While Bergsma himself was not yet personally threatened, it was only a matter of time before the combined efforts of law enforcement brought him to his knees, and all because they were convinced that the blame for whatever had befallen the DEA agent could be laid at his door.Bergsma wasn’t above sanctioning murder, or making his enemies vanish—the illegal distribution and sale of narcotics was a dangerous business—but he did so only after every alternative had been exhausted, since bodies anddisappearances attracted investigations.Even had he discovered the truth about Cotter, he’d have found a way to cut her loose without drawing federal heat.The cartel, with which Bergsma was required to deal as part of his chosen profession, might have taken a different view on dealing with her, but what the Mexicans didn’t know couldn’t hurt them.
Unfortunately, the Mexicans were now well aware that Bergsma’s operation had been infiltrated by the DEA, because Cotter’s picture was all over the internet.And while Bergsma wasn’t being named as a person of interest, the agent had penetrated at least two levels of his syndicate and was set to progress higher before she vanished.The result was that Bergsma was under pressure from all sides.He couldn’t continue with his criminal endeavors because the cartel had turned off the tap pending an assessment of his vulnerabilities; and even had they been willing to supply him, Bergsma couldn’t have moved the product because every lawman in the Midwest wanted to double up as his proctologist.Meanwhile, the cash flow from his enterprises had slowed to a trickle, and like any businessman Bergsma had debts to service, salaries to meet, and rents to cover, not to mention a couple of mortgages, alimony payments, and child support.
And it wasn’t as though Bergsma could walk into the DEA’s local office on Howard Street to protest that he hadn’t done anything to their agent because he didn’t know she was their agent, as that was precisely what someone who had quietly removed an agent from the board would say, not to mention that he would effectively be confessing to a host of other crimes.The only solution that presented itself was for Bergsma to establish what had happened to Cotter in the hope that this information, when funneled to the authorities via back channels, would be enough to vindicate him.Bergsma wasn’t such an optimist as to hope the law would then walk away, allowing him to pick up where he’d left off, but the boot might be lifted.Once he could breathe again, he’d try to cut a deal; that, or look into early retirement: Asia, Europe, the Middle East, Bergsma didn’t care, as long as he wasn’t behind bars ordead.
Now, finally, Bergsma had a crumb to offer his persecutors, but a tasty one, which was why one of his lieutenants, Hollis Raines, was currently sitting in the back room of a bodega in Delray, accompanied by a tame lawyer named Pfeffer, while across from them sat a pair of DEA agents named Solomon and Moyers.None of the four was overjoyed to be there, and the meeting was so far off the books that life after death was less deniable.
Pfeffer placed a manila envelope on the table.
“A goodwill gesture,” he said.
Moyers reached for the envelope, but Pfeffer kept his fingers pressed down hard.
“Call off the dogs,” he said.“Please.”
He lifted his hand.Moyers took the envelope.Raines looked at Solomon, who was the senior agent.
“It wasn’t us,” said Raines.“We want her found as badly as you do.”
“I doubt that,” said Solomon.
Moyers opened the envelope and removed the contents: three photographs, each labeled with a time and location.
“What’s this?”Moyers asked.
“That,” said Raines, “is the car used to abduct Gai Cotter.”
Chapter 82
My efforts to pack for my stay in The Plains were hindered by a series of calls over the course of the morning, not all of them welcome.Of the ones that were, or comparatively so, the first came from Angel to say that Louis had returned to Portland from Boston and the three of us should meet, urgently.The second came from Moxie Castin, informing me that Alcock had consulted with his client, Ward Vose, and they would continue to pay me for as long as I was willing to look into Scott Theriault’s death.
“But you’d have continued regardless, right?”
“It’s Spero,” I said.“It’s piqued my interest.”
“Even if Vose and Alcock decided to save their money, I’d have ponied up,” said Moxie.“Knowing you’re irritating Santopietro helps me sleep better at night.”
“Roger Teal told me that Santopietro was intent on not going down the Élan road.He was trying for something better.”
“Then he shouldn’t be in the troubled-teen business to begin with,” said Moxie, and hung up.
The final call was from Sabine Drew, which was the one that fell conclusively into the “unwelcome” category, if only because of my continuing reservations about her character.
“I left a message for you,” she said.
“I’ve been busy, but you were on my list.”
Which was close to the truth.She was on it, but I was in no hurry to get to her.
“Are you still looking into what happened in The Plains?”
“That depends,” I replied neutrally.“The situation is complex and unfolding.”
“My, how you weaponize vocabulary.It’s almost like you don’t trust me.”
“I don’t think you’d ever lie to me, but there are questions I’d prefer not to ask, for precisely that reason.”
Sabine dropped the matter.
