The Missing Taylor

by R C Cameron

  They picked up Tony, who had regained consciousness and sat him in the cruiser. They debated if an ambulance was necessary but decided against it. Already on bail for drug charges, Tony could face possible murder attempt charges now. His future did not look dazzling.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ALREADY THE GROUND was warm and the moist air seemed to rise from the pavement as I walk near Pompano Beach Pier. The DEA and police raid had netted a few rotten apples but the main man, the cat with nine lives still ran loose. No matter how I turned the missing Taylor affair around, a piece was still absent: Bruce Steiner. Or, as they call him in this part of the United States: Brad Scott.

  With the month of May arriving in South Florida, the temperature crept to the low nineties, a signal for the last snowbirds to run back north. Beaches will look empty now until they return in October. Only few visitors like Florida beaches in the summer. You needed to love the hot temperatures.

  Back aboard my year-long residence, I still pictured Steiner’s nine lives tattoo in my head. Something annoyed me. He captained a large yacht, but this was not a full-time job. Some days they booked him, others not. He required a roof over his head when not at sea. Where did he stay when not working? I walked to my cabin, lifted my bed and reached for my backpack where I kept my investigation papers. I grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler and pulled out all the paperwork and set them on the table in a large pile. When I broke into the yacht rental agency, I had photographed several pages and had them printed. Would one of these documents show the infamous captain’s land location? A discreet person, yes, but a home address was still a necessity. I flipped page after page with a particular interest in those images from my night intrusion.

  A page dropped on the floor. I picked it up, looked at it in diagonal and was about to turn it over when something caught my attention. A handwritten note asked to route Captain Scott's next insurance papers to his new address. Deep down, I sensed Laura’s help from above, still guiding my steps on this earth, moving a piece of paper in front of my eyes. Brad Scott’s home address emerged, on Washington Avenue, right in downtown Miami Beach, right under my nose while at the marina near South Point Park. With Google Maps, I located his address, only a fifteen-minute walk from the marina, also within walking distance of the Black Cat bar, how convenient.

  Sitting back, I tried to imagine how I could use this new information. For sure, I wanted the authorities to capture Steiner; they listed him on the FBI’s most wanted. No doubt my former employer would raid this apartment with Steiner present. They just didn't know when he was present. A miss-timed raid could inform Steiner federal authorities were close and force him to flee, like he did in Chicago.

  No arrest warrants were issued for Steiner in Miami. I had no reasons to bring them in at this time either. After imagining many scenarios, the soundest plan required to stake out his place, and when I could confirm his presence at his apartment, call them in at that time.

  If I was in Steiner’s shoes, what would I do? His group had suffered a major blow, his main associates were in jail, a risk existed they talk and identify him. From my FBI days, I remembered the man’s history which demonstrated he closed his business, packed his things then moved elsewhere. He did this a few times already. But I had to hurry before he moved his circus again. I could catch him right now if it was not too late but I may have just one chance.

  I prepared a bag of goodies, clothes, binoculars, Glock, and ammunition. Then, I locked the yacht, advised the marina of my departure and hopped in my SUV for one more trip to Miami Beach.

  By chance, I reserved the same Airbnb unit I once rented in Miami Beach. Only a few blocks from Washington Avenue, I drove to my temporary housing, parked my ride, moved my stuff upstairs and dressed like a visiting tourist.

  Once in front of Steiner’s apartment, I inspected the building. Constructed at least thirty years ago, it comprised five stories and over three-hundred feet of frontage. At street-level, more than a dozen retail outlets advertised their products or services; a liquor store, a hairdresser, a tattoo parlor, four or five restaurants, a cleaner, a currency provider, one was empty. Above the stores, four floors of residential units, each having a single window giving onto Washington Avenue. The building's middle portion houses the apartment's main entrance. They provided buzzers to advise the owner he had a guest at the front door. The buzzer panel contained only a few names, a sign of high resident turnover.

  I walked into an Italian restaurant and sat at the bar where I ordered a beer and asked for a menu. During our small talk, the elderly barman told me residents above his head were singles or couples mostly, few children around. The place had plenty of transient folks because short-term rentals were available . If I had an interest, an office person was available during the day. I finished my beer and strolled to the buildings’ main entrance where I rang Unit 101, with the name 'Office' displayed. A loud buzz filled the entrance way, so I pulled the glass door and walked in. Straight ahead, a door marked “stairs” and right beside it, an old elevator. I escalated the stairs, not trusting the antique elevator. When I reached the second floor, a sign displayed units 101–110 left, 111–124, right. I headed left and knocked on the business office door. Another buzzer sounded and I pushed the door open, noticing an overhead camera, viewed by folks inside probably. A large woman well in her sixties greeted me with a serious-looking face.

  “Yes!”

  “Good afternoon Mam, I’m looking for an apartment.”

  “OK, sit down here,” as she pointed to one of two old leather chairs in front of her desk. These chairs had seen a lot of cheeks in their lifetime. I sat down, expecting an old spring to rise and attack me. She reached for a small black binder and flipped pages.

  “We have either studios or one bedroom, nothing else. What will it be?”

  “A friend of mine once lived here, he had unit 310, was that a studio?” Steiner’s home address said unit 410, I expected all unit ending with the same number to be identical.

  “310 is a one bedroom. Is that what you’d like?”

  “Maybe, can I see one?”

  From her expression, you knew she hated this question. It meant she would have to get up, get keys, walk to an empty unit and show me around. You could sense her feet hurt, her knees resisted, and her hip complained. Without smiling, she continued scanning her binder, found what she needed, got up and meandered to a small wall-mounted cabinet where she extracted a key from her collection.

  “Follow me.”

  We walked back towards the stairs but without hesitation, she pressed the elevator button. After a minute, the elevator door opened with a big bang. She walked in, I followed in apprehension. She pressed number 3. The car took almost a minute to grind its way up two floors, turtles walk faster. We moved in complete silence, having nothing to say to each other. The car finally stopped and bounced up and down like it had traveled fifty floors at a high speed. The doors opened, I let her take the lead out the risky lift.

  Unhurried, with her feet dragging on the dirty floors in a hush-hush sound like walking on sand, we arrived in front of unit 304. I expected an empty apartment, but she still knocked on the door. Some noise came from inside and a young black girl, in her twenties, black hair in shorts and skinny top stood in the opening.

  The old lady announced we were visiting and just stepped forward. The girl moved aside, having no choice.

  Turning in my direction, the old lady said: “They’re leaving at the end of the month.” I bobbed my head up and down, showing I understood the situation.

  With mesmerizing comments such as “This is the kitchen” or “This is the bedroom” by my guide, I absorbed the space's look and feel. Steiner lived in an identical environment. I wanted to know the living space, in case I had to enter his flat. I thanked the young lady, and we got out of her life, at least for now. She seemed happy.

  When we returned to the old lady’s desk, she asked: “So, when do you need it for?”

&nb
sp; “I’m wondering if a studio would not be enough.”

  Her face reacted like her mother just died. She was looking at another trip to a studio apartment with her feet, knee and hip all objecting vehemently.

  “Let me think about it, I’ll be back.” She gave me the nicest smile. Her agony was over. I got up and walked away, leaving a happy woman in my wake. With the office door closed behind me, I walked to the stairs, looked around, and seeing no-one, trotted up to the fourth floor, where Steiner crashed on occasions.

  Number 410 was at the corridor's far end, the last unit. This meant he had a neighbor only on one side. Knowing Steiner was sailing today, I knocked on apartment 409, his closest neighbor. I was in luck, I heard footsteps coming, and an eye appeared in the door viewer. The security chain rattled a moment then the door opened. A man, in his sixties, appeared as a dose of stale air reached my nostrils. The TV blasted game show cries in the background.

  “Yes.”

  He spoke this simple three-letter word even before the door opened fully, I guess he was watching an exciting show. The smell, the noise, and the urgency also encouraged me to hasten my delivery.

  “Excuse me, sir, I am trying to reach your next-door neighbor, any idea when he will show up?

  “No.”

  I reached in my pocket and extracted a neat pile of bills. I flipped a few twenties and a ten-dollar bill to my right hand and placed them between the man in a hurry and myself.

  “The guy in 410 owes me money, here is fifty dollars for you, let me know when he comes back. As soon as you tell me, I’ll run over here and give you another hundred. Would that work for you?”

  That seemed to get his attention. “And how would I reach you, mister?”

  I extracted my business card with my phone number on it. “Just call me at this number, I’ll rush back.” That seemed to satisfy him. He reached for the money and the card, closed to door and reinstalled his security chain.

  While still sneaking inside, I moved down to the main level and examined all the building's entrances and exits. At each end and in the back, I counted four exit-only doors. The front, I knew, had a single entryway providing access to all floors. All the way down the stairs, a metallic door opened with a loud screech to an indoor parking lot. They parked cars between large cement columns holding the building together. Having seen what I wanted, I crossed the street and located a Chinese restaurant with a table close to the front window where I could still observe the main entrance. I decided on an early dinner of wonton soup, sweet and sour chicken and white rice while I kept an eye on my prime suspect’s base.

  After having gone through two pots of Chinese tea, I paid the server and left him a substantial tip. I walked back to my pad and tried to relax while developing various scenarios should his neighbor call me. In the end, I fell asleep only to wake-up after a terrible dream where several oversized cats attacked me and lacerated my skin with their immense paws.

  Not being in my bed and after a terrible nightmare, sleep did not return. At 6 AM, I was ready to leave. I walked along the beach amid several elderly's taking in their morning exercise and younger runners using the morning hours before going to work.

  Back on Washington Street, I located a place where I could eat breakfast while still keeping an eye on Steiner’s pad. Around noon, still without a sighting, I walked towards Ocean Drive for lunch and then went back to my apartment for an afternoon snooze, not having slept well.

  Around two o’clock, a call from JR surprised me.

  “Hey, John, what’s up?” I inquired.

  “A lot Jason. We were asked by the Sheriff’s office down in Monroe County to arrest Steiner. A judge signed his warrant this morning, so we tried to execute it today. When we contacted his employer, they informed us he was returning from a cruise this afternoon at the Miami Beach marina. We dispatched officers there to grab him upon his arrival.”

  “Makes sense so far.”

  “When the officers boarded the yacht, he was nowhere to be seen. Upon further investigation, they discovered Scott lowered the tender and abandoned the ship before arriving. It was effectively missing and some passengers did report the captain abandoned ship. A drunken passenger suggested the captain should be the last one to leave the ship, not the first one!”

  “Someone radioed the information to him, someone at the yacht agency probably. Shit, this guy is so slippery.”

  “Yeah, it seems. Now we’re combing the beaches to locate the tender. So far, nothing, I’m told he could reappear in West Palm Beach for all I know.”

  “That’s a possibility for sure,” I replied.

  “I just wanted to let you know. This guy tried to kill you once and you help annihilate his operation. He might come after you, be careful.”

  “I will, thanks for the heads up JR.”

  I didn’t say I was sitting on Steiner’s apartment, after all I haven’t seen him. There was no indication he would show up at his apartment. If the police was looking for him, chances are they have a car sitting in front right now. But the incident on the high seas was recent and the urgency of executing a warrant from a Sheriff’s office is not the highest priority for the Miami-Dade detectives.

  As I debated internally, around four o’clock, my phone rang again, an unknown number on the screen.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “He’s here.”

  Just waking up, the message did not make sense immediately. I didn’t even know the guy’s name.

  “You’re in 409 on Washington Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m coming right over. I’ll buzz you when I arrive. Let me in. I have your money. Give me fifteen minutes, maximum.”

  “OK,” and he hung up.

  Things were moving in my direction now.

  I changed my tourist attire for a pair of jeans, running shoes, a black T-shirt, and a loose shirt over it. Then, I grabbed my Glock, slipped it into my lower back, and covered it with my shirt. I took additional ammunition and pocketed a compact flashlight. With my phone on my right hip, I was ready.

  Excited by the moment I rushed towards the apartment building.

  (--)

  When I reached the Washington Street building complex, I slowed down in case Steiner was watching. A plan was forming in my head. At the building’s main entryway, I rang number 409 where no name appeared on the board. A few seconds later, hearing a buzz, I opened the door and charged up the stairs which I escalated two by two.

  On the last floor, I stopped to catch my breath. I opened the door with care and looked towards units 409 and 410 at the end of the long corridor, there was no movement, no one in sight.

  My running shoes made zero sound as I strolled towards the corridor’s end, hugging the right side trying to be invisible. Without warning, a door opened, and a middle-aged man walked out, startling me. He looked at me as I bent down to tie my already-tied shoe. As he approached me, I stood up. I did not recognize him, neither did he. I continued on my way; he did the same.

  In front of unit 409, I tapped softly, hoping his neighbor would not hear it. As the door opened a fraction, his face appeared. I put a finger on my lips asking for silence. He followed my instructions, opened the door wide and I entered, closing behind me. On my first visit here, I remembered the smell but once I walked inside, it really was noticeable. For some reason, strangers will smell things that residents can’t seem to identify. Especially in old folks' home.

  “He’s there?” I whispered.

  “Yes, arrived 15 minutes ago,” as he looked at his watch.

  I reached in my pocket and extracted a one-hundred-dollar bill which I handed him.

  “That was our deal, thank you.” I picked two other similar bills and asked, “why don’t you get a drink, a nice meal, return after midnight, I will watch your place?”

  He hesitated, not knowing me, it was understandable. He already had a hundred. But three hundred were much better. He also had to trust me with his belongings. Looking aro
und, he concluded he didn’t have much to lose. His decision time was short. He reached for the additional bills, and just walked away.

  If my suspicions were right, Steiner probably verified the absence of police officers in front of his building before coming up. He would pack his stuff and disappear from South Florida. He must own important personal effects to gather, that’s why he was back. The risk was great. Things he could not leave behind. I suspected, but not confirmed, he owned a car parked in the garage. He would use it to drive towards a state where no one knew of him. His days as a captain of a super-yacht were over, at least here in Miami.

  Because he lived at the corridor’s extremity, he had to walk right in front of my door. I got a chair and placed it close to the entrance. I sat in it, waiting for his next move. My ears were wide open as I continued to debate calling the Miami police. I decided against it for a couple of reasons. One is I needed to confirm Steiner’s presence; he could have dispatched someone else to do the job. And secondly, I strongly believed Steiner had a mole inside the Miami police.

  As I was absorbed in my internal debate, some noise came from Steiner’s apartment, my watch not even showing five o’clock. I gazed through the dirty door viewer seeing nothing. Still standing, listening, and looking into the corridor often, I could feel his presence nearby, but I wanted to surprise him. All my senses were alert. A few minutes later, a door opened and then closed. I put my eye on the viewer once more just as the shape of a man passed in front of me. It was too quick to identify my prey.

  After a few seconds, I reached for my gun and opened the door as silently as I could. I stepped out into the middle of the corridor and turned towards the man walking away carrying a bag over his left shoulder. By then, he was about thirty feet from me.

  “Hold it right there, mister,” as I pointed my weapon in his direction.

  He stopped in his tracks.