CHAPTER 68

Marty Piniero’s white Cadillac rolled to a stop beside the curb in front of the Residencias Anauco Hilton at 8:45 a.m. He opened the door and stepped out onto the street. Carlos and Servito emerged from the back seat.

“Remember, no noise and no shooting,” Servito warned. “I don’t want the cops swarming all over this place.”

The three men hurried to the hotel and raced up the stairs to room two-twelve. Piniero knocked several times. No response. He turned the door knob and was surprised to find the door unlocked. All three men rushed inside and found the apartment unoccupied. Livid and infuriated, Servito raced to the reception counter in the lobby of the hotel. “Where’s the manager?” he shouted.

“You’re talking to him,” Clifford replied.

“I’m looking for a man named Mike King. He’s with a woman by the name of Karen Servito. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find them, would you?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Arthur Durant. I’m with the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Clifford examined Servito suspiciously. He doubted that a man dressed in jeans and a red T-shirt was FBI. “Do you have some identification, Mr. Durant?”

“Yes, but I’m not at liberty to display that to you or anyone else. I’m outside my jurisdiction. I am, however, authorized to pay a substantial reward to anyone who can provide information leading to their arrest and conviction.”

Clifford leaned across the counter. “I appreciate all donations, Mr. Durant, but I don’t understand why you think I’m in position to help you.”

“Come on, Clifford,” Servito cajoled. “We know King is registered at this hotel, and we know he’s in two-twelve.”

“And how do you know that?”

Servito smirked. “We have our sources.”

Clifford grinned. “I think your sources are incorrect, sir. We have a Mr. and Mrs. Kendall registered in two-twelve.”

“How old are they?”

Clifford pressed his lips together and looked skyward. “I’d say they’re in their late thirties. Maybe forty.”

Servito’s frown transformed into a broad smile. He removed one of George Lanotti’s photographs of Mike and Karen from his jacket and showed it to Clifford. “Is this Mr. and Mrs. Kendall?” he asked.

“That’s them,” Clifford replied without hesitation, then shook his head. “Mercy! What have they done? I can’t believe it. They appeared to be such a nice couple.”

Servito frowned. “Let’s just say they’re on the run from the law.”

“How much is the reward?”

“One hundred thousand dollars,” Servito replied, and then handed ten fifty dollar bills to Clifford. “Put these in your pocket. They’re to help you to remember to call me when you know where King is.”

“Is there a number where I can reach you, Mr. Durant?” Servito printed his home number on the top of a desk pad. He ripped off the top sheet and handed it to Clifford. “Call me here any time, day or night.”

Clifford leaned across the counter. “Mr. King and the woman left here at eight thirty this morning,” he whispered. “I don’t have the slightest idea where they went.”

“Will you call me when they get back?”

Clifford nodded. Servito smiled and extended his right hand. “The Bureau will be grateful, Clifford.”

Mike and Karen sat the comfort of a lime green 1966 Chevrolet taxi, parked a half a block away. Mike smiled when he saw the three men returning to the white Cadillac. “He doesn’t look happy, babe. I’d love to see the look on his face when he found us gone.”

“That son of a bitch was going to march in there and kill us,” Karen said.

Mike’s triumphant smirk transformed into a worried expression. “The good news is that we’re still alive. The bad news is that he knows we’re here.

Mike leaned forward and tapped the middle-aged taxi driver’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here, Julio. Give us the tour.”

Julio drove Mike and Karen to El Junquito, a tiny mountain village where they bought oranges and barbecued spare ribs. Afterward, they continued along a narrow mountain road that provided a spectacular view of Caracas on one side and the Caribbean Sea on the other. The road ended at Colonia Tovar, an isolated mountain village at over six thousand feet of elevation, which had once been so isolated that a few of its blond and blue-eyed residents still spoke the Black Forest German of their ancestors who settled there in 1843.

The taxi returned to Caracas at four in the afternoon. After an hour of shopping, talking, and planning, Mike and Karen ordered Julio to return them to the hotel.

“Come back here in an hour, Julio,” Mike instructed. “We’ll be right here waiting for you.”

Clifford smiled when he saw Mike and Karen enter the lobby. “Did you have a nice day?” he asked.

Mike nodded and approached the counter. “The best in a long time. Thanks, Clifford. Julio’s a great tour guide.”

Clifford nodded. “He’s not just great. He’s the best.”

“Clifford, you must know the city pretty well. Where’s a really special place to have dinner?”

“Is Julio waiting for you?”

Mike shook his head. “I told him to come back in an hour. Karen and I just want to shower and change our clothes.”

“Tell him to take you to Casa Zavala. It has the best food in Caracas and it’s not far from here. You’ll both love it.”

Clifford waited until the elevator door had closed behind Mike and Karen, and then lifted the telephone receiver.