Page 15

Baltimore, Maryland

TWO HOURS AFTER NED texted me, we met with an FBI agent working organized crime. Adriana Lopes, a handsome woman in her early thirties, climbed into the back seat of our car, which was parked by a strip mall. Lopes was dressed for the street: jeans, hoodie, and a bandanna around her hair. A bunch of bangles clinked on her wrists.

Mahoney introduced us. Lopes said she’d been working undercover for the past thirteen months, slowly infiltrating the Haitian arm of a loose federation of organized crime families in Baltimore.

“Narcotics?” I asked.

“That’s the Venezuelans, and the DEA is on them,” she said. “I’m working the traditional Haitian stuff: smuggling, stealing, girls, betting, loan-sharking.”

I asked, “You speak French?”

“And Haitian patois.”

“My wife does too. Learned it from her mother.”

She smiled. “My mother and grandfather taught me. Which is why I heard what I heard. Le Couteau and the others know I speak French, but I haven’t let on how well I understand the street language.”

“And Judge Franklin’s name came up in that language?” Mahoney asked.

“Not Franklin’s name. The name of her driver. Agnes Pearson.”

Lopes explained that the day before, she was at work as a barista in a bakery and coffee shop that served as an informal meeting place for the loosely connected gangs. There were two Russians, three Haitians, and two Hispanic gangbangers in the shop.

The truly dangerous guy was the smallest: a Haitian, Jean-Jean Papillon, otherwise known as Le Couteau, or “the Knife,” a weapon with which he was said to be expert. Papillon grew up an orphan in Port-au-Prince. Legend had it that at the age of thirteen, he became an assassin for gang bosses who ruled the slums.

Lopes said, “He applied for asylum here after that big earthquake in Haiti ten or so years ago.”

“And now?” I asked.

“He owns and operates the bakery, which I’ve learned is a center of gambling, loan-sharking, and money laundering.”

Lopes said there had been an intense private meeting at the bakery the prior afternoon. Afterward, she overheard Papillon telling someone in patois that one of the Russians, Boris Kroll, had informed him they had a problem.

It turned out Agnes Pearson owed Kroll and the Knife a hundred and forty thousand dollars, money she’d borrowed to buy the Cadillac town car and cover other expenses because her credit was shot. To make things worse, Pearson also owed them thirty grand in gambling debts. She liked to bet on football games.

Mahoney said, “One hundred and seventy K. Even in this day and age, it’s got to be a hit to them.”

“And they’re not happy about it,” Lopes said.

“Is there any way the debt and the murder are linked?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe she wasn’t making her payments?”

Mahoney said, “Let’s ask.”

Lopes got a little antsy. “With all due respect, sir, if you press him, he’s going to figure you’ve got wiretaps on him or suspect that I told you.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “We can say Papillon’s name and number were on Agnes Pearson’s phone along with an informal accounting of her debts to him. And we noticed she was taking regular withdrawals of four to five thousand dollars in cash from her accounts.”

Her eyebrows rose. “That could work.”

“You have an address for the bakery?” Mahoney asked.

“I do,” she said. “But give me an hour to get there and settle into my job before you come in and fire questions at him.”

“We can do that. Can you text us and tell us if he’s there?” I asked.

“Will do, Dr. Cross,” she said, but she hesitated before climbing out.

“Problem, Ms. Lopes?” Mahoney said.

“I’ve put a lot into this,” Lopes said. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”