Carefully he’d made his way down to its rear, pulled back the olive drab canvas canopy in one spot and looked inside. And there he saw bricks. Two big piles of them. At least, they’d probably started out as two piles, but now they were two jumbled heaps, up against the cab end of the cargo area. Their weight surely wasn’t helping the truck to avoid its slide; soon, he reckoned, the entire vehicle would be underwater, or under mud.
Even as that thought went through his mind, the truck shuddered and slid some more. Now almost the entirety of the cab was submerged.
Garro scrambled away from it and fought his way up the muddy slope to the highway. He stood there, looking down at the truck, the rain washing over him, as he thought about things.
As he did, it slid even further. The cab went under, along with the front third of the cargo area. At this rate, soon it would be hard to find the truck at all, if you didn’t know exactly where to look.
Headlights flared around him and brought him out of his musings. He looked up to see a Florida State Patrol vehicle emerging from the curtain of rain, driving very slowly and cautiously. It slowed and stopped next to him and the window rolled down to reveal a fresh-faced kid barely in his early twenties.
“You okay, sir?” the officer asked.
“Fine, fine, yeah,” Garro answered. “Thanks.” The wheels in his head were turning. He knew he had to think quickly. To decide quickly.
The officer saw the white Lincoln parked on the shoulder. “Having car trouble?”
“A little,” he said. “But I think it’s—”
Garro paused, pursing his lips. He looked at the white Lincoln, then at the spot where the truck had gone over. He could hear it sliding again, even over the sound of the storm. He coughed to cover it.
His first impulse had been to persuade the cop to drive on; to get out of his business. Then he would drive the Lincoln back to Miami. But another thought occurred to him: If he left the Lincoln sitting there, it would be so much easier to find the spot where the truck went over, when he returned.
So much easier for anyone.
And then an even better idea came along.
“Say,” he said easily, “could you maybe follow along behind me for a bit? My car is acting funny, and I don’t want to get stranded out here.”
The officer frowned at him. “Follow you? Well… Sir, I’m on patrol, and—”
Garro adopted the tone he had used for years to command his own staff of enforcement officials. “Son, I’m the security chief at Ruby Island, and I’ve been in pursuit of a suspect. I need your help. It’s official business.” Garro didn’t know what that last part really meant, but it sounded good to him, so he figured it would sound even better to a kid playing at being a lawman.
Sure enough, the young officer gawked at him.
“Official business?” He looked at Garro wide-eyed. “You’re the security chief at Ruby Island?”
“That’s right, and I’m on an important job now,” Garro said, warming to the role he was so used to playing, bossing around other enforcement-related men. The sense of frantic urgency he’d been carrying on his shoulders since the first gunshots the previous evening was slipping away at last, and he let his normal commanding tone creep back into his voice. “I’m carrying identification. Can you help me out, please?”
“Of course,” the kid said. “Are you sure I can’t just take you somewhere?”
“I’d prefer my car, if it’s working.”
The officer nodded. “Sure, right. Okay. I’ll just follow you, then?”
Garro gave him a thumbs up, then strode purposefully over to the Lincoln and climbed in. He got it running again, by the hardest, and pulled out onto the highway. The state police cruiser followed along a safe distance behind him.
Now came the crucial part: Garro drove with one eye on the road and one eye on the car’s odometer. He watched the tenths of a mile tick by, one after another. When he hit one mile, he feigned a performance of anger and frustration at his car and pulled over—then thought twice and did a U-turn so that the Lincoln was facing back in the same direction as before. He got out and gave a quick glance at the side of the road beyond the shoulder. It looked no different from the swampy area he’d been parked beside a moment earlier. Good.
The kid pulled his cruiser over on the opposite side of the highway and rolled the window down, looking at Garro questioningly.
“It’s no good,” Garro told him. “I reckon I’m going to need that lift after all.”
“You got it, sir,” the young officer said. “Not a problem.”
Garro smiled. “Thank you.”
A minute later, Garro was riding comfortably in the front passenger seat of the patrol car as it raced back to Miami. In his head, he was putting together his action list as quickly as possible. The main thing, he knew, was that he’d have to get back out there before the others could. It might be close. No time for sleep; no time for food; nothing. He would get a big wrecker and some of the security people from the island that he could trust, and they’d be back out there before the sun came up.
Yes, he thought to himself, I think this can work.
“So—you said you were chasing a suspect?” the kid asked after a short period of silence. “What did he do?”
“Robbery,” Garro replied. “He stole something from the island, and he fled this way. I was chasing him.” He gave the kid a wink. “I must have pushed the old Lincoln too hard in this storm.”
“Oh, yeah,” the kid said. “Should I call someone to come tow your car back?”
“No,” Garro said sharply. The kid looked at him, surprised. Garro reprimanded himself for that outburst. He forced himself to relax and fall back into that smooth, commanding tone. “I appreciate the offer, but I’d prefer to come get it myself, if you don’t mind. I’ll have it removed well before noon.”
The kid nodded and returned his attention to the road. “That’s fine,” he said.
They drove in silence for a minute or two but, soon enough, the kid’s exuberance returned and he started asking questions again. “So, you chased a crook all the way out here?”
Garro nodded. “That I did. By boat, then by car.”
The officer took this in, clearly amazed. “I’ll be John Brown,” he said. “Do you think you’ll be able to recover what he stole?”
At that question, Garro almost laughed out loud.
“Oh yes,” he said. He leaned his head back and smiled as they crossed back into the Miami city limits. “Very soon.”
43
Harper stood to one side of the desk in Salsa’s office, hands on hips, staring out the window at nothing in particular.
“So,” Salsa was saying, “it looks like Big Bob’s two goons—Goggans and Wilson—both passed away before sunrise, without ever waking up. I’m told the football players nearly beat them to death, even before the security guy plugged them.”
Harper nodded. “Then we’re free and clear,” he said. “Bigelow’s entire team is dead. Rooker is dead. Nobody else knew about our operation.”
Salsa nodded. “Except for the security man. And you don’t think he’ll say anything? Even if he returns the gold to the guy who owns the island?”
“Why should he?” Harper asked by way of reply. “Why should he tell his boss anything? For that matter, why should he return the gold at all? As far as Lansdale knows, it’s long gone. Hell—he probably thinks we have it. Not that he knows who we are.”
“The security guy had people helping him pull the truck out,” Salsa noted. “Won’t they see..?”
“See what? The bricks are all gray. Why would anybody care about what happens to them?”
“Yeah…” Salsa nodded sullenly. “It’s just—after all the work we put in, start to finish—and, hell, I even took a bullet over it! —I just can’t believe the island security guy is gonna end up with all our gold!”
“That’s the game,” Harper said. “Sometimes you hit Blackjack, and sometimes you bust.” Aft
er a second he added, almost reluctantly, “I have to take my share of responsibility for this mess. I could see almost from the start that it was a sour job. Red flags kept popping up, and I kept making excuses. I didn’t like losing all the Vegas money, so I looked the other way when I should have pulled the plug, more than once.” He shook his head. “It was stupid. It was unprofessional. And I won’t do it again.”
Salsa considered all of that and shrugged. “So you’re saying it was all your fault, then.”
Harper ignored him, took out a cigarette, and lit it.
Salsa’s expression grew serious. He stared down at his desk, stewing on everything for a few moments. Then he looked up at Harper, and realized his partner was starting to smile.
“Wait a second,” he said. “We’re not done yet, are we? You haven’t written this thing off entirely. You have a plan.”
Harper shrugged. “Eh,” he said. “Maybe. We do know who has the gold now. I did a little digging around this morning. It wasn’t hard. His name is Garro. Don Garro. He’s our boy.”
“Garro.” Salsa said the name, getting a feel for it, remembering it for the future.
“And we know he can’t really tell anyone he has the gold, or where he got it,” Harper noted.
“This is true,” Salsa said, pursing his lips.
“So,” Harper said, “It seems to me he’s in a vulnerable position.”
“An extremely vulnerable position,” Salsa agreed. “I assume you have a plan.”
Harper smiled. “I’m already working on that.”
44
There was an extra spring in Don Garro’s step as he climbed the stairs leading up to Thurston Lansdale’s office.
The boss saw him coming and waved him in with quick, nervous motions.
“Don. Don. I’m glad you’re here. Where have you been all morning?” Lansdale was almost frantic. Sweat ran down his face and he mopped at it with a monogramed handkerchief. “Has there been any word on the other robbers?”
Garro ignored Lansdale. He strode right past his boss and to the far side of the office. From there he walked out onto the balcony. He leaned against the railing and looked down at the now-empty main hall, where only a few hours ago the wealthiest citizens of Miami had been held hostage during a daring robbery. A robbery that had gone on far too long.
Knowing what he knew now, Garro understood it all better. He understood why it had dragged out so much longer than necessary, and what the robbers had really been up to, during that delay.
“Don?” Lansdale called, following him onto the balcony. “Did you hear me? I want to know if there’s been any word on—”
Garro turned around and lit a cigarette. “The other robber is dead,” he said. For the hell of it, he added, “I caught up to him and killed him.”
Lansdale almost recoiled. “You killed him?”
“I had to. It was self-defense.” Garro thought about the monster coming at him in the storm and the darkness, blood flying everywhere from his wounds, and involuntarily he shuddered. “The guy was big, scary. A killer.”
Lansdale frowned, considering this. “Well, I’m glad you came through it okay,” he said.
Garro remembered the relief when Harper had shot the big man from behind, saving his life. He almost felt bad about taking the gold out from under him the way he had—just as Harper had taken it out from under Lansdale’s nose. But the opportunity had been there and it was just so tempting and so easy.
“And—he didn’t have anything with him?” Lansdale went on.
Garro frowned at this. “What do you mean?”
“Anything from my house?” Lansdale ran his sweaty hand over his sweaty chin. “Maybe not even anything valuable-looking. Maybe just some things with sentimental or ornamental value.” He scowled and shook his head. “Anything!”
Garro pretended to try to think. After a minute he shook his head and said, “No, not that I know of.”
“Dammit!”
Garro almost laughed. He raised a hand to his mouth to suppress it and pretended he was rubbing his chin.
Lansdale started to say something else but Garro cut him off. “All told, it worked out pretty well, didn’t it?”
Lansdale’s eyes widened. “Pretty well?” he almost screeched. “The robbery of my island worked out pretty well?”
Garro smiled. “Nothing much was lost, though—right? Our guests’ wallets and jewelry never left this building. The football players distracted the men in the hall—very brave of them, I have to say—and then I was able to take them down. My men returned everyone’s belongings before the chartered boats they called came over to take them back to the mainland.”
Lansdale chewed his lip. “Yes, yes, that much is true,” he said after a moment. “But—the guests’ belongings weren’t the only things stolen.”
Garro grinned inside at that, but he kept his face passive. “They weren’t? I wasn’t aware of that.” He met Lansdale’s eyes, and he asked the next question utterly deadpan. “What else did they take?”
Lansdale blinked. He stood there a second, turned, and walked to the far side of the railing. Then he looked at Garro again.
“They took some things that belonged to me,” he said at length. “From the basement.”
“The basement? What’s down there that’s worth so much?” He had to admit he was enjoying this cat-and-mouse game with Lansdale, who was never, ever going to admit he had all that old Nazi gold stashed away under his mansion. Now that Garro saw for himself that was the case—that Lansdale could not and would not even speak of it, not even to his own security chief—he felt even better about taking it. What’s better to steal than something the previous owner can’t admit he even owned?
Lansdale was fidgeting now, more nervous than ever. He took out his own cigarette, almost dropped it while fishing in his sport coat pocket for his lighter, and finally managed to light it. He stood there smoking, mumbling to himself, his hands shaking, standing just outside his office door.
Again, Garro had to fight the impulse to laugh. It was actually pitiful. He’d been down in the basement. He’d seen how many of the bricks Harper had torn out—and how many of them were plainly still in place. Harper had scarcely removed half of them before the job had gone sideways. Lansdale was still a very rich man—just not quite as rich as he had been the day before.
Garro, on the other hand, was now also very rich. He just couldn’t tell Lansdale that. At least, not yet.
But there was one thing he could do, and do it right away: He could get the hell out of South Florida.
“Mr. Lansdale,” he said, “I’m formally submitting my resignation.”
The other man looked at him, puzzled.
“What’s that? You’re quitting?”
“Yes,” Garro said.
“But—I need you more than ever, now,” Lansdale whined. “I’ve just been robbed!”
“And we’ve established they didn’t get away with much, if anything,” Garro retorted. “Isn’t that right?”
Lansdale made a sour face but didn’t reply.
Garro looked for a way to frame his next statement, and found it. “I’ve been through a pretty traumatic experience in the last twenty-four hours,” he said. “The police want to talk to me about shooting the two robbers here. I chased the other one halfway to Naples and fought him, too. I think I’ve had enough.”
Lansdale stared back at him, saying nothing. His eyes were smoldering. Garro began to wonder if the other man had started to put two and two together yet.
Time to go, he decided. Go and don’t look back.
“I’ll contact you soon with the address where you can forward my last paycheck,” he said.
Garro didn’t wait around to hear if Lansdale had anything else to say. He was out the office door and down the stairs before the other man could take a breath. After all, he had a plane to catch.
A one-way flight, in fact. He didn’t plan to come back to Miami anytime soon.
H
is cargo shipment had already gone out early that morning: a very heavy pallet of bricks. He intended to be there waiting for it when it arrived at his new location.
But before he left town, he had one last errand to run. Something to drop off at the Hotel Fountainbleu. Something that might earn him a little good will—or maybe not. Either way, though, he felt honor-bound to do it. What became of it, only time would tell.
Don Garro still had a spring in his step when he climbed aboard the new ferry and departed Ruby Island for the final time.
45
Later that afternoon, Harper returned to his hotel.
As he crossed the lobby, heading for the elevators, the clerk behind the desk called to him. “Mr. Davenport! Excuse me, Mr. Davenport!”
Harper tensed. He didn’t like people shouting his name, especially in public, and especially one of his fake names.
“Yes?” he said, approaching the front desk.
“A package arrived for you, just before noon. Considering its size and weight, we’ve been holding it here.”
Still wary, Harper frowned at this but nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll take it now.”
“Yes, sir.”
The clerk disappeared into the back room for a moment, then returned, struggling to carry a heavy-duty cardboard box that was very securely fastened together with boxing tape. He set it on the counter, where it made a thud.
“It’s heavy,” he explained.
“I see that,” Harper replied.
He looked at the top of the box and didn’t see any postage or return address. It simply said “John Davenport” in dark ink.
“Do you know who dropped this off?”
“A local courier, I believe.”
Harper nodded at that, tipped the man and took the box, carrying it as casually as possible to the elevator. It was all he could do to wait until he got to his room to open it.
+ + +
Salsa looked up, surprised, as Harper walked back into his office, Connie alongside him. He nodded politely to the brunette and then looked at his partner. “Weren’t you just here?” he asked.
Miami Heist Page 18
