by Susan Slater
“Pull up a chair.” Fucher was hovering and Dan needed him to give his attention to the screen. “I want you to tell me what’s happening as I play the video. For example, give me approximate time of day, whether you’re on the grounds or haven’t come to work yet, and pinpoint the exact location of what you see on the screen. I want to know if that’s normal activity for the time and place.” Dan could only hope Fucher had gotten all that. Oh well, no time like now to find out. Dan pressed “enter.”
He’d start with the parking lot, get a feel for the equipment and then check out possibly more meaningful areas. Camera One had recorded the right side of the parking lot in front of the casino. Camera Two from the left side alternated with Camera One capturing the front door. Inside, looking out was recorded on an interior camera; Camera Seven, he thought. Time for that later and probably only if he wanted to check something.
A lot of people came to work at six a.m. Dan watched as twenty or so workers swiped their cards and entered the casino with another ten close behind. The parking lot was filling up. A forty-something-foot tour bus pulled up to the entrance and thirty-five Q-tips exited and lined up in front, their white hair under the floodlights standing out in sharp contrast to the muted pre-dawn gray shadows that crisscrossed the driveway. There was lots of excitement—selfies and pictures of each other before falling into a single file formation to enter the casino.
“That’s me. There. See?” Sure enough, a fairly grain-free image emerged of Fucher getting off of his bicycle, securing it to a bike rack, opening up the compartment on wheels he pulled behind and letting Sadie literally uncoil from the cramped “wagon” and step onto the asphalt. “She likes to ride in the cart.” Dan wasn’t so sure about that but he’d take Fucher’s word for it. She certainly didn’t seem to be afraid of riding behind a bicycle.
He watched as Fucher and Sadie disappeared around the corner of the casino. Dan would bet a camera that recorded the road that ran in front of the kennel would be picking them up about now. Enough of this. He needed to spend his time looking at footage of the back of the kennel; he could always come back to the parking lot recordings if he thought they might be of help.
He was just about ready to close out this file when an eighteen-wheeler came into view. It was obviously a dog carrier—doors to the outside each with slots for air, all stainless steel.
“Fucher, did you get a load of dogs that morning?”
“Nope.”
“Look here—at this truck. Isn’t that a dog carrier?”
“Yeah. It picked up dogs.”
“How many?”
“Um…maybe fifty.”
Dan quickly opened the file from the camera that would be recording the back of the kennel directly. “There doesn’t seem to be any activity around the truck. When did they load the dogs?”
“After the races…the dogs eat first and exercise. They like to drive at night.”
That made sense. It would be cooler; the dogs would be tired and would settle down quicker after being fed. He did a fast-forward to six p.m., still no activity around the hauler. Seven p.m. and someone who could have been the driver walked around the transport checking tires then opened the back double doors and pulled down a loading ramp. Two workers pushed a large flat utility cart up to the back of the truck. Four crated greyhounds were lifted off the cart and carried into the transport.
“What’s that hanging on the cages? Every cage has one.”
“That’s their collars.”
“Why are they taken off?”
“Safety. Collars get caught in the wire.”
Dan hadn’t thought of that. It made sense. “So each dog has his or her own collar? And they stay with the dog?”
“Yeah. They write their names on them.”
Dan watched as more crates of greyhounds were brought to the truck. It was slow going. There was paperwork with each dog and it took time to situate each crate on board. One man walked among the crates with a clipboard seemingly matching paperwork to an envelope of papers with each dog. Crates of dogs were now lined up along the drive waiting to be loaded. It was quarter to eight.
“Do you remember where you were at this time?”
“With Fred. We ate supper.”
“What time was that?”
“Late. Maybe, eight o’clock. Maybe later. We got burgers and played foosball. When I stay the night, I get to take a break. Sometimes I go home.”
“What time did you get back to the track?”
“Ten, I think.”
“What did you do then?”
“It was real quiet. I went to bed.”
“Did you check on the dogs first?”
“No, they’d only bark and want treats.” Fucher turned back to the screen. “Stop. Stop. Look there. Mr. Mahoney, it’s them—that’s Maximillian, Sheba, Sandy’s Dandy, Roger Dodger and Mellow Yellow.” Fucher excitedly pointed to each dog and touched them on the screen as he named them. Each waited in a wire crate to be loaded. Dan zoomed in on each crate. He recognized ShebaTwo or Daisy with the white chest and blaze and knew he could trust Fucher to know the others.
Paydirt. Finally. In almost two weeks this was the first solid lead and proof that the dogs were nowhere near the fire when it broke out. Of course, their crates were empty—Fucher hadn’t made that up. Fucher and Dan watched as each crate was carried into the hauler. Then they waited and watched until the ramp was removed and both doors were closed. The truck was on the road by five minutes after eleven, according to the time-stamp. Dan made a note of the license plate and slipped the flash drive in his pocket. It had been a stroke of genius to bring Fucher to view the tapes. Not too many people would have recognized the five “dead” dogs.
Chapter Twenty-four
The next morning was a busy one. He had the name of the hauler, the license plate number, the bill of lading from Carol Taichert and basically all he had to do was sit and wait. He’d put in the calls to trace the load—he needed to know signatures of authorization, and drop-off destinations for starters. These could be revealing. Carol was following up and would have paperwork faxed to her office. Dan needed to prove the whereabouts of the original five dogs and he was close. Daisy, aka ShebaTwo, was the only one safely back with her owner. Someone at the track had initiated that shipping. The owner? A handler? Dixie Halifax needed to answer a few more questions.
***
Dixie met him at the door to her office—all solicitous and ingratiating as she clasped his one hand in her two. A little squeeze before she dropped them and ushered him inside. It was killing him not to be able to ask if Fred Manson was Franco Marconi, but he knew better—however the Feds wanted to handle it, it was their territory.
“First of all let me say how relieved I am that your mother is going to be all right. Mom has had nothing but good things to say about Ms. Mahoney—I think they quickly developed a very strong friendship. Do you know if she plans on returning to The Villages? I know mother would be thrilled.”
“As of now, that’s her plan.”
“I’ve spoken with Scott Ramsey and Chief Cox. I just cannot believe that the casino was being used for money laundering and that your mother’s friend was involved. Such ugly business. But I think all this will give us a fresh start. You know, a time to reflect and then start over and be better.”
“It does offer that opportunity.”
“Oh, and one other thing. I’d like your mother to have ShebaTwo. There comes a time when a dog’s happiness should be foremost in any consideration of its future.” Dixie stood beaming. And Dan could only think, “bribe.” Was he being callous? Could this be a sincere, altruistic offering? Or was he being asked to look the other way about something? Could he have been in this business so long that he was becoming jaded? Suspected a dark motive to everything? Yeah, maybe. He needed to be more nonjudgmental.
“That’s very
generous. I know Mom will be pleased.” But why was she giving away a fifty-thousand-dollar dog—the cornerstone of her breeding program?
“And now what can I do for you?” The half smile, smug even, as Dixie leaned forward elbows on the desk, hands clasped, steepling fingers indicating authority.
Dan shared the camera findings—proof that all five dogs left the kennel some six to eight hours before the fire. He needed to know who authorized the shipping, purpose, and destinations.
“This is fantastic news. Oh, I just knew this would have a happy ending.”
“I’m not sure Jackson Sanchez or Wayne Warren would agree with you. And I suppose I should throw Kevin Elliott’s name in there, too.”
“Oh, of course not. I didn’t mean to put the lives of my dogs before the lives of three dear human beings. God rest their souls.” Did Dixie just cross herself? Dan had looked up from his iPad in time to see some kind of hand flurry in front of her chest. “Let me pull up a copy of the shipping papers.” Dixie busied herself at the computer. “Here it is. October 21, a Tuesday…I signed the order. That’s not unusual. That sort of thing falls to me when Wayne is gone. Let’s see. Looks like there are three separate destinations. Forty-five were delivered to the track outside Jacksonville, three dogs were dropped off at the white-collar prison in Pensacola—we work with the Prison Greyhounds Program—another two, the last two, were apparently also picked up in Pensacola. I don’t have a name, per se, just Radcliffe Kennels.”
“Any reason listed for Radcliffe Kennels to have had two dogs shipped to them?”
“None. Just a minute, let me check something. Here’s a bill of sale for the two. Two neutered males, three years of age…Apparently from the Jackson Sanchez kennel. It appears he sold them for seventy-five thousand.” Dixie sat back. “These had to be racing prospects. Between the two of us? I don’t think Jackson had any top prospects left—he’d sold off so many.”
“My guess is that Maximillian and Mellow Yellow were the two sold. I bet there are papers somewhere with altered registration numbers. I think your other three dogs ended up in the Prison Greyhounds Program and, for whatever reason, at least one that we know of was adopted out. I’ll alert the program to check registration and kennel identification. I suspect we’ll find the last of your five dogs.”
“That would be terrific. But Jackson…I’m just in shock. It’s just so hard to believe. I considered him a friend. But to alter ear tattoos and sell my own dogs…steal my dogs?” She seemed at a loss for words.
“You had no idea that these dogs, your dogs, were being transported that evening?”
“None. I initialed the paperwork—I’ll admit that I don’t read these carefully. I was expecting a shipment going out and kennel personnel takes care of the details. Transports are paid for by kennel owners. I never expected my own dogs to be involved.”
“The pressure of owing money makes people do things out of character. Perhaps his life was threatened—”
“Yes, I’m afraid Jackson’s reasons are transparent. But it’s Kevin Elliott that simply baffles me. I still find it difficult to believe that he would cremate a human being, maybe even kill a human being, lie about my dogs, cause so much suffering…then be murdered himself.”
“Elliott was a threat. He knew too much. But any idea as to why Wayne Warren might have been killed?”
“Oh,” Dixie replied. “I’m sure it’s because he uncovered the money-laundering scheme. Probably threatened those involved with exposure. I don’t think the Mafia takes kindly to ultimatums. It was just a stupid thing to do—it could have been handled so differently.” A grim smile.
Interesting. She seemed to have an answer for everything—just like she’d rehearsed it. What wasn’t she telling him? Damn. If Fred or Franco was her husband how much of what had happened had been planned together?
***
Elaine was picking up candy for trick-or-treaters and food for a cook-out. Fucher was coming over for burgers around six along with Joan and Roger. Dan would have time to run up to Scott’s office before going home in addition to stopping in to see his mother. She had been moved to the hospital at Ormond Beach. More observation, nothing serious. She’d developed an infection in the arm that was broken, which led to an elevated temperature and the precautionary measure of detaining her. Not a popular decision, but the hospital at Ormond had all the latest test equipment. The doctors were being thorough and he applauded that. His mother was in her seventies and what could have been four days drugged and bound and bleeding in a storage barn had to have taken a toll. But Maggie had begged him to intervene and “spring” her. It took a lot of cajoling and the promise of a visit later in the afternoon to keep her there. He knew she’d be thrilled to learn that Daisy was going to be hers.
The only other thing on his afternoon agenda aside from visiting his mother was the carving of two big pumpkins, but there would be time for that. He called ahead, assured Scott that he just wanted to touch base—compare notes, catch him up on finding the dogs. Scott had an hour—more than enough time.
***
Scott took a sip of what must have been fairly cold coffee and offered Dan some. He must have been ready to leave for the day. Dan noticed the coffeemaker was already turned off and opted for a bottle of water instead.
“I’ve been put on retainer by the state’s racing commission. Florida doesn’t take kindly to money laundering or anymore black eyes for their racing program. Believe me, the last five years have taken a toll. It would be nice to put this whole thing to bed. I think you’re closer than I am. The dogs have been proved to be alive. That alters any payout that your company needs to make. Mission accomplished, so to speak.”
“Not if they’ve been stolen. UL&C is still on the hook. Only one is back with its rightful owner so far. But I’m close to getting the other four returned. Wayne Warren’s administrative assistant is doing the follow-up.”
“I know your mother almost paid the ultimate price, so she might be happy to know we picked up Joey D’Angelo this morning, aka Stanley Evers. Mr. and Mrs. Evers had made it as far as Venice. We believe his traveling companion was an accomplice—helped Mr. Evers hide your injured mother, then knowingly represented herself as Margaret Mahoney and used a passport under that name. She’ll get prison time for her part in aiding and abetting a would-be murderer.”
“Joey D’Angelo, Franco Marconi—”
“By the way, thanks for the tip on that Fred Manson, or Franco Marconi. Dr. Hunt sent everything over. The connection with Ms. Halifax was an eye-opener. However, we’re not having any luck finding him. Any reason he would have thought we were on to him?”
“Possibly. Maybe my asking questions put some pressure on. But what about Warren’s murderer? Or Kevin Elliott’s?”
Scott looked up and paused, a slight lean forward, “Where did you hear that Kevin Elliott was murdered?”
“Officer Bartlett…let’s see, I think he said that his bike’s tires’ walls had been shaved, set up to collapse at speed. He was still trying to pin something on Fucher, the young handler at the track—had a handful of Snickers’ wrappers to try and prove involvement.”
Scott sat back. “Interesting. The fact that Elliott was murdered is information that law enforcement knows but the general public doesn’t. It was kept out of the papers on purpose. Only the murderer would know there was a killer involved.”
“Unless Officer Bartlett shot off his mouth to Dixie Halifax. She just referred to Elliott’s death as a murder.”
“I’d like to know her source.” Scott rummaged through some papers on the desk. “By the way, ever hear of an A.J. Bowman?”
“No, doesn’t ring a bell.”
“That’s the name on the account in the Caymans. Our boy, Joey, deposited an even million but it was withdrawn by this Bowman five hours later.”
“Joey…” it was difficult not to say, S
tanley, “has been questioned?”
“He’s not going to give up any of the players. And I’m not sure he knows. He was a transport, a mule, who probably pocketed a little with every deal—not sure he was taken into anyone’s confidence. The less the grunt labor knows about what’s going on at the top, the better. Joey already ratted on one biggie in his lifetime. I don’t think he’s going to do that twice. And he’s out of bargaining chips. Beating up your mother and leaving her for dead will guarantee a lifetime behind bars. If this A.J. Bowman isn’t just a pseudonym, we’ll find him soon enough.”
“It would seem that there’s a mastermind out there—got to be someone pulling the strings.”
“Yeah. I’d put money on Tony Falco. We just don’t know how he sends and receives messages.”
***
Dan pulled into the hospital parking lot at a little past four. He was doing great on time and wouldn’t have to rush a visit with his mother. Her room was on the fifth floor of the building that resembled a spaceship on I-95. But the place was new and sparkly clean and inviting—for a hospital.
He hadn’t expected his mother to have company, but when he opened the door Dixie Halifax’s mother and father were there.
“Move it A.J., let the man have your chair.”
“A.J.?” Dan wasn’t sure who Dixie’s father was referring to.
“Oh, I’ve been called A.J. all my life—Agnes Jane. I must say that I prefer a nickname.” Dixie’s mother crinkled her nose.
A.J. Why did that sound familiar? Then he had it. “Is your maiden name Bowman?”
“Why, yes it is. How did you know that?”
“Something that Dixie said, I think. But I like A.J., too.”
It was tough to contain his excitement but he shared the good news about Daisy, promised to visit the next day, waited until dinner was served at five, then made his escape. He called Scott from the parking lot, missed him but left a voicemail. Something told him A.J. Bowman didn’t have an account in the Cayman Islands but he’d bet the farm that her daughter did.
