by R C Cameron
“Yes, I see what you’re getting at. Hold on for a second.”
Various sounds came over the line as he put the phone on a table and a computer started up. After a minute, I heard Jones’s voice again.
“Here it is. The last location shows up near the Marathon airport. I have an address on 92nd street, 2900.”
“Any time on this sighting?”
“16:24 to 17:20, it’s the last entry, nothing else. That was yesterday!”
I thanked him and returned to my dark thoughts. If I put myself in a bad situation, I deal with it. When I put someone else, it’s uncomfortable. I walked the small space back and forth inside the yacht trying to decide on a course of action. Wait for the police or a call from Jennifer? Not for me. Lack of action is not my style.
I elaborated a plan to drive down tonight, be there around 9 PM. Go to the location showed on her Google Map history and knock on doors in the area, check with the Marathon police as well. I prepared a back pack with the tools of my trade and some fresh clothing, not forgetting my new Glock.
My phone rang stepping out of the yacht, another unrecognized number.
“Hello!”
“Jason, it's Jennifer.”
“Jennifer! Where have you been? Your family and I worried about you.”
“I know, I just arrived home and talked to Damien. He said he raised his voice to you, and he regrets it now.”
“It’s OK, I was testy myself. It’s all forgotten. What happened?”
“You will not believe it. I forgot to bring my charger with me. I called Damien last night from the phone inside the motel room and before going to bed, when I wanted to recharge my phone, I discovered it was not in my bag, I left it home.”
“Don’t you carry a cable inside your car? You can recharge it while driving.”
“I don’t but I will next time.”
“But you were missing all day. What did you do?”
“This morning, I took my post off 92nd street. The black panel truck was still there, parked where I saw it last yesterday. I saw people go out from the neighbor’s house into the home I was checking. Somehow, Jason, I think both houses are connected. My guess is they live in one house, work in the other. There is a gate protecting the access to both buildings. The houses are typical stilt construction, the ground floor empty, the entire home on the second floor. I’m no expert but I’d say the construction is recent, a year or two at the most.”
“How interesting, I’ll get Hank on it to see who owns these houses.”
“What’s also interesting Jason, one house is directly at the edge of the ocean with a canal right behind it. A good spot for a quick getaway, or to pickup and delivers stuff, if you see what I mean.”
“Do you have the address of both houses, Jennifer?”
“Yes, 2800 and 2810 92nd Street.”
“Noted.”
“Before my phone went dark, I took pictures of the houses and the surrounding. I’ll send them over later.”
“Fine. You gave us a scare you know. Damien was expecting you early today though.”
The answer took a little while to come out. “Well, I passed in front of a large mall in Homestead on my way back, and I couldn’t resist. I wanted to call Damien, but, as you know, my phone was dead.”
“Public phone?”
“Have you seen one recently?”
“Hum…” And I left it at that.
“I’m grateful everything turned out OK today. Have a good rest, I’ll call you in the morning to plan our next steps.”
“Fine. I’m sorry for the trouble Jason. Take care.”
I hung up, happy the whole situation was under control, but annoyed a simple phone charge led to this situation.
(--)
My next move was to call Hank and give him the addresses of the homes identified by Jennifer. While on the phone, he connected to the tax appraiser database for Monroe County. In no time, he had a result. Surprise! Both houses belonged to Sailing the Atlantic LLC, the same company who owned the Black Cat bar. As Hank had discovered earlier, this firm, registered in Delaware, can hide its real ownership. Impossible to discover who operated the LLC. I suspected someone, but had no tangible evidence yet.
That night, while watching television but not concentrating on the program, I reached for my notebook. Writing memos is a recent habit of mine to compensate small but expected memory losses caused by aging. In the hope something jumped off the sheet of paper, I flipped pages. The first encounter with Nadine, drinks with JR in Miami, the deposit box, the surfers. I placed my hand to the back of my head, I could still sense the abrasion from meeting a baseball bat near the shore. Suddenly, an idea popped, and I located Jeff Mason’s contact information in no time.
“Hello.”
“Jeff, Jason Tanner, I'm the person you met at South Point Park Peer, the investigator looking for Mark Taylor.”
“Yes, I remember you, mister Tanner. How can I help?”
“Just a few questions, Jeff. Your buddies Nelson and Taylor, did they compete in surfing contests?”
“They loved it.”
“This weekend, one is happening in Miami Beach, is it possible they’ll be part of it?”
“Yes and they do well. The Miami surf familiarity grants them an edge.”
“I see, thanks for the intelligence.”
I needed to think offense now. If I wanted to cut the beast’s head, I was required to catch it first. The beast was running, I had to cut the legs off, and that meant the two Asian legs.
(--)
Early Saturday, I came back to the Miami Beach Marina, in time for the Surfing Championships organized by a domestic association. It attracted local talent and others from up the coastline. Held at the South Point Beach, right beside the marina, I believed the competition would appeal to Nelson due to the familiar conditions, a site where he often practiced. My objective was to start shaking them, any way I could.
The event started yesterday as a warm-up to the weekend action. Multiple categories compete based on sex, age, and gear. My interest was for the men’s long board. If I remember correctly that's what Nelson hoisted on his jeep when I saw him the first time.
So I dressed for the occasion, resembling a person with a skin disorder afraid of the sun. A wide hat with a back flap covered the side and the back of my head. A white linen shirt with full sleeves and beige pants completed my disguise along with an oversized pair of sunglasses. I loaded a backpack with water, snacks, a long-range binocular and a Glock in the event of trouble.
With the schedule in hand, I strolled to the contest site when the first of four elimination runs were starting. I walked the limit of the beach, needing to be discreet, trying to fade in the crowd. Thousands of individuals were on-site. Not only competitors, friends, and family but officials and regular beachgoers who had now become spectators. A group of surfers were honing their skills and testing the waters. Waves were large, crowds anxious and the weather cooperating.
Around the 11th hour, officials called the surfers in their practice session from the water and replaced them by a first wave of real competition. On my way over, I grabbed a paper listing the day’s participants. Everyone was wearing three-digit numbers on their chest and back for identification by the judges.
Each wave of competitors included roughly fifteen names. The committee had scheduled four sessions for this class of surfers. The third flight included a name I recognized immediately, Yang Nelson, number 254. I was happy to have followed my instinct. But I found no trace of Mark Taylor. Without a body to confirm Taylor’s fate, I still believed he either infiltrated the gang or he joined based on personal interest. I did not see his name on the roster. But another one intrigued me, Mark Patry, from Miami. Where had I heard this name?
As I moved around in my head to toe gear, I scanned the competitors looking for number 254. From the beach’s edge, I gazed through my binoculars towards the sea but in reality, I was looking for a single person. Without success,
I moved to a new location and repeated my scenario. A second wave of competitors entered the waters, Nelson was expected in the next one.
Just then I saw a strange trio. A person in a black wetsuit, hurrying, followed by a big man carrying a long board, a third one, smaller, trying hard to keep pace in the sand. I moved closer and came to rest near a large palm tree. The two Asians still looked out of place with their pressed down trousers, dressed shoes and white shirt.
At once, I reached in my back pocket for my phone and dialed LeBron Jackson, Freeman’s partner; I tried keeping away from Freeman for now.
“LeBron, Jason Tanner. I know it’s Saturday, but I have two guys in my sights you need to talk to. They’re the ones who visited my yacht and killed Tudor, I believe.”
“Where are you?” he asked.
“South Point Beach.”
“Let me get patrolmen on-site. I’ll be right over. Wait for us. Do nothing stupid.”
I turned my attention to Nelson again as he strapped on his 254 identification, walked towards the big waves and jumped in the water. When I looked back towards his entourage, they were walking away, in the city’s direction. Putting my backpack down, I stored my binoculars and kept the duo under discrete observation.
LeBron said he was sending some patrolmen; I checked, not seeing them yet. With a thin cover, the Asians could see me, but my disguise should protect me. A bar and restaurant looked to be their target. Close to midday, the big man’s stomach was trying to get his attention while his boss was playing in the water. I kept a hundred feet behind them. They turned into a restaurant’s entrance and spoke a few words to a young girl at the front desk. The hostess called someone over to accompany the customers to a table where they could keep an eye on the event and their upcoming lunch.
Oblivious to the stakeout, they ordered from the menu and waited for their meal while I kept looking out for the patrolmen or a call from LeBron. The car arrived first. I walked in its direction and waived, keeping an eye on the restaurant’s entrance. I informed the two policemen I was expecting detective LeBron and so did them. A few minutes later, a white Honda arrived and parked alongside the patroller, LeBron getting out.
“Where are they?” he asked.
I pointed to the restaurant. We all walked in that direction, LeBron and I in front. As we approached the main door, LeBron asked the police officers to wait a second. He and I moved forward until we saw our two lads enjoying a drink, waiting for food. LeBron signaled the officers to join him, and all three entered the premises. A few minutes later, the policemen led the individuals to the patrol car. They passed right beside me, not even looking.
As LeBron trailed, he stopped by my side.
“We’ll talk to them, but on the Taylor situation, I don’t know if I can bring charges. What offenses can they have committed by leaving with Taylor? On the Tudor murder, we may have more. The video, we’ll get fingerprints, we’ll work the case. Thanks for the tip.”
He turned around, walked to his car and drove away.
The competition had switched to smaller boards now. I tried locating Nelson but to no avail, I couldn’t find him. I imagined him calling his two bodyguards who were not answering, hands behind their back in a police car. It was my time to be hungry, so I returned aboard and made myself a quick lunch with a beer.
It was Saturday; I hesitated to call Jennifer, giving her some family time. Same thing with JR, I wanted to inform him about the cool reception I got from the DEA. I put aside the case for now and thought about fishing techniques and locations William Tudor had shown me. It was still early, and I could be onto his fishing spot within an hour, so I prepared to sail off in search of my dinner. Tomorrow I would look for Yang Nelson, uncertain if he had reached the next level. But for now, fishing was my priority.
(--)
On Sunday, they scheduled afternoon finals. Donned with my elaborate outfit again, I walked to the competition site where I grabbed a flyer listing the participants in today’s action. In no time I located Yang Nelson’s name. I was wondering who would carry his board today. LeBron had not informed me yet of his conversations with the suspects.
I looked for another name that intrigued me yesterday: Mark Patry. I looked carefully but didn’t find him. Maybe his results did not carry him into the finals. Where did I hear this name? Then, I remembered: Patry is the family name of Nadine’s husband. She told me when we met for the first time. Could Mark Taylor use the name, Mark Patry? It was a stretch but not impossible. But the terrible news was if Patry was the man I was looking for, I just missed him yesterday on this beach. If my memory would have served me better, I might have seen Taylor on his surfboard and at least approached him, talked to him. Instead, I concentrated on Laurel and Hardy. It disappointed me, but I still had no tangible evidence Mark Patry was, in fact, Mark Taylor.
That’s when they arrived: the famous trio. Nelson leads the group, empty-handed, the big one carrying the board, and the little one trailing the pack. I did not expect them on the street today, it was a complete surprise. For a first-degree murder, anyone arrested would be behind bars waiting for a bail hearing. What happened? I looked for a quiet spot; I had a call to make.
“LeBron, it’s Tanner. I saw the two men you arrested yesterday, how can they be out on the street already?”
“Hold on a minute Tanner, let me go outside.”
He returned half a minute later.
“It’s complicated. I brought the two guys to the police station and into an interrogation room yesterday, called Freeman, my partner, but he was not available, so I worked with another detective. We showed them the pictures and the videos but they deny everything. It's not them they say. I didn't believe them so I read them their rights, arrested them, got their fingerprints and put them in our local jail.”
“But they’re out today?”
“Yes, I know. Freeman called later and when I told him about the arrest, he went berserk. He rushed to the station, and we argued for a while. He’s saying we don’t have probable cause to arrest them. Since he’s the senior detective, he released them.”
“He what?”
“He let them go.”
“You had the individuals in custody, booked, and he let them go?”
“That’s his prerogative.”
“Bullshit. Go over his head on this. If you don’t, I will.”
The line went dead all of a sudden. LeBron was angry, but so was I. A lone detective released two murder suspects on his own authority after his partner booked them. This was unheard of. My suspicion of Freeman’s association with the gang grew a fraction more. First, the inefficient investigation when Mark disappeared, then pointing my yacht to the Asians and now, releasing the same guys out on the street. Although I had no proof for any of his actions, my investigating experience from the Marines, the Chicago Police and the FBI were pointing me in that direction.
I was still boiling inside when I returned aboard and took a while to cool off. While in this frame of mind, I resisted the urge to call John Russell right away. Tomorrow would do. Later, after cooling down, I contacted Jennifer to invite her and her husband on a boat tour around Miami Beach to view the sun going down. I would have something simple to eat and expected them around five.
I tried to relax in the afternoon but anxious because of the proximity of the Asian trio. When I tried to get a half-hour snooze, I locked the doors and had my gun close by.
When my guests arrived, I greeted them from the aft deck. Jennifer stepped aboard first, with her husband Damien following. He offered me a bottle of wine while saying he was sorry to have lost his cool on our call earlier.
“Understandable Damien, in a similar case it would upset me too. Let's forget it, make yourself comfortable. Or rather, let me give you a rapid tour of the place and then we can get underway.”
We cruised inside Biscayne Bay and picked a nice location where we could observe the MacArthur Causeway and the city of Miami in the backdrop with the setting sun. The
colors were amazing, reflecting on the calm waters of the bay. After dropping the anchor and serving drinks all around, we discussed a few mundanes issues before I addressed the subject I wanted to talk to Jennifer. Her husband's presence did not bother me, he could even bring up a different point of view.
When the discussion slowed down, I brought up the subject. “I’m glad you guys were available today because I needed to review our case and examine our options going forward. And Damien, your input is welcome.” I looked at them, they were waiting for the follow-up.
“Yesterday, LeBron Jackson arrested Nelson’s partners, Laurel & Hardy, on the beach for, what I believed, would be a slam dunk case for the murder of William Tudor. When LeBron later informed his partner, Freeman rushed to the station and released them.”
“Why?” Jennifer asked.
“Probable cause, he says. Still, I must conclude at least one detective on the Taylor investigation does not want to see it through and is no help to us.”
“Why would they do that?” Damian asked.
“I’m not sure at this point. For multiple reasons, I don’t think Freeman is playing on our team.” I let the message sink before continuing.
“Despite this situation, our job is to find Taylor if he’s alive. I have a plan and I’ll need your help.”
Before going over my plan, I listed who, in my humble opinion, we could count on and who caused problems. The DEA was not on my favorite list. When we tried to implicate them, they only wanted to siphon our information. They offered no collaboration. The DEA lost an informant and since then have slept on the case. All the people we talked to knew drugs infested the Black Cat Bar, yet the DEA did nothing, just sat there. The bar was still in operation, the owners the same, the activities the same. Nothing had changed.
The Miami-Dade police was a toss-up. Some individuals should not be privy to our actions, Freeman and Jackson at least. I still believed John Russell could help, but his implication should remain confidential and not discussed with his detectives. But we had several people who would support our initiative; Hank Hackman for sure, Barry Gilmore too. The Marathon Sheriff’s office collaborated when I asked.
