Chapter 81
In Detroit, Michigan, life was proving testing for Vincent Bergsma, and showed no signs of getting any easier in the immediate future.
The disappearance of the DEA agent named Gai Cotter had come as a shock to Bergsma, not least because he had known her as Nola Maddick, formerly a minor dealer who could apparently turn product around as fast as it could be supplied, with the result that Bergsma had recently given the nod for her rise within his organization, a promotion further necessitated by a series of moves against him involving, in no particular order, his rivals, the Detroit PD, the DEA, the FBI, and probably the Vatican, the Screen Actors Guild, and the Girl Scouts as well, because why should they miss out on all the fun?
That these misfortunes might have been a result, in whole or part, of Cotter’s infiltration of his operation was conceivable.
But whatever problems Cotter had caused Bergsma in life were nothing compared to what her unexplained departure had brought down on him.
His people were being pulled from the streets, his clubs raided, and his legitimate business interests targeted by the IRS, who made the Black Mafia Family, from whose shadow Bergsma had emerged in the early part of the century, look like ragdoll pussycats.
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 and disappearances 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 or dead.
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.”