The Missing Taylor

by R C Cameron

CHAPTER ELEVEN

  APRIL IN SOUTH Florida kicks off the warmer season and today was a perfect example. If you needed to get work done outside, you’d better start early because, by mid-morning, it will be just impossible.

  DEA Administrative offices occupy a large space on West Cypress Creek Road in Fort Lauderdale, a 15-minute drive from my port of call. It’s a grayish building, three stories high, protected by tall trees and fronted by a conventional parking lot with no obvious security. Ten minutes ahead of my appointment time, I walked to the reception desk and asked for Mr. Donavan Baker, the name JR had provided. Shortly after, a trim woman wearing a red blouse with gray slacks came in my direction, a firearm on her right hip.

  “Mister Tanner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tianna Hester, nice to meet you, please follow me.”

  She turned around, and I tagged along behind her up the staircase to the third floor. Elevators were available, but she bypassed them, part of her daily exercise plan I assumed. Amid several cubicles, we walked towards a large corner office. She knocked on the open door: “Mister Tanner is here, sir.”

  Three separate zones came into view as I entered the large room: a huge wooden desk near the corner windows, a three-place sofa, matching chairs and rectangular coffee table for an intimate conversation on the right and an oval conference table on the left. The walls bore classic fake paintings, flower pots divided sections, the lighting was discreet but darker than normal. FBI offices would defer this kind of opulence for top brass alone, this was only a local civil servant.

  The occupant of the large office got up and, smiling, walked towards us. “Please come in Mister Tanner,” as he pointed towards the conference table. I stepped inside and shook his hand. “Thank you.” I walked to the table, pulled a chair, and got comfortable.

  On the wall behind the conference table, a kid drawing hung in a frame. It pictured a small person, sex was not discernible, standing on a surfboard over a large wave. The drawing was in sharp contrast to the traditional paintings surrounding it. Baker noticed my curiosity.

  “My daughter, when she was only six years old, she adored surfing. She started with a miniature board, today, she contends with the best. She’ll be competing this coming weekend at the Miami Beach Regional Surf Championships. The best surfers should be on site.”

  “How nice,” I commented. “You must be proud.”

  “Very.”

  After a pause, Baker continued, “I asked Tianna to join us, she’s one of our most experienced agents in the region.” I looked in her direction, a tiny smile appeared on her face, shy maybe.

  “John Russell called saying you had leads for us? What’s up?”

  “I retired from the FBI recently and now run a private investigation practice. Over six months ago, one of your informants, Mark Taylor, disappeared in Miami. The police have not located him so far. After a while, his family contacted me for help.”

  “Hold on, an informant? Who told you that?” I noticed Baker did not deny my statement. He wondered how I knew that.

  “Sources.”

  I couldn’t disclose the information came from an IT genius at FBI headquarters.

  “Don’t get me wrong Mister Tanner, but does the family believe a private investigator can locate someone the well-equipped Miami-Dade police can’t?”

  “Valid argument; for one, I can invest more time on the problem than the police. Next, they juggle multitude cases at the same time; I concentrate on only one. Jennifer, my partner, is also a former FBI agent. The FBI performs best during a manhunt, it’s a well-known fact,” I answered with a smile, proud of my former organization.

  After a brief pause again, and a serious look on his face, he continued. “And what else did your investigation uncover Mister Tanner?”

  “Well, I’m willing to share information with the DEA if we work together. We discovered illicit activities you may find of interest.”

  “Depends on what you have,” Baker declared. I paused, trying to decide how much to tell him. Too little will not excite him, too much will give away our secrets.

  “OK, first, we believe Taylor moved his way up the echelons of a drug gang in South Florida. One of the big boys is a Yang Nelson from Miami, owner of the Black Cat bar. Second, an opioid manufacturing operation is active in the Florida Keys and finally, the group uses a plain transactional website for orders and delivery. For now, that’s what we have.”

  Baker nodded affirmatively, but no words came out of his mouth.

  “Do you have any proof?” asked Tianna.

  “Yes, we have. We’re ready to open the books if you are too.”

  “And Taylor?” asked the manager.

  “We have no information yet on his whereabouts. He could be dead or he could still be alive, we don’t know. For now, he’s a missing link.”

  One could sense from Baker’s eyebrow movement, he was skeptical. “Fine, this is what we’ll do Mister Tanner, we will review our own case files and see what we have on this gang. After the review we’ll get back to you,” he then stood up. “Tianna will escort you.”

  He abruptly ended our meeting for a reason I ignored. He either didn’t believe me, or he perfectly understood what I was talking about, and Taylor was a subject not to be discussed. I wasn’t sure which one yet.

  Again, we used the stairs, and I followed Tianna. When we reached the reception desk, she turned around and asked how they could get in touch with me. From my shirt pocket, I handed her a business card and grabbed one of hers.

  “Were you acquainted with Mark?” I asked.

  Tianna’s eyes looked into mine for a few seconds, and finally said: “We’ll be in touch, thank you.” She couldn’t or wouldn’t answer my simple question.

  Disappointed, I drove back to the marina. I now regretted having offered so much of our discoveries in the quest of getting their interest. I was uncertain if they had prior knowledge of my statements. One thing was sure, they showed no surprise at the people or the bar’s name. As a DEA informant, Mark would keep his management posted on his activities. But did he tell them the entire story? I couldn’t be sure.

  I was hoping Jennifer would have more success. Back aboard, preparing to grab dinner at the Rusty Hook, my cell phone chimed Jennifer’s unique ringtone.

  “Yes, Jennie.”

  “FedEx, the organization ships through the FedEx Office in Marathon.”

  “And how did you find that out?” I asked.

  “Just my super investigation skills at work, Jason. Listen and learn; I first checked the local post office, then UPS and FedEx. The scenario was always the same: I would ask about business rates to ship small boxes from Marathon to Orlando. They all gave me pricing for different levels of service. Are you aware a $9 shipment can become $90 for the same box if you want it overnight? Amazing.”

  “No, I didn’t know that. But then?”

  “The FedEx Office is operating from a temporary trailer since hurricane Irma hit the Keys in August of last year. They expect a new compound to replace the temporary one, eventually. It could explain why the gang uses this transporter. No high-tech scanners are present in the temporary office. Some of these latest scanners can detect cocaine and even explosives like Semtex. By using this location, they avoid the equipment, making it easier to ship their crap.”

  “That makes sense Jennifer. And the source of these shipments?”

  “The cute young man at the FedEx counter was most forthcoming and informed me a local company ships hundreds of small boxes every day just about. They seemed to appreciate the service, they’ve been doing it for over a year.”

  “How impressive, you’re a sharp investigator, Jennifer. Don’t tell me you also located the source of these shipments?”

  “Not yet, but I will. I waited in the FedEx parking lot and screened customers. A black panel truck arrived late afternoon. The driver got as close as possible to the entrance. He opened the truck’s rear door, and I saw three good-sized plastic cases co
ntaining smaller boxes. After he carried the first one inside, I waited. He returned a few minutes later for the second trip. I dashed to the truck, sneaked inside, snapped a box and ran away.”

  “And then?”

  “I hopped in the car and followed the black panel truck when it left to a large private residence still in Marathon. I figured the driver was finishing his day with the delivery. My plan is to follow him tomorrow when he drives to where he works and the boxes prepared.”

  “Sure you want to do this? The last time we followed these individuals, we ran into problems.”

  “You got into problems, mister, not me. Don’t worry Jason, I’ll be careful. It’s a simple tailing activity, I have performed dozens in my days.”

  “Are you going back home tonight?”

  “I don’t think so, I have a travel bag in the car, I’ll find a place to crash tonight and be at my post bright and early. Don’t worry about me, I will be all right.”

  “And the box you picked up?”

  “The markings show Vitamin World of Asia, there’s a Jacksonville delivery address.”

  “And inside?”

  “I think we should hold on to it as evidence if we need it.”

  “Yes, an excellent idea Jennifer.”

  “And the DEA meeting?” she inquired.

  I reported the conversation and the reply from the regional manager. “I asked Tianna when I left if she knew of Mark Taylor. Her silence was eloquent. I’ll bet she knows more of what happened to him.”

  (--)

  When I came back from the Rusty Hook last night, I called Cynthia to update her on the case and my DEA meeting as she asked. Just the mention of their name excited her. The backing of a respectable federal organization would better serve my search for Mark Taylor she concluded. I wasn’t sure of that but didn’t mention it.

  Already a month old, my missing person investigation had transformed into a drug case and a quest for an opioid manufacturing alliance. Not convinced the Taylors would have moved ahead in such a project knowing what we know now. The billing issue was also ambiguous. I had devoted hours on the case. The customer would not resent paying the invoice if I located Mark. It could be another story if we still don’t know his fate. I told Nadine about the job parameters before commencing, I should not have any guiltiness in presenting my fees.

  The telephone rang midmorning, an unknown number. I expected a call from Jennifer so I answered, anyway.

  “Jason Tanner, how can I be of help?”

  “Mister Tanner, Tianna Hester from the DEA, we need a talk.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Not on the phone, can you meet me at the Jet Runway Cafe, it’s a small restaurant right beside the Fort Lauderdale Executive Airport. Shall we say 4 o’clock?”

  “See you then,” and I hung up. The DEA wanted a talk, surprise! From my days at the FBI, if a PI wished to participate in a case, we pushed him aside, we didn’t share investigations with anyone. The agency was in a bind and curious for information I could provide, even a teaser thrilled them. I could not stop smiling, and shouted, ‘Wow!’ This discussion and the following steps will be crucial to my investigation. I sent Jennifer a text message with the happy news, but got no reply.

  Before my late afternoon meeting, I decided to go shopping. I purchased a new Glock and got in some practice at the local gun store harboring a professional range. Confiscated by my abductors in Marathon, my earlier firearm had disappeared and I didn’t stay around asking for its return. At first I was all over the target. My lack of recent training showed right away. I decided to put in more practice time today, I may need it before this case is over. This later version of the Glock, lighter than its predecessor, called for every bit of my attention. After a hundred rounds or so, I could now see most of my shots in the inner circle. After I purchased a holster and plenty of ammunition, I gazed at my watch and headed for my talk.

  Tianna picked a restaurant right on the edge of a small airfield, its two runways busy with flight training and private jets. Fort Lauderdale’s international airport, less than ten miles away, caters to the regular carriers who fly tourists all year long to South Florida.

  The public enters the well-decorated restaurant from the non-secure sector of the airport. If a door existed on the opposite side, you’d walk right onto the tarmac. But access is impossible, only large windows provides a superb view of the runways. Aviation buffs, like me, just love it.

  Tianna was easy to spot from the few patrons inside. I shuffled across the room in the belief of my tardiness but once there, I was 10 minutes early by my watch. Most people would get a seat near the airstrip to appreciate planes landing or departing. She had elected the opposite, away from it. With her back to the wall, I sat right in front of her, blind to the activities I like seeing on the runways.

  “Thanks for coming, Mister Tanner.” She wore the same slacks as yesterday but a different color blouse, her firearm not in plain site. Different from yesterday, she was wearing her black hair combed back in a ponytail high on her head. A notebook emerged from her purse, ready for action.

  Like her, mine came out as well, showing Mark Taylor’s picture on its cover. After a second, she noticed and a somber expression appeared briefly but she soon regained her composure.

  “Come here often?” I asked.

  “On occasions, the office is close by, the food’s decent.”

  After we both ordered black coffee, I shot the first salvo. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Mr. Baker and I discussed the situation after our meeting yesterday. He thanks you for taking the time to meet him. You presented some interesting intelligence. At his suggestion, he asks you provide details of your findings to the department.”

  Looking straight in her eyes: “Sure, I’m willing to contribute, how about doing your part?”

  “The agency wishes to collaborate as much as possible, but some data is not for public consumption, and unless I’m mistaking, you’re public, not FBI.”

  “Not the best start of our relationship if you ask me. I tell you what I know while you decide what I need to know.”

  A grimace appeared for a fraction of a second, a sure sign she did not appreciate my answer, I kept a straight face. After a few seconds, she shifted into a wry smile. “Now mister Tanner, you must understand, as an FBI Special Agent, some information must remain confidential during an investigation, it’s common sense, don’t show your hand.”

  She looked up my personal records because I did not mention I was a Special Agent, I said I was an FBI retiree during the meeting. I paused, thinking about her reply, but I decided on my approach a while ago. “OK then, let’s test our future collaboration: does the DEA have an active investigation on a drug ring operating from the Black Cat? Simple question.”

  She hesitated, looking for a smart answer.

  “Can't say, it’s on a need to know basis.”

  I leaned forward and slammed my hand on the table. “What? Can’t say? Why bring me here if you can’t say?”

  She pushed back from the table suddenly, surprised by my reaction. If her eyes could fire a gun, I would be dead. But after a few seconds, she continued: “It’s confidential, you should understand that, you’ve been in the business.”

  “I’ll tell you what I believe Mrs. Hester. The agency lost track of an informant, he disconnected and disappeared. It's possible he has turned coats on you. For all we know, he could have joined the other side now if he’s not already at the bottom of the ocean. That’s what I believe.”

  “Impossible,” she said.

  “Ok, if he’s your informant when was the last time you two talked?”

  She lowered her head, like a Christian in a confessional. “Almost a year now.”

  “What does the DEA workbook recommend as a frequency of contact for your informant?”

  She lowered her head even more. “Two or three weeks, less if possible.”

  In a louder voice than I intended, I said: “Whe
n you’re ready to share intelligence, Mrs. Hester, you have my number.” I got up and dashed towards the exit in the hope my theatrics would sway her and her boss.

  Driving back, some arm muscles were still quivering with my hands on the steering wheel. The exchange of information with the agency was a one-way street. Sorry, not my cup of tea. Still all worked up, my phone rang.

  It could be Tianna, wishing to continue the so called discussion. “Yes,” I was responding in my best impolite voice.

  “Mr. Tanner, it’s Damien Jones, Jennifer’s husband.”

  In a more pleasant tone now, “Yes, Mr. Jones.”

  “Any news from Jennifer? We expected her after lunch but she has not arrived yet. She doesn’t answer her phone.”

  “I have no information either. I sent her a message earlier today but got no reply.”

  After a few seconds, with a raised voice, he added: “I hope she’s not in any trouble because of you, mister.”

  “Jennifer is a big girl, able to take care of herself. She would not take any unnecessary risks. What is she driving today?”

  “The red Subaru.”

  After getting her license plate number, I told him I would get someone to search for her and would keep him informed. Sargent Gomez from the Marathon police was my next call and I pleaded to locate my partner’s red car. He promised to inform his officers in the region. I thanked him and left a number where he could reach me, no matter what the time of day.

  I rushed back home and sat inside trying to decide what to do next. Could Jennifer have suffered the same fate I did? If she waited in her car observing a black panel truck at a distance, it’s not impossible someone noticed. Should I rush to Marathon to find her? Where would I look? The city is not immense but still. She hadn’t provided a location during our last conversation.

  An inspiration.

  I grabbed my phone, located a recent call and hit dial.

  “Mr. Jones, Jennifer carries an Android phone, does she not?”

  “Yes, she has an Android unit.”

  “You’ll may need her account password but if you get Google Maps going on her laptop, you can get information about her itinerary, unless she turned the option off.”