“Let’s do it.”
Frank got directions to the FBI field office from Gardner and settled up his tab at the bar. He looked at his watch as he hurried to the door. It was five minutes after three.
Braewyn Joyce was no longer fashionably late.
She was missing.
Chapter 48
Frank picked up Tom Gardner at the North Miami field office and they drove south on 79th Street.
“What’s shaking here in Miami?” Frank asked.
“Some guys are buying and selling war surplus,” Tom said. “Boats, naval ordnance, stuff like that. Throws up red flags at the bureau.”
“The terrorists used planes once, so now it’s boats?”
“The ports are vulnerable. A nuclear weapon set off in Miami, Baltimore, New York, anyplace like that, could be another 9/11.”
“These guys look capable of nuclear stuff?”
“One of them has deep pockets. Knows his way around the arms dealers overseas. He’s a concern.”
“Cezar Nicolai?”
Tom fell silent.
“That where Agent Joyce went today?” Frank asked.
“Yes,” Tom said. “And I should’ve been there.”
Tom and Frank arrived at the Mershon Hotel and pulled up to the entrance to the their private garage. The lot attendant stopped Frank’s car and requested the guest ID. Tom Gardner leaned across Frank and displayed his plastic room key.
“I’m registered here. My partner has our car.”
The attendant checked the key code and returned it.
“Use any space on the third level,” the attendant said.
Frank drove up into the multi-story garage and parked near the elevator.
“Braewyn had to register our car’s license plate number and registration with the front desk when we arrived,” Tom said. “I need to get that vehicle ID number from the concierge.”
“Putting out an APB for the car?” Frank asked.
“I’ve already called every law enforcement agency I could think of with descriptions of the car and Braewyn. We need that VIN for another reason.”
“What make is the car?”
“Chevrolet.”
“Has OnStar.”
“You got it.”
* * * * *
Thirty minutes later, Frank and Tom took seats at a table in the hotel lounge. Tom waved off the waiter who approached. He checked for any messages on his cell, then placed it on the table.
“I reported the car stolen to Miami-Dade police.” Tom said.
“What about your partner?”
“Find the car, find the partner.”
“I’ve had to use the OnStar program in the past,” Frank said and pulled out his cell phone. “I have their number in my contacts.”
“We need a location asap,” Tom said.
Frank rang OnStar and had them start a trace on Braewyn’s Traverse. When he ended the call he stared at Tom’s phone.
“You mentioned Braewyn sent you some photos. Of your suspects?”
“She did.”
“Mind if I see them?” Frank said.
“Why?” Tom said. “They’re FBI business.”
“I live here and I know a lot of bad boys who also live here. Couldn’t hurt for me to see if I can ID any in your photos.”
Tom stared at Frank for several seconds.
“Maybe you’re right. Couldn’t hurt.”
Tom brought up the photos on his cell and handed the phone to Frank. Frank scrolled through the pictures and frowned.
“These were shot from a distance,” Frank said. “Features…not so clear…”
Frank stopped at the photo of two men sitting together, both facing the camera. His mouth twitched.
“See something?” Tom asked.
“This guy on the right. He’s a man I know as Anton Chernac.”
“That’s great. What do you know about him?”
“I know Anton Chernac’s dead.”
“Then who’s the man in the photo?”
“Good question,” Frank said. “Send these photos to my phone. You have my cell number.”
“Those photos are part of an FBI investigation.”
“That man has all but killed me. He’s part of my investigation too, so send ‘em.”
Frank handed back Tom’s phone. Tom tapped and swiped the screen of the cell a few times and glared at Frank.
“I better not have a reason to regret this.” Tom said and pressed a final icon on the cell.
Frank checked his phone to see if the photos were received and nodded.
“Good. We may have to join forces against this prick.”
Frank started to slip his phone in his jacket when it rang.
“Yes,” Frank said.
“This is OnStar,” a woman’s voice said.
Frank switched the phone to speaker mode.
“We found the car, sir.”
“Where is it?” Tom asked.
“It’s in the valet parking area of the Fontainbleau Hotel.”
“Thank you,” Frank said and positioned his thumb to end the call.
“The hotel’s in the 4400 block of Collins Avenue,” the lady said.
“I know where it is,” Frank said and pressed a button on his phone to end the call.
“Everybody in the western hemisphere knows where the damn Fontainebleau is,” he
muttered as he charged out of the bar, chased closely by Tom Gardner.
Chapter 49
The computer in the Frank’s cruiser cut back on the interior air conditioning in favor of controlling the temperature of the more important cooling system for the engine. Idling along in the sluggish afternoon traffic in the Miami summer heat had the A/C blowing air only a few degrees cooler than the 95-degree, humid air outside. Tom Gardner wiped his face with a handkerchief and scowled at Frank.
“Should’ve taken one of the FBI cars,” Tom said. “Their air actually works.”
After several uncomfortable patrols down the same streets, Frank finally sharked a spot from a man leaving a metered space off Collins Avenue. It was three hot blocks from where the curved architecture of the Fontainebleau towered 15 stories up. He killed the engine and started to open the car door when his cell rang. He looked at its display in relief. The caller ID showed Braewyn Joyce’s cell number.
“Are you okay, Ms. Joyce?” Frank said, with his phone on speaker.
“I’m fine, but I seldom get called Ms. Joyce,” the man’s voice said.
Frank immediately recognized the voice.
“Maybe you could give us a name. A real name.” Frank said smearing the sweat around on his face.
“I would have wagered you’d have figured that out by now, detective.”
“Well, we sure as hell know you’re not Anton Chernac,” Frank said. “So my next guess would be Cezar Nicolai, the guy who’s been hounding David Hapburg.”
“‘Hounding’? David’s an old friend.”
Tom Gardner squirmed in his seat and reached over to take the phone. Frank raised his free hand, blocking him.
“Knock off the bullshit. Where’s Agent Joyce?”
“She’s right here with me and she’s fine, I assure you.”
“Let me speak to her,” Frank said.
“All in good time,” Nicolai said. “We need to have a chat, you and I.”
“What are we having now? And how the hell do you know Agent Joyce knows me?”
“Do I have to educate you on having sources?”
“Answer the question.”
“Since you have me on speaker, I imagine there are other ears there.”
Tom again reached for the phone. Frank shook his head at him.
“I want a private chat, face to face,” Nicolai said.
“Again?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“About what?”
“Don’t be coy, detective.”
“I told you before. I don’t know anything about this Omega thing,” Fran
k said. “Nothing’s changed. You need to bug my phone again?”
“Perhaps you have some ideas, and I have some ideas, and we could combine them and arrive at the answers we both want. How does that sound?”
“Okay. Let’s meet and discuss it.”
“Excellent,” Cezar said. “I can’t today, I’m afraid. I have appointments to keep, but I’ll contact you soon. By the way, I’m ecstatic that you kept your old phone.”
“Now, may I speak to Agent Joyce?”
A moment passed before the Nicolai’s voice returned.
“C’est dommage. I’m afraid she’s taking an afternoon nap and has asked not to be disturbed. We’ll meet soon, detective.”
The connection ended abruptly. Frank pounded on the partition between the seats with his fist.
“Why didn’t you let me talk to him?” Tom said.
“What were you going to say? Hi, I’m an FBI agent so let me come pick up my partner, okay? Jesus, Tom, the last person in the world a guy like this wants to talk to is Braewyn’s Fibbie partner.”
“Might scare the bastard.”
“This guy scares like a Kodiak bear scares. Forget it.”
Perspiration dripped onto Frank’s lap. He breathed deeply and options raced through his brain like a psychedelic slide show. He knew he might be able to find out where Braewyn’s cell phone was by using cell tower triangulation, but it would only show a general area. He was already certain she was somewhere nearby. His mental slide show stopped on one particular architectural image.
“I think she’s in the Fontainebleau,” Frank said.
“Cop’s hunch?”
“Should’ve thought of that immediately.”
“Okay, we’ll play it your way. What’s next?”
“Get Miami-Dade in the hunt.”
Frank called the Miami-Dade PD, identified himself, and informed them of the abduction details. He emailed them the photos he had of Braewyn and Nicolai for their APB and made sure the rented Chevy Traverse would be under police surveillance at the Fontainebleau’s parking facility. Tom did the same with the local FBI office in North Miami Beach.
Frank believed the Fontainebleau was worth a try. He and Tom trudged the three sizzling blocks to the hotel and made their way to the main lobby and stood at the reception desk.
“May I help you, gentlemen?” a clerk behind the counter said.
“I’m looking for a friend of mine,” Frank said. “I have a picture of him here.”
Frank extended his cell phone and showed the clerk the picture of Nicolai that Braewyn had sent.
“Ah, Mr. Grainger,” the clerk said and moved to a computer for a moment. “Was in the Tresor Penthouse. Looks like he checked out this afternoon.”
Mr. Grainger, Anton Chernac, Cezar Nicolai. The man’s got more names than the census bureau.
“He said he was going to leave something for me. My name’s Dugan, Frank Dugan.”
The clerk searched the area around the desk and counter and opened a couple of drawers.
“He didn’t leave anything here, sir.”
“Could I possibly look in his room? He’s forgetful at times. May have left it there.”
“Uh, I don’t know about that…”
Frank showed the clerk his ID.
“It’ll be okay. I’m a Florida cop. I’ll take full responsibility. Shouldn’t take but a minute.”
The clerk made a phone call and hung up.
“I’m sorry, sir, but the manager says we’ll need a search warrant to allow you access to any of our private rooms.
Frank glared at the clerk and considered going “tough cop” on the guy, but figured it would be a waste of time, something he had too little of. He also thought about sicking Tom and the FBI on the hotel management, but that would not only slow their progress, and might bring in the media, neither of which they needed.
There was another way.
* * * * *
Frank and Tom cornered one of the bellmen near the wall of elevators.
“We need to go up to the Tresor Penthouse,” Frank said to the young bellman and flashed a hundred dollar bill.
“I’d love to take you up there, sir, but I have no access to that suite.”
“You don’t carry pass keys?” Tom asked.
“I do for most of the rooms, but that suite gets its code changed after every occupancy. Only the daily room service people have the master keys.”
“Are there service people up there now?” Frank asked.
“Probably,” the bellman said.
“Take me up to them and the hundred is yours,” Frank said.
The bellman looked around to see who might be watching, then pushed a button on the express elevator. The door opened and all three men stepped inside. The doors closed.
“Cops down here have hundred dollar bills to throw around?” Tom said low.
“I’m on a road trip expense account,” Frank said.
“I can only take you to the floor below the Tresor,” the bellman said. “From there, you’ll have to take the service stairway up a flight.”
“The Tresor just got vacated,” Frank said. “Any chance the service people are in the room?”
“Maybe,” the bellman said as the elevator slowed to a stop and opened its doors.
The bellman led the two men up the service stairs and arrived at the hallway of the Tresor Suite. A woman pushed a service cart with towels, soap, and other hotel accommodations in their direction. The bottom section of the cart contained a large, bulging trash bag tied with a plastic zip-tie.
“We’re too late,” the bellman said. “She’s already done the room.”
“Crap,” Frank said and watched the housekeeping woman push her cart toward the service elevator at the far end of the corridor.
“Ask her where she got that trash,” Frank said.
“Had to come from the Tresor,” the bellman said. “There’s nothing else occupied on this level.”
“We’ll take it.”
“You want the trash?”
“It may contain something our friend meant to leave us,” Frank said.
“Absent-minded as he is, he could’ve dropped it in a trash can,” Tom said. ”I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
“Something important, huh?” the bellman said.
“I’ll level with you,” Frank said. “An FBI woman’s been kidnapped and could be in great danger. What’s in that trash could help save her life.”
Tom held up his FBI credentials to the bellman.
“My God. I’ll get you that trash bag.”
The bellman sprinted down the corridor to the work cart the moment the maid rolled it into the service elevator. He jammed his arm between the closing doors, forced them open, and pulled the cart back into the hall. The maid followed the cart, bewildered.
“Que pasa?” she asked.
“Need your trash from the Tresor. Su basura.” the bellman said, snatching the big plastic bag.
The bellman handed Frank the trash bag and showed the two men the back way out of the hotel. Frank gave the bellman the hundred-dollar bill and thanked him. He and Tom then slogged the three blocks to Frank’s car and alternated carrying the bulky trash bag over their shoulders.
Frank had received several gifts that day. A picture of Cezar Nicolai which cleared up some questions and posed a lot of others, a bag of trash which could hold evidence, and, like all good things that uncannily seem to come in waves of three, he received a present from the Miami-Dade traffic division. A parking ticket was under his wiper blade of the unmarked cruiser.
He dropped the bag onto the floor in the back of the vehicle, got behind the wheel and hurled the balled-up ticket into the glove compartment. He headed back to the Mershon Hotel to drop off Tom Gardner and discussed with him what the FBI would do to make sure Braewyn’s room at the Mershon would be secured until she returned…if she returned.
There was only one thing he wanted out of that bag, and he hoped mightily it was i
n there. A fingerprint, a discarded drinking cup, a cigar stub, a cigarette butt, a disposable toothbrush, a hair with an attached follicle, anything that might contain a tiny trace of DNA. A shred of evidence that would accurately identify who he was dealing with.
Chapter 50
Frank’s cell pinged. He scrolled to his emails and read the message on the screen. It was from Roland Brand.
“Celine Ross worked in NSA’s public affairs department. Sex-tangled with Chernac who’d been planted in overseas ops and got her ass fired. She learned about arms dealer Cezar Nicolai and his connection with Chernac later. All I have so far from Hollenbeck.”
Frank called Roland, unsure of his next move. He was tired, hot, and assailed by factions coming from all directions.
He could almost make out vultures circling overhead.
* * * * *
“I need to go back to Maryland,” Frank said, “but I can’t go now.”
“And you would be who?” Roland said.
Frank hung his head for a moment.
“I have a lot to tell you.”
“So talk,” Roland said.
Frank gave Roland the whole story of the past days and waited for his reaction.
“So this bad guy, Nicolai, has got the FBI gal, and he’s obtained new stuff on this Omega shit?” Roland said. “So what’s in Maryland?”
“I need to look harder into the things I found in my grandfather’s house. I have to figure out this formula before this Cezar Nicolai character does.”
“I’ll call the feds and the boys at Miami-Dade, and relay you anything new that comes up. Go. Do what you have to do.”
Frank didn’t respond. Several seconds of “dead air” passed.
“There’s more?” Roland asked.
“I need to find the proof regarding who killed my father.”
“Well, son, looks like you’ve got yourself a full plate. But saving people, solving crime, and protecting the public: Isn’t that what folks pay you to do?”
“Yep, it is.”
“Well, unless you think there are clues in this telephone conversation, I suggest you get your ass out in the action, set your priorities in order, and start scratching things off your list.”
The Omega Formula: Power to Die For (Detective Frank Dugan) Page 22
