by J. B. Turner
He took the cellphone from his jacket and punched in the number of Leggett’s bar. A young woman answered.
“I need to speak to Ron Leggett right away,” Reznick said.
“Who’s this?”
“Just put him on. I’m a friend.”
A few moments later Ron came on the line. “I’m sorry, things are–”
“Ron, don’t hang up. I think your phone will be bugged, so I want you to go to someone in the bar and ask for their cell number. I’ll call you back in ten seconds on that number.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s no time to explain. Just do it.”
Leggett came on the line and gave Reznick a cell phone number. Then he hung up and Reznick punched in the number.
Leggett answered immediately. “What do you want?”
“The man who killed your father has been taken care of.”
A long silence opened up as if the kid didn’t know how to react. Was he in shock? “Are you sure?”
“Positive. Now listen. I need a little help. Your father mentioned to me that he visited and had bumped into an old friend. Big guy. We called him Tiny.”
Ron sighed. “I know the guy. Met him once. I was with my dad. The guy was working the door.”
Reznick said, “Which bar? Where?”
“South Beach. 14th Street.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I got it. Ibar. It’s open twenty-one hours a day. Just off one of the main drags.”
The line went dead.
That’s all Reznick needed. It was nearby. He headed half a dozen blocks down Collins and turned left on Espanola, turned back onto 16th Street and then cruised down Washington Avenue and past The Playwright Irish Pub. A prowl car was parked outside a tattoo parlor, the cops drinking coffee, the window down, watching a group of five black guys fooling around with a couple of scantily-dressed Hispanic girls.
He doubled back down Washington again and pulled up at some lights. A crowd of young white girls, wearing short skirts and tight tops and impossibly high heels, swayed past. Then he took a right down 14th Street. Up ahead on the right, at the front of a queue of kids, a huge black doorman stood outside a dive bar. Reznick slowed and wound down the window. He looked across the street and saw the familiar diagonal scar on the guy’s left cheek.
Charles ‘Tiny’ Burns. It had been more than ten years since they’d worked together in Special Forces, but he recognised him immediately.
Reznick turned right and parked down an alley round the corner from the bar. He hustled Luntz out and threw him in the trunk again. Then he headed round the corner.
“Charles,” Reznick said, “how the hell you doing?”
Tiny turned around and took a few moments to twig who it was. His face broke into a broad smile. “You gotta be kiddin’ me? Jon, what the hell are you doing here?”
“You don’t wanna know, believe me.”
Tiny roared with laughter and gave Reznick a hug that nearly crushed the wind out of him. “Goddamn, man, you’ve no idea how good it is to see you.”
Tiny gripped Reznick’s hand tight. “Man, how the fucking hell are you?”
“Better for seeing you. Look, I’ve got a problem. And I need help. If you can do this, you need to leave right now.”
Tiny shrugged and nodded. “Jon, what do you want?”
“Where do you live?”
“What?”
“Do you live here on the beach?”
“No, man, a former Delta operator, Bobby Sloan, you know him?”
Reznick shook his head.
“Well, he loaned me his trailer. It’s shit, but it’s a home.”
“Does anyone know where you live?”
“I don’t have any family. Parents dead, no brothers or sisters, I keep myself to myself. I live from day to day. This job pays well. The owner of the bar, Mac, is a great guy. He gives me work whenever he can. But even he doesn’t know where I live.”
“Perfect. I need you to look after someone for me. I’ve got business here in Miami. But it has to be right now.”
Tiny nodded but said nothing.
“I need someone I can trust. I need someone that I can trust, just like you trusted me. You remember Fallujah?”
“Every night I fall asleep I remember Fallujah.”
“Who got you out of that hole?”
“You did.”
“I’m calling in my favor. I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. I’ll also give you one thousand dollars to look after this guy for twenty-four hours.”
Tiny stared down at the ground for a few moments.
“Will you do it?”
He looked up and smiled. “Goddamn right I will. I’d do anything for you, man.”
“Gimme your trailer plot and the address.”
“Pitch 87, Del Raton trailer park, up the coast at Delray Beach.”
Reznick pulled out a wad of cash from his back pocket and handed it over. Tiny didn’t count it but merely put it in the side pocket of his jeans.
Reznick handed over the keys to the car he’d just stolen and they went around the corner. “Got a guy in the trunk. I want you to drive back home and look after him with your life.”
Tiny slid into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. “Nice ride. Do you want my car just now?”
“I’ll find my own.”
Tiny clasped his hand firmly and pulled him close. “I always wanted to try and repay you, Jon. Guess what I’m trying to say is–”
Reznick’s phone rang interrupting Tiny mid-sentence. He didn’t recognise the caller display. “Yeah?”
“Mr Reznick,” a woman’s voice said, “this is the FBI. We need to talk.”
Reznick said nothing. He knew the phone was unable to be traced because of the jamming equipment. But it was clear the Feds were starting to close in. It was the absolute last thing he needed.
“I am Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein. I am based in FBI headquarters in Washington, but I’m here in Miami. I need to know if you still have a government scientist.”
“I don’t know you.”
“You do now. Now, I want to talk. But first I need to know if the scientist is alive and with you. Look, you must trust me.”
“I don’t trust people I don’t know.”
“I’m asking you to trust me. We have reason to believe that there is a serious plot underway, and you must return him into the custody of the FBI. This is a matter of national security. Do you understand?”
Reznick looked at Tiny who shrugged back. “I’m listening.”
“Firstly, we would like confirmation that he is alive.”
“Yeah, he’s alive.”
Meyerstein let out an audible sigh. “Can I call you Jon?”
Reznick said nothing.
“Jon, can I speak to the scientist?”
“Not possible.”
“Jon, as an act of good faith, we would really appreciate it if you could let the scientist confirm that he is alive. That’s all.”
Reznick stifled a yawn.
“We just want to have him tell us his name, date of birth and his wife’s name.”
Reznick’s gut instinct told him to end the call. But the two words – national security – bothered him. He had served his country over the years. And he was loyal to the flag.
He popped open the trunk and shoved the phone’s mouthpiece beside Luntz. “FBI wants you to confirm your name, date of birth and wife’s name. Go right ahead.”
Luntz blurted out, “14th and Collins!”
Reznick yanked the phone from him and ended the call. “Not smart.” He slammed the trunk shut. “Tiny, get this guy the fuck out of here. Take him to your place. Keep him safe and sound. I’ll be in touch.”
He turned and walked north down 14th Street and hailed a cab, eager to get as far away from the bar as possible. He knew the cops and Feds would be descending on the place. The cab driver was a young Brazilian woman who looked like a model.
�
��North Bay Road,” he said, climbing into the back seat.
She nodded and sped off, headed west away from the crowds thronging the main drags of Washington Avenue and Ocean Drive, past fading pastel colored art deco apartment blocks. She didn’t talk but glanced occasionally in the mirror. Then past Flamingo Park and onto Alton Road.
His cell rang.
“Don’t hang up, Jon.” It was the Fed woman again, Meyerstein.
Reznick said nothing.
“The longer this goes on, the harder it will be for me to try and help you. I want to try and help you find your daughter. We know about her. And we know what happened to her grandmother. I know that’s what’s driving you on this.”
“Keep talking.”
“Jon, I have scores of people working to try and track down Lauren.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You want Luntz.”
“We want them both back safe and sound. Jon, you’ve got to trust me on this. It’s the only way.”
Reznick let out a long sigh.
“Jon, as I said before, national security is at stake. This is a very grave situation.”
“What about my daughter?”
“We will find her, I promise. But we’re dealing with a highly–”
Reznick ended the call. He knew they had either managed to track the cellphone or were close to pinpointing his location, despite the jamming. And he also knew that they would have swamped the area with cops, looking for suspicious vehicles, cars and people.
They drove on down Purdy Avenue beside the waterfront and then along 20th Street, which led to upper North Bay Road.
The huge palms, hedges and foliage nearly shrouded the huge mansions behind their high walls, along the narrow road. Past West 45th Street as the houses seemed to get bigger. He was half a dozen blocks from the house.
“Just drop me off here,” Reznick said.
The driver pulled up and turned around. “Five dollars, please,” she said, smiling broadly.
Reznick pulled out two one hundred dollar bills. “Gimme your phone and I’ll give you two hundred dollars and this shiny new iPhone for your trouble.”
The driver shrugged. “Yeah, whatever,” she said, taking the money and the phone and handing her Sony cell phone over.
“If someone calls within the next hour, give them the number of your phone, can you do that?”
“You kidding me? For two hundred dollars? Absolutely.”
She smiled as Reznick slammed the door shut. Then he watched her drive away, knowing he had bought himself some time, as the Feds tracked the phone in the cab.
FIFTEEN
With his gun tucked into the back of his waistband, concealed by his jacket, Reznick walked along North Bay Road on the shaded side of the street for a handful of blocks. He knew it wasn’t ideal walking around in the affluent neighborhood knowing every cop in Miami Beach would be looking for him with a full ID and photo. He had to get out of sight. And quick.
A man walking an overweight golden Labrador and an elderly lycra-clad male jogger passed by, his sunglasses glistening, earbuds from his iPod leaking bass-heavy dance music.
Reznick didn’t make eye contact knowing he needed to get out of sight as soon as possible. Eventually, up ahead, he saw a large white mansion behind high wrought iron gates. Cameras with a small red light strafed the gate and part of the perimeter wall and surrounding street. He crossed to the opposite sidewalk to stay away from the prying cameras.
He knew there would be infrared motion sensors in the grounds of such a house and alarmed doors and windows. He stood under a huge palm tree diagonally opposite from the house as a gold Lexus passed by.
Reznick felt the sweat run down his back as he rifled in his front pocket and pulled out a lighter-sized military electronic jammer. He switched it on to ‘lock’. Within seconds the red lights on the surveillance cameras had gone off.
He had created a forty-meter dead zone disrupting three main bandwidths and all Bluetooth and Wi-Fi signals.
Reznick slid the device back into his pocket and waited for a few moments to make sure the coast was clear. Then he crossed the road and went down a small deserted lane at the side of the house, before taking out the suppressor and screwing it into the Berretta. When it was all clear he climbed over the wall and dropped down the other side onto a stone path.
He moved towards the house.
Out of nowhere two Dobermans bounded towards him. They flew at him, teeth bared, salivating, their black eyes locked on him.
Calmly, Reznick took out his silenced gun, aimed and fired. A couple of muffled shots and both dogs were dead. Blood spilled down their dark coats and seeped into the lush lawn.
He edged across the lawn towards the side of the house and found an unlocked door. Inside, the house was bathed in an ethereal orange light coming through floor to ceiling bay front windows.
He stood still, listening for any movement. Silence. But that didn’t mean anything.
He moved forward, yard by yard, through the ground floor. He scanned each segment of the space. He had been trained to visually ‘pie-off’ a room – a military term for slicing up a room into sectors of fire resembling the triangular pie slice shape. It applied to a clearing team with each man having his own point of domination. But one-man room clearing was a different animal altogether. And the risks were far greater, no backup. Room to room, gun in hand.
Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.
The terrible thought crossed his mind that he had the wrong house.
Reznick headed down a highly polished hallway, which led to a spiral staircase. Gun drawn, his senses all switched on, he slowly headed up the flight of stairs, one step at a time. Again he went from room to room until he came to a room whose door was shut. He made sure to stay clear of the “fatal funnel”, directly in front of each door, to prevent being shot from behind the door. He also made sure he opened the door from the non-hinge side.
He reached out and softly turned the handle, pushing open the door.
Scattered on the wooden floor of the room were voodoo dolls, feathers and paraphernalia. A large photo on the wall showed a handsome young black man shaking the hands of what Reznick thought looked like Baby Doc Duvalier, the Haitian dictator.
This was the place. This had to be the place.
Reznick had seen enough. He went back into the hall and stood stock still, not breathing. He listened. But again he heard nothing.
He walked along the hallway, which led to another spiral staircase. The wooden stairs creaked as he climbed to the second floor. He continued to pie off the space. The landing curved around and led out until he was on the bayside of the house with several rooms, all the doors shut.
One at a time.
The first room was a huge bedroom, bed perfectly made up, modern art on the walls, beige and cream throughout. The second room was a smaller bedroom and was painted a cool blue. He stood outside the third room. Then he turned the handle and pushed open the door. It was a study, overlooking the bay. Dark woods, leather chair, dark brown walls and the smell of sandalwood.
Reznick approached the fourth door side-on, gun in the air. He sensed something. He stopped. His stomach knotted as he crouched down low. Then he peered under the crack at the bottom.
A creak inside and a shadow moved.
Reznick froze. He could hear the beating of his heart.
Suddenly, shots fired through the door, narrowly missing Reznick. He hit the floor and fired five muffled shots through the top half of the door. The sound of a body falling the other side.
Reznick kicked in the door, gun drawn. A stocky black guy lay on the ground. Blood seeped from his mouth and two bullet wounds – one in his chest and one in the throat. The man’s eyes were open. But he was dead and gone. Goddamn.
He turned, exited the room and headed slowly down the hallway towards one final door. He waited a few seconds before he kicked it open and looked around. It was a huge bathroom, floor to ceiling frosted windows overlooking the bay
. He stood still.
The sound of whimpering. Close by. It was coming from behind a door within the bathroom.
He gently pushed open the door. Cowering in the shower room beside a washbasin was a trembling black woman.
“Please don’t hurt me!” she implored.
Reznick walked over to her and pressed the gun to her head. “Who the fuck are you?”
The woman was crying, shaking her head. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
“Where is my daughter?”
“I don’t know anything. I’m just the maid.”
“Stand up!”
Slowly she stood up, hands on her head. From the cheap navy nylon slacks and plain cotton top, Reznick could tell she was indeed the domestic help.
“Who was the guy I just shot?”
“Bertrand. He looks after the security of the house when Claude is away.”
“Who is Claude?”
“Claude Merceron.”
“Where is he?”
“I have no idea. They don’t tell me anything. I just cook and–”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Reznick grabbed her by the shirt. “Who else is in the house?”
“No one. It’s just me, now.”
Reznick frog marched her downstairs to the main lounge with bay front views. He saw a large black and white framed photograph of two late-middle aged men shaking hands. “Who are those guys in the picture?”
“Mr Merceron is on the right,” she said.
Reznick studied the picture. He noticed the dark, cold eyes. “Who’s the other guy?”
“That’s the Haitian Consulate General.”
“So, what is Merceron?”
“Sir, he is a diplomat within the Consulate in downtown Miami.”
“Is this a recent picture?”
“Yes, quite recent.”
“Where was it taken?”
“I don’t know.”
Reznick stared at the photo, the chubby face with the black eyes imprinted on his brain. “I think you know more than you’re letting on. Where is my daughter?”
The woman averted her gaze. “I told you I don’t know.”
