The way the guy talked, Brendan Teixeira could tell the man had some background in the wholesale seafood business. It didn’t matter what you sold—shark, tuna, mussels, octopus—in the business it was all “fish.”

Brendan wasn’t wild about rendezvousing with some Mexican dude he’d never met in a parking lot away from home. But what was the downside? Sometimes Customs would indeed run a sting on people in the fish business, try to sell them smuggled fish, entrap them. Or the New York State Department of Fish, Wildlife and Marine Resources would sometimes try to sell you endangered species or whatever. Big fines for that, even jail time.

But if there was no transaction, some guy just handing you a fish saying, “Here you go, taste this . . .”—nah, there was no bust in that. And since Brendan wasn’t carrying cash, there was no worry about a heist. Brendan had told him that on the phone. “I don’t carry cash to meetings, I just want you to understand that up front. No cash, and no merchandise in the truck.”

The guy reassured him and seemed to have no concerns. A taste test, he insisted. Brendan could not see any downside for him.

The point was, you did not get to be the leading shellfish wholesaler in America by tiptoeing around worrying about shit all the time. Boldness paid off. If a guy wanted to meet you in a parking lot with a piece of smuggled fish, you had to be flexible. Everybody’s got to start somewhere. He would see where things went.

BRENDAN DROVE HIS FORD ECONOLINE VAN through the parking lot on the north side of the Co-op terminal, out into another parking lot. At the far end, over near the piers jutting out into the East River, he saw a man leaning against a Mercedes. A short guy, trim, compact, wearing a Yankees cap. Arms crossed. A wide smile on his face.

Brendan was not so wild about the other guy there behind him, leaning against the hood of their car: he was a big guy with a gut, wearing a Cuban-style shirt, untucked, hanging off his waist.

“You didn’t tell me there was gonna be another guy,” Brendan said.

“How are you, Mr. Teixeira?” the man said. He introduced himself as Ray. “This gentleman here, I told you about the Indian tribe I’m representing? I did not think I needed to inform you that I would be bringing them. Don’t worry, he’s a very good man. He speaks very little English, and understands not much more, so I will do the talking. Oscar here is the head of this fishing cooperative I talked about. He’s the head of the tribe, Yucatec Maya. I front for them. As I told you on the phone, they have certain exclusive monopoly rights based on Mexican law, which allows them to control this species one hundred percent. Very interesting opportunity, in fact, what these people—”

“Yeah,” Brendan said, not liking this as much as he did when it was a voice on the phone with an opportunity. “I’m not trying to be an asshole, but can I see the fish? I get calls like this all the time. End of the day, like you said on the phone, if the fish ain’t there we’re just three guys wasting time in a parking lot.”

“You are correct, absolutely correct,” the Mexican said. Then he turned and said something in Spanish to the guy with the gut.

Brendan had seen shows on Discovery Channel about the Mayans, these guys in the jungle down in Mexico, El Salvador, wherever the hell it was. Those men didn’t even vaguely look like the guy with the big gut. They were little guys, with distinctive hooky-looking noses. This guy, he looked nothing like that. More like a football player from Texas. Plus, something about him seemed vaguely threatening. His eyes, that was what it was, they had a dead look that made Brendan nervous.

But then he supposed being an Indian in Mexico was probably like being in one of these tribes that ran casinos in the United States, a bunch of scam artists, blond guys from the suburbs in Connecticut, cashing in on the fact they had one sixty-fourth part Narragansett Indian blood or whatever.

The only weapon Brendan had was his shucking knife, which he carried at all times, day or night, in a little holster on his belt.

“Oscar is the fish expert, you understand. Head of the fishing cooperative. His people have been eating these oysters for a thousand generations, and yet never sold a single one of them. They have some sort of religious significance to his people, whatever it is. Recently, though, Oscar here came up with his own way of farming them. Suddenly they had many more of these things than the locals could eat. He decided he would cash in. That is where my involvement began. The point is, Oscar is very protective of the fish.”

“I can see how that’d be,” Brendan said. “You gonna show me or not?”

“Come around the trunk here. I know you will be very impressed. I have been in the fish business for a long time, and I have never tasted anything like this.”

Ray went over and opened the trunk, leaning in to pick something up. Oscar, the tribesman with the gut, was just standing off at the front of the car, looking out at the river, not even paying attention to what was going on. Which made Brendan feel better. The guy didn’t seem nervous or worked up. He was just waiting, looking like he was ready to go home for the night, sleep in his own bed.

“Here,” said Ray.

Then he put his hand out. But instead of an oyster, he had a small black plastic thing with two shiny points protruding from it.

The shiny points flew out and struck Brendan in the chest. A wave of electric agony ran through his body. Suddenly he was lying on the ground, his arms crooked and stiff, legs straight out, his body a shivering spasm of pain.

He had been hit with a bolt of electricity from a Taser.

He stared up in the air, his vision filled by the side of his family’s van. TEIXEIRA BROS. SHELLFISH—NEW YORK’S FINEST SINCE 1921. Big gold letters edged in blue, ornately scrolled. Brendan saw Oscar cross from his vehicle to Brendan’s truck, yanking open the sliding door.

Sometimes trucks got heisted. A truck full of albacore could be worth eighty, a hundred grand.

But his truck was dead empty. He’d told the guy on the phone, very specific about it, he was bringing zero merchandise, zero cash to the meeting.

So why, he wondered, would these guys go to all this trouble to steal an empty truck?

Then he saw Ray, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his Yankees cap, standing over him, staring down. The look on his face was one of curiosity, not menace.

Brendan could not do anything, neither move nor scream.

The man lifted his foot, a cowboy boot with a scuffed heel.

He brought it stomping down on Brendan’s head . . . and everything went black.

CHAPTER 27

Detective Kiser returned Fisk’s call within ten minutes, catching him before he got in to work.

“Detective Fisk,” said Kiser. “You calling again about the case you don’t have any interest in?”

“Exactly right,” said Fisk. The details had been gnawing at Fisk all night. “Thanks for the call back. I know you’re busy, so give me the one-minute download.”

“No identifications yet. Working on the tattoos, going through the database. Fingerprint on the cigarette butt is a true partial, and I’m told it might not be enough to help us pull it up through latents. The ‘friction ridge analysis’ is inconclusive, but could be enough to tie a perp to the scene, just not vice versa. There’s not enough to reliably put through the system. They are going to run some tests on how specific the partial is, but it doesn’t look great.”

“Okay,” said Fisk.

“We’re canvassing stores based on the bottling code on the Jarritos. We don’t have any outstanding missing persons reports that match our headless beachgoers.”

Fisk said, “Probably illegals then. More afraid of the police than trusting.”