'FARC's a major cocaine supplier; they move product in volume to help fund the struggle. It's revolutionary drug dealing. She stuck with them in Colombia for years. So why get squeamish about narcotics trafficking now?'
'You're asking the questions, Jack. What's your take on it?'
'What could bring two polar opposites like Ortiz and Dixie together in a hit on Paz?' Jack said, responding with another question and then answering it:
'Maybe — Beltran.'
Pete made a face. 'Sounds iffy.'
'Who made the try on Paz? Let's reason by process of elimination,' Jack said. 'Who didn't make it? Venezuela. If Caracas wanted to give Paz the chop, there was a lot easier and more discreet way of handling it. All they had to do is recall him home and execute him there. Or they could have farmed it out to someone close to him who could have carried it out with a minimum of fuss, like one of his bodyguards.
'They sure wouldn't go gunning for him with a hit team when he's coming out of his stripper girlfriend's apartment. That's not the kind of headlines that the regime — any regime — likes. It creates a scandal. Headlines. Bad publicity. It would have made Paz look ridiculous — him, and by extension his boss, Chavez.'
Pete challenged, 'Okay, Caracas didn't do it. Who pushed the button, then?'
Jack said, 'That brings us back to Beltran. We know Paz is a thief, trafficker, and killer. Beltran's more of the same, only older and more experienced. One or both of them might have gone off the reservation and gone into business for themselves. Maybe they worked up some private deal, unknown to their masters in Caracas and Havana.
'Then, like you said, thieves fall out. Maybe Beltran discovered that Vikki contacted CTU and decided that anybody who had an indiscreet girlfriend who knew too much was too unreliable to do business with. So he decided to dissolve their partnership by dissolving Paz.'
Pete's head tilted, as if he were looking at the problem from a different angle. 'I'm not saying I buy it, but just for the sake of argument, where does Dixie Lee fit in? I can see where the Ortiz gal fits in with Beltran, but Dixie Lee?'
Jack said, 'I admit it's a loose end. But Beltran's been operating in the area for a lot longer than Paz has. He might have crossed paths with Dixie sometime in the past and decided to use him as a cutout or red herring to obscure the true sponsor of the hit.'
Pete looked as uncertain as a customer in a used-car lot. 'Seems like a cowboy job for a shadowy character like Beltran who shuns the limelight.'
Jack said, 'Maybe he had to act fast. Vikki's contacting us might have set a time clock ticking. A corollary to that is that some Beltran-Paz operation in the works threw a scare into her and sent her scurrying to CTU.'
Pete chewed over the idea for a minute before replying. 'You know, if Beltran did try to chop Paz, that would be a hell of a situation.'
'Wouldn't it? Lots of possibilities there,' Jack said.
Saturday was a work day at the Supremo Hat Company, a full day's work, from six in the morning until eight at night. Despite the storm threat, today it was business as usual. All employees were expected to clock in at their usual time, work their full hours, and clock out at closing time. No exceptions.
An independent small business lacks the leeway of the bigger corporate chains. It has to hustle to outpace the bigger, better-funded competition.
Supremo Hat was located in a single block building on the edge of a run-down area where the city's commercial business district petered out, blending into an equally run-down residential neighborhood. Most of the buildings here had gone up during the 1920s, and there had been little new construction since.
No developers were rushing to gentrify this area. The skyline was unimposing, with few structures standing more than a few stories tall. The heart of the small business zone area was an intersection where two main thoroughfares crossed. Streets were cracked and potholed; sidewalks were uneven, with slabs of different heights. One square farther east, a block of down-at-the-heels tenements began.
Modest and unassuming at best, most of the businesses lining the square were going concerns: that is, they were concerned about going out of business. There was a furniture store specializing in selling factory seconds, off-brands, and more than slightly damaged goods. An E-Z Loan finance company. A combination cut-rate drugstore and gift shop. A Salvation Army thrift shop. A shoe repair store. A coin-operated Laundromat. A storefront church. A corner convenience store and smoke shop.
The Supremo Hat Company seemed a happy exception to the general air of shabbiness and neglect. It occupied a single-story building, a shedlike rectangle whose short end fronted the square.
The brown brick structure featured a tan cornice, window and door moldings. It was divided into two sections, a display and office space occupying the front third of the space, with the other two-thirds taken up by a work and storage area. At the rear of the building was a loading platform, and beyond that, a company parking lot. The gravel lot was bordered by a ten-foot-high chain-link fence topped with three strands of barbed wire. A company panel van and a half-dozen or so vehicles belonging to employees were parked in the back lot.
At the front of the building, a display window showcased the various styles of hats made by the company. In the bottom corners of the window, a pair of signs proclaimed the same message in two languages: POR LA MEJOR and FOR THE TRADE.
No casual customer could just walk in off the street and buy a hat. It wasn't that kind of a setup. The showroom was closed to the general public and reserved for garment industry professionals; even for the latter, it was preferred that they make an appointment in advance to see the line. The showroom was almost a formality, since company policy was to send its salesmen directly to the stores to display their wares for the buyers.
New Orleans takes its fashion seriously. Part of living well is dressing well. Hats are a necessary accessory.
Supremo made and sold men's hats only. Its specialty was handmade and woven straw hats. These were not crude things but works of art, with fine-mesh weaves. Panamas, Borsalinos, stingy brims, porkpies, planters, and other classic styles. Not cheap, either. Supremo made a quality product, with prices to match.
A couple of administrative staffers worked up front in the showroom and office area. At any given time, anywhere from eight to a dozen employees were at work in the back rooms.
The showroom featured a central display stand, stepped and velvet draped, covered at all levels with hats. Each hat bore a white, plastic-encased card with the style name and number. There was a quaint, old-timey feel to the decor, with its wicker-bladed overhead fan and array of globe lights.
To one side, a reception desk guarded the closed-door entrance to a private office.
Within, seated behind a dark wooden desk the size of a compact car, was the company's owner/manager, Felix Monatero.
He was in his fifties, well-groomed, with an athletic build. His face was long, rectangular, with a hawklike nose, arched eyebrows that came to a point in the centers, and a mustache that looked like it had been penciled in, but wasn't. Hair, brows, and mustache were all dyed jet-black, so black they had blue highlights.
Monatero sat behind his desk, examining an open ledger, going over some accounts. He peered at the entries through a pair of reading glasses.
A knock sounded on the door, one whose cadence and rhythm was familiar to him. He took off his glasses, slipped them into the breast pocket of his shirt, and said, 'Come in.'
The door opened and in stepped Mrs. Ybarra, his receptionist and confidential assistant. She was fortyish, matronly, short, chubby, with a large bust and wide rear. A heart-shaped face showed wide dark eyes and a red- painted Kewpie-doll mouth with a beauty mark to one side of it. She wore a cocoa-colored dress and dark brown leather shoes. Earrings, necklace, bracelets, and watchband were all made of heavy gold.
Closing the door behind her, she crossed to his desk, a sheet of paper held in one hand. She said, 'This just came in over the fax.'
She handed it to him. It was a printed circular, an ad whose heading said, 'Red Sail Travel Tours' in such bold letters and oversized print that he could make it out without his glasses. He frowned at it. 'Just came in, you say?'
'This very minute,' she said. 'I knew you'd want to see it right away.'
'Indeed I do. Thank you, Mrs. Ybarra.'
