As he slammed his trunk, he heard someone say, “You’re here late.” He turned to find Renee Chin standing right behind him.
“Just finished the last search for the night.”
“Yeah, I collected the issued handguns from all the search parties. Now there’s no one left out there.”
“Hungry?”
“Not really. Just tired.”
Tasker nodded. “Guess I am, too. We ate some fried chicken the prison sent out to us about six.”
Renee smiled. “Yeah, that’s Don Seiker’s recipe.”
“Who’s Don Seiker?”
“He’s in on his second ten-year term for running a chop shop. Specialized in Cadillacs. No one was sorry to see him back in the system because he was such a good cook. A lot of the officers knew him from his last stay at Glades. Anytime something like this happens, the captain has him make up a load of his fried chicken for the officers.”
Tasker noticed that even though she had been at work for at least twelve hours, she looked good. “What about a beer at my little state-owned palace?”
A smile broke across her face. “That sounds like a winner.”
Tasker’s heart raced on the ride from the prison west on US 27 to Dead Cow Lane. Maybe now he could tell her what he had been feeling for her. Maybe, with no one around and no interruptions, he could finally express himself.
The entire complex was dark as he pulled his car into the spot in front of his corner apartment. Renee parked her Jeep Liberty next to him. She fell in right behind as he opened his door with a key and flipped on a light.
“You need lights out front,” said Renee.
“Yeah, it’d help. They have floodlights in the back. Looks like the prison at night.” He walked through the kitchen, stopping to grab a couple of Icehouses from the fridge. “C’mon out back. We can have these on the porch.” He flipped the switch for the rear lights, and a set of four floodlights as well as two lights under the covered porch came on.
She strolled out to the edge of the porch, taking a long drink of beer.
He stayed right next to her, gulping almost the whole bottle. He thought of a way to bring up the subject of his feelings, but his mouth refused to open. Renee helped by leaning her head down across his shoulder.
“This is nice out here,” she said.
“It is now.” He cringed at his comment.
Her head came off his shoulder and she took one step down the stairs toward the backyard. “Who was killing rabbits so close to the apartment?”
Tasker looked at one of the familiar rabbit fur balls at the base of his stairs.
“That’s a new one. There are a bunch closer to the cane, but I don’t remember one up here.” He came down all three stairs and looked at the white fur spot and froze. Unlike the others, whoever had killed this one had left the body. Tasker noticed the odd yellow streak running across its back.
He charged up the stairs and went straight to Hamlet’s cage. It was empty and the door was open.
“Motherfucker.” Tasker didn’t mean to say it out loud.
Renee rushed up the steps. “What’s wrong?”
“Someone killed Hamlet.”
She looked at the cage and understood what had happened.
“What’ll I tell the girls?”
Even though it was just a mouse he had found in the apartment, Tasker felt like this was the worst thing they had done yet. He’d proven he could deal with attacks against him, but this was low. Now things were going to get very ugly if they had to.
thirty-four
Luther Williams watched the sun rise over the condos off South Beach. He had stayed up all night, seeing old acquaintances, collecting a few more debts and in general making sure people knew he was around. In a few minutes, he had a breakfast meeting with the one man he really needed to talk to. Neil Nyren was a powerhouse. Few people knew his name, his address or even a reliable phone number. That made him valuable. Luther had called the pay phone with a downtown Miami exchange where a Latin kid always answered in English saying, “Yes?” If someone answered otherwise, Luther knew to just hang up. When he had heard the “Yes?” the night before, Luther identified himself and told the young man he needed to meet Mr. Nyren for breakfast at a little diner off Biscayne. Two hours later, he called the same number and had his appointment confirmed.
About midnight, Luther had traded Scooter Brown’s nice but tricked-out and very identifiable RX-7 for an understated and stolen Buick LeSabre, a nice blue V-6, 3800 series. Luther then found another LeSabre—this one parked in the lot outside a Muvico in Aventura—and switched the tags. It would be months before the old white lady who probably owned the LeSabre realized the tag on her car was not her own.
As Luther settled in at a booth in the diner, he took a quick stock of his situation. With all the debts he had collected, he had about twenty-one thousand bucks. Today he’d clean out any bank accounts he could get his hands on and be up close to forty. After a nap, he’d start to head north, careful not to be profiled by some ambitious Florida highway patrolman or Volusia County sheriff’s deputy. He’d drive a few miles over the speed limit and stay the night in a hotel near Daytona. He still planned a stop in Tallahassee for a visit that was long overdue. He owed it to himself.
There was one thing he had to do right after this meeting. A phone call to set right a few indignities he had suffered in the past year. But that was for later.
Now he saw the tall, dignified Neil Nyren as he came through the front door. His insistence on always wearing a dark suit drew attention in a town like Miami, but he pulled it off. It made him look like a successful lawyer or banker. Talk about not judging a book by its cover. No one knew exactly what Mr. Nyren could do, but everyone knew if he said he could do it, he could.
He walked straight to Luther’s booth and extended his hand. “Mr. Hodges, how nice to see you again.”
“Believe me, Mr. Nyren, it’s nice to be seen here.” He smiled and offered a seat to the man who many considered the most dangerous person in the city. His smile was disarming, but Luther noticed he never seemed to have any competition in whatever business he decided to pursue.
Aside from dressing well, there was nothing remarkable about his lifestyle. That was the mark of a professional. Someone who didn’t have to draw attention to himself.
Nyren said, “Tell me, Mr. Hodges, what is it that I can do that you can’t do for yourself?”
“I like that, no bullshit. Straight to the point.”
“We are both businessmen. Time is a precious commodity. I’d bet you are in quite a hurry about now.”
“I am. I also require absolute secrecy on our transaction.”
“When has that ever been an issue?”
Luther smiled. “Exactly why I called. I need two things: identification and a safe, truly safe, place to stay outside of Florida.”
Nyren was silent, then nodded his head. “That’s it?”
“Believe me, that’s enough.”
“After we eat, follow me to a studio where we’ll take your photo. You can choose what state you are from at the studio.” He paused. “I know a number of groups that would appreciate a mind such as yours and eschew any contact with organized government. However . . .” He fell silent.
“Yes?”
“Most would not appreciate the simple matter of your skin color.”
Luther scratched his chin. “I understand. I’m assuming these are acquaintances or business contacts and not friends.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Hodges, I in no way share their antiquated belief system.”
Luther appreciated anyone in Miami who could turn a phrase and use the breadth of their vocabulary. It didn’t surprise him that such a man would not hold the base and simple prejudices of the former South.
Nyren said, “I know of one group. Tax protesters, I believe. A group that resides in a comfortable enclave near Baton Rouge. I could make a discreet inquiry.”
“That would be of great ben
efit.”
“Please, Mr. Hodges, consider it done.”
“And what might these two services cost me? In today’s market. In U.S. currency.”
Nyren rolled his eyes into his head as he calculated the cost of his business associates. “Five large for the identification and, if the group could really use an attorney, for non-courtroom work of course, I’ll get my end from them.”
“Most kind of you, Mr. Nyren. Most kind.”
“You’ve helped me over the years, whether you know it or not.”
“How so?”
“Let’s just say some of your competition was a threat to my interests. You handled it for me.”
“Good enough.”
They shook hands on their renewed association.
Luther added, “Now, you’ll understand that as part of our verbal agreement, you cannot disclose my identification or whereabouts at any time to anyone.”
“I understand.”
“Do you understand the consequences?”
“I am afraid I do.”
“Then we’re off to your studio. I need to buy a prepaid phone card to make a few calls. Is there a service station between here and your studio that would have some for sale?”
Nyren smiled. “I guarantee the studio has plenty of cards.”
“Excellent. I need to make an important call about eight.”
Bill Tasker had tossed and turned all night, thinking about how someone was trying to scare him out of this little one-horse town. Renee had seen how upset he was and left after only one beer to give him some time alone. It was probably for the best. They were still having dinner tomorrow night and the girls were coming tonight. They had to be back at their mother’s by tomorrow at three. He still wasn’t sure what he was going to tell them about Hamlet, but he knew it wouldn’t be the truth. They didn’t need to know how sick people could be. If he hadn’t told them or their mother about his recent assaults, he could justify keeping his mouth shut about a pet mouse.
He had scooped up Hamlet’s remains and then couldn’t bring himself to just throw him in the garbage. Instead, he dug a hole in the cane field and actually gave the mouse a short burial service.
He cleaned up and was out at Manatee before seven-thirty. He wanted to race through his duties so that he could spend some time on other things before he was forced out of town next Friday. He knew his director was sticking his neck out for him and he didn’t want to disappoint him. He’d finish the report and make sure Rufus had everything he needed to work the professor’s homicide before Tasker left town.
About eight, after he had made a decent dent in his work, he sensed someone in the doorway. The young correctional officer who always worked the front reception desk to the admin building but who had never acknowledged Tasker said, “Sir?”
Tasker looked at him. “Yeah?”
“You have a phone call at the main switchboard. Would you like me to transfer it to the phone in the library?”
Tasker stood up, saying, “That’d be great.” As he walked down the short hall to the library, he wondered who would call him on a hard line in the prison instead of on his cell phone. The phone on the corner table of the library was ringing by the time he entered the room. The crime scene tape was still looped around the windowsill. He picked up the old handset.
“Bill Tasker.”
“Agent Tasker, how nice to hear your voice from so far away.”
Tasker immediately recognized the deep voice and professional delivery of Luther Williams, aka Cole Hodges.
Tasker played it cool. “Hello, Luther. Calling from anywhere in particular?”
“I am, however I’ll keep that information to myself.”
“What made you run?”
Luther paused, then said, “Let’s just say I executed an escape clause in my contract with the good state of Florida.”
Tasker said, “Look, you need to come back. We can work this all out.”
“Agent Tasker, please don’t diminish the esteem in which I hold you. You and I know a number of reasons why that is impossible.”
“Such as?”
“Robert Moambi and Vic Vollentius, for two. I knew something had tipped you off about the Aryan Knight’s accident. Would you mind if I ask what?”
Tasker weighed the answer and thought, What the hell. “Vollentius had a note hidden in his mouth saying he was meeting you.”
Luther gave out a loud hoot and said, “The oldest trick in the book. I should’ve checked, but he didn’t strike me as the jumpy kind.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
“A reasonable attitude, which is why I chose to call you.”
“I’m listening.”
“You have proven quite bright in piecing things together. In addition, you seem above the normal weaknesses of other officials.”
“Thanks, I appreciate the recognition from the opposition.”
Luther chuckled, then said, “I would suggest that you check Captain Sam Norton’s name on a list of corporations with the Secretary of State. You might be surprised how industrious the good captain is in his free time.”
“I could do that.”
“That’s all I suggest. Knowing you, I believe that will be a sufficient start to a thorough investigation.”
Tasker listened carefully to the brief silence, seeing if he could pick up any background noise that might provide a clue to the escaped convict’s location. There was nothing.
Tasker said, “Any hints as to where you are?”
“Oh yes, plenty. I would suspect you’ll hear rumors before the end of the day.” There was another silence, and then Luther added, “We should not, in all likelihood, see each other again, Agent Tasker. It was been a privilege to meet you on the field of battle.”
Before Tasker could answer, the line went dead. He was on his cell phone dialing his Miami office before he even stood up from the stool in the library.
Luther Williams was on Interstate I-95 near West Palm Beach in his comfortable Buick LaSabre when he realized it was late afternoon and he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast with the extraordinarily helpful Mr. Nyren. He felt like some Cuban food, maybe a sandwich to bring along, and decided if he turned east on Forest Hill Boulevard he’d run into a Cuban restaurant before too long. One of his dorm mates from Manatee had been a young Cuban lad who had been part of a botched home invasion. Luther had appreciated the boy’s respect for his elders, something he found in most Cuban families. He had done some minor legal work for him and advised him on his wife of only four months’ petition for divorce. The young man was from the south end of West Palm Beach and often spoke well of the neighborhood and his family. He said it was a poor choice of friends that had led him to a fifteen-year sentence at Manatee. Luther thought the sentence had more to do with the fact that the West Palm cops were known to be efficient and effective in dealing with violent crime. In Miami, things got lost in the giant shuffle of victims and crimes. In a town like West Palm Beach, the cops still took home invasions personally.
On the corner of Forest Hill and Dixie, Luther saw a place named Havana’s. He felt quite comfortable with the assumption that this place served Cuban cuisine. One of the reasons for his urge, he felt certain, was that his next residence was not likely to have Cuban or any other Caribbean food. True to his word, Mr. Nyren had found a group off the beaten path and anxious for someone to review documents and bolster their legal team. Clearly, Luther could not appear in court or hold the high profile he’d once had, but reviewing contracts and deeds beat the hell out of keeping a library clean and stocked.
Luther decided to go inside the restaurant rather than risk an observant cop seeing him at the outside counter favored by the older Cuban gentlemen.
He placed an order for two Cuban sandwiches and an extra large Cuban coffee. He figured that would keep him wide awake for another day or two. He smiled at how things had changed for him since he’d arrived from Missouri more than twenty years before. He had never
tasted Cuban coffee or even heard of it then. Now he found it was one of the things he missed deeply when he was away. The strong taste and caffeine was unlike anything else on Earth.
A very attractive blond woman in her early thirties burst into the restaurant with two little girls. She was obviously in a hurry and barked orders before they were all inside.
“Kelly, take Emily to the restroom and I’ll get you a sandwich to split. Your dad will expect to have dinner with you, so I don’t want you to fill up too much.”
She smiled as she looked up at Luther. He nodded.
“We have a long ride and they’re already complaining about being hungry.”
Luther said, “That’s thoughtful of you to stop. Do your daughters normally eat Cuban cuisine?”
“They like the sandwiches and they’re not too messy in the car.”
“Very resourceful.”
He watched the fine form of the young woman as she ordered a sandwich and two Cokes to go. Her hair came down her muscular back in a loose ponytail and she had exquisite, large breasts. He hoped they were real. Too many younger women felt the need for enhancement nowadays. He did so appreciate naturally large breasts.
The waitress handed a bag across the counter to Luther, who gave her a ten-dollar bill and said, “Keep the change.” He turned to the young mother. “Have a safe trip.”
She smiled a dazzling white smile and said, “Thanks very much. You, too.”
“I hope to. I’ll be on the road some time, but I hope to.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Louisiana.”
“That’s nice. I’ve only been to New Orleans once. Loved it.”
“I’m headed to quieter parts, but it’s exciting to me just the same. Have a nice evening.” Luther came out the front door and turned toward his Buick. He knew she probably thought of him as a kindly older man. He was old but not dead. Women like that were one of the reasons he had to take a vacation from Manatee.
thirty-five
Bill Tasker had called the Miami office of the Florida Department of Law Enforcement four times looking for his friend Jerry Risto. The sixty-year-old man occupied a vital role in FDLE—he was a crime intelligence analyst. Normally the analysts supported investigation by running computer checks and criminal histories. Jerry Risto took it to a new level. He was more like a magician than an analyst. Now the magician had disappeared on some errand and Tasker was anxious to find the friend who had bailed him out of other trouble over the past year.
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