Boca Daze

by Steven M. Forman

  Follow the money.

  I took Bailey to IHOP, where she ordered a cheese omelet and toast. I didn’t say a word.

  Two hours later, I parked across the street from the St. Mary’s rectory, where Father Vincent lived, just a few hundred yards from the church. I took the Intruder out of its new leather case, aimed it at a front window, and waited for the show to begin.

  That same afternoon, the Intruder worked well and I was able to hear Father Vincent’s conversations about church business, outings, confirmations, Easter pageants, Sunday school, and an interview with a religious radio program.

  “Hello, Mr. Travis,” Father Vincent said. “How are things at South Florida Christian Radio.”

  Pause.

  “Yes, I’m ready for this week’s questions. Ask away.”

  Pause.

  “The New Testament was written sometime in the second century,” Father Vincent said, answering a question I couldn’t hear, and going on to answer several more.

  Pause.

  “What does the word mass mean? Well, not everyone agrees, but I believe mass refers to the Latin word missa … which means …” Yada yada, yada …

  Pause.

  “CCD should not be confused with Sunday school. Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, or CCD, is taught to school-age children during the week, after regular school …”

  I tuned out, not wanting to hear about books written in the second century by unknown authors.

  I tuned back in when Father Vincent said goodbye. A moment later, I heard cheering in the background and band music. I looked at my watch: 4:00 p.m. Father Vincent had tuned into the Final Four, the NCAA Men’s Basketball Championship. George Mason was playing the University of Connecticut in Houston. Based on Father Vincent’s comments, it sounded like a close game that he cared about.

  “Make that shot … God damn it,” I heard over the Intruder.

  Father Vincent!

  It got worse.

  “You asshole!” he screamed. “What kind of a pass was that?”

  Whoa, Father Vincent.

  “You dumb son of a bitch.”

  Vinnie … My man.

  And finally … “How could you miss a layup, you stupid fuck!”

  Yo, Vinnie! What’s with you?

  His phone rang.

  “Hi, this is Father Vincent,” he said calmly.

  Pause.

  “Yes, Joey, I saw the game.”

  Pause.

  “Yes, I know I owe you another twenty grand.”

  Holy shit!

  Pause.

  “You know I’m good for it,” Vinnie said to his bookie, “I’ve owed you more. Now fuck off.”

  I heard the phone slam down.

  A Catholic priest with a gambling problem. What next? I was about to find out.

  The phone rang again.

  “Hi, Maria,” Father Vincent said.

  Could be his sister.

  “I lost. Twenty grand, plus last week’s fifteen.”

  Pause.

  “No, a blow job would not make me feel better.”

  I pray it’s not his sister.

  “No, you don’t have to sell your condo,” he said. “I paid cash for that. You know how all this works.”

  A Catholic priest with a gambling problem and a girlfriend for an accomplice.

  “Maybe later tonight. I’m too depressed right now. You did call on the nontraceable cell I gave you, didn’t you?”

  Pause.

  “Good girl. Call me around eight.”

  I went to the office, recharged the Intruder’s battery, and listened to a few messages.

  Steve Coleman had called me on my cell earlier in the day and left a message: “Eddie, I owe you an apology. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own problems that I never asked how you were feeling since the shooting. I just assumed you were the indestructible Boca Knight and worried about myself. I’m sorry. I hope Lou and Joy are okay.”

  If a friendship isn’t destroyed by an unforgivable act and is built on a solid foundation, it can endure hard times. Steve Coleman was a good man, but his instinct for self-preservation was stronger than his instinct for friendship. I had to remember that.

  I listened to a few more messages and went back to the rectory twenty minutes early. I was across the street, aiming my Intruder at the wayward priest’s front window when his phone rang. I heard him answer, “I’ll be right over,” and I started my engine.

  Ten minutes later, the garage door opened and a black Lincoln town car backed out. I followed it onto I-95 South, staying two cars behind. The black sedan exited on Hillsboro Boulevard East and drove over the Intracoastal to Ocean Drive (A1A) South to Southeast Eighth Street, where it went left. The street ended three blocks later at a two-level condo complex on a narrow section of the Intracoastal. The road bent sharply to the left at the building and become Southeast Ninth. The black Lincoln parked in a space marked VISITORS in front of the building, and a man who didn’t look like Father Vincent got out. It took me a moment to realize he was in disguise.

  Good idea for a Catholic priest visiting his girlfriend.

  I reached into my glove compartment for my goofy glasses and Red Sox hat, put them on, and pulled in behind the sedan.

  Two can play this game.

  “Excuse me,” I called to the fat man who had exited the Lincoln. “Is this Southeast Tenth?”

  He turned. He was wearing his own goofy glasses and a full gray beard that hid his double chin. He was casually dressed in tan pants and a brown, collared shirt. We looked at each other.

  Two schmucks in disguise.

  “No, this is Eighth,” he said and smiled. “Take this sharp left onto Ninth and go to the end. That should be Tenth.”

  I thanked him and turned left. I watched him walk up the stairs to the second level and knock on the third door of five. I made a quick U-turn and drove toward the building just in time to see a woman open the door, throw her arms around the man in disguise, and kiss him full on the lips. He returned the kiss and patted her butt. She closed the door behind them, and I made a mental note of the address and unit number.

  Piece be with you, Father Vincent. I’ll catch you later.

  So, Father Vincent was a thief and a foulmouthed, philandering gambler. He was siphoning off the church’s money, gambling it away, and using it to buy his girlfriend a condominium on the Intracoastal. His cousins Gino and Tony were involved somehow, and I’d figure that out as I went along.

  I could prove a case against Father Vincent right now, but I couldn’t prove how Weary Willie fell down a flight of stairs, smashed his head, and was found miles away in Rutherford Park. Gino and Tony looked like professional tough guys and could have been responsible for Willie’s fall, but they’d never admit it. If Willie died, they’d be admitting to murder, and even they weren’t that stupid. I’d have to set an ironclad trap for these big bad bears.

  When I got home to my apartment, I kissed Claudette at the door and squeezed her butt.

  “I love you, too,” she said, smiling.

  “I just wanted to know what it felt like to be a Catholic priest.”

  The table was set for dinner, so I waited while she brought spaghetti and meatballs from the kitchen. I told her about Father Vincent and the Intracoastal Princess.

  “Nothing surprises me anymore,” she said, sitting down. “At least he’s diddling another consenting adult.”

  “He’s done worse than just break his vows. He’s a criminal in a priest’s clothing.”

  “You’ll catch him,” she said with a smile.

  “Thanks for the confidence.” I looked across the steaming meatballs. She gave me her Halle Berry smile. God, she was beautiful.

  “Guess who’s coming to dinner.”

  “I didn’t invite anyone,” she said.

  “Neither did I, but he showed up anyway.”

  I stood up and introduced our unexpected guest.

  “Screw the meatballs,” she said.

&
nbsp; “Can’t we just leave them here?”

  An hour later, in the midst of a post-coital daze, I jolted upright in bed. “I’ve got it,” I shouted.

  “You certainly do,” Claudette mumbled.

  “Thanks. But I’m talking about the priest and his cousins. I just got an idea how to catch them in the act.”

  I jumped out of bed, put on a robe, and went to the dining room table to call Frank Burke. It was only ten. I ate a cold meatball while waiting.

  When Frank answered, I said, “I have a plan.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t. It might be illegal.”

  “I’m not doing anything illegal. I’m the goddamn chief of police.”

  “Your part is not illegal,” I promised.

  “What is it?”

  “You have to arrest a woman who has definitely broken the law.”

  “Who?”

  “Maria.”

  “Maria who?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “There are a million Marias in South Florida not counting Miami.”

  I gave him her address, including the apartment number.

  “How can you know all this information and not her last name?”

  “It’s a gift.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Start with accomplice,” I said.

  “When is this supposed to happen?”

  “I’ll give you twenty-four hours’ notice.” I hung up before he could ask any more questions.

  Claudette came out of the bedroom, stretching and yawning. “What’s up?” she asked.

  “The meatballs are cold.”

  By midafternoon the next day, Lou handed me my latest requested gadget. “This is a customized Spy Master DVR and camera,” he told me. “You can shoot from up to thirty feet, which is more than you’ll need. It can take nonstop videos up to a half hour in length, and with a push of a button, it transfers to snapshots. It’s small, compact, and can hang anywhere using the built-in hooks. It’s just what you asked for.”

  Lou showed me the operating procedure and remote-control features. I was adept in less than an hour. When I went home, I practiced until I felt confident. My cell phone rang at 10:00 p.m. It was Agent Tom Mack.

  “I haven’t seen you since you destroyed a mansion and shot down a helicopter,” I said.

  “I didn’t shoot down a helicopter.” Mack laughed.

  “What’s up?”

  “We’ve had some developments. About an hour ago, federal judge Diforio refused bail for Grover.”

  “Good. Where are they holding him?”

  “He probably went from the US courthouse to the detention center on Gun Club Road in West Palm,” Mack said. “My guess is he’s already transferred to the Miami Detention Center. Wherever he is, he’s in solitary so no one can kill him.”

  “I’m sure he’s not happy with his arrangements.”

  “Actually he’s lucky. If he was arrested in New York City, he could be in the Metropolitan Correctional Center, the worst place in the system. Prisoners are confined to their cells twenty-three hours a day. Cell lights are on twenty-four hours a day, and video cameras record every minute.

  “Grover deserves everything he gets,” I said.

  “I feel the same. We also interrogated Peter ‘Jolly’ Rogers, the guy who crashed the Rolls into the wall during the raid at Grover’s. He accused you of police brutality.”

  “I’m not the police.”

  “I told him,” Mack said. “He changed the charge to citizen brutality. He claims you banged his head into the steering wheel.”

  “I did. He was resisting a citizen’s arrest.”

  “Sounds reasonable. We showed him the tracking device you found under your car with his fingerprints all over it. He said he was only following orders.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “He didn’t say and asked for a lawyer.”

  “That device led to nine murders,” I said.

  “I understand, but we won’t be able to connect Rogers to them.”

  “How about a conspiracy to commit murder?”

  “That’s a reach,” Mack said.

  “How do we get those guys?”

  “I think we’ll need inside help. We have snitches, but there are hundreds of gangbangers with guns for hire in South Florida.”

  “Do your best,” I said, and we said goodbye.

  Claudette came home from a late night at the clinic. We got in bed and talked about shooters and bombers.

  “Maybe you should leave it alone, Eddie. You don’t need dangerous people like them in your life.”

  “They’re already in,” I said. “I want them out.”

  “Finding these guys is like looking for snakes in a swamp full of alligators.”

  “I have to try. Those bastards killed nine people just to get to me.”

  “I don’t want you to be the tenth,” she cuddled into my shoulder and kissed my cheek.

  “Don’t worry,” I said.

  “I am worried. They’re professional killers.”

  “They’re amateurs. They wore masks but short-sleeve shirts, so I knew they were African-Americans. That’s dumb. They had bird shot in some of their shotguns instead of buckshot … and not enough gas to blow Joy’s house off its foundation. They weren’t professional, they were available.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “There wasn’t enough time between our meeting with Grover and the attacks in Boca to assemble a professional crew. They sent whoever was standing there.”

  “That doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous.”

  “I’m dangerous, too.”

  “You’re sixty-one years old, Superman,” she reminded me. “Are you still able to leap tall buildings in a single bound?”

  “Short buildings, maybe.”

  “Leave it alone,” she advised, knowing I would do the opposite.

  “I’ll sleep on it.”

  Somewhere between awake and asleep, I got an idea. I reached for the pen and paper I kept on the table next to my bed for moments like these. I scribbled a note to myself and fell asleep. When I woke up, I checked my note.

  I must be crazy.

  “You must be crazy, or your brain damage is worse than we thought,” Lou said the next morning in the office when I told him my brainstorm. “Are you seeing red right now?”

  “Maroon, actually.”

  “You’ll be seeing bright red when you get your fuckin’ head blown off. You cannot go to Mad Dog Walken for help.”

  “If the shooters came from Miami, he’d know them,” I said.

  “For all you know he was one of them.”

  “He wasn’t. Mad Dog can’t hide behind a ski mountain, never mind a ski mask. He wasn’t there.”

  “Neither was Grover, but you’re sure he gave the order,” Lou reminded me. “Maybe Mad Dog got the order and passed it on to someone else in his gang. Even if it wasn’t him, he’s not going to turn the gangbanger shooters over to you. He’s not your friend.”

  “He told me he respected what I did with the white supremacist from the Aryan Army two years ago.”

  “Yeah, and he told you not to come back to his turf again.”

  “He doesn’t scare me.”

  “Nothing scares you,” Lou said. “That’s your problem.”

  “It’s who I am. Besides, it’s just a thought. “

  “Why am I wasting my breath? You’ll do what you want to do no matter what I say.”

  He removed a pile of manila folders from his briefcase and threw them at me. “Check this out. Maybe we can solve a case for a paying customer before you commit suicide.”

  I opened the first folder. “What are these … X-rays?”

  “MRIs … genius,” Lou said, still disgusted with me.

  “Whose MRIs?”

  “There’s one of a gorilla,” he said seriously. “One drawing of a man with a perfect body, one cadaver, one man with a woman’s body … one
deformed midget …”

  “A bunch of counterfeit MRIs … I get the picture. Where did you get these?” I thumbed through the pile.

  “I scanned some from actual MRIs and created others with a computer program. They’re remarkably realistic.”

  “And your idea is to present these false MRIs to Dr. Patel and see if he prescribes drugs for them?

  “Exactly,” Lou said. “We destroy his credibility and get his license pulled.”

  “The problem is getting to Patel. I watched him a couple of times now. He only deals with people he knows.”

  “Greed will take care of that. We approach him with a stack of new MRIs, which means new accounts to him and more money. I used a lab he’s used before, so he won’t be suspicious.”

  “How did you know who he’s used?” I asked.

  “There are no big secrets in this business because no one is doing anything illegal according to our state laws. But, if Patel issues Oxy and Percocet to a gorilla, I think we can get the state to do something about him.”

  “What about Doc’s granddaughter? That’s my first obligation.”

  “It’s all linked together.” Lou produced the stack of prescription slips Doc found in his granddaughter’s possession the night she died. “Doc gave these to you … you gave them to me. Remember?”

  I nodded.

  “We’re going to use them as our introduction to Patel,” Lou said. “But we’re going to need an outsider to approach him. I can’t do it, and you’re too recognizable. We need someone no one knows around here. Preferably we’d want a shady-lookin’ character, scruffy, shifty … long hair … the kind of guy who would deal in drugs.”

  “When do you need him?”

  “Now.”

  I picked up my cell and called Mad Mick Murphy.

  “Yo, Mick,” I said when he answered, “I need your help. The job pays nothing and is very dangerous, but it could be your next great story. I need you here tomorrow.”

  Mick arrived at our Boca office on March 30th at five in the afternoon. I introduced him to Lou, who looked Mick up and down. “Did you get this guy from central casting, Eddie?” No offense, Mick, but you look exactly like a street-level prescription-drug dealer.”

  “And you look like Elvis Presley with a tapeworm,” Mick said with his Irish eyes smiling, making it impossible for Lou to take offense.