and ponder. As a journalist, she cast her web wide, allowing any vibration to feed her the information she depended upon for her life’s work.
Erendira Garcia had come to the Miami Herald in the early 80s after a decade at the LA Times. Her beat was the world – her specialty was escalated political conflict. She had garnered awards for stories of Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos before turning her attention to the civil war in Indonesia, the conflicts in Kashmir and later Afghanistan. Martin counted her within the few whom he labelled as ally. They had known one another since the Vietnam years and he trusted her.
Whether in flack-covered fatigues or the bright tropical sundress she wore sitting next to him, Garcia blended into her environment like a chameleon. Martin met her gaze with his own until one of her sculpted brows flicked upward in an unspoken query.
“Gracias,” she said to the barman before turning again to Martin. “What’s going on, Paó?”
The use of his sobriquet was cold water on a sleepy memory of a moonless night in the Thai Highlands. ‘Paó? I mean, why would a Thai call an American the Chinese word for panther’ - she had asked him within hours of their first meeting. The pseudonym had stuck. She was one of two people remaining in his world that knew that name – and she was the only one to use it outside of the bedroom.
“To quote the Lone Ranger: my work here is done.” Martin took a sip from his glass.
“Mary Poppins said that, too. I could see you flying off with nothing but an umbrella,” she teased. “I heard that both Metro and county were being reshuffled after the Chief’s little shoot-out at the no-way corral. A lot of personnel changes. A lot of cursing, tears, and gnashing of teeth. And something about a major remodel after an uncharacteristic public melt down of somebody in a suit.”
“You do have big ears,” Castillo said.
“But always fashionably adorned.” Tapping her glass with a manicured nail, Garcia called to a man at the end of the bar whose black vest was bedecked with his name tag, “Bobby. Is my table ready?”
Settling into a corner booth, Garcia ordered appetizers and they plucked at the menus until the waitstaff left them.
“I hate booths,” Martin grumbled.
“I know,” Erendira countered. “I like making you uncomfortable.”
“I know,” he answered.
“Where will you go? And why is the back of your truck full of boxes? Are you going to be gone so long that you had to move the bodies?” she asked. Her rapid-fire questions had become a game between them over the years. Whereas others were often intimidated by her pressing queries – Martin simply answered each one in order.
“I’m not sure. I’ve moved out. And … never dig up what you bury.”
“Are you selling Julia’s house?” she touched his arm and leaned toward him closing the space to intimacy.
Julia. His grandmother. She knew that, too.
“You know, you know too much – right?”
“Yeah,” she smiled and winked, relaxing once more into the booth. “But I’m the Raven Rock of Journalism.”
“You’re like Site R, huh?” Making a show of looking at the menu, Martin shook his head.
“Hmm… Site G. That works. Data flows in — is safeguarded by multi-layered security around the globe and only choice, curated information flows out.” Erendira’s voice was a low, smooth purr. “There’s a reason we’re setting at this table together… isn’t there. Now, answer the question, Paó.”
“There’s construction scheduled on the house. Getting it ready for rental,” he explained.
“So, you truly are … moving… on.” Garcia set the menu aside. “What’s the timeline and where are you staying until they pick you up?”
“I have a few months here, yet.” He laid the menu on top of hers, turning his focus to her continued scrutiny. “I rented a place in North Miami.”
“Nice.” Again, she leaned closer, her eyes remained fixed upon him. “So. May I offer you the security of Site G while you wait for extraction?”
Glancing at the approaching server, Martin said, “Yes. Thank you. That would be helpful.”
§
It was easy enough to move throughout the county transferring from one vehicle to another – the only inconvenience was the time it took. The rental that bore his name was always in the parking garage attached to the high rise apartment complex in North Miami – although he never entered the apartment after he signed the lease.
From the garage Martin would change to one of the other vehicles renting space there under other names or call for a cab or walk across the street to one of the other units that had space rented for vehicle storage. The randomness of exchange shrouded Castillo’s comings and goings well enough that he was just one more Chicano on a motorcycle, or in an F150 blaring Latin jazz as he cruised down the street and disappeared into traffic.
Two days after Martin settled into Erendira’s Surfside house, Garcia was called to Africa to cover the bizarre flare up between Cuba and South Africa in Angola.
“They’ve been at this since ’75,” she grumbled while packing. “Using small countries as hand puppets is so 1960s. I’m about done with this crap. I could use my Indonesia story and swap out the fucking names and it’d be accurate.”
Martin leaned against the door frame of the bedroom, watching her rearrange her carry-on bag. Erendira could be judiciously detached, then, through reasons known only to her, she would switch to fully engaged and commanding. This stream of consciousness griping was part of her transitioning from one state to the next. It reminded him of the day they met.
While escaping Cambodia, her chilliness toward Martin had lasted until they stopped to rest in the Dangrek mountains where she had wrapped him in her legs — subsuming him. Thirty-two hours after that and three fuckings later, he had put her on a plane bound for Los Angeles. They remained confidants since that time.
“Anything I can do for you while you’re gone?”
“The usual shit.” Zipping the bag, she tossed it onto the floor. “Turn the lights out and lock up when you leave.” Garcia pivoted, sitting on the bed with a plop. “Let’s see… never do I have anything delivered to the house. When I’m away, house stuff is handled by my Assistant at the paper. The neighbors respect my demand for solitude so they’ll leave you alone. I’ll give you the keys to my car so that you can put it into your rotation. Oh, and, don’t fuck with the radio settings.
“My computer here is routed through The Herald’s servers – which means it’s pretty secure. I’ve set up a drop box for us in my Africa file labelled ‘Conflict History’. Leave me notes there.”
“That’s rather obvious, isn’t it?” Castillo joined her on the bed.
“Martín,” she chuckled, “people stay away from anything labelled ‘history’ like it’s the plague.” Running her hand down the front of his thigh, she asked, “You going to be okay?”
“Fine.” His standard answer. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t like to pry, but…” Seeing Castillo’s brows pull into skepticism, she slapped his knee. “Shut up.”
When he smiled, she continued, “Are you going to tell me why you have abandoned your house? Who is threatening you? What’s happening to send you into the shadowlands again? Aren’t you getting too old for this shit?”
“Maybe, someday. The usual suspects. It’s classified. And… yes. Yes, I really am.” Martin’s hand covered hers. “I’ll be fine here. I don’t tell you enough how much I appreciate you. We should have… run away together, all those years ago.”
“Aye, Poppi. It’s bad enough that you pull that fantasy outta your ass?” She leaned her head upon his shoulder. “Why did you leave your house?”
“Because it is empty.”
“Aren’t most hallowed places?” Erendira was one of two who knew Martin’s affinity for the two-story Filipino-style home. Set along the Poinciana canal, the house that had been a bold departure from its 1963 counterparts was now easily dismissed. Sequestered between the newly constructed mansions, its forest shrouded structure was often overlooked. It was a quiet, cool space in the midst of the irradiant din of Miami.
“It is not hallowed.” Turning his hand palm up, he laced their fingers together. “It is a minefield.”
Garcia squeezed the fingers between hers gently. “What has made it so?” she asked.
“Love.” His voice was a growling whisper. “But we don’t have time for this story now. Someday – I will bore you with the details. Right now, there is a taxi on its way. Let me help you with these things.”
§
Being alone in the two-story MiMo with its palm rimmed exterior and Art Deco interior, a mind-numbing routine emerged. Zig-zag to work, reports with Dani, give the Senior Detectives input on their ops, meetings with fragmented management, answer questions that were common knowledge in the days before, more paperwork with Dani, finish the day with an hour in the basement gym or at the firing range.
Work had dwindled to basics while HR interviewed candidates for the various positions – including his – left vacant in the wake of Costa Morada. Of course, no one referred to it directly because it wasn’t a Metro-Dade case – although it was the cue ball that broke the rack, sending everything spinning across the table.
Costa Morada. The backroom black-ops dreamed up by – honestly, no one knew who – had gutted MDPD from top to bottom. And when the house of cards had collapsed, Martin was the only big player left standing – making him a lightning rod for any retribution flowing down the line.
Winding his way to Garcia’s house each night, Martin tallied the mistakes, looking for places in the story where small changes would have given better outcomes. It was entirely unwarranted, it was useless, it was wallowing – really – but it kept his mind occupied as he moved through the streets. Somewhere between the Gold Coast office and his second automobile swap, clothes were changed and the pristine Lieutenant turned into just one more Latino in jeans and a Grateful Dead tee-shirt with a backpack slung over his shoulder.
The nights were long and, eventually, even meditation couldn’t still the chewing restlessness. Alone in the darkness, he would lay for hours waiting for the alarm to free him. The shush of wind and thrum of traffic were the only clues to the passage of time.
He had told himself he would give it six months. If, after six months, Sonny had not reappeared to explain – he would know. He would know that their attempt at being … more than friends and quietly living together, had been an abject failure. Half a year was more than enough to offer up to the gods of misunderstandings and fucked up friendships.
Martin hadn’t anticipated how time would come to a screeching halt when surrounded by nothing but reminders of his loss. At work, Crockett’s desk was a regular twinge until Castillo had ordered maintenance to rearrange the squad room, making it easier to pretend things were normal there. Unfortunately, the lockers weren’t so easily resolved – they were scheduled to be repainted in the dryer winter months, leaving C R O C K E T T glaring down from the door of the end locker.
And the memory traps at the office were minor compared to the ambush laden spaces at the Poinciana house. It had been years since he had told anyone that he loved them – a decade since he had proposed living together. When Sonny’s house key was abandoned on the coffee table as declaration of separation. Martin left it there. After all – the living room was barely used when he was alone in the house – mostly a pass-through really. He could ignore the brass ‘fuck-off’ symbol while waiting for things to cool down.
A month after the blow-up, Crockett called the office. There was a problem turning in the Testarossa, he needed help sorting out the paperwork. That first conversation was short; the second conversation was shorter. There was no emotion in either call, there was only cool caution. The lack of animosity was encouraging until days, then weeks passed without further contact.
And the key stayed on the table.
Another month passed and there was nothing except a biting numbness where once there had been warmth. The chill clung to every line and corner of the house that he loved and he had endured it.
Then came the evening he opened the kitchen drawer for a fork and, instead, pulled out a long-handled spoon. Sonny’s iced-tea spoon… Martin stood for a long burning moment staring at the well-worn stainless steel in his hand. The tight ball of emotion pooled in his chest and for the first time since the break-up, tears spilled down his battered cheeks.
“¡Qué chingados! ¿Qué estoy hacíendo?” — What the fuck. What am I doing?— Martin’s voice echoed through the first floor. Dropping the spoon back in the drawer, he pressed the heels of his hands into his wet eyes. Leaving his meal untouched, he snatched the key from its enshrined corner before climbing the stairs to draft his official letter of resignation to Metro-Dade.
It was time to go.
Castillo had persevered through three more weeks of a Crockettless house before he completed packing. It was during the coming and going in preparation for the professional movers that he became aware of being watched. Martin anticipated the surveillance – but The Company (or whoever) took longer to get their act together than expected.
To be fair, the events surrounding Costa Morata left a messy, broken field of operations and the various interested parties had to fight for scraps of information left blowing in the aftermath. From the debris, the focus naturally fell upon Martin – as he knew it would – but he was prepared for the intrusion.
Sequestered at Garcia’s Surfside home insulated Castillo from prying eyes. His history with the journalist was, at the very least, concealed – at the most, it was invisible. Their public meetings were infrequent, their history shrouded by time and care, their communication anonymous. They had developed a relationship within a set of rules defined by the lives they led – both of them information specialists surfing under a political world. He was comfortable in her space – but without her there, he had too much time to think.
§
The surveillance upon Castillo was disorganized. Their execution was sloppy and they were too often visible – making him wonder whether they were a decoy. Considering Martin’s field experience, a multi-level observation team would be appropriate, using one as a front while the other did the actual work. The fuzzy lack of coordination pointed to an unknown agency’s clean-up team – like vultures sweeping a battlefield for scraps, following the only predator left standing. Clarity came late one afternoon when two men were escorted into OCB by Metro-Dade’s easily-impressed-by-credentials Commissioner Henry Wiliford.
“Martin,” Wiliford’s deep drawl was colored by the smile he wore. “This is Security Specialist Jerry Oliver and Special Agent Tom Duggan. They have a few questions about the Borbon file.” The three men flowed into Castillo’s office like a tidal surge – swirling around the space, looking through the windows, glancing at file cabinets, bookshelves, and the unadorned desk.
Translating ‘security specialist’ and ‘special agent’ as NSA and CIA, Martin now knew who the players were participating in the failed operation. Likely, the CIA was attempting to control the damage, while the NSA – bureaucratically competitive with The Company – was playing catch-up for someone in Washington. They were a brotherhood of jackals waiting for their prey – or each other – to make a mistake before pouncing.
“The Borbon file?” Martin schooled his face to blank inquisition. “There was no Borbon file, Commissioner.”
“Don’t play cute, Castillo.” CIA agent Duggan grinned, although his voice was sharp with sarcasm.
Glancing at Duggan, Martin said, “I don’t play.” Turning attention back to Wiliford, he asked, “Do you mean the Caesar Montoya case?”
The politically perfect smile faded from the Commissioner’s face. Castillo recognized the sudden awkward blinking that replaced the smooth, commanding features: Henry was in a room of chess players… and chess wasn’t his game. Giving his boss time to regroup, Martin opened his top drawer and pulled out a clip board, flipped over several pages, and nodded.
“The Montoya file was sent to records in May. The complete jacket will be there – if you are willing to give these gentlemen access to it.” Looking up from the paperwork, he said, “Borbon was not within the jurisdiction of this unit.” Turning to fix a hard look at Duggan, Castillo added, “It’s my understanding that the operation involving Manuel Borbon was a joint DEA/CIA case.”
“And from where does that ‘understanding’ originate, Lieutenant?” Oliver asked.
“Richard Highsmith.” Martin lied.
Keeping his people clear of this mess was why he had remained after making the decision to resign. As for the agents in his office now, it was impossible to prove that Police Chief Highsmith wasn’t the sole source. The shuffling men trying to pick at the bones of the rotten operation-gone-wrong were forced to take Castillo’s word at face value because Chief Highsmith was dead.
“That’s convenient,” Duggan grumbled.
When Castillo did not respond, a nervous fidgeting stirred through the room until Wiliford cleared his throat and offered a placating thought, “Well, in the interest of inter-departmental cooperation we can go to Records and…”
“That won’t be necessary.” Oliver interrupted so quickly it was clear that the official record was not their focus. It was likely that they already had those files and that they knew them to be redacted.
“Is that all, gentlemen?” Martin asked.
“No,” Duggan said flatly. “No, damn it, that’s not all. We lost an agent over this and we want answers. Your guys brought Borbon into the country. What happened to him? Why are there two autopsies for him? Where’s his daughter? And Montoya. You gonna try to tell me that the Medellin thing just happened to occur at the same time Borbon slipped past customs with millions? That it isn’t all related? That you had nothing to do with all this?”
The rapid-fire questions gave Castillo more pieces to the puzzle that kept him awake most nights. Duggan, like the many agents before him, assumed his title and Company affiliation was intimidating enough to have an impact upon Martin. The effect it had was entrenched silence until Wiliford, again, cleared his throat with a sniff.
“Mah-tin,” he drawled, “is meticulous in keeping records. He insists that his team do likewise. I’m certain all your questions can be answered by the case report.”
“Fuck the case report,” Duggan growled.
“Now…”
“Maybe we could talk to your team?” Oliver’s eyes were fixed upon Castillo.
“My team,” Martin offered solemnly, “watched their Chief give the ultimate sacrifice to save one of them. My team… wanted nothing less than out by the end of the Medellin operation. My team saw another member of their leadership commit suicide weeks after we closed that case. I have no team. I have fragments and rookies that will be eaten alive by the dealers, the gangsters, and the pimps if I can’t get them up to speed before the season starts.”
He put as much tired emotion into the monologue as possible. He had disbanded his squad for this very reason: federal agencies were looking for someone to crucify for the sin of mismanaging Borbon and Costa Morada. Moving everyone away from him made them less likely to be discovered and targeted for interrogation.
“We… uh… lost a lot of good people,” Wiliford said, sympathetically. “Gentlemen. Please. If there are things you feel are missing from the investigative report…”
Duggan threw up both hands dramatically, continuing to glare at Castillo “You’re a piece of work.”
“Please,” Henry Wiliford’s voice dropped to the firm tone of a man accustomed to being obeyed. Gesturing toward the door, he began to move. “I must insist.”
Oliver’s expression changed to a wary interest. “How do you like your new place?”
“It’s nice. Quiet.” Martin answered directly.
“Don’t spend much time there, do you?” Oliver poked.
“I’m a busy man.” Martin turned away, stuffing the prop clipboard back into the top desk drawer. Dismissing the meeting by picking up the telephone handset, he tapped three numbers and said, “This is Lieutenant Castillo, are the photos back from … ” As the three departing men pushed the OCB doors wide, he tipped the handset onto the cradle ending the non-call.
Through the boxed-seats windows of his office, Martin watched the energy of the squad return to its normal weekday hum as soon as the outer doors closed. Sound from their banter and curiosity swelled through the open door. Some of the voices weren’t yet attached to specific officers but he could make out pieces of conversations.
“No,” his assistant said sharply. Dani was becoming more and more the kind of office manager that the unit required to be fruitful. After months of mentoring, she had stepped up to the task of being the squad’s touchstone and information hub. “Listen, Derek, you are going to have to learn to do these things. Sergeant Joplin is not your momma and personal savior. She is in the server room today. Yes, all day. She has things to do and warned all of us to leave her alone. If you have a tech question, you can call Sergeant Lopez… ah-huh… yeah. Well… you don’t need that much help then, do you?”
“Dani,” Martin called, “can I see you in my office, please.”
Upon entering, she apologized, “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. That was a little loud.”
“No. It’s fine. Discipline your troops as you see fit.” His low voice automatically brought her close. “The men that were with the Commissioner are Federal agents. If you see them again – anywhere – say something.”
“Yes sir.”
“I have an unscheduled meeting. If anyone calls…”
“I got you.”
§
The server room was on the far side of the Gold Coast complex. Used as cold storage for the original owners, the section’s thick insulated walls and refrigeration ducts had been used by Metro-Dade for records, evidence processing, and seized assets. When the shoreside offices were converted to Information Technology, the storage room was the obvious place for the heat producing servers to be isolated and managed.
Unlike the rest of the building, the network hub was kept at a constant temperature and humidity. The door was thick with a single narrow slat of glass above the handle that gave view to a wall of warnings posted on the other side. Above the door handle was a green flag with the word ‘occupied’ – meaning the door was locked from inside and entrance would have to be requested.
Tapping the button on the door frame, Martin waited. He heard her before he saw her.
“Brian… if that is you again… I am going to…”
Trudy stopped speaking when their eyes met. For a surprised moment they stood looking at each other through the glass, then Martin blinked and nodded at the door handle. Wordless, Joplin opened the door and stepped back from the entrance.
“Can we?” Castillo indicated the space away from the window’s view.
“Yes. Of course.” Trudy moved into the widening hall that contained the only desk in the room. “Don’t go past the desk. There are cameras.”
This. He missed this. This concise communication. This immediate understanding of what he needed or which information he was seeking. Before the squad was broken – before he had sent them away – he had information provided at his whim. Although all his people were experts in the field, Detectives Trudy Joplin and Gina Calabrese were exceptionally attuned to researching the particulars needed for cases. When the two detectives were partnered with Vice Assistant Cathy Dane – Martin often wondered about the viability of clairvoyance.
“How are you?” and “How’s the new position?” They spoke over each other, then both smiled.
“You first,” Trudy reached out to touch his sleeve. “You came to find me. Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine…” Martin began, his eyes dropping from hers to watch her fingertips brush against his arm. Taking a breath as her hand retracted, he shook his head. This was Trudy. One of The Trusted and this was likely the last time that they would speak to each other. “No. It’s not fine. This entire situation sucks but there’s nothing I can do about it. We’re at DEFCON 3.”
Trudy wilted against the desk. “It’s been months.”
“Andrew Baker’s friends finally showed up in the kitchen. CIA had its fingers in DEAs pie. We knew that but NSA was tagging along this morning.”
“Were they here?”
“Yeah. With Wiliford. So… my time here is coming to an end.”
“Lieutenant, Gina and I have been talking about…”
When the situation began to crumble after Costa Morada, Castillo’s core team had pulled tight to each other and to him. All of them except Crockett – who was uncharacteristically detached and who stormed away. Martin’s last instructions to Joplin and Calabrese were to close out the cases being worked on, remove all practical traces of Borbon from documents, ship all files to Dade County Archives, and have their transfer papers to him in 30 minutes so that he could personally take them to HR. They were both stunned to silent head nodding when they were dismissed. As their last day as partners ticked by, Gina had sunk into melancholic acceptance, whereas Trudy just got pissed off.
At the time, Castillo thought plausible deniability was the best option to protect his officers from the fall out. Seeing a calm, measured NSA in congenial partnership with a somewhat hot-headed CIA made Martin reevaluate his earlier decisions. Where Duggan had been overtly antagonistic, Oliver was a cold threat: We know you rented a decoy. We know you know we’re here. The NSA would not pull a trigger, but it would make the call to pull that trigger. And the CIA already had trouble containing their open disdain for Castillo and the hierarchy that protected him.
“No. Wait. We only have a little time here and I need you to be my messenger.” He hated drawing her further into the intrigue but there was no other way. “I need you – and the others – to publicly disavow me.”
“What the hell?” Joplin’s voice was almost a growl.
“You and Gina need to have a conversation about my failings in front of the right ears.” Holding up a hand to forestall further objections, he added, “And … in very private conversations I need you to tell the others – the ones who transferred that last day – that they need to do the same. If asked: I was a shit boss. Moody, impossible … sullen. Don’t over play it – but don’t be sympathetic.”
“Martin.” The use of his first name surprised him. “People will know we’re lying.”
“Maybe. But while the Feds are poking around – they need to think … you’re on their side. And the easiest way to convince them is to openly deny me. If any of you get hauled in for questioning, and they’re gossip primed to think you’re on their side, they are more likely to believe you when you say I don’t know.
“Talk to Lester. Talk to Gina. Find somebody that will take whatever you and Gina say about me and run with it.”
“Randy.” Joplin said without hesitation.
Randy. A small, boyish twenty-something man that lasted in the Vice office long enough for Castillo to attach his voice to his name and face. Randy was a classic gossip. Martin had him transferred as soon as he recognized there was a problem. He wasn’t a bad person, just a nosey one with a mouth that would not stop. Randy was the perfect man for this job.
Martin smiled. “Yes.”
“All right,” she said, “but I don’t like this. I don’t… we don’t like you out there by yourself with a target on your back.”
“I know. And I appreciate that. I can take care of myself as long as you’re safe. I need you all safe. And the best way to make that happen is to have you all separated.
“Very soon…” Trudy opened her mouth to protest but he stopped her, “no, now listen! There will come a day, soon, when you come to work and I will be gone. There will be a flurry of Feds after that and then there will be nothing. It will be back to business as usual. After that, forget about Costa Morada.”
“What about Rico? What about…” her voice trailed off with the unspoken ‘Sonny’ on her lips.
“Ricardo is … will be fine. His return home has been coming for a while now. And Sonny…” Sliding his hand into his pocket, he ran his finger along the key he’d pulled off his key ring that morning. It was the gallery key to the St. Vitus Dance – Crockett’s undercover residence. “Sonny is more than capable of taking care of himself. Our… parting display is a better shield for him than even he realizes.”
“Martin.” She shook her head. “What — happened?”
The shushing whorl of fans filled the room as they moved cold air around the stacked technology. There were occasional clicks or beeps as units flicked off and on – processing data from one unit to another – connecting the 3rd floor with the first, sending information to MDPD, receiving data from the Federal building downtown. The sound was not unlike that of a persistent waterfall. Martin looked around for a few moments - listening to the whispering buzz. There were so many ways to communicate with another person and yet he had utterly failed to find a way into Crockett’s world.
The simplicity of ‘I’m sorry’, the heartbreaking plea of ‘I love you’ offered as a shield against losing him would not have been enough. Even if Martin could have said those things. Even if he could have swallowed the awkward pride he had in self-control long enough to make such a case – it would not have been enough. They were men with an exceptional talent for deception. Even unto themselves – they were rare birds.
Slowly shaking his head, Castillo brought his gaze back to Joplin.
“I don’t … really know, Trudy.” She was no longer his detective. In the hierarchy, he still out ranked her, but here in this place of hushed chill and parting, their ranks meant nothing. “I wish I did. I’d hoped to find enough pieces to explain… but…”
Looking into her jewel eyes, he caught the flash expression of … compassion? Concern? Pity? The youngest member of the team, Joplin was everybody’s secret keeper and her expression made him wonder what she knew… or guessed.
She waited in silence for him to decide whether to speak or turn away.
“I talked to him last month when there was a problem with the Ferrari. We were able to figure it out without screaming at each other. I should have said something then and I didn’t.” He shrugged, pushing down the emotion he felt creeping up his spine. “Crockett leaving has been a long time coming, too. If he doesn’t self-destruct, he’ll be fine. What about Stan? Have you heard anything there?”
“Gina talked to him last week, actually. He’s up in Fort Pierce with his Mom.” Again, Joplin touched his arm, “Don’t worry about Stan. Home is the best place for him.”
“Okay. That’s good.” Exhaling the energy away, Martin let go of the key in his pocket and brought his hands to his waist like a black suited Peter Pan. “You have the plan.”
“This is it, isn’t it?” Trudy looked past him at the door.
“Yes. This is where we say good-bye and hope that we might see each other in the future.” He remembered giving Ricardo this farewell talk. It seemed easier with Tubbs than it was here in the cold, buzzing room. “At least we know this is the moment. Most of the time – we’re clueless to fate.” Holding his arms wide, he said, “Give me a hug. I don’t get to do this often enough, either.”
For a moment they leaned into each other, encircled in a tight embrace. On impulse, he kissed her forehead as they parted, making her smile.
“Thank you for taking this last assignment. It’s been an honor being your Lieutenant.”
“Go on now before you make me cry. You… moody, impossible, sullen man.” With a wink she disappeared around the corner into the server stacks.
Returning to his desk, Martin found the Miami-Herald newspaper with a card stapled to the front that read:
It will be another 40 years
before USA makes it to the World Cup.
Bask in the glory now.
“That was delivered for you by courier,” Dani said. She smiled as she brought the afternoon reports in for his signature. “I didn’t know you were a football fan.”
“I follow.” He nodded. “The US winning the World Cup is a nice dream. But we don’t stand a chance.” It was the first and last personal conversation he would ever share with Daniella.
Martin flipped the paper open to the World News section. The top story was Peace Talks Resume in Angola by Erendira Garcia. Under the stock photo of a row of Mirage F1s on a tarmac was a carefully printed POW-MIA 19-45. Garcia was arriving at quarter to 8. The muscles in his neck were suddenly tight with energy and he stretched his neck to the left then to the right.
The board was set. Everything was ready. Tucking his MDPD ID and badge in the center drawer of his desk, he folded the paper under his arm.
“Daniella. Have Detective Mills look at those reports. I am out,” he said as he walked out of OCB.
§
The rentals Castillo thought of as his ‘motor-pool’ were easily dispatched by dropping off the keys to the agencies with their corresponding addresses on a card.
To add distraction, he had already arranged a sublet for the remaining apartment lease; the new tenant would be moving in after Thanksgiving. It would have been entertaining to hear the NSA/CIA/DEA teams scramble when their microphones suddenly recorded the sounds of occupancy. Martin wondered how long it would take them to realize – it was an average couple living an normal life in North Miami.
All that was left was his Harley, which he arranged to be stored in Brickell.
Between the storage site and Surfside, he had the taxi wait while he walked through the newly remodeled house on Poinciana. The glass walls facing the canal were now enclosed with a set of French doors mid-living room. The staircase was a straight flight with storage beneath. The front and back decks were modified with rails in sleek white to match the new exterior.
The Buddha – a commanding feature in the back yard – had been moved to storage in Key Largo with the rest of his personal items. Landscapers had filled the spot with a bench beset by large senna shrubs. Along with the Buddha went the garden lamps – the style of which no longer matched the converted house.
It did, indeed, feel different. But not different enough to go upstairs. The ghost of loss still chilled the atmosphere there.
§
Garcia’s plane landed on time. At baggage claim she walked up to the man in an ash-grey suit and matching hat, holding a pick-up sign for Ms. E. Garcia in his gloved hand.
“My God! You’re adorable,” she teased. “Or… is this your dream job?”
“I have your car ready, ma’am.” He smiled congenially. “Do you still need to go through customs?”
“Fuck no,” Garcia answered. “Why do you think I fly first class? There. The burgundy AT. That’s mine.”
Pulling the luggage from the carousel, Castillo indicated their path with a gesture. “After you, Ms. Garcia.”
Standing beside her, they waited for the valet to bring her Mercedes to the curb. Turning slightly to look him up and down, Garcia said, “You know, without the mustache it’s hard to hide that sarcastic smirk. I’d think about it if I were you.”
On the way to Surfside they caught up – Martin gave Erendira the bullet point account of the prior forty-eight hours and Garcia bitched about how Editors always came up with the most hyperbolic headlines to sell papers.
“So then,” Martin glanced in the rearview mirror, “no peace talks?”
“Hell no,” she snapped. “South Africa wants Cuba out so everybody can start singing Kumbaya. Castro sure as hell can’t sing – but it’s hypocritical to whine about Castro being in Africa when we’re stirring shit up all over the globe.”
“The third world’s problem is mostly the first world,” Martin noted.
“Right.” She shoved a lock of hair behind her ear as she rummaged through her carry-on. “But I did my thing and I brought us back some coffee.”
“We have time for coffee when we get home.”
She stopped searching through the bag, looking up at Castillo’s reflected eyes in the mirror. When he glanced back at her, she said, “You’re leaving tonight, aren’t you? Have you already called? What time is extraction? Do you know where you’re going?”
Martin nodded. “Yes. Yes. The point time is 0230. No. So, we still have time for coffee.”
Under normal circumstances, she would have dragged him into a shower with her and given him other things to think about before letting him go. But she was precious with him as they took her things into the house and made plans for the remaining hours.
“Bring the carafe upstairs with a cup,” she said. “We can share after I get out of the shower.”
By the time the coffee was brewed, Garcia was drying her hair. Shortly after that, they were propped against a mountain of pillows, wrapped in arms and legs, continuing the never-ending conversation of ‘what next’.
“I see you’re pared down to black jeans, black henley, and that old flack. You anticipating war zone action?” She asked into the top of his head where it was tucked under her chin.
“My guess. Central, South – America. Hopefully not Asia.” As he lay cradled in the hollow of her neck, Martin gently caressed a line from thigh to hip to side with the palm of his right hand. “I am done with Eurasia. What’s the catch phrase now days? Been there, done that.”
“You sound like you should take some time off, carniño. Get some perspective before throwing yourself to the lions.”
“Mmm,” he hummed into her neck, “too much time to think.”
“About?” Erendira rubbed circles into his back where she held him. “Paó — can you tell me what happened?”
With the name came a barrage of emotion, followed by a sharp knotting pain at the tip of his sternum, robbing him of breath. Martin gripped Garcia’s lissome frame, crushing her to him and burying his face in the scented silk of her hair. Garcia squeezed him tight until the emotions eased and he was able to speak.
“I…” he sniffed. “I have… been…” The feelings and thoughts were slamming one on top of another as he tried to explain his uncharacteristic sentimentalism. Taking a full breath – pulling himself away from the feelings that had choked him, Martin explained, “I was living with someone. They left without explanation. The last time we saw each other – in May – was a public fiasco.”
“You were seeing one of your … people?” Erendira asked for clarity. “You are in love? Is it the blond?”
Closing his eyes, Castillo said, “Yes… yes… and yes.” Giving her a gentle hug, he said, “I don’t know what happened. He thinks I’ve… I don’t know. Lied? Broken his trust somehow? I thought… he knew me. After all these years… I thought he knew better than to think I would do anything to…”
The prickling heat pulled at his chest again. It wasn’t that Crockett decided their relationship was untenable. It wasn’t that – when given time alone to think – he had moved out. It was that Sonny saw Martin on the other side of some ethical divide: that Crockett had lost faith in the foundation of who they were – their friendship, their devotion to one another. He had lost more than a lover – he’d lost another brother whom he loved.
“The very loyal are always the most bloodied.” Garcia said, as if reading his mind. “I love you with all my soul but we are who we are. Our worlds have never been prosaic. We have always been the exception because somebody has to be and we endure what others can’t. And often, those whom we love cannot withstand the journey.”
“I thought he was one of us,” Martin said softly.
§
Before laying down, Castillo had stored his kit on the first-floor sofa. Leaving a sleeping Garcia curled in a ball, he sock footed his way downstairs. Preparing for field deployment meant his pack was larger than the ubiquitous ‘go-bag’ he carried while working with Metro-Dade. The khaki sea bag carried the extra clothes and emergency equipment required for a single agent to drop and infiltrate. Martin wasn’t sure whether all that would be needed immediately, but he was prepared. He was leaving Miami with the possibility of never returning.
From the front flap of the pack, he pulled the black satellite phone that assured a secure call. A cab called at this time of night for a fare at a bar was common enough to hide in plain sight. The taxi dispatcher estimated 20 minutes for pick up and it would take him fifteen to walk to the address.
Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he opened the door as quietly as possible.
“Take care of yourself.” Erendira’s voice floated down from the second-floor landing.
Stopping, Martin leaned into the room far enough to see her bending over the rail.
“You as well.” He smiled up at her. “You know where to reach me. If you need me.”
She nodded. “Y tu, amor.”
The night air was crisp for Florida. A cold front had pushed out of the north, bringing a drastic change to the Sunshine City. It was November and the beginning of winter. Even in the most tropical of places, November had an air of desolation. Martin understood winter – its stasis, its darkness.
Adjusting the pack across his shoulder, he began to walk.