Shadow Hunt. Don Pendleton
either.
The real bitch of it was that he was totally on his own here. This wasn’t an official case, and he sure as hell wasn’t on duty. He was supposedly on vacation, but like some other law-enforcement officers he knew, there were no real vacations for him—just times when he worked a case out of his jurisdiction because it smelled funny and he wanted to try to figure it out. That’s why he was here, sweating through his shirt and his sport coat, instead of drinking cold beer and fishing in the Gulf with his brother.
Almost a year ago, when he was running down a fugitive who’d thought he could hide out in L.A., Rio had met an old FBI hound who talked about the organized crime in New Orleans and how their whole operation just kind of vanished after Marcello died. It stank to high heaven, but no one had been able to find anything else that could establish they were still there and still in business. Rio had been intrigued, and did a little digging of his own. Over time, organized crime in New Orleans had gotten into all of it: drugs, smuggling, money laundering and the usual organized crime list of dirty deeds, and the Matranga Family was in charge of it all.
Usually, when an organized crime family went out of business, it was because another family came in and took over, or everyone was killed, but so far as the Feds could tell, organized crime was out of business entirely in the New Orleans area.
And since the whole damn city was corrupt, Rio thought, that didn’t make one thin dime’s worth of sense.
Someone was there—it was just a question of finding them out. Since Rio’s main job was locating people who didn’t want to be found, he figured he’d go down and spend a week poking around. At the time, he’d thought something might turn up simply because he was an outsider and could see things a bit differently than a local. So far, however, he’d run into a lot of shrugged shoulders, dead ends and urban stories that were more legend than fact. Until he’d spoken to the kid from the DA’s office, Trenton Smythe, Rio had pretty much figured that he was going to come up as empty as everyone else.
He took one final drag on his cigarette and tossed it to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot heel. Something didn’t feel right, but he was supposed to be on a plane home tomorrow, so if he was going to find anything, he had to find it now. And in spite of his smarmy name and nervous manner, Smythe had seemed convinced he knew something worth telling. Since it appeared he’d run out of options, Rio crossed the parking lot and entered the restaurant.
Smythe was sitting in a booth near the back, his tie loosened and his brown hair mussed, which seemed unusual to Rio. He pegged him as the polished type who looked down on anyone who wasn’t wearing a pressed suit and tie, like the first time Smythe saw Rio in the DA’s office. But the young attorney didn’t look polished this night with his yellow shirt unbuttoned at the top and looking like it had been slept in. An unopened bottle of wine and two glasses, waited on the table, along with a couple of menus. Even though the bottle of wine wasn’t open, Rio would wager his pension that Smythe had already had a drink or two. When Smythe spotted Rio, he raised a hand in greeting. As the marshal walked across the restaurant, he noticed that most of the tables were full and waiters scurried back and forth with food and wine. Nothing appeared out of place.
As he reached the table, Smythe stood and said, “I didn’t think you were coming. You’re late.”
“I’m cautious,” Rio said. “I’ve been here for a half hour, just watching.”
“For what?” he asked.
“Trouble,” he replied. “Trouble’s like reality—it shows up when you least expect it.”
Smythe shrugged noncommittally. “Wine?” he offered, holding up the bottle. Rio didn’t know much about wine, but the aged merlot seemed like a big gesture for someone on government pay.
“No, thanks,” Rio said. “You go ahead.”
A waiter appeared at the table, opened the wine and poured. After telling them the specials, he asked for their order. Rio ordered spaghetti and Smythe the house shrimp specialty, then the waiter headed off for the kitchen to turn in the ticket. No matter what else, the smells coming from the kitchen were enticing.
After a minute or two of silence, Rio decided to nudge Smythe a bit. “So,” he said. “You told me you had information about organized crime in this area after Marcello died. Why don’t you share it with me?”
Smythe scoffed. “That’s easy?” he asked. “You’re not any smarter than the other federal law officers in this area.”
Rio held up his hands in mock surrender. “You’re the one who said you had information. I’m just asking what it is.”
“Well, nothing’s free,” Smythe retorted. “Hell, they’re charging for air at the gas stations now, and if I tell you what I know, I’ve got to get something for it, too.”
The waiter returned, refilled the wineglasses and set out bread on the table. “Your meals will be up in a couple of minutes.”
Once he’d left, Rio said, “What do you want?”
“Two things,” he said. “First, I want out of New Orleans—out of Louisiana—and I mean way out. Fucking Wyoming or Canada or something.”
Knowing what was coming, Rio asked anyway. “And?”
“A boatload of cash,” he said. “Enough so I never have to work a day in my life again.”
“So, you want Club Med witness protection,” Rio said. “You’re dreaming, kid. The FBI’s been down here digging for years and found nothing, so whatever you’ve got can’t be that good.”
“You don’t get it, do you, Rio? No one finds them because they’re everywhere—every law-enforcement agency, every cop, every lawyer. The FBI hasn’t had any success because their agents are either on the take or kept out of the loop. What I know—what I’ll tell you—will rock this city from the top down. It’s worth what I’m asking.”
“You’re going to have to give me more than empty words and promises, boy. I can’t just make a call and get you what you want. I’m going to need to have rock-solid evidence—names, places, you name it. And then, maybe.”
“What I don’t have,” he said, “I can get. There are people who trust me, and I have access to everything that I need.”
“When?” Rio asked.
“I can have it for you by tomorrow. I just have to copy the files.” Smythe took a long swallow of wine, which was when Rio noticed that his hands were shaking.
He took another long look around the restaurant, but didn’t see anything that raised his hackles. Still… “You nervous, Smythe?”
“Hell, yes, I’m nervous,” he snapped, his blue eyes darting around the room. “Wouldn’t you be?”
Rio shrugged. “I’m not the type.”
“If you knew these guys, you would be. If they knew I was having dinner with a federal agent, I wouldn’t make it through the night,” he said. He refilled his glass. “I’ll have everything for you tomorrow, but I want your word that you can get me what I want.”
Rio thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “I can get it,” he said. “But not until I see what you’re putting on the table.”
“Fair enough. When?”
“First thing in the morning,” he said. “My hotel, seven sharp. I’ve got a flight scheduled to leave at ten.”
“You’re leaving?” Smythe asked, incredulous. “Now?”
“Relax,” Rio said. “If you bring me real information we can use to ferret these bastards out, I’ll reschedule.”
“Oh, all right, then.”
Their food came and they ate in silence. Italian wasn’t his favorite, but even Rio had to admit that his spaghetti was very good. He finished quickly, then stood