GOTU - A Robin Marlette Novel

by Mike McNeff

  Pearle rubbed his forehead as if he was trying to ward off pain he knew loomed ahead.

  “I think it's worth it, Captain,” volunteered Hammel.

  “Since when have you gotten so wild-assed?”

  “Well, sir, if Robin and his men are going to keep on working like they have, it might as well be for cases that mean something.”

  Pearle looked off into the stars blanketing the desert sky, as if looking for a sign to tell him what to do. Then he faced Robin. “I guess I brought you into the division to go after the most dangerous assholes in the business and that's just what you are doing. I don't know whatever possessed me to think it would be easy for me.”

  “Bullshit. You knew you would have to cover me. You're the politician, not me.”

  “You don't have to remind me. That's why a lot of commanders don't want you around.”

  “They just can't handle the pressure,” said Robin, grinning. “You know the ol' saying, ‘Little deals, little headaches…big deals, big headaches no deals, no headaches,’” Pearle chimed in.

  “Okay, okay, Rob. Go get 'em. Just make it right.”

  “Always.”

  “Come on, Les,” Pearle said to Hammel. “Let's go get one last good breakfast before we get our new ulcers.”

  Hammel looked at Robin. “Keep me posted on your progress.”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant.”

  Pearle and Hammel walked back to the Jet Ranger and after a brief conversation with the crew, they all got into the helicopter. Just before the pilot started the engine, Robin heard the Blackhawk coming back. He keyed his radio.

  “Two Nora Six, Lima Two-One.”

  “Lima Two-One.”

  “Lima Two-One, you might hover out south for a minute. We have a Jet Ranger about to lift off.”

  “Roger, Nora Six.”

  Robin figured if the Blackhawk got close enough to the Ranger when it started to lift off, the power of the Blackhawk's rotor wash could be disastrous for the light Jet Ranger. No use in taking any chances.

  The Ranger now powered up and was starting to lift off. The pilot banked the agile chopper to the east and headed back to Phoenix.

  “Lima Two-One, Two Nora Six, we're coming in.”

  “Roger, Two-One.”

  Robin hustled back to the Cessna and got inside to protect himself from the inevitable dust storm. Matt Howe already hunkered down there. They watched the flashing navigation lights of the big helicopter coming towards them. It flared out and touched down. The dust storm created by the rotors rocked the Cessna. Robin heard the engines start to wind down.

  “Come on, Matt. Let's go see who we've got to deal with.” Robin and Matt climbed out of the airplane and started walking to the Blackhawk. Chris Fleming of the FBI stepped out of the chopper first. A new FBI agent, whose name Robin couldn't remember, followed Chris.

  After the FBI agents, came Sergeant Mike Hayes and Officer Tim Becker of the DPS shooting team. Jack opened the pilot's door and gave Robin a casual salute with a big grin. Robin returned the greeting.

  “The brass is in here cussin' your ass, Rob,” Jack called.

  “My brass has already been here, so all they get is leftovers.”

  “I heard that, Rob.” Robin recognized the voice of Bill Grassley, the U.S. Customs Resident Agent in Charge of the Phoenix Office of Investigation. He jumped out of the Blackhawk with Russ Martin, the supervisor of the U.S. Customs Phoenix Air Support Office, behind him. Robin took a deep breath. More brass to convince.

  Bill Grassley usually agreed with Robin's plans. In fact, the more innovative Robin got, the more Grassley liked it. Robin didn't know what Bill would think about letting five million dollars walk, and he tried to gauge Bill's mood this early morning.

  Grassley's green eyes seemed to scan the environment inquisitively. Keenly intelligent, he was much like Robin—get to the point and leave out the bullshit.

  The group of men gathered around Robin and Mark. Robin went through the events of the night for a second time, knowing he would have to do it a hundred times more. He did not go into the future plan. Operational security mandated the DPS officers, and the young FBI agent didn't need to know. Robin needed Chris Fleming's help, but first he wanted to privately brief Grassley and Martin about the plan.

  “Are all the shooters here so we can interview them?” asked Fleming.

  “Yes they are, Chris. Feel free to talk to any of them.” Robin reached into his left leg pocket and retrieved the Czech pistol and magazine. He handed them to Chris. “These were on the stiff's body.” He then reached into his right leg pocket and retrieved the AK magazine.

  “This is his AK magazine. The top rounds in both mags were in the breech of the respective guns.”

  “Good. Okay, folks, whaddya say we get started. We'll talk to you last, Rob.” The four men in the shooting team walked over to the Blazer, where Mike Collins kept the body company.

  Robin looked at Bill Grassley. “Bill, we have a chance to turn this jump into one hell of a conspiracy investigation.”

  “Lay it on me, Rob.”

  Robin told the details about Newman, Walton, and the money and his own plan to nail the intended payees. Bill Grassley listened intently. When Robin finished, Russ Martin let out a low whistle. Jack and Oscar, who were standing behind the two supervisors, grinned and gave Robin thumbs up, but Bill Grassley had to make the decision and he stood with his arms folded, looking at the ground for a full minute. Finally, he looked up at Robin.

  “You know it will take at least three weeks just to get a wiretap authorization, even on an emergency application.”

  “I know, but I can get state authorization in six days and be up in ten and since the state statute is the same as the federal one, it will fly in federal court. So, we apply to both at the same time, start with the state wire, and convert to the federal when it's authorized.”

  “I can buy that.” Grassley looked over at the Cuban. “How are you going to keep him quiet?”

  “I'll need a minute with Chris Fleming to see if I can handle that.”

  “Whatever backing you need from me with the Bureau, you got it,” Grassley replied.

  “You think you'll have any trouble getting approval to walk the money?”

  “Hell yes, I'm going to have trouble, Rob; at least as much trouble as your brass. But, I have some stock built up. I think I can swing it. Your probable targets will be worth it in my mind.”

  Robin smiled and put his arm around Grassley's shoulders. “Someday, Bill, you'll be running U.S. Customs.”

  “Only if you don't screw this case up,” Bill replied with a chuckle.

  “I'll go talk to Chris and get the Cuban taken care of.”

  As Robin started walking towards the shooting team, Jack Moore called out to him. “You better make sure Air Support is involved in this shindig.”

  “I'm going to fly your ass off, Moore,” Robin called back. Jack and Oscar high-handed each other and grinned into the night.

  As Robin walked over to where the shooting team worked, his mind mulled over troubling thoughts. Walking five million dollars would not be popular with the brass in his department or the Feds in Treasury and the Department of Justice. All law enforcement agencies worked to get large seizures to supplement their beleaguered budgets. Eighty percent of the money seized by the DPS Narcotics Division went to the Highway Patrol Bureau under one pretext or another. The law directed the seized money must go back to the department for narcotics enforcement. The brass decided the Highway Patrol made narcotics arrests, so they got the money. In reality, the patrol got the money because they ran short due to overtime, vehicle maintenance, and the price of gasoline. As the high profile guys, the department had to keep them running up and down the highway.

  Robin felt partial to the Highway Patrol himself. He started his career there and he planned to finish it there. In Robin's mind, however, the battle against the drug smugglers and dealers was critical now. Third world countries were beh
ind a large part of the narcotics distribution in the United States, for the express purpose of destroying America and financing terrorist activities. The apparent lack of interest in this knowledge by higher authorities greatly disturbed Robin.

  Robin and his men were in the front lines of this war, and they needed money to carry it on. Right now they needed the five million dollars to take down some very powerful men in the act of betraying their country in the war against drugs just to make a buck.

  “Yo, Rob.”

  Robin's thoughts were interrupted by Matt Howe's voice. “Hey man, you're going to have to slow down so I can keep up with you. I know I'm new at this game, but if I just stand around with my thumb up my ass while you do all the work, Grassley is going to ship me to the Ajo Inspection Station to work the graveyard shift.” Even in the light of the half moon, Matt looked young to Robin. His closely cropped blond hair and blue eyes were a perfect match for his freckled face. Matt looked like the picture of youthful freshness. Robin thought of how this work would erode that freshness in a few years.

  Robin didn't slow his stride. “Matt, I don't mean to leave you out, but I don't have the time to baby you. I'm not slowing down. You have to keep up. Be assertive and jump in anytime. You won't hurt my feelings.”

  “Look, Rob, I don't know one tenth what you do about this business. I watch you work and I'm dazzled. Hell, I've talked to your guys. You dazzle them! I want to be productive and I want to learn. I can't do it when you leave me out.”

  Robin smiled and put his arm around Matt's shoulders. “Now that's a load of bullshit, Matt, but flattery will get you everywhere. Come on. Let's go see if we can get something for nothing from the FBI without destroying them as an institution.”

  “Think we can pull that off?”

  “Hell, no,” laughed Robin.

  The men were laughing when they walked up to the shooting investigators. “Chris, we need to talk to you,” Robin said.

  Chris Fleming looked at the two men and shook his head with a knowing look. “I detect a conspiracy here.”

  Robin and Matt pulled Chris aside. “The suspect we have in custody over there is Cuban. He is also a member of the Path of the Shining Light terrorist group.”

  “Well I'll be damned. You guys really did do a good jump, didn't you? What do you need from me?”

  We need you to take the Cuban into custody under the National Security Act, so we can keep him quiet.”

  “Whoa, brother! You're asking for the whole world. I can't just do that without some damn serious justification.”

  “Well, then pipe down and listen, Chris.” Robin described the details of the night. Chris listened, obviously getting more interested by the minute. Robin knew Chris figured this to be one hell of a public corruption case. In the federal system, the FBI had primary responsibility for investigating those kinds of cases. Chris would want in as the FBI case agent.

  Chris Fleming was a twenty-six-year veteran of the FBI and an excellent investigator. Five years experience on the FBI Hostage Rescue Team also made him a good man to have around when the shit hit the fan. Not arrogant or condescending as some FBI agents could be, Chris understood how valuable local cops were in providing information and help on investigations. Local cops were also a good source of federal cases to the savvy FBI agent.

  Robin liked Chris because like Robin, Chris had little ambition in terms of promotion. Both men just wanted to put criminals in prison. They loved working in the field. A desk would be a prison to them.

  Robin finished giving Chris the details of the night. He knew he sold the case enough to Chris to start the ball rolling on taking the Cuban into custody under the National Security Act. Of course, Chris had a mountain of administrative bullshit to plow through to make the custody status stick, but he maintained a lot of contacts. If anybody could do it, he could.

  “Okay,” Chris said, “When we get the Cuban to Sky Harbor, I'll get on the phone and get things started. Just remember, I'm in.”

  “I know, I know. Any other agent but you and I wouldn't have said anything. I'm glad you're in.”

  “Hell, I wouldn't want to miss one of your shit storms.”

  As the two men laughed, the fire of another Arizona-scorched desert day began to glow on the horizon.

  The shooting team worked on their investigation while Robin's team finished processing the aircraft and vehicles for evidence. In addition to photographs, Rick Santos worked on a diagram of the scene. The team videotaped most of the evidence processing. Mike and Mark changed the tire on the Blazer and found no leaks coming out of the engine from the bullet hits on the vehicle. When the teams were finished, they gathered around the Blackhawk.

  Robin scanned his team assembled before him. They were all coated with a mixture of dust and droplets of mud formed by the sweat on their uniforms. “Okay, folks,” Rob began. “Nobody talks about what happened out here to anyone. I'm sure there will be lots of people asking questions. Refer them to me. A loose tongue could jeopardize any follow-up investigation. All reports will be disseminated on a need to know basis only.” Robin turned to Mike Hayes. “That goes for the shooting team also, Mike.”

  “You got it, Rob.”

  “Good. Jack, Burke and I will take the Cessna in. Follow us if you would.” Jack nodded in agreement. Both Robin and Burke Jameson were private pilots.

  “Rick, you and Mike take the Blazer to the Sky Harbor office.”

  “Ten-Four, Sarge.”

  “Chris, are you assuming responsibility for the body?”

  “Yeah, and I'm formally taking custody of the Cuban now at least until I'm told otherwise.”

  Robin smiled at Chris. Chris wouldn't do that unless he had the whole thing figured out.

  “Okay, let's do it, troops,” said Robin. “We'll work out the rest when we get to the office. Now mount up! We're burning daylight!”

  FOUR

  Robin's squad worked another ten hours before all the loose ends were tied up. The mounds of paperwork he needed to do, when he could hardly keep his eyes open, was the hardest part of deals like this. He fought sleep with gallons of coffee. The coffee itself did not necessarily guarantee he would stay awake, but the fact that he had to urinate every thirty minutes did.

  Robin's immediate priority focused on the security of the operation. Within four hours of landing at Sky Harbor, the heads of all the agencies involved ordered the strictest secrecy be maintained on the case. The chain of command became simplified, with Robin in tactical command subject only to the orders of Assistant United States Attorney Jim Adams, who spoke for the joint agency chiefs. For a cop, it doesn't get any better.

  The jurisdictional issues worked out well for Robin. DPS assumed lead agency for the investigation. It would be a joint state and federal Organized Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force (OCDETF) prosecution. Because the case involved public corruption, the FBI had primary authority over that aspect federally. U.S. Customs had primary authority over the money smuggling. Although the FBI and Customs could both do the money laundering investigation, Robin all but insisted the IRS do that part of the investigation. They were by far and away the best at it.

  At this early stage, Robin thought he had a chance to keep DEA out of the investigation. Robin did not like DEA and DEA did not like Robin because he had kicked them off two prior OCDETF cases for not being willing to do the grunt work. He knew DEA would be snooping around to find out what happened and try to get into the case because it involved Rodriquez-Lara's cartel.

  Robin's thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the phone. When he answered it, Emmett's happy deep voice greeted him.

  “Hey, Boss, you still awake?”

  “Yeah, how 'bout you, cowboy?”

  “Shit, Rob, what this guy has told us will keep us all awake for a long time.”

  “Good stuff, huh?”

  “Sarge, this is going to be the biggest case we ever dreamed of doing. This guy is going to do some very big assholes.”

 
“Okay, Emmett. I should be there in about an hour.”

  “No hurry, Sarge. We're comfortable.”

  “See ya.”

  “Bye.”

  Emmett's phone call reminded Robin he needed to get some relief troops to watch Newman. Time to call the crazies of Victor Thirty-Two squad. Robin picked up the phone and punched squad Sergeant Ernie Jackson's home number. The phone rang.

  “Jackson residence, Judy speaking.”

  “Hi, Judy. This is Uncle Rob. Is your Dad home?”

  “Hi, Uncle Rob. Dad's home. I'll get him.”

  “Thanks, Judy.”

  A few seconds later, Ernie came on the phone. “Yo, Rob! What's up?”

  “I need help, Ernie.”

  “Will it be worth my while?”

  “Well, asshole, since Sunday is your day off, you'll at least get overtime.”

  “Good point! When and where?”

  “I need you and two of your guys at our hideout as soon as you can.”

  “Okay, but just tell me this. Is this another one of your wild-assed marathon shit storms?”

  “It looks like it.”

  Robin could hear Ernie take a deep breath. “Goddamn, Marlette. I don't know why I let you get me into these things.”

  “You do it because you're a hard chargin,' raggedy ass street cop like me, Ernie. So quit fuckin' around and get moving.”

  “Okay, dickhead. We'll see you in about an hour or so.”

  “Good. Adios.”

  “Bye.”

  Robin finished his paperwork and walked out to the undercover van the department issued him, a new 1988 tan one-ton Chevrolet complete with built-in surveillance equipment and gear lockers built to Robin's specifications. Ten minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of the Casablanca Motel. The owner of the Casablanca let the Guardians have two adjoining rooms for free. At one time, the owner's daughter became hooked on cocaine. The Guardians put her dealer in prison for fifteen years.

  Robin went to room 268 and knocked twice, paused, and knocked once. Emmett answered the door, his muscular six-four frame filling the opening.

  “Where is Newman?” Robin asked.