“He seems okay, but who can tell here in Miami? Everyone is running some kind of game.”
Mac said, “Thanks, Dooley, I’ll look into this. Maybe it’ll lead somewhere.”
“Anytime, sport.” Dooley smiled, thinking, It’ll lead somewhere, I guarantee it.
SITTING behind the wheel of his Lincoln Continental, Cole Hodges saw the fat, red-faced FBI man stroll casually out of the plain three-story building in North Miami. He wrapped his big hand around the grip of his Rossi .38 and slowly put the car in drive.
Cole Hodges wasn’t just mad, he hated this son of a bitch. Thinking he was smarter than everyone else. Not realizing that Cole was a much better crook than he was. Hodges wasn’t even that upset that he didn’t get to put one in Reverend Al’s face, but what did piss him off, what made him furious, was that someone else had what was his. Years ago in prison, Hodges had learned that you had to keep what was rightfully yours or everyone would start taking from you. Hodges lived by that creed and often used it to take from others, but he had never let anyone steal from him. Hodges remembered Dooley from their one meeting. He didn’t seem like a common FBI man. Tougher and cruder than most, with a tendency to tie a long string of curse words together like he didn’t even know he was doing it. Hodges was sure he’d give the guy something to curse about soon.
Hodges eased the car forward, waiting for the fat man to roll up in that cheesy white Buick. It would be sweet watching the FBI man’s brain spurt onto the headrest from a hollow point into his nose. He opened the cylinder and spun it to see that all six rounds were seated properly, then clicked it shut.
“C’mon, meat. Got a surprise for you,” he said out loud to the empty car. “You’re not half as slick as you think you are.” Hodges couldn’t believe that Dooley thought he was the only one interested in the cash. How could the FBI agent think that Hodges wouldn’t keep someone on the reverend? As the reverend had walked out the door with the cash, Hodges had called his assistant and all-around fuck-up, Ebbi Kyle, who had seen the FBI man drive off behind the reverend’s car. At the time, the pencil-thin, part-time crack addict had thought it was an official FBI arrest and backed off. Ebbi never questioned anything. After Hodges took care of this problem, he’d be having a serious talk with Ebbi, too. That little shit had to get his act together.
Hodges saw Dooley’s car finally exit the lot and head out toward the 826 expressway. As soon as the Buick was past him, Hodges would roll up and pop the man and take what was his.
The car rolled by and Hodges turned onto the street smooth as glass. You don’t have to be a cop to follow people. Hodges laughed, this motherfucker’s been followed twice in four days and still doesn’t have a clue. Hodges watched to make sure, but the middle-aged man with the thinning hair kept looking forward, his hand nervously shifting on the wheel.
As Dooley stopped his car at the light onto the 826 heading east, the only other car caught an arrow west. It was time. Hodges slowly eased to the left of the Buick, rolling down his electric window with his left hand as he held the steering wheel and the gun with his right. The FBI man still hadn’t turned to look. Hodges figured he’d beep to get Dooley’s attention.
Hodges raised the pistol and started to tap the horn when it hit him like a sledgehammer: What if the man didn’t have the cash in the car? How would Hodges ever find it if he killed Dooley first and asked questions later? He dropped the gun and looked straight ahead to not draw any attention to himself. He’d have to follow this ass around until he was certain he had the cash. Ebbi should’ve taken care of this. Now Hodges would handle it himself. One way or another, he’d make this FBI man wish he’d never heard of Cole Hodges.
EIGHT
BILL Tasker spent the ride into the robbery task force office going over in his head what he would tell Dooley about the need to go after serious robbery groups. In the days since the riots, things around the city had returned to the normal boiling point with the friction between the different ethnic groups just below the surface and the Miami police right in the middle. The local police forces had thousands of cops, more than thirty of them working primarily in robbery. The general street corner and convenience store robberies were worked by these units. No one was looking at the organized groups that actually planned robberies. The kind of guys they made movies about or who were profiled on the History Channel. This was the frustration of the cops on the robbery task force. The crooks actually causing the biggest problems got the least attention. That had been Tasker’s goal the night the clerk killed the robber: recruit the robber as a confidential informant to help investigate other robbers he knew. Work up the ladder until they had an important robbery group ready to take down. It was the same story in all areas of law enforcement: narcotics, burglary, any crime where organized groups tend to make the biggest splash. Those ideas of working up the ladder had died on the floor of the Quick Stop when the clerk was faster on the draw than the bad guy. But as the police get more involved with informants, and efforts to penetrate criminal organizations become more intense, the potential for corruption among the cops grew, too. Tasker knew that all too well. An investigator might cut a corner or two to allow his snitch to stay on the street where he could make a case. Sometimes, especially in drug cases, a cop might see the carloads of easy money to be made and forget the oath he took when he became a cop. Tasker didn’t work that way, no matter what people in West Palm said about him.
The whole trip from Kendall to the North Miami office, Tasker had built these facts into an argument with which to confront the FBI member of the task force and back up his demand for more important robbery cases. Dooley would have to see the logic in this argument. He knew the two local cops, Bema and Sutter, would jump right on board. They’d been screaming for the same thing, virtually electing Tasker as their spokesman.
Inside the building, he found their squad bay empty except for the mousy secretary the FBI provided to work on this task force, the telemarketing task force next door and the stolen car task force down the hall. The three squads also shared a crime intelligence analyst. Tasker’s desk was clean because they hadn’t worked anything since the convenience store clerk killed their only suspect.
After a few minutes, Tasker heard the continuous banter of Bema and Sutter as they came down the hall.
Bema finished a statement, “And that’s why there will be a Cuban president of the United States in the next twenty years.”
Sutter grumbled, “Not if I can still aim a gun.”
Tasker stood, saying, “Glad to see everything is back to normal.”
Bema smiled. “Mr. SWAT, ready to get back to work?”
Sutter said, “On what?”
Tasker said, “We’ll work that out today. Let’s pin Dooley down on some major investigations.”
Sutter said, “We can’t really look at the Overtown bank. It got hit during the riot.”
Tasker said, “I heard. Who’s working that?”
“We haven’t seen Dooley, but I saw FBI guys on the news going through the bank. No one even tried to get into the vault. Just some boxes.”
Tasker said, “Maybe the Bureau will want us to work some surveillance on the case. The FBI agents hate working nights.”
Bema cut in, “The ones I seen hate working days, too.”
All three men laughed out loud at the expense of their missing partner.
Tasker cut out of the task force office about two o’clock with the intention of heading over to the FBI office a few miles west, near I-95. He’d practiced what he was going to say to Dooley for so long that he had to try today. He figured the FBI man was roosting at his own office until the task force started to kick up again.
As he set his notebook on the roof of his Buick and fumbled with the keys, a thin, well-groomed young guy approached him.
“Bill Tasker?” asked the man.
Tasker took a second to look him over, always aware how long it would take him to reach for his Beretta in his belly pack. The guy didn’t
look like a threat, dressed in a nice suit and a World Wildlife Fund tie with a panda on it. “I am, and who are you?”
“My name is Slayda Nmir.” He pulled an ID out of his back pocket. “I’m a special agent with the FBI.”
“I’m sorry, what was your first name again?”
“Slayda.”
“Well, Sl-Slay-Slad.” Tasker didn’t want to insult the guy.
“Call me Mac. Everyone does.”
Tasker paused to look at him more closely. “Okay, Mac. I was just on my way over to the FBI office.”
“What for?”
“Looking for my fellow task force member, Tom Dooley.” Tasker paused and looked the young man over again. “What can I do for you, Mac?”
“You know about the Overtown bank being robbed on Thursday?”
“I heard.” Tasker couldn’t keep his eyes from shifting around him. What was up? The hair on his neck was standing on end.
“Know any of the details?”
“Nope.”
“The manager, Louis Kerpal, was shot and killed, and six safe-deposit boxes were opened. Three of the box owners said there wasn’t anything but important papers in them. One box still had the jewelry the owner left in it. One owner was a Santoro, you know a Santeria priest, who’s been dead for about a year. He was killed by a guy he put a curse on after cutting off his two index fingers.” Mac paused and appraised Tasker, like he might have something to say.
Tasker said, “This is interesting, but why are you telling me?”
“I’m telling you because the last box most likely had something of value. Probably cash.”
“Um-hun.” Tasker was waiting for the punch line.
“That belonged to the Committee for Community Relief. The outfit run by the Reverend Alvin Watson. Ring a bell?”
“I’ve heard of Watson and the CCR, but I still don’t see what that has to do with me.” Tasker’s stomach tightened and he couldn’t figure out why.
“Didn’t you push hard for a surveillance of the Overtown bank right before the riot?”
“Yeah, we had some intel that it might be hit.”
Mac made a note on a steno pad, then asked, “Where’d the intel come from?”
Tasker shrugged. “I dunno, word on the street, that sort of thing.”
Mac nodded, made another note. “Have you done any surveillance on it?”
“No, why?”
“Is this your only assigned vehicle?” Mac patted the Buick Century but didn’t take his eyes off Tasker.
“Yeah, it is...” Then it hit Tasker like a brick. This guy was asking if he was involved in a robbery and murder. When you’re used to questioning others, it isn’t easy to realize when you’re the suspect.
Mac kept rolling. “Can you account for the time between the announcement of the verdict last Thursday and the time you reported to the Miami PD parking lot?”
“Yeah, well, I got gas and traffic was really rough.” Tasker stopped. His knees felt like rubber bands. “Wait a minute. You actually checked to see when I reported to duty? You think I hit the bank? This is bullshit!”
“It may be, but I have to look at all angles here. Witnesses place you at the U.S attorney’s office about one-thirty, and the FDLE radio log shows you at the Miami PD around five-thirty. That’s plenty of time to cut over to Overtown and grab some spending money.”
Tasker looked at the smug agent and said, “You ever been a real cop?”
This simple comment is known in all of law enforcement to be the harshest and most subtle cut you can use against an FBI agent. The inference being that all the accountants and teachers the FBI hires and molds in its own image don’t have any street experience or common sense.
Mac looked like he’d been kicked. “No, but I’ve been with the Bureau four years now. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I’m just curious how you jumped to this wild conclusion that I robbed that bank.” He felt his face flush and resisted the urge to just walk away.
“Did I say you robbed it?”
“Then why these questions?”
“It’s called an investigation, and I have to do it to find out who took the cash.” Nmir’s slim face showed no tension, like he was chatting with a neighbor.
“Then I’m not a suspect?”
“I didn’t say that either.”
“Let’s stop for one second and figure out how we got here. Why are you even looking at me?”
“A witness put a cop in a white Buick in front of the bank. I heard you were interested in the bank for the task force, you have a pretty big gap in your day last Thursday, and the manager was killed with a thirty-eight, a cop’s kind of gun. Now, wouldn’t you talk to someone with those kind of strikes against them?”
“Yes, I would, after I examined the source of the information. Like who was the witness.”
Mac looked hard at Tasker, like he was letting him in on a secret. “Okay, I’ll level with you. The witness is a crack dealer who works that corner, but everything else points to you like a big neon sign. I’m trying to give you a break. If you come clean right now, you could get one hell of a deal.”
Tasker’s hand darted up and grabbed Nmir’s lapel. The smaller man grabbed Tasker’s twisting hand but had little effect. Tasker pulled the calm FBI agent close so their noses almost touched, and said, “What kind of moron uses shitty information like that to accuse a working cop of a crime?”
Nmir answered slowly, “The kind of moron who’s seen your personnel jacket and knows what you’ve done in the past.”
Tasker felt a shock run through his body and released the other man.
Mac straightened his tie and said, “Convince me I’m wrong, then. Just talk to me, Tasker.”
“You’re way off.” Tasker grabbed a deep breath. “Sounds like Tom Dooley may have given you some of your info. He didn’t like the idea of us locals directing where we look for robbers. He was at the U.S. attorney’s office, too. Am I right?”
Mac hesitated. “He’s a lazy loudmouth, but he is an FBI special agent. He has a duty.”
Tasker took another breath. “I deny the charges and deny any of Dooley’s assertions. Now what?”
“I have more work to do. Your administration will probably suspend you, pending the outcome of my investigation.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t work for the Feds. I work for a decent law enforcement agency. They’ll see this crock and tell you to pound sand. No way they’ll suspend me.”
With that, Slayda Nmir nodded and backed away. Tasker watched him pull out of the lot. He’d thought no one cared about his past anymore. How many times could a bad decision ruin your life?
NINE
“I’M suspended,” Tasker said, looking deep into Tina Wiggins’s dark eyes. “I cannot fucking believe this.”
Tina asked, “What’d the boss say?”
“He’s gotta follow protocol. The Feebs sent him a letter classifying me as a target. The director was cool about it. Said he knew it was a bunch of shit, but he had to put me on leave until it’s cleared up.”
“Paid or unpaid?”
“Paid leave. That’s what I mean, the director is supportive, only quietly. Shit, I never thought it’d go this far.”
An older Cuban agent sitting in the squad bay patted him on the back as he walked past. “Don’t sweat it, Tiger. Even if you were guilty I never seen the FBI ever indict someone on shit like this. A good cop can always outsmart them.”
“Jesus, I don’t need to outsmart them, I didn’t do anything.” His eyes bulged, looking at the older man.
“Okay, Billy, but good luck anyway. It’s not like last time. No one thinks you done this. I’ll be watching to make sure they don’ try an’ fuck you, no?”
Tasker and Tina watched him shuffle into the hallway. Tasker was too stunned to do anything but sit and feel the pulse of the office.
Tina said, “Bill, you okay?”
He blinked hard a couple of times. “I
guess so. What about you? You can’t be seen with me for a while, either.”
“Says who?”
“The director.”
“He can’t tell you how to live your life.”
Tasker hardly heard her as he tried to consider his options. If he stayed within his comfort zone he would just sit back and let things happen. He did that once and it never solved anything. He’d have to clear this up fast and completely. His daughters and ex-wife couldn’t face the media storm again.
“You’re right!” Tasker said, springing to his feet and stepping toward her. “They can’t tell me what to do with my private life.” He held her shoulders, feeling an odd sensation surge through him. “Policy says I have to check in at eight every morning and check out at five, but that’s just over the phone, and the director shouldn’t give a damn what I do in between or at night.”
Tina stepped back. “Billy, this is not like you.”
“Good.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“It’s the new me.”
“But what are you going to do?”
“Just like we do every day: develop some leads, then follow them up.”
“What do you have to develop?”
“For starters, I need to find out for sure how I even got mentioned. Then I’ll pay a visit to the Eighth Street Boyz and see what I can squeeze out of them.”
“Why them?”
“That’s who our intel said was going to hit the bank.”
“The Eighth Street Boyz are a tough group. Maybe I should come with you.”
“No, I can’t get you involved. In case everything goes to hell, you need to be clear.”
Tina looked at him. “But what if they have the money?”
“What do you mean? If they have it, I’m off the hook.”
“I mean, they’re not gonna let you just waltz out of their clubhouse with a big box of cash.”
“Trust me, I’ll work something out.” He felt as if his blood were on fire and his brain buzzed with possibilities. Then he came back to reality. “Tina, I doubt the director wants you to be anywhere around me.”
Walking Money Page 7
