by R C Cameron
Mark’s chin was resting on his chest, defeated. He could not explain why a DEA informant, undercover, defrauded a bunch of crooks. It was not to get them arrested and convicted. At the peril of his life, because if anyone would have discovered the scheme they would execute him, he appropriated money for his own benefit. Had we not descended on the compound when we did, all traces of Mark’s activities would surely have disappeared.
The twist in the case surprised me. I was first happy to locate Mark but then disappointed by what seems to be the greed he showed in the case. I wasn’t looking forward to my discussion with Nadine.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE FOLLOWING DAY brought out a clear sky and low winds, perfect timing for my return cruise to Pompano Beach. Jennifer had left yesterday, in the late afternoon, she missed Damien and the kids. I elected to stick around for the night, no reasons to sail in the darkness unless you’re a drug trafficker or a commercial vessel. At around five o’clock, I made my usual martini aboard and sat under the canopy of the top floor. I received a few texts messages already from my daughter Cynthia insisting I call her about the police intervention. Knowing her, she must follow the Floridian regional news on the Internet and learned the local police with the DEA in Marathon raided an illegal drug manufacturing business. They described the operation in the Sun-Sentinel the day following the raid with some images of the compound and the police force taking in suspects.
Since Denver is two hours behind the east coast, I had time to enjoy my drink, find a restaurant and call Cynthia afterward. She worked all day and would only return home for her dinner time I calculated.
The familiar sound of my phone erupted inside the main cabin. I ran downstairs, looked for it for a moment and got my hand on it before it went to voicemail.
“Hello.”
“Hi Jason, Barry Gilmore, how have you been?”
“Oh hi, Barry, nice of you to call. I’m fine, a little tired, but that’s because I was not sleeping well in recent days. I believe it’s behind me now,” I whined.
“Let’s hope so. I was checking on your investigation, an article appeared in the papers this morning about a bust in Marathon. Was that you?”
“I must admit so. It went pretty well, nobody died, just a few injuries, but the best idea came from you Barry,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“The digital forensic team. It was your idea,” I acknowledged.
“And?”
“We captured most of the gang. Steiner was nowhere to be seen, it’s a shame, but the DEA informant we chased was right there, in the middle of the action.”
“Mark Taylor?”
“Yes, he pretended to gather evidence or something before calling the DEA but I was faster than him.”
“Faster?”
“I alerted the DEA about the group in an anonymous call to get things rolling. I told the Sheriff it wasn’t me, but between you and me, it’s a white lie. That the DEA was interested got the Sheriff to follow-up on my case.”
“Good for you Jason, but I don’t see the link with the forensic team,” Barry questioned.
“Thanks to them, the so-called DEA informant or agent got trapped. The team discovered he was siphoning money from the gang and moving it to his own secret bank account. Without their talent, we’d never would have found this. Thanks again,” I replied.
“They’re all in prison now?” Barry inquired.
“Well, they’re holding Nelson and Taylor without bail, the hearing was this afternoon. The two Asians, Bill, and Bob, great Asian names, are still in the hospital recovering from gunshot wounds during the raid. They’ll go direct to jail, and will not collect $200, they’re suspects in the murder of a nice gentleman on my yacht earlier on. The vitamin girl, Sue My, is out on bail, so is the bartender and two other gang members.”
“A nice catch overall, Jason!”
“I still would have liked to see Steiner behind bars, that’s my disappointment.”
“Maybe he’ll cross your way one day,” said Barry.
I thought about it for a second and recalled his quick departures when the walls of justice were closing in on him, like in Chicago. “I doubt it,” I said.
After some idle chitchat, we ended the conversation. I thanked him again for his help in the case. I returned to the top level to finish my martini, now warm.
As a typical Italian, Angelillo knew all the good eating spots in the area. When I told him I felt like having fresh lobster, he directed me to the Keys Fisheries. He mentioned they are located on the north side of the Island, on the water and have a dock for traveling tourists like me. I prepared to sail around the main island of Marathon, raised the anchor and motored to the local marina, just like Angelillo had described. I noticed a small craft behind me as I turned around the corner of the island. The flats in the area are great fishing spots, I assumed he was going out to catch a few, or coming back.
I attached the lines, moored on the dock’s exterior, on the ocean side. Dining outdoors on the aft deck while looking at the activity around interested me, so I moved the table outside. Examining the marina, I could see the restaurant entrance on the left, a visitor’s parking lot sat on the right. I got my wallet from the cabin and walked to the restaurant to order my takeout lobster.
The place allowed either a sit-down meal or an order window for takeout. I lined up behind a line already waiting to make their selection. I looked at the menu appearing above the order window and I liked everything I saw. But I stuck to my guns and asked for a steamed lobster when my turn came to order.
“Jason,” someone shouted. They handed me a big white plastic bag protecting a styrofoam box. I retrieved it and I hurried to the comfort of my home waiting for me on the water. Once aboard, I opened a bottle of white Chablis and set up my dining table on the deck to enjoy my fresh lobster.
The weather was perfect, almost no wind. The sun would set in over an hour, plenty of time to enjoy my meal outside. I sat with my back to the ocean, facing the marina and the restaurant on shore. The takeout window looked busy and cars moved in and out of the parking area. Horns erupted from that area and I noticed a small red convertible, with the blacktop still in position. He parked at a 90-degree angle to the rest of the guests, taking two parking locations. With all the traffic, not surprising people tooted their horn, this stupid driver used two parking spots when space was scarce.
A man burst out of his pickup and walked towards the little red car. But then, he stopped, turned around, ran back to his truck, and accelerated towards the exit. Strange.
I looked back at the red convertible, the visible window was coming down on the driver side. I wasn’t certain what appeared in the window but it looked like a stick or a broom handle. Then my gray cells made the connexion, a rifle, aimed in my direction. I lunged on the floor, protected by the boats side hull but just a few feet high. Then a loud bang erupted and pieces of fiberglass flew in the air. A bullet perforated the hull right in front of my dining table, it also made a hole in my chair. My back hurt like hell but I managed to crawl towards the safety of the cabin reaching for my Glock in my bedroom. So much for my hull protection.
Still walking on all fours, I reached the cabin main entrance and peaked at the parking area. Gone was the small red car inside a cloud of dust. Mayhem erupted around the restaurant as people ran in all directions for cover. With no more shots fired, relative calm was returning to the area. Someone must have called 911 because sirens erupted and two police cars burst in the parking lot, all lights flashing. The doors flew open, and the policemen crouched behind them. A witness, hands in the air, walked in their direction and must have told them the shooter had already left the scene. The policemen stood up and reached for their radios to inform the dispatch. Five minutes later, more police cars arrived to secure the premises and take witness statements. I reached for my Oxycontin to relieve my pain then I waited, knowing full well someone will reach out to me.
I walked back inside, poured
myself a new glass of wine, my first one laid on the floor of the aft deck, and waited for a visit. About ten minutes later, a voice I recognized, yelled out, “Jason!”. I stepped out, leaned on the door jamb and looked at Angelillo, arm drawn but pointing down. “Come on in, Roberto.”
(--)
“Right in the middle of the action again, Jason?” Angelillo asked.
“Looks like it,” I answered while lifting my shoulders to show I didn’t know why.
“What happened here?”
“I followed your recommendation, came to this quiet seafood restaurant on the ocean and someone shot at me. The only thing I saw was a small red car with a rifle protruding shooting in my direction. It came close, check out the hull, the bullet passed right through. If I hadn’t noticed that car and rifle, the hole would certainly be in my body.”
That small red convertible reminded me of something but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Where had I seen it recently? It bothered me my memory was sometimes working at a snail’s pace. It must be my natural aging process.
“Don’t touch anything, our team will be here shortly. They’ll try to locate the bullet to match the rifle should we find it.”
“Don’t bother Roberto, check the hole in the other side of the deck, the bullet passed right through there and disappeared in the ocean.”
“Yea, you’re probably right, but they must analyze the scene, anyway. Any idea who could be responsible?” asked Angelillo.
“I would concentrate on the folks just released on bail, then look at the elusive Brad Scott, he's still unaccounted for.”
“Yea, it’s a good guess. We’ll see what the witnesses can tell us, we’re gathering their statement now. I believe a man got close to the red car, maybe he can provide us with a good description of the man inside. Your plans for the rest of the day Tanner?”
“I’ll stay here until your team has combed the scene, find a quiet place to sleep, far from shore, and then head back to Pompano.”
Angelillo noted my phone number should he have other questions and returned ashore to join the rest of the police squad taking witness depositions. The Taylor case had developed into a monster. From a simple missing person, it evolved into a major drug bust while they followed me, kidnapped me and now shot at me, far from the quiet investigations I wanted to accomplish.
I walked back inside and ate the lobster I ordered earlier. It was now cold, but hey, I can live with that. I grabbed my notebook and flipped pages of information on my search and entries I sometime scribbled in the margins. There were people I talked to, things they said, stuff I observed. And then, a note jumped at me and I understood who just tried to take a shot at me.
I holstered my Glock, exited the main cabin and locked it before I ran towards the restaurant. On my way out, I crossed the crime scene team walking toward my yacht. At the restaurant’s reception, I asked the person at the desk to call me a cab, urgently. I walked outside, waiting for it. I jumped in when it arrived and directed him to Barnacle Barney. Five minutes later I stepped out of the taxi, threw a twenty-dollar bill to the driver and asked him to wait for me.
I burst through the front entrance and looked all around the bar. I wasn’t expecting to find him here, but I suspected he lived close by. A lady mixing drinks behind the bar got my attention, I walked in her direction. “I need to talk to Tony, it’s urgent.”
“I don’t know where he is, Sir,” she replied.
“You have his home address?”
“You must talk to the manager, over there,” as she pointed to an individual near the front entrance. I hurried towards him, reached for my wallet and presented my FBI insurance coverage card while saying: “FBI, I need to have Tony’s home address immediately.”
The tactic worked, to my disbelief, and the manager rushed to his office and returned with a piece of paper with an address on it. “Thanks,” I said and left before he asks me to show him the card again.
I rushed outside where I left my taxi driver. He was gone. He disappeared with my twenty-dollar bill for a five-minute drive.
I keyed the address into the Google Maps application on my phone to discover Tony the bartender lived only a half mile from where I was standing. With the application as a guide, I walked towards his home. At one point, I had to cross Overseas Highway and continued walking along the main road. On my left, I approached a residential area comprising tiny houses, small dwellings, mobile homes, and trailers. It was amazing how these different houses ended up in the same neighborhood. Poverty was my first gut reaction to this housing district. It could have sprang up when the last hurricane passed by and the temporary housing became permanent for people not able to afford to rebuild.
From what I saw on my screen, the residents had access to their residential district from the main entry point and then, several secondary lanes joined in. I wander onto the main street, trying to look like a resident enjoying an after-dinner walk. At the second intersection, I turned left. I was trying to get a feel for the place, without walking directly to Tony’s house. If he was present and sitting on the porch, he would recognize me. Once I got at the end of his street, I figured his house was the fourth one down the road. Mobile homes surrounded me on each side. I walked back to where I came from to approach his house from the rear. From what I saw, he stayed in a small one-bedroom house, with an attached garage.
Using the darkness as my friend, I moved silently towards his garage, hiding for a moment behind his back neighbor’s shed. Dogs barked but that appeared to be common around here and not the sign of a stranger in the area. I hurried and stopped beside the garage. I held my breath, listening to any sound originating from the house that would show the owner was coming out. Still nothing.
A small window decorated the garage side wall. As quietly as I could, I moved towards it and peeked inside. It was dark but the moon coming up allowed me to discover a small red convertible parked inside.
(--)
I retreated to the comfort of his neighbor’s shed, not wanting someone to see me on Tony’s land for now.
Should I advise the local police?
I could have received an anonymous tip. That’s how I got here to verify it. I didn’t have a plan either. Should I ring the doorbell and ask Tony to surrender?
As my mind tried to decipher these alternatives, the neighbor’s back light suddenly lit up, and the owner came out shouting: “Who’s there? What are you doing on my property? I’ll call the police.” I froze, looked at the man on his back porch, and stood still, in the hope he didn’t see me. Uncertain if the noise or the light woke someone up, suddenly, a new voice erupted: “What’s happening here?” This time the voice seemed to come from Tony’s pad.
I heard footsteps approaching, someone was coming in my direction, still hidden by the woodshed. Suddenly, the old man appeared with a flashlight in my eyes. I turned around, not wanting a confrontation with the old guy, and walked in the opposite direction, toward Tony’s garage. I decided on my new plan to escape from this area and call the police.
I quicken my steps and passed the garage, the few street lights and the full moon provided more visibility than behind the house. That’s when I noticed Tony the bartender come running out in my direction. He spoke first.
“Tanner! I thought you’d understood the message by now.”
“Not really, it would take more than a small bullet to convince me,” I replied.
“I guess I must find another way to get rid of you.” He now strolled in my direction. I tried to recall my one-on-one marine training from back then. It was one thing to remember it, something else to apply it. But I remembered the first advice: examine their eyes. If they look you in the eyes, they’ll swing. If they look down, they’ll kick first. The other piece of advice I received was not to show fear, don’t be the underdog, don’t walk back, be the aggressor. And the last rule of hand-to-hand combat is there are no rules, anything goes.
As he approached, I quickly stepped up, surprising him. I th
en launch a straight right hand directly on his nose causing his eyes to close and his nostrils to spray a bright red liquid. Even before his eyelids lifted, his right shoulder went back, a clear announcement a punch was coming. As his fist traveled in my direction, I leaned left, avoiding it. My right leg kicked as hard as it could toward his exposed stomach. “Ouch.” He bent at the waist trying to refill air in his lungs. He raised his head and looked straight ahead; I wasn’t there anymore. When he rose and turns his face in my direction, a left hook on his jaw dropped him on his knees. His arms stopped the forward motion of his body. He now rested on all fours.
“Stay down, don’t move.” I wanted to call the police so they could perform their investigation of Tony, his red car and maybe a rifle still around. But Tony had other ideas. He got off one knee planning to get back up and continue the fight. I had no interest in pursuing. As he was slowly getting up, a hard kick under the jaw, knocked him out for good. He now rested calmly on his front side, passed out.
My knuckles hurt like hell, my back too. But I was standing, he was lying on the ground.
The old neighbor arrived on the scene shouting, “What have you done?”
I pulled my gun from my back holster, pointed it at the ground between me and the annoying man. “Police matters; go away.” He understood and turned around.
I needed to call the police, but I debated if I should remain on-site and wait for them. The man lying in front of the garage knew me. A witness was also back there, his neighbor. I should stay. I called the Sheriff’s office and reported a man down, close to a red convertible. Within a few minutes, I heard sirens and a police cruiser arrived on scene. I kept my explanations to a minimum: a stranger informed me this person here had a small red convertible. I checked the garage through the side window to confirm and when I walked away; he came out and attacked me. I only defended myself.
“I carry a gun, I could have shot him when he attacked me. I put him down with a few tricks I learned in the Marines.” That seemed to satisfy them for now but they still insisted I go with them to write a statement. I complied with pleasure.
