by Tim Dorsey
She checked paper files. “Yes, we do.”
“Great. What room?”
“Can’t give that out.”
“Understand.” He looked over her shoulder at numbered mail slots. “Just want to make certain he gets this back.”
“I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“Don’t want it to get stolen or anything.”
“It’s okay. Everyone who works here is family.”
“I have a business like that, too.”
He handed over the ring. She was on the short side and dragged a footstool, then climbed two steps and reached for slot 24. “Want me to leave a note with it?”
She turned back around. The door to the empty office was closing.
Chapter Thirty-One
THE DUNES
Serge’s entourage arrived back in the parking lot and headed for the stairs.
The office door opened behind them. “Excuse me,” said a woman in a hairnet. “Aren’t you the guys in room twenty-four?”
“Yeah.”
“Someone left you a message. Well, not really a message. Think it was just a ring.”
Serge looked at the woman, then up at their room. Could have sworn he left those curtains open. “Guys, wait here a minute.” He followed the receptionist inside.
She walked back behind the front desk. “Real nice guy. I think he wanted to give it back himself, but we don’t disclose room numbers. Security, you know.”
Serge looked up at a ring sitting in a wooden slot marked “ 24.”
“Ma’am,” said Serge, “was he standing right where I am when you put that in the slot?”
“I guess so.” She dragged over a footstool again, grabbed the ring and climbed back down. “Here you go-”
The glass door to the empty office was closing.
Serge bolted for the Challenger. “Back in the cars! Back in the cars!”
“What’s going on?”
“Just hurry!”
The vehicles raced a half mile, and Serge whipped up a circular drive to the valets. “Staying with us?”
“Only dinner.” He took the ticket. “Hear your food’s great.”
Serge hustled the gang into the lobby of one of the strip’s newest luxury resorts.
“Where are we going?”
“Just keep up.”
They ran out the back doors on the ocean side.
Minutes later, a row of kids sat mutely along a stone ledge, legs dangling over the side.
Serge paced feverishly in front of the seventy-year-old coquina band shell.
“I pray I’m wrong, but I seriously doubt it…”
Serge’s voice echoed back at them from the concave dome. He spun and paced the other way. “That shooting in Panama City Beach? Now I’m a hundred percent it was mistaken identity.”
Melvin raised his hand. “Why do you think that?”
“Because they were really after you.”
“Us?”
“Well, one of you.”
Murmurs shot down the row, students glancing at one another.
Another hand. “Why would someone want to kill one of us?”
“Who knows? Anyone witness a murder lately?”
Heads shook.
“Maybe a second case of mistaken identity,” said Serge. “But unlike those poor kids in the Panhandle, this case follows you around.”
“Why?”
“They’ve got one of your names.” Pacing resumed. “I’d bet my life on it. Could simply be an identical name they confused with the target they’re really after.”
“It was Andy’s ring,” said Joey. “Must be his name.”
“Or not,” said Serge. “You booked Panama City with his credit card. Maybe they just think it’s someone staying with him.” He turned. “Andy, anything in the family closet?”
Andy heard guilty thoughts blaring out his ears. “Uh, nope.”
“What about the rest of you?” Serge slowly walked down the row of students, each wilting under his gaze. “We’re all in this together now. If someone’s got a secret, this is the time.”
Heads shook again.
Serge hopped up and sat on the ledge, leaning with elbows on knees. “This is a tough one.”
“So we’re going to take off,” said Andy. “Right?”
“Absolutely not. This is our big chance.”
“Chance?”
“We have a rare window of advantage. They don’t know where we are, but I know where they are.”
“Where?”
“In your room. The guy got the number from the mail slot in the office when he dropped off the ring. And I’m positive we left the curtains open.”
“Oh my God! They’re here?” said Spooge. “In our room!”
A group freak-out. “We should definitely split!…”
“I’m calling my parents!…”
“No!” snapped Serge. “Stop pissing yourselves. If one of you really is the target, the first thing they’ll do is watch relatives’ houses and tap their phones.”
“But they’re not cops. How do they get inside to tap?”
“They can do it across the street in a car. Parabolic receivers pick up portable phones and now even hardwired landlines. Back in the eighties, Miami had a counter-surveillance store on every block.” Serge hopped down from the ledge. “Until I find out what we’re dealing with, nobody makes any outside contact.”
“What about the police?”
“Especially the police,“ said Serge.”Coleman and I do a lot of pawning, and I have a pretty good idea how they found that ring.”
“How?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“If you want us to trust you…,” said Spooge.
“Okay,” said Serge, and he told them.
“Dear Jesus,” said Doogie. “The police are in on it?”
“Only takes one,” said Serge.
“Where do we go in the meantime?”
“I’ll get you registered into this place.” Serge headed back toward the resort. “Then I have some business.”
The Challenger sat behind a liquor store three blocks up A1A from the Dunes.
Serge whistled merrily up the sidewalk, climbed stairs and walked along a second-story landing. Eyes peeked from a curtain slit as he passed room 24. He stuck a key in the next door.
City and Country were kicking back with a bong and HBO.
“There you are!”
“We thought you ditched us again!”
Serge went straight for the door to the adjoining room and quietly locked it. He pressed his right ear to the wood.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“We have a problem,” said Serge.
Country blew City a shotgun. “You’re the one with a problem.”
“This isn’t a joke. I need a favor.”
“What’s happening?”
He told them, play by play. “… They’re in twenty-four right now, but they don’t know we have the adjoining room. I can’t do this without you.”
“Bullshit on that,” said City.
“Double bullshit,” said Country. “We got enough trouble as it is.”
“But these kids are sheep,” said Serge. “They don’t stand a chance.”
The pair stared and stewed. Finally, City snatched the bong and lighter. “You bastard.”
“That means you’ll help?”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Randall Sheets saw his future disintegrating.
“Turn the other way,” said Agent Ramirez, sitting with him in the back of a speeding sedan.
The agent twisted a tiny key; cuffs popped loose.
Randall rubbed his wrists. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“Better than if we didn’t show up.”
Waves of panic were so strong, Randall felt himself drowning. Then it came from nowhere, an eruption of sobs and babbling. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know what to do. My wife. The bills. These guys. The briefcase. I’m so sorry!…”
Ramirez gave him a handkerchief. “We know about your wife.”
Randall blew his nose. “You do?”
Ramirez continued facing forward. “So did they. You got played. It’s how they operate. You never had a choice.”
“I didn’t. What would you have done?”
“Same thing. But that’s behind you.”
“It is?”
“You’re going to testify before the grand jury.”
“Not a chance. They’ll kill me for sure.”
“There’s a duffel bag waiting for you in Bimini,” said Ramirez.
“You know about that, too?”
“Weighs the same as the others with coke.”
“Not coke?”
“Bomb.”
“Doesn’t make sense. I’ve got a perfect delivery record, making them a fortune.”
“They change pilots every six months. And not by mutual agreement. That’s why we had to take you in now.”
Randall’s face fell in his hands. “How long have you known?”
“Two days. Finally got an informant, someone on their inside. Been trying to get a pilot for years but, well, you’re the first.”
“Oh my God!” Randall just remembered. “My family!”
“All taken care of. Picked up your wife and son an hour ago.”
That’s what mattered most to Randall, the next less so: “How much prison am I looking at?”
“None. You testify, we put you in the witness program.”
“Where?”
“Won’t be as warm as here.”
“How long do I have to stay?”
“You don’t understand.” Ramirez gazed out the window as a DC-10 touched down at West Palm International. “These people never forget.”
THE PRESENT, MIDNIGHT
Pop.
Country uncapped a wine bottle in the backseat. “Nobody’s left the room for hours. Maybe they’re not there.”
“They’re still there, all right.” Serge leaned toward the windshield of the Challenger, strategically parked face-out in an alley with a full view of the Dunes. “They don’t want to open the door and give away their ambush position in case the kids are on their way back.”
“So why are we waiting over here?”
“Everyone eventually gets hungry.”
Another hour.
“Now I’m hungry,“ said City, stubbing out a roach.”Me, too,” said Country.
“So is someone else.” Serge looked up at the second floor, where a man had quickly slipped out the door of room 24, then pretended he hadn’t. He leaned nonchalantly against the landing’s rail, scanning the parking lot and street. All clear. Cowboy boots trotted down stairs.
The Challenger rolled out of the alley without headlights.
Boots clacked across the street and up the opposite sidewalk.
“You were right,” said Country. “He’s heading for Taco Bell.”
“I’d kill for a taco right now,” said City.
Serge pulled along the curb. “You’re going to get your wish.”
Pedro’s arms were weighed down with bags of grande meals when he finally came out the restaurant’s side door.
A distressed female voice: “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” said City. “We might have to ask a stranger.”
“But that’s dangerous.”
“Excuse me.” Pedro politely bowed his head. “Couldn’t help but overhear. Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Flat tire,” said Country, reaching in one of his bags for a taco.
“But the lug nuts are too tight.” City reached in another bag. “We’re not strong enough.”
Pedro puffed out his chest. “You beautiful ladies shouldn’t have to change a tire. Especially at night.”
“You’ll help us?” said Country.
“You’d really do something that nice?” said City.
“Of course Pedro will help you. Where’s your car?”
“Right around the corner. Just follow us.”
He did.
They turned the corner.
Pedro dropped his tacos. “Who’s that guy?”
“Oh,” said Country. “You mean the one with the gun?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Belle Glade sits near the middle of the state, on the southeast shore of Lake Okeechobee. The horizon low and flat. Cane elds forever. Plumes of dark smoke rose in various directions, some from intentional burns of harvested fields, others out the stacks of sugar-processing plants. Below the town was a prison camp. A yellow crop duster swooped, the one that terrorists with rashes on their hands had tried to hire. To the north, an uninviting, single-row motel with a leaking tar roof on the side of Route 715. Scraggly bushes, termite damage, a cracked office window fixed with masking tape.
The motel was almost always closed, except when the government needed it. Because it owned it.
Currently, no vacancy. Lights on in all eight rooms, but the front sign remained dark. Agents in T-shirts and jeans stood watch outside, pretending to work on a carburetor. They didn’t blend in. People of their sort never put up in the glades unless there’s a bad reason. All locals avoided them, except sheriff’s deputies, who knew something was up during their first stay but couldn’t get to the bottom of it despite hours of questioning in the parking lot. Almost blew the safe house. So feds began bringing tackle boxes and towing bass boats. Near every deputy fished that lake.
In the middle room, Randall Sheets rocked nervously on the edge of a bed. They’d just reeled him back from Detroit for his big day of testimony. A digital clock said five A.M. Ramirez sat facing him. “It’ll all be over in a few hours.”
“Can’t come soon enough.”
“Just remember what we talked about. The prosecutor will guide you through everything. Keep your answers direct and tell the truth. We’ll put them away.”
“I don’t see how my testimony can do that. I think the guys I was dealing with were at the bottom.”
“We have another witness. Management insulates themselves by staying away while the lower rungs get their hands dirty. Between the two of you…”-he interlaced his fingers-“… we connect the whole operation.”
“Will… they be there?”
“Not in the grand jury. Not even their defense attorneys. You have nothing to worry about.”
Three spaced knocks on the door.
An agent standing next to Ramirez-the one with the machine gun-went over and checked out the window. He opened the door.
Six more agents entered. “We’re ready.”
Everyone put on dark windbreakers with hoods. Ramirez handed one to Randall.
“What’s this for?”
“Just put it on.”
“Wait,” said Randall, looking around a room of identically dressed people. “Snipers?”
“Just an abundance of caution. Put it on.”
A string of headlights filled the dark parking lot. Engines running. Vehicles in a perfect line, facing the exit.
Room number 4 opened, and windbreakers ran for the convoy.
Pop, pop, pop. Sparks on the pavement. Pinging against fenders.
“Where’s Randall?” yelled Ramirez. “Get him down!”
Agents flattened the witness and formed a pile.
Pop, pop. Ping, ping.
“Where the hell’s that coming from?”
“Over there!” An agent braced behind a Bronco and returned fire toward distant muzzle flashes. “The cane field!”
“Get him in the car!” Ramirez slapped the trunk. “Go!”
The front half of the motorcade sped east into the waning night. The rest of the team remained behind, raking sugarcane with overwhelming firepower.
The convoy reached Twenty Mile Bend, dashboard needles at the century mark. Randall wanted to see outside, but they were sitting on him again. The approaching dawn brightened over Southern Boulevard, where they were joined by helico
pters for the final turnpike leg to the federal courthouse in Miami-Dade County. But back then it was just Dade.
They brought Randall through a secure garage gate in back. He entered the courtroom and took the stand next to a jury with less interesting mornings.
Randall Sheets was, as they say, the perfect witness. Steady, confident testimony. Even he was surprised by his grace under pressure.
Indictments came down.
Across south Florida, a series of predawn raids.
The front door of a Spanish stucco house opened. The SWAT team brought Hector, Luis, and Juanita out in handcuffs-“Call the lawyers!”
Same scene at five other locations, two dozen associates in all. Everyone was booked. And bonded out just as quickly by one of Florida’s top law firms. TV crews waited in the street. “Is it true you’re kingpins?”
An agent in the Miami FBI office picked up a phone and dialed.
A cell rang somewhere south of Miami. “Hello?” A hand quickly went over it, and the person walked outside. “Are you crazy calling me now?… No, I can’t talk. They’re circling the wagons. Everyone’s under suspicion… What I’m saying is they know you’ve got an informant in the family… How can you say there’s no way? We’ve got someone inside with you… I don’t know who our guy is, sheriff, janitor, anyone. Point is that’s how they must have found out… I understand you’d really like the name of our informant-I just need more time… Don’t even joke about taking back immunity. I’ll contact you as soon as I hear something. And never call me on this line again!” The phone slammed shut.
Another phone rang. Another person answered. “… Yes, I can talk… I see… You think you know who the informant in our family is? Very good, who?… You’ve only narrowed it to two people? That’s not good… I realize it’s a huge risk getting at the files right now. That’s what we pay you for… No, time’s already run out. Haven’t you been watching the news?… Okay, what are the two names?”
THE PRESENT
Four A.M.
Serge’s surveillance had synchronized his watch with the rounds of local police.
The latest squad car rolled toward him. And kept going. Serge jumped from a hedge on the side of A1A.
