Luis Costa swirled the rich, dark rum around the glass, the telephone cradled against his ear. He took a swallow, letting the aromatic flavor of the liquor fill his mouth.
“Did he call the police?” he asked his lieutenant.
“I don’t think so. He was inside for some time, so he must have found the bodies. When he left he closed the gates behind him. Like he didn’t want to show he had been there.”
“Did you recognize him?” Costa asked.
“Never seen him before. Big hombre. Looks like he could handle himself. Maybe an associate of the Connor bitch. Another journalist, maybe?”
“What are you doing about him?”
“I had people follow him back into the city. We took the details of his SUV. Cabrerro is running a check as we speak.”
“Good. Watch him. See where he goes.”
“What do you think?”
“I think we need to deal with him. But first we have to find out if Connor gave him any of the information she has been gathering. Use whoever you need to learn what you can. Remember, we have to contain this. If information leaks the whole operation could fall apart.”
Costa dropped the phone back on its cradle, swiveling his chair around to stare out the window of his Miami office. He looked across the placid blue water of the bay, watching power boats race back and forth, leaving white trails behind them.
The man who had visited the Connor house intrigued him. It was the calm way he had exited the house and driven off. Calling in the police and waiting for them to arrive would have been the normal way to handle the situation, but for unknown reasons this man had withdrawn quietly, leaving the house as he had found it.
What did that mean?
Costa was determined to find out. As Raul Manolo’s right-hand man, he had to inform his boss of this latest development.
His call was answered immediately.
“We have had an unknown visitor at the Connor house. I am having him checked out. Once we establish who he is we can decide what to do about him.”
“A cop? Federal agent?” Manolo asked.
“That’s what I’m trying to establish.”
“Could he have been given Connor’s findings?”
“Possibly. We won’t know until we establish his identity.”
“Just kill him,” Manolo said.
“Shouldn’t we first find out if he knows anything? In case he has passed any information along.”
“This is fucking ridiculous. How many people do we have to deal with until we’re sure we have things contained?”
“Let me deal with this. After all, it is what you are paying me for,” Costa soothed.
“Keep me in the loop. But make your own decisions. I have other things to deal with.” Manolo slammed down the phone.
Costa’s lieutenant called half an hour later.
“Cabrerro ran down the SUV through the rental agency. He tried a background check on the company that rented it. Nothing. He ran into serious encoding. No way can we find out who this hombre works for.”
“What about him?”
“Same. No background details. It’s like he just appeared out of nowhere.”
“Keep checking.” Costa considered what he had just heard. “Tomás, be ready to pull this guy off the street. We can’t afford to have him poking around too much.”
“Just give the word and he’s ours.”
“We need him alive, Tomás. He can’t tell us anything if he’s dead.”
Costa opened a drawer in his desk and took out a cell phone. He dialed one of three special numbers. The man on the other end of the phone was an American.
“We have encountered an unexpected visitor. He was seen entering and leaving the Connor house. Didn’t wait around.” Costa recited the license plate number of the SUV his people had seen. “We can’t find anything about him, or who rented the vehicle. He could be a nuisance. Use your police contact to identify him.”
“I’ll see what I can do. What have you done about him?”
“At the moment, I am keeping him under surveillance. I want to see what he does.”
“Don’t let him run on a long leash. If he gets lucky your troubles might get bigger.”
“Don’t think I haven’t considered that,” Costa muttered as he disconnected the call.
THE EXECUTIONER WAS in South Beach.
Paul Sebring ran his business from the top floor of a low-rise building. The street level was a seafood restaurant. Access to Sebring’s office was via the wide alley that ran along the side of the building. White-painted steps led to the studio setup. Bolan made his way into a reception area with the walls covered in examples of Sebring’s work. Even a cursory glance told Bolan the man was good. Behind the desk a pretty young woman glanced up from her computer keyboard.
“Hi,” she said. “Can I help?”
“I need to speak to Paul Sebring,” he said. “It’s urgent.”
“Okay,” the woman said. She pointed at a door to one side of the desk. “Through there. Paul’s office is on the left. Third door.”
Bolan nodded. “Thanks.”
As he walked along the corridor a door opened and a man leaned out.
“I’m Paul Sebring. Is there a problem?”
Bolan followed the photographer into a spacious, airy office that was expensively decorated and looked out over South Beach.
Sebring was a tall, fit-looking man in his midthirties. He was dressed in casual clothing and his pale blond hair was thick. He held out a large hand, smiling at his visitor.
“Matt Cooper,” Bolan said. He showed Sebring his Department of Justice credentials and watched the man’s expression grow serious.
“Now you have me worried.”
They sat facing each other across Sebring’s large desk.
“Maggie Connor,” Bolan stated simply and watched Sebring’s reaction.
“Is she okay?”
“That sounds as if you know she might be in trouble,” the Executioner said.
“I never could hide my feelings. Look, all I can tell you is the last time she contacted
