Cajun Justice

Cajun Justice by James Patterson




For my beautiful wife, Heidi, who put her life on hold to move around the world because of my career. You are my treasure.

—Tucker





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Part One





No Good Deed Goes Unpunished





Chapter 1



“Abra la puerta!” she screamed.

Secret Service agent Cain Lemaire shot up in bed. He left behind the recurring nightmare loop he had already experienced too many times, awakening to the high-pitched shouts of a woman.

“Open the damn door!” she repeated in a thick accent. These were not cries for help but the sounds of an angry woman demanding attention, pounding on a door down the corridor from his room.

Cain blinked his eyes several times, struggling to read his watch in the darkness. The curtains were half open, but the sun was not yet out. He flipped on the bedside lamp and saw it was barely five thirty.

Who is she? he wondered. And why is she banging on a door at this hour?

She continued making a commotion in the hallway. He rolled out of bed and threw on a hotel robe he took from the closet. He grabbed his cell phone and government-issue SIG Sauer .357 off the nightstand, concealing the pistol in the outside pocket. The fully loaded gun was heavy, like a brick. It pulled noticeably on the robe.

He cracked open the door but didn’t see anyone. He opened the door wider, making sure to scan the hallway. He peeked to his left and right. A strong perfume permeated the air. The source was surely the scantily dressed brunette a few doors down. She had a large purse slung over her shoulder. When she turned to look his way, her gaudy oversize hoop earrings swung wildly. Cain recognized her. She was striking enough to have caught his attention the previous night. She had been sipping a cocktail by herself in the hotel bar when he’d passed by on his way to his room.

“Your friend kicked me out without paying me!” she cried out. She marched toward Cain in her shiny leather high heels.

“Tranquila,” he said as he raised his palms to her, in an effort to slow her momentum. “Tranquila. No es un problema.” He knew her theatrics would draw unwanted attention. “Relax. I will fix this. Trust me.”

“I don’t trust you! I don’t trust any of you! That maricón agreed to pay me. He owes me six hundred dollars!” She pointed down the hall without taking her eyes off Cain. She had deep brown eyes that matched her hair, which cascaded all the way to her lower back.

Cain assumed she was pointing to Special Agent Tom “Tomcat” Jackson’s room. Tomcat was married with two daughters but known within the Secret Service as a playboy. His ego was as large and developed as his physique, and this was just the kind of woman he’d pick to experience a different side of the country.

“Six hundred dollars?” Cain asked incredulously.

“Yes!” She nodded. “Six hundred. This was not a date; it was a business deal.”

Drawn to the disturbance, a uniformed security guard approached carefully. His wrinkled face projected alarm. Cain got the feeling the sleepy security guard rarely encountered problems at the five-star resort.

“Se?or,” the guard said. “Is there a problem?” He spoke in English, but it seemed limited.

“No hay problema. Todo está bien. Voy a arreglar esta situación,” Cain rattled off, perfectly trilling the r’s, the way his Spanish teacher had taught him. Se?ora Lana would be proud, he thought. She always told me my Spanish would come in handy someday, but she probably never imagined it would be to calm an angry prostitute.

Cain’s conversational Spanish had also come in handy as a naval officer flying P-3 airplanes for counter-drug operations after 9/11. That was a time when the American government was waging war on narco-terrorism throughout Central and South America. He’d grown up speaking Cajun French with his parents, but Spanish was a lot more useful these days.

The woman continued arguing with Cain, switching back to Spanish for the security guard’s benefit. “No! No está bien. Ese cabrón me debe dinero.”

Watching them interact, Cain sensed that the security guard knew the se?orita. Cain overheard her mentioning the president, and that’s when he interjected. He had to.

“I already told you: I will take care of this.” He walked toward Tom’s room and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked louder.

“He’s a liar! Mentiroso! I know he’s in there,” she yelled.

Cain reached into his pocket. Wrong pocket, he thought as he felt the steel of the SIG Sauer pistol. He fished for his BlackBerry in the other pocket. When he found it, he thumbed his password and telephoned his partner. He even placed his ear to the door, and could hear the faint tune of Tom’s “Smooth Latin” ringtone. Tom had changed it during their flight down. Tom didn’t pick up, and eventually the call went to voicemail. Cain tried to turn the door handle, but it was locked.

He looked at the upset woman and the security guard. He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry, but nobody answered.”

The prostitute became more enraged. “Voy a llamar la policía. La policía! Police!” she threatened. “I want to file a police report. Now!”