Simpson thought for a moment. “Flat roof, like most of the buildings up there. I don’t think there were windows.”
“Interior?”
“Dark as hell. Like I said, there was a bar, couches, tables… hard to remember details.”
“How long a ride was it from the Marriott to this place?”
“About twenty, thirty minutes.”
“What about landmarks on the way from the Marriott?”
Simpson shook his head. “I was drunk, it was dark as shit. The city doesn’t even keep the streetlights on any more. The place is fucked.”
“Right.” Brodie took a drag on his cigarette. “I need to find this place, Al. I need to find Kyle Mercer.”
“You going there?”
Brodie didn’t reply, and he watched Simpson as he stared out at the water, thinking.
Simpson said, “I do remember there was an airstrip. It was one of the few things that was lit up, the runway lights. I don’t think we’d been on the road too long when I saw that. And we passed an old church when we were in the hills—it was tall and it stood out from all the low, shitty buildings.”
“What did the church look like?”
“Like it was old. Might have been pink. Like I said, it was dark.”
Brodie nodded. “Anything else?”
Simpson thought for a moment. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“Okay. I need Pete’s last name and contact info.”
Simpson shook his head. “He doesn’t remember shit. He couldn’t even remember if he got laid.”
“Okay, but you call Pete, and also see if you can get hold of those Venezuelan oil execs. I’d like to find that whorehouse.”
Simpson nodded, but Brodie didn’t think he’d be contacting anyone except maybe his lawyer. Nevertheless, Brodie gave him his card. “Leave a voice message if you have any luck.”
Simpson glanced at the card and again nodded.
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
Simpson forced a smile at the use of his old rank. “I shoulda remembered the first thing I learned in the Army—never volunteer for anything.”
“The first thing you learned was duty, honor, country.”
Simpson nodded again. “Kyle broke the oath. Kyle deserves to die.”
“Captain Mercer will be brought to justice.”
Simpson gave Brodie a look of appraisal. “You don’t capture a man like that. You kill him. Or he kills you.”
Brodie didn’t reply.
Simpson added, “The next day, after I sobered up, I realized Kyle could have killed me in a back room.”
Brodie nodded. He’d had the same thought. But maybe Kyle Mercer had experienced a moment of human feeling for his old Army buddy. If so, Brodie was sure that Mercer later regretted not eliminating a witness. And if he didn’t regret it then, he would when Brodie and Taylor caught up with him.
Simpson said, “That’s all I have to say.”
Brodie stubbed his cigarette and flicked it into the reeds. “Thank you for your time.”
Simpson nodded, lit another cigarette, and stared at the darkening horizon. Apparently he was not ready to face Mrs. Simpson.
Brodie went back into the house, wished Mrs. Simpson a good evening, and motioned to Taylor, and they left.
* * *
En route to Newark Airport, Brodie gave Taylor the rundown, including that the brothel trafficked in underage girls.
Taylor pointed out, “If Simpson had sex with one of them, that makes him a sex offender as well as an unreliable witness.”
“Let’s stick to the ID.”
“Okay, so he saw a bearded white guy in a dimly lit whorehouse while drunk. Great ID.”
“He seemed certain,” said Brodie. He reminded her, “The ouroboros tattoo.”
“That’s not an uncommon tattoo, but I guess that’s enough for a trip to Caracas.”
“I’ve gone to other shitholes on less.”
“What about this airstrip he saw? Did he pass it on his right or left?”
“I don’t know and I doubt he’d remember.”
“What did the brothel look like?”
“White, maybe stucco, one story.”
“Did he describe the area where the brothel was?”
“It was dark and he was drunk.”
“What were the other buildings in the area made out of? Cinder block? Brick? Stucco?”
“I didn’t think to ask specifically. Why?”
“In Caracas, according to what I read, different slums are made with different materials depending on when they were built. That could’ve helped us.”
“I think he said the surrounding buildings were made of gingerbread.”
Taylor looked out the window, frustrated. Brodie could appreciate why. She’d clearly already begun her obsessive dive into the finer points of Caracas’ urban topography, and the only reason she wasn’t present for the man-to-man interview with Al Simpson was that she was a woman. Also, Simpson’s original false statement threw his whole credibility into question, and maybe Taylor wasn’t keen to put so much faith in the rum-soaked memory of a married businessman