Walking Money
Page 8
She waved her hand, dismissing his concern. “Oh. That’s here in the office. No one can dictate my personal life. I can see you later. Like maybe at your house.”
“Really?”
“Sure. How ’bout eight?” She smiled at Tasker, almost blinding him with those perfect teeth. “Bill?”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t have the cash, do you?” Before he could answer, she held up a hand. “I’m not saying anything except that Watson is a crook and he shouldn’t get it back.”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t know anything about any cash or safe-deposit box or even much about the CCR.”
She looked at him as deeply as he was looking at her. “You could tell me and be safe knowing I’d never tell anyone.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need the help in this particular situation.” Tasker thought he saw disappointment flash across her face, but he couldn’t be sure.
TOM Dooley sat at his official desk within the actual Federal Bureau of Investigation offices in North Miami. He avoided the task force office down the street because he figured the members of the task force still there would hear he dropped a dime on Tasker. People were starting to talk about the FDLE agent who ripped off the Reverend Al. Nothing on the news yet, but the rumors were circulating. It was rare that one of those hotshot state guys ever got in trouble, so everyone wanted to believe it. In truth, Dooley had felt a little guilty setting Tasker up. He seemed like a nice enough kid and didn’t give Dooley the shit the locals constantly threw at him. In fact, Dooley had thought he was a little on the spineless side until Tasker jumped out of the freezer during the robbery. He had balls. Dooley just hoped he didn’t have enough brains to get out from under the Bureau’s spotlight.
Dooley hadn’t even known that Tasker had been in shit before. He seemed like such a Boy Scout. He’d heard through the grapevine that Tasker had been mixed up with some crooked local cop in Palm Beach County but they never charged him. That just made him the most perfect patsy since Lee Harvey Oswald.
Dooley spent most of his day trying to figure out what he was going to do with the cash and where he was going to live. He didn’t think anyone suspected his involvement, but sometimes he had the feeling someone was following him. He’d even pulled a couple of countersurveillance moves yesterday afternoon in case someone was behind him. Just a feeling. It would pass. The agent looking at the bank robbery, the fucking dot-head, or whatever he was, Slayda “Mac” Nmir, seemed to have a pretty good focus on Tasker. The little bugger was industrious if nothing else. He’d already managed to get Tasker suspended and was working on further leads a few desks away from Dooley at that very moment.
Whenever the young agent spoke on the phone or to another agent about the case, Dooley kept an ear open to pick up what he could. As long as they went after Tasker, he didn’t see a problem. As he browsed through a brochure on the opportunities for Americans in Costa Rica, Dooley heard Mac, talking to an assistant U.S. attorney on the phone about his big fucking case. The one side of the conversation he heard didn’t make him happy.
Mac kept nodding like the U.S. attorney could see him, repeating “Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Then he said, “No, just the witness and that gap of time no one can account for him. Nothing solid.” After a pause, he continued, “That’s right, he was never charged. In fact, the FDLE internal process cleared him in that whole thing, but something fishy went on.” He wrote down something, then said, “No, he’s suspended but the bank records don’t show any odd spending, nothing out of the ordinary.” He closed by saying, “I will. If something comes up, you’ll be the first to know.” He hung up with a long sigh.
Dooley leaned back in his chair. “Tough day, Mic?”
“That’s Mac, Dooley.”
“Oh, you’re Scottish, not Irish, I keep forgetting.”
Mac didn’t reply, throwing a dirty look down to Dooley.
Dooley smiled, thinking, You fucking new guys think you’re smarter than us seasoned vets. He unlocked the lower drawer to his small steel file cabinet and peeked at the satchel lying on the bottom, then chuckled.
“What’s so funny, Dooley?” asked Mac.
“Nothing you’d understand, sonny.” Dooley sat, going over an idea he’d had bumping around in his head for a few hours now. He was always moving one step ahead of others, but now he needed to move way ahead. He could do something. Maybe plant evidence that Mac wouldn’t find for a few days. Maybe make it so he’s out of town in case anyone ever suspected what he’d done. Dooley opened the drawer again. There was a lot of cash in that damn satchel. Maybe it was time to move it anyway. Dooley gathered it up and got ready to leave for the day. It might be a good investment to give some of the money away. Sorta like the people who donated it had envisioned in the first place.
TASKER practiced the breathing exercises he’d learned in the months following his near mental collapse before exile to Miami. The therapist had made it seem so simple: breathe properly and your problems go away. What a crock. Breathe properly and you have to keep living and therefore your problems get worse. Those were the negative thoughts the therapist had warned him about. Now, in his car it took deep breathing just to take the traffic northbound on I-95 until he could cut down Miami Gardens to the task force office. Before he could start his own investigation, he needed to know where some of it had come from. More accurately, he needed to know why Dooley had said anything at all. He knew the FBI agent had passed on information, but he didn’t know what Dooley hoped to gain. It couldn’t be interagency rivalries; at least he didn’t think it could.
At the FBI task force building, Tasker zipped his Cherokee into a spot one row back from the building. He sat and looked at what used to be his office. Quiet today, the car theft guys probably out on one of their mammoth surveillances and his guys spread out over the city. He stared at the front door, his throat dry and breathing shallow. Should he really be doing shit like this? Would people accuse him of interfering with the investigation and trying to cover his tracks? This didn’t seem like a good idea.
He wiped his face with his bare hand, then started to throw the Jeep into reverse when he saw Dooley pull up in his issued Buick. The fat man didn’t hesitate to pop out of the car with his hands full and start to waddle toward the front door.
Tasker froze, quietly hoping the FBI man wouldn’t notice him. Too late, he paused, mid-stride, looked down at the leather bag in his right hand and then changed direction to head straight for Tasker.
“What’s doin’?” asked the heavyset man as Tasker lowered his window. Then, with a different look, he cocked his head. “You off suspension?”
“No, thanks to you,” Tasker snapped.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I know you pushed Mac Nmir toward me. Was he so weak on leads you guys had to make something up?”
Dooley bent down and set the heavy leather bag between his legs. “You’re way off there, cowboy. I told the investigating agent of the FBI that I heard you and others show a lot of interest in that particular bank. Nothing personal, but I have a responsibility to report things that may be pertinent to a bank robbery.”
Tasker took a second to gather his thoughts and assess his former partner. Dooley was doing his fair share of sweating from the heat as he bent down to pick up the bag again. Filling his lungs with air, Tasker said, “You know our interest was in the Eighth Street Boyz robbing the bank, not the actual bank.”
Dooley nodded. “I know, I know. That little sand nigger has gone overboard on this whole thing. It’ll blow over soon enough. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“I gotta worry about it. It’s my life.”
Dooley turned like he’d said all he was going to say. “You need to relax. Go home, have a beer and grill a steak.”
“I wish I could, Tom. But I don’t think like that and I haven’t used my grill in a month. But I know what I am going to do and don’t give a shit what the Federal Bureau of Investigation thinks about it.”
Tasker wished he had a pistol as he watched Dooley disappear into the building,
AFTER a few minutes of cooling down and a quick box of Kentucky Fried Chicken to fill him up, Tasker was on Seventh Avenue headed south looking for the clubhouse of Miami’s most famous street gang, the Eighth Street Boyz. They were famous for being around so long, almost fifteen years, and being tough. They were responsible for at least twelve murders and thousands of beatings. Things had changed when their leaders found they liked being on TV and hired a media relations team smart enough to turn their image around, at least within the confines of Liberty City and Overtown. In the past two years, they had tried to show young people other ways of becoming a success than dealing crack. Unfortunately, most of the Miami cops believed that alternative included organizing theft rings and jumping on the occasional big hit, like the Alpha National Bank of Overtown.
Tasker took a right on Tenth Street, hardly noticing the stares of the young African-Americans on the corner who obviously couldn’t figure out what a white guy not in a police car would be doing in this neighborhood. He looked for the converted bar that now stood as the headquarters for the Eighth Street Boyz, even though it was on Tenth Street. He wondered if they really couldn’t have found something on Eighth and kept everyone from making jokes about it. He had heard that they kept the name because the Cubans didn’t like them taking the name of their community’s most famous street. Even though this was NW Eighth Street and the Cuban population and business district centered around SW Eighth, more popularly known as Calle Ocho.
Tasker pulled right up front and, without hesitating, slid out of his car and up to the front door of the mainly windowless, partially painted, low-roofed building where he hoped to find some answers. Now he wished he had a gun. Since he’d turned in his Beretta when he’d been suspended, he’d had no choice unless he wanted to carry his personal Remington hunting rifle, but that would be a little obvious even in Miami. It didn’t matter, not even gang members wanted to risk hurting a cop. He took only a few seconds to build his nerve, then pushed through the unlocked swinging door.
A black man in his early thirties gave Tasker a tired look. Never changing his hands as they wiped down a glass from behind a small bar, the man asked, “You a cop?”
“What do you think?” Tasker took a moment to glance around the room. It was just the two of them and he could tell from the spartan surroundings that no one was hiding behind any furniture. A broken-down sofa sat on one wall, a couple of tables with chairs were set around an elaborate pool table.
The bartender continued to assess Tasker, then said, “Well, Officer, in that case, unless you have a warrant, reviewed by an authorized state attorney, signed by a sitting member of the Miami-Dade County or circuit bench and presented to me immediately, you better get your cracker ass out of here.”
“Whoa, whoa, hold on, Clarence Darrow. I just want to talk. I’m not here to hassle anyone.”
“Talk about what?”
“The Alpha National Bank in Overtown.” He kept his stare on the man.
“In case you haven’t looked around, this is Liberty City. You gotta cross I-95 before you reach the area known as Overtown.”
“I thought Liberty City started up by Sixty-second Street.”
“Liberty City is a state of mind. It starts and ends where we want it to.”
“Then where’s Overtown?”
“Stop playing games, man.”
“No games. I’m just interested in the Alpha National in Overtown.”
“Why would you ask us about something in the ghetto?”
“Why did the FBI say they were asking?”
The bartender screwed up his face. “The who?”
“The FBI. Didn’t they come by and ask any questions?”
“When?”
Now Tasker was confused. “I don’t know. In the last few days?”
“I haven’t seen no Feds, and the Boyz would’ve told me if anyone was by. I think you got the wrong place.”
Tasker looked at the calm man. He thought, Un-fucking-believable. Then he asked out loud, “No one’s been by?”
“Are you deaf? I told you no. Now why are you asking about an Overtown bank?”
Tasker felt his confidence slip away, but pushed himself. “The Alpha National Bank in Overtown lost some cash during the riot.”
The bartender set down the glass. “You think we’re stupid enough to waste our time on some low-life Overtown bank?”
“You’re stupid enough to have your clubhouse on Tenth Street when you’re named the Eighth Street Boyz.”
“Listen up, cracker. If we hit a bank, we’d hit the white man’s bank. And even if we did, why would I tell you?”
Tasker nodded. “That’s a good question.”
“How ’bout a good answer?”
“I know some of you are trying to be role models. This story gets out, a lot of kids could be disappointed. You help me out and I guarantee I keep it quiet.” It was a long shot, but all he had right now.
The bartender looked like he was considering it, then he smiled, looking right at Tasker.
Tasker felt someone else in the room and jerked his head around to see four more men around him. Another younger man, maybe twenty, stayed by the door and slid a bolt that locked the swinging door closed.
The bartender said, “Two things, cracker. We may have thought about that bank, but we found out Cole Hodges does business there and we’re not about to fuck with him.”
Tasker swallowed and said, “What’s the other thing?”
“We ain’t got time for suspended cracker cops.”
Before Tasker could say anything, he felt a couple of sets of hands seize him by the shoulders and arms.
COLE Hodges had decided to take other measures after two days of watching the fat son of a bitch. His plan now was to follow Dooley from the FBI office and, when the opportunity presented itself, knock that cop asshole over the head and find out where he’d hidden the damn cash. Hodges felt this type of action was a little beneath him, but he couldn’t get ahold of Ebbi Kyle, so he’d have to do it himself.
Hodges saw Dooley’s white Buick Century heading toward the front of the lot and got ready to follow him. He could see how the FBI lost everyone on surveillance, with the damn Cubans switching lanes and old Jews from the Beach driving along at twenty miles an hour, it was hard trying to stay with someone and not be too conspicuous.
Dooley drove like a bat out of hell until he hit US 1, then slowed, heading into Aventura. Hodges lost him turning into the giant mall, then saw him with a briefcase walking into the T.G.I. Friday’s. Hodges scrambled for a parking spot, cutting off an elderly woman trying to maneuver her Cadillac into the spot. He checked his revolver and did a quickstep toward the restaurant.
Slipping in the front door, he still hadn’t decided how he’d handle this. He spotted Dooley at a booth way in the back. He could slide in next to him, explain things. Who knows, maybe they could come to an agreement. He could threaten him. Most of the neat, clean FBI agents didn’t stand up well to threats. Hodges didn’t have that sense about Dooley. This guy was tough or at least seasoned. Hodges made his way down the crowded bar, heading right for Dooley’s booth. He had his hand in his coat pocket wrapped around the revolver. He was within ten feet of the booth when he realized there was someone with the FBI man.
Hodges made a sharp turn on the ball of his foot and mingled with the after-work crowd having a drink with the other yuppies living in the trendy area. Hodges slowly worked his way around to see who Dooley was talking to. He saw a soft feminine leg all the way up to a short black skirt. Mid-length dark hair hung across her face. She was young, around thirty. Then Hod
ges saw her face. That long, sharp nose and all-business attitude.
“How did that bitch hook up with him?” he mumbled loud enough to draw some stares from patrons around him. He definitely had to hold off on his plan for now. Not with her hanging around. He released the revolver, looked at the young lawyer type next to him, grabbed an empty mug and said, “Hit me, my friend. It seems I’ve been stood up.”
TEN
TASKER finished dabbing on peroxide and stuck another Band-Aid on his knuckle, then checked the mirror one last time. He looked like a lousy pro boxer. His black eye had faded but now he had cuts around his left eye and a split lip. His questioning of the Eighth Street Boyz hadn’t gone as he had planned, but on the bright side, their beating of him hadn’t gone as they had planned. Tasker had gotten ahold of one of the old metal chairs in the bar, and after a few hard swings had managed to get out the door alive.
Tasker didn’t want anyone to know he was looking into the case, but he was pretty confident the Boyz wouldn’t file any kind of complaint. That meant he was still under the radar and had some time.
He limped—damn that short Boyz who had kicked him low—back to Tina in the living room. He had already explained his reasons for going to the Eighth Street Boyz Tenth Street clubhouse but she was still pissed he’d do something that foolhardy. Then he told her how Dooley had ratted on him. She seemed to believe him on his actions and on his innocence.
Mentally, Tasker didn’t feel as bad as the other time he’d been suspended. The big difference this time was Tina Wiggins nestling under his arm as they quietly watched the news before having dinner then going to a movie on what could officially be called their first date. He savored the curve of her tan shoulder as it found a place along his side; both of them splayed on the couch, the Channel Eleven news anchor itemizing the destruction of the riot. Mentioning the FDLE special operations agent who was recovering from a bullet wound in the arm.