by Tom Lowe
“Is the car fixed?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know if, when the car was being repaired, the service department offered this guy a loaner car?”
“I did ask that. The rep said Fazio declined and called for an Uber.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Question the guy. At this point, I may not have probable cause to get a search warrant, but I can knock on his door. I called Cory Gilson and his partner, Detective Garcia. Both are up to their eyeballs in the Chester Miller investigation. Cory said he could go over there with me on Thursday, but that’s the day we meet Joe Billie. Do you want to go with me to talk to Fazio?”
“I do. I’ll drive down ninety-five south.”
“Can you meet me in the parking lot of the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel? It’s close to I-95 near the Florida Turnpike.”
“What’s this guy’s name again?”
“Michael Fazio. I ran him through every database we have. He’s a bad guy. I’ll tell you how bad when you get here.” She disconnected.
I looked up at Dave and Nick. “Wynona managed to find the needle in the haystack—a BMW that fits all the criteria down to the sawgrass stuck to the undercarriage. She’s going to pay the guy a visit. I’ll join her. I have no official capacity … no more than a bounty hunter would have. But that’s all I need.” I paused and watched a man fishing from M dock, the man dropping bait on a hook near the underwater pilings covered in barnacles. “I may need something else.”
“What’s that?” Dave asked.
Do you happen to have a spare GPS tracker on Gibraltar … maybe one with a magnet that would adhere well to the underside of a car?”
“I do have one. Still in the box. It’s yours if you want it.”
“Thanks.” I leaned over and lifted Max to my lap. “Gotta go again, kiddo. Could you hang with Nick and Dave for a little while until I get back?”
Max licked my chin and then looked across the table at Dave and Nick as if she was about to choose.
EIGHTY-TWO
I drove faster than the speed limit south on I-95. Wynona, dressed in a black blazer, pale gray shirt and black jeans, left her car in the parking lot and got in my Jeep. She said, “I have Fazio’s address on my phone’s GPS. Let’s just hope he’s home when we arrive.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“I called Miami-Dade PD and let CID know I’d be in their neighborhood. Not only is it a professional courtesy, I want a contact if push comes to shove, and we need backup. Also, I called a contact of mine in the FBI’s Miami office, just to let him know we’re here.”
“My former partner, Ron Hamilton, is a senior detective. I’ll call him, too. What do you have on Fazio?”
“Although I now longer work for the FBI, I still have contacts in the Bureau who can put their fingers on the latest criminal data. Early in his criminal career, Michael Fazio served seven years out of a ten-year sentence for armed robbery, aggravated assault and second-degree manslaughter. In an Irish bar called the Shamrock in south Boston, he hit a man one time in the face during an argument over a debt. The guy died on the way to the hospital. Fazio said it was self-defense, and he was only standing his ground. Fazio was a soldier, an enforcer, on the Jersey waterfront for the Genovese family. After his boss was killed, Fazio went freelance. He worked as a contract mercenary in Iraq for almost two years. When he came back to the states, it seems he refined his skills that he learned in the Middle East, sniper skills as well as teaching hand-to-hand combat.”
“Who’s he working for now? Who owns the condo?”
“This condo unit is owned, or allegedly owned, by a multi-national company called Triton Worldwide. They appear to be in shipping, construction and agriculture. They have offices in Athens, Greece; New Jersey; and here in Miami.”
“Sometimes things aren’t as they appear.”
Wynona glanced between our seats, the grip of my Glock just visible. “Did you bring anything more than a handgun?”
“You mean something like a 12-gauge shotgun?”
“That’s always a show closer.”
“No, but I did bring a GPS tracker.”
“Not nearly as intimidating.”
“Maybe this guy will get the urge to take another field trip into the glades. We can tag along at a distance. We know he won’t have much if anything to say. We can read his body language to see if our initial questions elicit a response.”
“For a guy like Fazio, a hired gun, there’s little human response in the eyes of a psychopath.”
“Depends on how fast and hard we can sting him. If we can be a rock in his hoof, maybe he’ll lead us to a blacksmith. In this case, the person he’s working for.”
Wynona smiled. “I like your western metaphors. For a Florida boat kind of guy, I think you’d make a good cowboy.”
“I always liked John Wayne movies.”
We followed the GPS voice directions through neighborhoods I knew well from my time working as a detective from South Beach to Aventura. The directions were taking us to an upscale area of condos and single-family homes near Surfside Beach. “Your destination is on the left,” came the computer-generated voice.
We drove another two-hundred-feet down Collins Avenue. “There it is,” Wynona said, motioning toward a beachfront condo. “It’s a ground-floor unit, number 129.”
I drove by slowly, scanning the building and the parking areas, and then I turned around, pulling into the parking lot that ran adjacent to the high-rise condo. I said, “There’s a black BMW X-1 near unit 129. Looks like it’s been washed and waxed.”
“No doubt.” She glanced down at the paper she held in her lap. “The tread impressions came from a Continental tire, a four-by-four Contact all season, and it’s a 255-50-R-19. The wear and tear marks are distinctive as well. Before going in, let’s surveil the place for a little while. We may see movement.”
“If nothing happens, we can quickly identify the tires. You said the impression was believed to have been made by the left rear tire. I can drop down, snap a picture of the tread, and slap on the magnetic GPS tracker at the same time in probably eight seconds, the time it takes to ride a bull.”
“Okay … I’ll go with that analogy.”
We parked across the lot, the BMW and front door to the condo in our line of sight. We watched an elderly couple come from the condo’s main entrance. The older man, dressed in an ill-fitting, plaid sports coat, salmon pink shirt, thin black tie and neatly pressed gray slacks. He held the woman’s left forearm, helping her get inside a new model Cadillac. Wynona watched, smiled and said, “That’s sweet.”
“Yes, I have a feeling he’d open her door even if she wasn’t physically challenged.”
Movement to the right of the parking lot, toward Collins Avenue, caught my eye. A Toyota with a plastic Domino’s Pizza sign on the roof, entered the lot. The driver didn’t seem to be searching for numbers on the doors. He pulled in next to the black BMW as if he’d made the delivery more than once. He got out with a pizza encased in a zipped black warming container. He stepped up to number 129 and knocked. I could see the blinds in a front window barely part, seconds later the door opening. The man at the door spoke with the deliveryman, glancing around the parking lot, and then paying in cash.
I looked over at Wynona. “Can you recognize him from the distance?”
She studied the man as close as possible before the door closed. “I think so. Same general build and facial features.”
“Well, now we know he’s in there. Right after the pizza guy leaves would be a good time for us to knock on the door. Fazio may think the guy forgot something, and that just may cause him to jerk open the door without taking the time to peek through the blinds on the window.”
“Let’s go.”
I wedged my Glock under my belt in the small of my back, keeping my shirttail out. Wynona wore her Beretta in a holster under her blazer. We walked across the lot, strolling like a couple on vacation. When we a
pproached the BMW, I squatted down by the left rear tire. I snapped a picture of the tread and one of the sidewalls, getting the brand—a Continental and the tire size: 255-50-R-19. Then I lifted the GPS tracker to the undercarriage, the powerful magnet holding the device in place. In less than eight seconds, I stood.
I nodded at Wynona, and we approached the door. She knocked. We could hear movement inside. In a few seconds, the door opened wide. The smell of pepperoni and onions greeted us—so did Michael Fazio.
He was surprised, looking at Wynona and then eyeing me. He was my height. Entire head freshly shaved. A crescent moon scar on the bridge of his nose, the scar resembling a frown. It matched his downturned mouth. A spot of red pizza sauce on his lower lip. Wynona said, “Michael Fazio.”
“Who wants to know?” His voice gruff.
She lifted her badge and ID. “I’m Detective Wynona Osceola with the Seminole Police Department. Our department is working in a joint-agency task force with the Collier County Sheriff’s Office.”
“What do you want?”
“To talk with you.”
“About what?”
“We’d like to start with your car, that BMW. According to the service department at the dealer, you brought the car in because of a damaged oil pan. Can you tell us how the vehicle sustained that damage?”
“I didn’t bring the car to the shop, I had it towed. The car was stolen. Highway Patrol found it off the road near Highway 41 and Krome Avenue. Check with them.”
“We will.”
He eyed me, his blue-green eyes flat. “You people, your joint agency, investigating stolen cars? Must be a slow crime period.”
“No, the murder rate is up. In the glades, where your car was seen, and in Big Cypress Preserve, where a man lived who saw you and your car.” Wynona went for it. “Who paid you to kill Joe Thaxton?”
I could see a vein in his forehead bulge slightly. “This conversation has officially ended. You want to talk with me, you’ll do it through my attorney. His name is Julian Braverman. You can call him at his law firm in downtown Miami. We’re done here.”
As he started to close the door, I motioned to his left hand and arm. “Looks like you got a burn on your arm. Better check it out. White, puss-filled blisters can get infected. That’s what can happen when you brush up against a manchineel tree. It’s one of the most poisonous in the world. The sap from one of its little green apples killed Ponce De Leon. He was here in Florida searching for the fountain of youth. What he found was death at the end of a Calusa Indian arrow dipped in the sap from the same species of tree that you hid behind when you first ambushed Chester Miller.”
He looked at me as if the pepperonis in his gut were about to come through his flaring nostrils. “I didn’t get your name, dude. Why don’t you give it to me, so I can give it to my lawyer to file charges against you and your department.”
I smiled. “Name’s Sean O’Brien. I don’t work for a department. Like you, I’m freelance. And like you, I have no boundaries. Now, you can point us to the people who hired you … then your life will go considerably better.”
“Sean O’Brien … I’ll remember that. You got no jurisdiction here. Now, go fuck off.”
He slammed the door.
I looked at Wynona. “Let’s walk around the building to get to the Jeep. No sense in letting him know what we’re driving because I’d bet that we’ll be following him soon. And I don’t think it’ll be to his attorney’s office.”
EIGHTY-THREE
Three hours later, Michael Fazio was on the move. I’d called my former Miami-Dade partner, Ron Hamilton, and brought him up to speed. I had the GPS tracker app loaded on my phone. Wynona held it in her hand as we followed the pulsating blip on the map screen. She said, “He’s continuing to make all kinds of turns, backtracking, even going down what appears to be a one-way side street. I bet his eyes are almost glued to the rearview mirror.”
“Of course. He’s doing what he can to shake any tails. That would work if we had to rely on a visual pursuit. But he can’t escape the satellite.”
“I need to get a warrant to have his car impounded. The photo you took of the tire will help, but we need to do a forensics match with the tire.”
“I have no doubt it’ll match.”
“Agreed. But, as you know, we have to stack the evidence. He’s turning off Bayshore to Charthouse Drive.”
“That’s Coconut Grove. I know the area well. We’re less than two miles from there.”
“He’s slowing down.”
Wynona studied the phone screen. “There are restaurants in that specific area. Most with waterfront views. Looks like he’s stopping the car.”
“Where?”
“At the end of Charthouse. I’ll get my camera ready.”
“That’s the Dinner Key area, near the marina.”
In a couple of minutes, we were tuning into Charthouse Drive, tall canary palms lining both sides of the street. The Bohemian charm of European sidewalk cafes in a tropical setting. A young, auburn-haired woman jogging in short shorts, pink sneakers and matching halter top, her ponytail bouncing shoulder to shoulder.
I drove slowly, past boats stored in a fenced-off lot next to a three-story marina building. As we approached a waterfront restaurant, we looked for Fazio’s BMW. Wasn’t hard to spot. It was parked in the valet section behind a convertible F-Type Jaguar and a red Ferrari.
Wynona said, “There’s his BMW. What a lovely day for dining outside.”
“Let’s hope our guy is under one of those colorful umbrellas.”
I took a right, the bay in front of us, another section of the restaurant directly facing the waterfront view. There were lots of tanned bodies around the tables. Many the product of good genes and even better plastic surgeons. Wynona said, “There he is … in the corner. He’s sitting across the table from a man.” She raised her camera lens, taking two pictures in less than five seconds. “I wonder if that’s his lawyer, Julian Braverman?”
“Maybe. Somehow, I doubt it.”
“I’ll have the photos run through a face-recognition database. The guy’s got the exaggerated language of a player in the sense of being in control, but with the inflated moves of a Hollywood agent who hasn’t made a sale in months. Maybe he is the lawyer.”
My phone buzzed. I drove by the restaurant, glancing at the caller ID. “It’s Joe Billie.”
“I hope he isn’t cancelling our meeting in the glades.”
I pulled my Jeep into the marina parking lot, hundreds of boats tied to the docks, lazy gulls riding in the wind above Biscayne Bay. “Hey, Joe.” I shut off the motor.
“Sean, I know we weren’t supposed to meet until tomorrow, but if you want to get an earlier start, I can do it this afternoon. I came in earlier. Sam Otter is sick. His wife said he was asking for me. I just finished visiting with him.”
“I hope he gets better.”
“I think the death of Chester Miller has upset him.”
“Did you tell him about Chester?”
“No. He already knew. I didn’t ask him how. Sam doesn’t leave his house often. Are you in the area?”
“We’re in Coconut Grove. Wynona is with me. Can you meet us at Gator Gully Road off the Tamiami Trail in about ninety minutes?”
“I’ll be there. We’ll have a few hours of daylight left.”
“Maybe that’s all we’ll need.”
EIGHTY-FOUR
On the road to meet Joe Billie, Wynona transferred the pictures she’d taken of the man meeting Michael Fazio and emailed them to Cory Gilson. She called Cory with a detailed update of what we found. “If you have a few minutes,” she said, “maybe you can check with Uber. Fazio says he heard from the Highway Patrol that his car had been found. What we’d like to know is who left it there and when he reported the BMW stolen? Maybe Fazio pulled it off the road, smoke billowing from under the hood, walked back to the intersection and called Uber. Later on, calling a tow truck to have his car hauled to the dealer.”
“I can check with Uber. They’ll have the pick-up records. I’ll call the FHP, too.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. I wonder who Fazio was meeting at that restaurant in Coconut Grove?”
“The photos I sent to you, I’m sending to a former colleague of mine in the FBI’s Miami office. I’m hoping he’ll run it through facial-recognition databases. I’ll let you know what he finds. Shouldn’t take long.”
“Good. Is Sean doing okay?”
“Yes. Do you want to speak with him?”
“Not at the moment. I’ll get back with you.” He disconnected.
She looked at me. “Cory’s checking with Uber and the FHP. It helps to split up the workload.” She looked at her phone, scrolling through her contact list. “With the remaining friends I have left in the Bureau, I prefer to speak with them on their cell phones rather than call through the switchboard. Makes for better communications.”
“No doubt.”
“My friend’s name is Eric Valdez.” She made the call and filled him in on the investigation. “Great. Thank you. I’ll shoot over the pictures. It shouldn’t take you long to get a match. I have a feeling he’s some kind of player in the Miami area.”
“We’ll see what we can find,” said the agent, a man in his forties, short dark hair, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, sitting at his desk in the FBI’s office.
“Thanks, Eric. I owe you a lunch soon.”
“No sweat.” He disconnected.
Wynona put her phone back in her purse. “We should know who our mystery man is soon. And I hope Cory can get what we want from Uber.”
• • •
Michael Fazio put his elbows on the table and leaned a little closer to Simon Santiago. Fazio lowered his voice, the shade from the umbrella over the table falling across his face. “You have to get me the hell outta here, you understand?”
