While Everyone Was Sleeping

by Donald Collins

  “No, no!” Lucy interrupted. “That’s all changed. He’s not in New York anymore. He’s working for a commercial deep-sea fishing company in Orlando, Florida.”

  “Orlando!” Danski gasped and then glanced at Litchfield. “That’s a long way from here. How do you know this?”

  “My cousin Lilly was on vacation at Disney World. She called me yesterday when she got back to her hotel room after an all-day fishing trip over by Cape Canaveral. She said when the ship came back there was a crew of men that took the fish the tourists caught and cleaned and filleted them, and that’s where she saw Felix. She said he was one of the men in the crew. When the tourists get the fish back, they’re told they can bring them to a restaurant near the docks where the owners will fry or grill them and then serve them at no charge. The restaurants still make money because the bar tabs are usually much higher than any meal they would have purchased.”

  “Is your cousin still in Florida?”

  “No, she got back last night.”

  “Good,” Danski said. “And she’s sure it was Guzman she saw there?”

  “Yes, Detective. There’s no doubt in her mind that it was Guzman. She even took a picture of him to prove it. The son of a bitch thought everyone forgot about him,” Santana snarled.

  “Fabulous,” Danski said. “I’ll need to talk with your cousin and see the picture she took.”

  “No problem, Detective. Lilly and I can be at your office within the hour.”

  “Good,” Danski said. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Was that Susan?” Litchfield asked when Danski hung up.

  Danski shook his head. “It was Lucy Santana. In case you don’t remember, her sister Mira was gunned down in Hell’s Kitchen six years ago. Witnesses identified Felix Guzman as the shooter. Homicide detectives built a solid case and were ready to make an arrest, but by that time Guzman learned they were after him and he was nowhere to be found.”

  Litchfield nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I remember.”

  Danski related the information Lucy Santana provided. “She and her cousin are on their way over here now. She has a photo of the guy in Orlando her cousin claims is Guzman.”

  Lucy Santana arrived at eight-thirty as promised. Lilly explained how she came in contact with Guzman while Litchfield made a hard-copy of the photograph that was on Lilly’s phone.

  Danski ran the palm of his hand across his morning stubble-beard as he compared Guzman’s eight-year-old mug with the new photo. A tattoo on the left side of the neck made the identification conclusive. “There’s no question about it,” he said. “This man is Felix Guzman.”

  When the women left, Danski gathered his papers and brought the information to the boss. “Guzman’s working at a bait shop in Orlando,” he told Quinn. “The victim’s cousin said Guzman didn’t recognize her, so I don’t think we need to rush down there. He’s probably been living down there ever since Walsh lost track of him, so I don’t think he’s going anywhere soon.”

  Quinn sat back in his oversized leather swivel chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I want you guys to get down there without delay. I’ll have Shameka take care of the travel arrangements while you call detectives in Orlando and let them know what’s going on. If Guzman waves extradition you can be back here by Thursday. If not, you’ll have to spend a few days at Disney World which wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

  Quinn glanced at Litchfield and then Danski. “You look disappointed, Steve.”

  “Actually, I am,” Danski said. “It’s a case of bad timing, I guess.”

  “In what way?” Quinn asked.

  Danski updated Quinn. “Yesterday we came up with some new information about Adams. We learned that his son Jason died five years ago and apparently Jake became his replacement. They were both Adams’ sons so he probably felt completely justified in taking him.”

  “Warped logic,” Quinn said.

  “Obviously,” Danski said. “I know that going to Orlando is a chance to clear a case, but we need to stay focused on the Whitlock case and follow up on the new information we developed. That will bring us a step closer to finding Matthew Adams and hopefully Jake Whitlock. Taking time out to go to Florida could steal our momentum.”

  “I want you to forget about the Whitlock case for a couple of days,” Quinn said. “You’ll have plenty of time to follow up on your new information when you get back. This is what I meant when I told you guys not to become fixated on one case at the expense of all the others. It’s all about case management. The Santana murder is your case so naturally you’re the ones that have to go down there and pick Guzman up. And just like any other arrest there’ll be a lot of paperwork and court testimony before the case is put to rest.”

  Danski nodded glumly and said he understood.

  When they got back to their desks Danski called Orlando police and spoke with Detective Mitch Russell who said to call him again after they book their flight and let him know what flight they’ll be on. He said he and his partner would come to the airport and pick them up. Ten minutes later Washington approached their desks smiling.

  “You guys are so lucky, I wish I was going with you. You could drop me off at Disney and pick me up again when you’re ready to come back.”

  “It’s a business trip,” Danski said dryly. “We won’t be going on any of the rides.”

  Shameka’s smile never faded. “Captain Quinn filled me in on what you need,” she said as she slid an envelope containing travel arrangements across Danski’s desk and then turned and handed Litchfield another envelope. Litchfield opened his envelope and inspected their itinerary. “We don’t have much time,” he said and pushed his chair away from his desk and stood. “We need to go home right away and pack a bag.”

  “I’ll call Russell back and let him know our plane will get in at nine o’clock,” Danski said. “Getting in that late means we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to pick up Guzman and bring him to the local lockup to print him so we can make a positive identification and then get the initial paperwork out of the way.”

  “That’s if everything goes smoothly,” Litchfield said.

  “I was hoping we’d be able to pick up Guzman right after we got there and have Shameka book us a quick return-flight.”

  “It would be nice if Guzman was sitting at the gate waiting for our plane to land when we got there, but that’s not going to happen,” Litchfield quipped. “The docks will be closed when we get there, but I’ve been told there’s still plenty of life left in that town after nine o’clock. Have you ever been to Disney World before?”

  “Uh uh,” Danski grunted. “How about you?”

  Litchfield grinned, “Hell, I’ve never even been on a plane before.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Orlando, Florida

  Danski and Litchfield had no trouble spotting the Orlando detectives when they reached the gate. Russell brushed back his sports coat revealing a gold shield affixed to his belt as he and a blonde-haired woman stood at the front of the waiting crowd. Seeing Danski nod in recognition, Russell closed his jacket and headed their way.

  “I’m Mitch Russell; this is my partner Darlene Foster.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Danski said and then introduced himself and Litchfield.

  “How was your flight?” Foster asked.

  “It was a quick one; I slept most of the way,” Danski said. “But I don’t think my partner was as lucky.”

  “You can tell us about your suspect on the way to your hotel,” Russell said as he turned and led them out of the terminal. “We got a VIP parking spot out front.”

  “We booked a room at the Hampton Inn,” Litchfield said.

  “Good choice,” Foster replied. “It’s mid-way between our headquarters and the docks where you told us your suspect is working.”

  On the drive to the hotel the four detectives went over the strategy they expected to use the next morning. “Get a good night sleep. We’ll be back for you in the morni
ng,” Russell said when they reached the Hampton Inn. “We’ll be back for you at eight o’clock. That should give you enough time to shower and have breakfast before we get going.”

  After checking in they took a twenty-minute walking tour of the area and then hit the hotel’s souvenir shop before going up to their room. Litchfield bought an Orlando Magic basketball cap for Gavin. He saw Danski on line holding a white coffee mug decorated with palm trees and the Orlando logo printed in bright red letters. “Don’t you have enough coffee mugs as it is, Steve?”

  “It’s for Shameka,” Danski said and then shrugged.

  When Russell and Foster came for them the next morning Danski was waiting in front of the hotel. “Where’s your partner?” Russell asked.

  “He went back to the souvenir shop to pick up a little something for his wife. He just learned yesterday that she’s pregnant. Oh, here he comes now.”

  “Congratulations,” Foster said when Litchfield joined the group. “Your partner told us the good news.”

  Litchfield pulled an oversized tee-shirt bearing the Orlando logo from his plastic bag.

  “Very nice,” Danski said. “I’m sure she’ll like that.”

  “Is she having a boy or girl?” Foster asked.

  “It’s too early to tell,” Litchfield answered. “We already have a boy, but it doesn’t matter one way or another to us.”

  Russell quickly got back to business. “Assuming there have been no changes, we’ll stick with the arrest plan we laid out last night.”

  Danski and Litchfield nodded as Russell pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket. He flipped a few pages until he came to a sketch he made of the dock area.

  “I drew this up on our way over here this morning. Darlene and I are very familiar with the dock area.” He pointed out the positions they each would take when they got there. “We’ll have Guzman completely boxed in with nowhere to go.”

  When they reached the dock, Danski pulled a three-year-old mug shot from his shirt pocket and compared it with the group of fish-cutters. “That’s him over there,” he said and chin-nodded to a man wearing cut-off jeans, a sleeveless blue tee-shirt and Miami Marlins’ baseball cap turned backwards. Five minutes later a marked police cruiser nosed into a space two hundred feet away. A uniformed officer got out and stood with his foot on a railing while the detectives got out of the dark cruiser.

  “Like I said, your man Guzman is surrounded, now. He has nowhere to go,” Russell said. “Now, let’s execute our plan.”

  Litchfield and Danski stepped away from the Orlando detectives and began their prearranged stroll along the pier playing the roles of tourists. Wearing sunglasses and a Marlin’s baseball cap allowed Litchfield to blend with crowd as he snapped pictures of the boats, and some of the fish-cutters at work while Danski stood hunched over a wooden rail watching a group disembarking from their boat following an early morning fishing trip. Litchfield removed his hat giving the signal that it was time to move in on Guzman. Guzman, however, was quick to see them advance and bolted toward the end of the dock still holding his fish-blade. Any thoughts he might have had of jumping into the water to escape were quickly dashed when a sheriff’s boat arrived on the scene.

  “Police! Don’t Move!” Russell shouted.

  “Down on the ground, NOW!” Foster hollered as she and Russell closed the gap, gripping the stock of their Glocks with their right hands ready to draw if necessary while Danski held his handcuffs by his side ready to slap them on Guzman’s wrists.

  Seeing his escape route blocked Guzman stopped running, but it was evident he was not going to go with them willingly. He grabbed hold of an unsuspecting tourist and pulled her close to him. “Everyone step back,” he shouted as he held his blade to the woman’s throat and began walking slowly past the detectives. He was momentarily distracted by the blast from a cruise ship’s horn in the distance, giving Litchfield time to move closer to Guzman and press his stun-gun against Guzman’s neck. The woman raced away as Guzman crumbled to the ground.

  “Good work,” Russell told Litchfield. “The stun gun was very effective. Our department doesn’t allow us to use stun guns.”

  Litchfield grinned. “Neither does ours.”

  Handcuffed and bewildered when he regained consciousness minutes later Guzman was led to the waiting cruiser where Litchfield joined him in the back seat taking a position behind the uniformed officer while Danski took the front passenger seat.

  When they reached headquarters Guzman was taken to the detective division where Danski read the formal charges and Guzman was given his Miranda warning. Guzman was shackled to an eight-foot long pipe mounted vertically in the center of a metal table that was bolted to the concrete floor, while Danski questioned Guzman and completed his paperwork.

  “Do you have any questions?” Danski asked finally.

  “Just one,” Guzman answered. “I thought the NYPD forgot all about me by this time. You said you guys are from the Cold Case Squad. How did you find out where I was?”

  “A confidential informant,” Danski answered and then glanced at his partner and winked.

  Danski called Shameka Washington when the paperwork was completed. He told her they had apprehended Guzman and he was being lodged at the Orlando lock-up. “I had hoped we’d be able to change flight-plans and head back to New York tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest, but it doesn’t look like that’s gonna happen. Guzman’s not waiving extradition so we’ll be here another day or two. I’ll call you when things are sorted out so you can book our return-flight.

  ***

  Two days later, Danski and Litchfield landed at LaGuardia Airport. They called a detective from their squad who drove them to Manhattan where Guzman was booked into the criminal courts system at nine o’clock that evening. He was later removed to the Manhattan House of Detention. After getting only four hours sleep Danski was back at the criminal court building on Centre Street at eight o’clock the next morning to meet with the district attorney. Guzman was taken to Rikers following his arraignment.

  With his morning clear Danski found a place to have breakfast in the court district. He called Susan while he ate.

  “Where have you been, Detective?” she said sounding somewhere between angry and hysterical. “I’ve been calling you over and over for the last three days. I kept getting the same recording – ‘leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can,’” she said mocking the automated service recording. “Your office phone was no better. I must have called it twenty times, until finally a recording came on saying your mailbox was filled.”

  “I’m sorry. I was out of town on business and I forgot my phone. I was in such a rush to pack and get to the airport that I left it sitting on my dresser. What was so important that you needed to talk with me right away?”

  “Please come over here right away. I need to show you something. Are you in Manhattan?”

  “Hold on a second, calm down. Yes, I’m in Manhattan. I’m having breakfast near City Hall. What is it you want me to see?”

  “It’s not something I can tell you. I have to show it to you.”

  “All right, I’ll head over to your place after I finish eating. Just so you know, traffic is murder at this time of the morning, so it’s gonna take me half-an-hour, maybe more, to get up to your area.”

  “Please hurry, Detective!”

  Danski called his partner when he disconnected. “I just got off the phone with Susan. She was wound tighter than a cheap watch. She says she has something important she wants me to see. She wouldn’t tell me what it was. She said I had to see it. I’ll give you a heads up when I find out what it’s all about.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dressed in loose-fitting jeans and a soft brown cotton pullover, Susan poured her second cup of coffee of the morning and carried it to her open terrace where she stood watching for Danski’s car to pull into one of the few open parking spots on 67th Street.

  “Come on, Detective; what’s keeping you?
”

  She rested her cup on the wide concrete ledge when she saw his unmarked cruiser pull in near the corner. She waved frantically and called to him as he walked casually to her building, but he never looked up. When he entered her building, she gulped down her coffee and hurried through her living room and hallway to her door. After catching her breath, she pulled her door open and stood waiting to hear the elevator chimes ring twenty feet away.

  “What took you so long?” she moaned when the doors opened and Danski stepped out and headed in her direction.

  “Good morning to you, too,” Danski said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just so excited about this new information.” She held up a three-day-old newspaper that was opened to the sports section. “Look at this!” she said. Her voice was filled with excitement and anticipation as she handed the newspaper to him.

  “This is Monday’s newspaper,” Danski said as he followed her into the apartment. “I hope you didn’t have me race all the way over here to tell me the Mets lost a game while I was away.”

  “No, no,” Susan said. She jabbed her index finger against a photo showing Mets’ third-baseman Todd Frazier tracking a foul ball down the line and reaching into the crowd, snaring the ball from an aggressive crowd. “Look closely.”

  Danski shrugged. “What am I supposed to see?”

  “That’s Adam!” she answered and pointed to a fan who was battling to catch the foul ball. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the picture. It’s him, I know it’s him. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

  “Really! And that boy next to him, is that Jake?”

  “I can’t tell,” she groaned. “I can’t see him as clearly, and that’s what frustrates me, Detective. I’ve been studying that picture since I got the paper Monday morning. If that really is Jake It means he’s still alive.”

  Danski pursed his lips as he studied the picture. “There’s something else you should know, Susan. We’ve learned the man’s name is Matthew Adams, not Adam Matthews.”