by David Sayre
"What level drug dealer? Are we talking about a street dealer, are we talking about one of the guys that handles product or higher up?"
"Head of the snake level."
Beck nodded, jotted down the note in his pad.
"Detective Lima had a search warrant among his possessions. How long had the suspect been under investigation?"
"Lima and Foley had been on Araña's organization for four months. They'd put together information on his people, they'd made some smaller arrests. Early last month the detectives presented their information for a search warrant and had it signed by a judge . . ."
"Which Judge, sir?" Beck asked as he recorded the information in his notes.
"Wilton Curtis," Kimbrel answered before adding, "He signed both warrants."
Beck looked up at Kimbrel and questioned, "Both warrants?"
"Yes. This was the second warrant. They had a thirty day warrant on Araña's cafetería that elapsed before they could move in on the establishment. They had a CI they were working with, he was going to identify Araña, but he died before he could give them a positive identification."
"And now they had an ID on the dealer and made their move?"
Kimbrel gave the slightest hesitation which Beck didn't fully understand, but he made a mental note. Then Kimbrel responded, "That's the size of it."
"When was the second warrant signed?" Beck asked.
"I . . . I don't have the date off the top of my head. But it's on the warrant, I'm sure you can get it."
Truth of the matter was that Beck had seen the warrant, or such as it was. It was tattered and heavily discolored with the brown stains of Lima's dried blood. Not all the details of the soiled warrant could be discerned.
"Well, I'm going to speak with Judge Curtis about it so I'm sure his office has that information."
"Sure."
"According to the detectives working the case, there is no known connection with the young man who was shot outside the building, let alone what he was doing there and why he had fired shots. What were Lima and Foley's intentions in going there that day?"
"Are you asking if my detectives had gone rogue?"
"I'm just trying to figure out some things. They had no backup, they had a warrant. I'm left to wonder if they had a loosely concocted plan of talking to Araña and seeing where it went, or if there was something even more risky on their minds."
"I'm not sure what your implication is. I am not assuming you're saying they wanted to look around, see what they found and not report what they'd found to their superior officers. I can't imagine you're saying something like that."
"I'm just looking for answers, Lieutenant."
"I can tell you they had spent the days leading up to the incident staking out the building, keeping a close eye on Araña. That's all I will tell you for the moment. If we need to have a lengthier, more official conversation then we need to do that in my office."
"Fair enough," Beck said. Now wasn't the time to push. He had to speak to Judge Curtis and any information he got from that conversation was relevant to the questions Kimbrel hadn't answered.
"I won't take up anymore of your time," Beck said.
"Let me know what you find out in your investigation," Kimbrel responded.
Beck nodded and walked off. They'd left the conversation less pleasant than they'd began it and Kimbrel watched the internal investigator as he left.
He didn't want to answer Beck's question about Lima and Foley's actions on the day under scrutiny. He was agitated by the thought of it. He couldn't tell Beck the truth of the situation, which was that he didn't know what Lima and Foley were doing there that day.
They hadn't notified their lieutenant.
✽✽✽
Raymond Beck had been sitting in the waiting room of Judge Curtis' office for about fifteen minutes when the pleasant, studious looking secretary said, "The Judge will see you now."
Beck thanked her and went into Curtis' office.
Wilton Curtis was an accomplished jurist with eighteen years experience on the bench and an additional twenty-one years practicing law beforehand. He was a well-built, graying, African-American man in his early sixties.
"Detective Beck. How can I help you today?" Judge Curtis asked.
"I'd like to go over some things with you about a warrant," Beck said.
"Okay."
"This shooting that occurred downtown just before the hurricane. Two detectives, Ayrton Lima and Nelson Foley were involved."
"Yes. Shameful. I was sad to hear about Foley's passing and Lima, I understand, is still in the hospital. I've worked with them from time to time."
"Yes, sir. I know. That's what I'd like to ask you about. You had agreed to a warrant for them. A Cuban cafetería on Flagler and First Avenue."
"That's correct. I had signed a warrant presented by Detectives Lima and Foley. I hadn't thought about it when I first heard about the shooting. It was only after thinking about Lima and Foley's misfortune that I later made the connection to the location."
"The information I have is that it was dated the nineteenth of August."
"No, I thought it was quite some time ago. I could be wrong, but seems like it was over a month before."
"Well this is the date of the second warrant."
"I don't recall any second warrant. I remember they sat here in my office, I went over their paperwork and signed the warrant. But that was more than a few weeks ago. And, at any case, they didn't come back a second time."
"Is that so?" Beck asked the question with slight confusion, but more intrigue.
"Indeed it is," Judge Curtis said as he pressed a few buttons on his phone and said, "Janine. Could you please bring me copies of any warrants from the past month? And any warrants for Detectives Lima or Foley over the past two months?"
The voice over the speaker responded, "Of course, sir. Give me a moment."
"Thank you," he responded.
Beck noticed the 'thank you'. He didn't know why, but he'd always noticed when superiors thanked their assistants for tasks ordered. He thought it was an unnecessary but decent gesture and he didn't always see it in his fellow man.
"I imagine this is a troubling case for Internal," the Judge said, making conversation as they awaited the files.
"It is. You never want to answer the phone and learn you have to investigate the shooting of fellow policemen."
"I can understand that."
"I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me today, Your Honor."
Judge Curtis waved the comment off and said, "Luckily it's a light day. An average day for us is far more hectic than this, believe me."
"I'm sure you've seen your fair share of chaos over the years."
Judge Curtis let out the slightest, weary laugh. Bemused, he said, "Far too many years. It's time for me to retire soon. I've done my time."
"Well, I'd say you've earned it, sir."
Judge Curtis nodded his thanks.
"How did you do in the storm?" Beck asked.
"God blessed us. Thankfully we came out of it okay. You?"
"My wife's avocado tree was split in half. She was upset about it and I pointed out that there were plenty of people far worse off for the hurricane than us. To which she pointed out that the tree had been in her family for three generations."
Judge Curtis smiled, genuinely amused by the story and offered, "You're in the doghouse, son."
"Yes, sir. It appears I am."
They shared a laugh and a moment later Janine arrived with the requested documents.
"Here you are, Your Honor," Janine said as she placed them on the desk in front of Judge Curtis.
"Thank you, Janine," he said.
Janine handed him one off the top of the file folder and said, "This is the warrant for Detective Lima, sir."
"Excuse me," Beck spoke up, "What's the date on that warrant?"
"July 12th."
"That sounds about right," Judge Curtis said. He continued with, "Correc
t me if I'm wrong, Janine. But did either Detective Lima or Detective Foley return at a later date for any subsequent warrants?"
"No, sir, I don't believe so." She immediately went to the file of warrants for the month of August. She sifted through them as she showed them to the Judge.
"There are nine warrants here, none of them filed by either detective," she confirmed.
"And these are all the warrants for the past month?" Beck asked.
"That's correct, Detective," Janine replied.
"May I have a copy of the July 12th warrant?" Beck asked.
"Of course. Janine can give you one on your way out."
"Certainly, sir," Janine said, then walked out of the office.
Beck thought it over. Judge Curtis watched him.
"You're thinking Lima and Foley made a false warrant."
"Yes, sir, and forged your signature. I mean, I hate to think so, but that's certainly how it looks."
Judge Curtis grimaced. There were so many troubling aspects to that idea. Not the least of which was that it was his good name being used for the forgery.
"Do you think they'd be the type to do something like that, sir?"
Judge Curtis thought about it for a moment then simply said, "I don't know. You would have to ask their shift commander. He'd know better than I, that's for certain. Knowing the letter of the law is one thing. Judging a man's character . . . that's something entirely different."
Beck agreed, even if just silently to himself. He wasn't sure what had happened at Flagler and first. But what he did know was that bullets flew and at the heart of it all were two detectives with a fake warrant and a police lieutenant who didn't know as much as he should.
And people died.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Legwork
Sheen jiggled the quarters in his hand, listening to the metal coins clink against each other. It was the only diversion he had between the increments of what he thought was every couple of minutes that he would peer down Bird Road to see if the bus was approaching. In fact, it was about every twenty seconds.
He hadn't waited on a bus since he'd taken the school bus over twenty years ago. He didn't know how to endure the mundane nature at the bus stop. He looked at the older woman, sitting on the bus bench a few feet away, noting her patience. Maybe she does this every day, he wondered. He walked towards her and asked, "Excuse me, Miss. How long until the bus comes?"
The lady looked at her wrist watch and said, "A little over a half hour. If it's on time."
Sheen smiled and nodded, hiding his annoyance to hearing the words "a half hour" and didn't want to even think about the term "if it's on time."
"Thank you," he said.
He stepped away, let out an impatient breath, and then looked around for something interesting to serve as a view. What caught his eye was a place to eat while he killed a half hour. He walked towards its familiar yellow and red painted structure, upon which the sign read "Chili Dog - Kraut Dog."
Arbetter's had been a Miami institution since the early 1960's. They served hot dogs, and the frankfurter variations that included chili dogs, kraut dogs and corn dogs. Plus they had the best cheese fries to be found anywhere in the city.
In the southwest Miami part of town it was one of a handful of great, cheap places to eat. Along with Frankie's Pizza a little farther up the road, and the diner at Allen's Drugstore in the other direction. The next main street to the south was Miller Road, where you could find Rainbow Subs for a great sandwich. And if you wanted a good, southern home style breakfast, you need only travel a few blocks southwest to the Chuck Wagon.
Delmon walked into Arbetter's and ordered two hot dogs, an order of cheese fries and a root beer. It was ready almost as soon as he'd paid for it. He sat and stared out the window as he ate. This was the kind of food he typically inhaled, eating very quickly. Within ten minutes, he'd already finished the entire meal and was slurping at an empty paper cup.
Arbetter's had a policy on refills. You could get one free if you professed your love to one of two Boston Celtics legends. Sheen chose to say, "I love Bob Cousy", to the cashier in order to get his refill. He'd grown up a Dr. J fan and loved the Sixers, so he could never bring himself to say "I love Larry Bird."
He slapped a top on his go cup and left the restaurant to head back to the bus stop, hoping it would be sooner to the arrival time than later.
It was only five minutes after he'd returned to the stop that the bus arrived. He got in line behind the older lady, waited his turn at the fare box and inserted his dollar and twenty-five cents worth of quarters.
The bus took off down the street and Sheen sat towards the middle section. He noticed several bus schedule pamphlets nestled in slots attached behind the driver's seat. He stood up, moved towards the pamphlets, got the one marked with the route number he was currently on and sat back down.
He watched out the window and took the occasional glance around at the other passengers, overhearing most of the conversations. It was the nature of his detective mind to be a constant observer.
Two women a few seats in front of him talked about the storm. A young, college aged man listened to his walkman. And the two young, testosterone filled men that sat a few seats behind him carried on a crude conversation about all the sexual activities they would embark upon with the members of the pop group En Vogue.
"I got positions for all four of them!" one exclaimed, as the other one let out his jackal's laugh.
After his cackle ended he offered, "Shit, I'd do the same to Salt -n- Pepa, too!"
"Pepa fine as hell, bro," his friend added.
A smirk crept across Delmon's face as he thought about what it was to be at the age where you had only one thing on your mind, twenty-four hours a day.
It was then that he'd realized the bus had stopped at the side of the road, but there was no bus stop to coincide with the location on the sidewalk. They had travelled quite a distance, now in the northeast part of town. Sheen recognized the neighborhood as being on the north side of the Miami River, but not quite as far north as Allapattah. There were still many blocks to travel before reaching his destination. He figured that if he was to rely on public transportation for a number of days, he may find a different route. Perhaps one that got him to the rail and he'd travel downtown that way. Maybe it was ultimately quicker, even if it did involve transferring to another mode of transit.
The bus driver, who was Hispanic and in his mid-fifties got out of the driver's seat, turned to the others on the bus and motioned towards the convenience store they'd stopped near. He mumbled something unintelligible, as if routinely asking a question for which he didn't anticipate an answer. The other riders, those that acknowledged his request anyway, nodded or waved at him. Sheen simply shrugged.
He watched the driver step off the bus and go into the convenience store. Figuring the driver needed to use the restroom, Sheen was apathetic about the unscheduled stop. He imagined the driver's typically used the stops at either end of the route to take a bathroom break, but when you gotta go, you gotta go.
The driver returned a few minutes later, a small, closed up paper bag in hand. Cuban coffee, Sheen thought. The driver needed to stop for a shot, and got a cortadito to go. Sheen guessed that some passengers might be upset by such a clear protocol violation by the driver, but he frankly didn't care. It was a couple minutes wait at best and he wasn't going to get up in arms about a bus driver bending the rules.
About ten minutes later, the bus finally arrived at Downtown. He signaled for his stop and stood, walking towards the door near the backend of the bus. When it came to a stop, he pushed on the handle bars in the middle and the two connecting, automatic doors swung open.
When he'd stepped onto the sidewalk he'd looked both ways at the surrounding area, not far from the library, the courthouse and the Government Center stop for the Metrorail. As he turned his head to the corner, where the bus was stopped, he noticed that the driver had stepped out of the front door moments a
fter Sheen had stepped out the back. The driver, paper bag in hand, walked to the cafetería on the corner and stepped inside.
Sheen stepped into the street and crossed to the opposite sidewalk, a place where he could watch for the driver's return. He found it a bit odd. The driver had just gotten off the bus twenty minutes earlier, now he was stepping off again. He'd had the paper bag in his hand. Maybe it was nothing, maybe this time he actually had to stop and use the restroom. Maybe he was going to toss the paper bag in the trash now that he was done with his coffee. Of course, Sheen had just assumed about the coffee. Who knows what was really in that bag?
He watched and he waited. A few minutes had passed before the driver returned, carrying nothing, and boarded the bus. It drove off and Sheen watched it go. After it drove down Flagler and was out of his sight, he turned his attention to the cafetería.
It was then that he noticed the man with a hawk-like face, well-tanned, Hispanic, and graying hair showing beneath his ragged baseball cap. He was a shoeshine guy, his box stationed beneath the elevated train tracks and with a perfect view of the cafetería across the street.
Sheen walked towards the man and asked, "How are you doing today?"
"Ok," the man responded, instinctively looking at Sheen's shoes. Noticing they weren't dress shoes, he knew he didn't have a customer in front of him.
"What can you tell me about that restaurant across the street?" Sheen asked.
Shoeshine didn't look up at Sheen's eyes. He straightened up his box of varying shoe polish and his rags as they spoke. "Good food. If that's what you want," he answered with a shrug.
"Were you here the other day? When they had all that shooting?"
Shoeshine kept quiet. A furrowed brow and pursed lips gave him away, but he offered no vocal response.
Sheen stepped towards the chair that Shoeshine had setup for his customers. He leaned on the train track pillar next to it, took out a twenty dollar bill and dropped it on the empty chair.
Shoeshine's eyes followed the sight of the cash falling on the seat. "I'm a private detective," Sheen said and produced a business card that he also dropped on the man's chair. "I'm not police. I'm looking for a young man. He's missing and I think he was here that day. Can I ask you a few questions?"
