“Whoa, whoa, big man. We need to talk to him.”
Dooley, wild-eyed and red-faced, screamed, “We need to teach this fucking son-of-a-banana-eating-monkey a lesson in respect.” He kicked Hodges in the head, this time knocking him out cold. Dooley leaned over the motionless man. “You know the grief you caused me? I oughta fucking carve you up right here, right now.”
Bema eased him back, noting the white foam at the corner of the FBI agent’s mouth. Bema knew this guy was close to the edge and that he had to speak carefully.
Bema spoke calmly. “Now, Tom, we need to step back.” He carefully pushed the heavier FBI man back a few steps. “We need him awake and talking, Tom. We gotta find the cash, that’s our only goal, you understand?”
Dooley nodded absently, still staring at the body on the floor. His breathing moved from panting to longer, heavier breaths.
Bema continued. “Now, you’re way too close to this whole thing here. You’re gonna kill our only chance to get the cash back.” He paused to assess his effect on Dooley. “Why don’ you pull the car around while I have a friendly chat with the man here?”
“No, no fucking way.”
“Now, Tom, give me a shot. Then if he don’ say nothin’, I’ll hustle him down to you and we visit the river again. You can do anything you want.”
Dooley stared at him, then back at Hodges, who was starting to stir.
Bema saw his interest in Hodges and spoke up again. “C’mon, Tom, it may feel good now, but the cash will feel good for a long, long time, no?”
Dooley took in a deep breath and slowly, barely, nodded.
Bema patted his shoulder. “Good, good man. Now get us the car.”
Dooley nodded and shuffled toward the main room, throwing one more kick into Hodges’s leg as he passed. He looked back when he reached the door and said, “But if he don’t talk, he’s all mine.”
“I promise.”
Bema watched the door close behind Dooley. If he had rehearsed it with that psycho, it couldn’t have gone better. He knew Hodges had heard most of it. He let it sink in, then said, “Hear that, counselor? You can tell me where the cash is or deal with that nut down by the river. Your choice.”
Hodges sat up, then leaned against the wall, using his fingers to check the blood on his head and ear. He took a deep breath and looked up at Bema. “Go on, I’m listening.”
“It’s simple. We want the cash. Tell me where it is and we’re outta here. Hold out and I guarantee that crazy son of a bitch will ruin your whole week. No?”
“I see your point, young man, but I am not in possession of the money. Money, I might add, that belongs to the CCR.”
“And you are going to return it to them?”
“Yes, you see I am the CCR, or at least a big part of it.”
“You can cut the shit and tell me where it is.”
“Listen, Mr. ...? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” He slowly started to stand.
“My name is Mr. Impolite,” Bema said, punching him in the stomach, doubling him back down to his knees. “And if you don’ tell me where the cash is, you’re gonna meet Mr. Fucking Rude down in the car. Now where is the satchel?”
Hodges sucked in some air but didn’t answer.
Bema drew his small automatic and said, “Okay, just come on and we’ll see if you’re more talkative after Dooley carves you up some.”
Hodges stood again, holding out his hand to slow down Bema. “Okay, okay, it’s in the freezer.”
“What? You think I’m stupid? Man, what do I look like? A Puerto Rican?”
“No, my friend, I’m saving us both some trouble. The satchel is stuffed in the freezer of that old Amana in there.” He pointed toward the tiny walk-in kitchen.
Bema eyed him cautiously as he backed toward the kitchen, keeping his gun pointed at Hodges. He motioned for him to follow. Once they were both in the small kitchen, Bema said, “Open it.” He pointed toward the refrigerator with his pistol.
Hodges moved slowly and opened the small upper door of the old refrigerator. He reached inside and pulled at a cloth satchel until it broke free of some frost. He held it up for Bema’s inspection.
Bema said, “No shit.” As he stepped toward the bag, Hodges threw it toward him and then lunged at the surprised cop. They both crashed back into the wall, Bema’s gun clattering to the floor. Hodges turned, searching for the weapon, and made a wild grab for it as Bema took a toaster in his right hand and slammed it down on Hodges’s head.
Hodges fell, dead still, to the floor. Bema paused, looked to make sure the injured man couldn’t get to the gun, then slammed the toaster onto his head two more times. He tossed the bloody toaster onto the counter, reached down and retrieved his gun, then took the satchel. He froze when he looked inside. The pile of cash stunned him. It must’ve weighed fifteen or twenty pounds. And big bills, too. He couldn’t believe it.
He closed the satchel and tossed it toward the front door. Bema looked around the kitchen, barely noticing the lump of flesh on the floor, and took a long twist of paper towels from a roll on the counter. He ran the wad of towels under the faucet and proceeded to wipe the toaster, refrigerator and counter. He didn’t need some bright Miami cop to tie this to him. Not when he was on the verge of becoming wealthy.
Bema wanted to whistle as he finished his sweep and headed for the door. Now all he had to do was decide if Dooley was worth keeping around.
TASKER figured it could be worse. He sat behind the wheel of his Cherokee on a sunny South Florida day on his way to meet Tina at the Dadeland Mall, but first he wanted to see if he could find anything out about Cole Hodges.
Heading out Sixty-second Street near the Scott housing project, Tasker pulled the Jeep into the dirt lot of a small office in front of a series of basketball courts. A hand-painted sign read “Community Center.” Tasker stopped at the open door to wait for the older black man sitting behind the desk to notice him. Tasker cleared his throat.
The man looked up from the paperwork on his desk. A smile spread across his face. “Billy, should you be out and about?”
“Probably not, Deac.” He shook his old friend Deac Kowal’s hand. “Just needed to see a friendly face.”
“Well, you came to the right place. Have a seat.”
“As long as it won’t hurt your image to be seen talking to me.”
“Billy, I don’t worry about FBI foolishness. I know you’re not involved with that bank job.”
Tasker relaxed. “Deac, I need some info and thought you’d be a good guy to ask.”
“Shoot.”
“Before the riots, you said you once tried to take over the CCR but the Reverend Watson had Cole Hodges go after you.”
Deac nodded. “Yeah, thought we could do some good, so we tried to use some of the money the CCR raised to actually redevelop the community. Didn’t get too far.”
“Where’s the CCR’s office?”
“The business office where Hodges and Watson work is over near the bay on Brickell Avenue. They got four or five little branch offices around town. One of them in the next block. Just an empty shell, really. Nothing gets done there.”
“Can you tell me anything about Hodges or Watson?”
“I heard they’re both in the wind. No one has seen either of them since the riot. I think Watson skipped town.”
“What about Hodges?”
“He always kept a lower profile. He may be around, but no one knows it. No one would miss that scum. He gives snakes a bad name.”
“Crooked?”
“He’s a lawyer, isn’t he?” He paused. “If you’re asking if I’ve ever heard he committed a crime, I’d have to say no, except...”
“What?”
“It was said he skimmed the cash the CCR took in.”
“I heard that already.” Tasker moved on. “Do you know where he came from?”
“No, I don’t know him personally and never cared to. Sometimes it’s better to avoid certain people. Know what I
mean?”
Tasker nodded. “I hear you.”
AN hour later, still thinking about his meeting with Deac Kowal, Tasker glanced around the open spaces of the Dadeland Mall in Kendall. The mall had once been a marvel of size and convenience, but had been eclipsed by the ever-growing new malls popping up all over South Florida. He felt uneasy being out in the open, as if someone was trying to kill him. In a way, someone was trying to take away his life, and the whole thing set him on edge.
Tina’s call had surprised him for two reasons: first, that she’d called after leaving his place the way she had the night before last, and second, that the call was short and cryptic, telling him to meet her in the food court of the mall now. He’d needed an excuse to leave the house anyway, so he now found himself waiting for Tina.
Looking around, he remembered his mom dragging him to the Palm Beach Mall when he was a kid. At the time it’d seemed like the biggest place in the world. By comparison, it now looked like a convenience store. Thinking about those torturous trips to the mall, Tasker had to stop and buy his mom a neck massager from the As Seen on TV kiosk. She said things like a massager were more to drown out his dad than to relieve stress, but he decided it worked either way. Retirement had agreed with them and he didn’t want any word of this to leak up to them in North Carolina. Not after his dad’s reaction the last time he’d been in trouble.
He was always amazed at the mass of people that flowed through these giant indoor malls. The Miami area was twice as interesting because no two people looked like they came from the same country. The Jamaicans and Islanders moved casually from store to store; the Cubans bustled, in a hurry like everything they did; and the South Americans pushed past people, oblivious to others’ needs. It used to upset Tasker, but a friend had explained that it was a cultural thing and not a manners issue. He didn’t know why, but that made him feel better about having some Colombian cut in line or bump into him without ever acknowledging him.
He didn’t see Tina coming until she seemed to materialize right next to him, sitting on the edge of a wishing well fountain.
“Billy, you okay? You look like you haven’t slept since the raid.”
“I haven’t.”
“That’s not a good sign.” Her eyes met his, then ran up and down his body like she was assessing a suspect.
Tasker said, “Don’t worry, I’m not thinking about eating my gun.” He paused, then added, “Yet.”
She looked around the food court, then leaned in close to him. Her brown hair swept across his arm. She rattled his bag. “What’s this? Something for me?” Her face lit up a little.
“Massager.”
“Really.” She cocked one eyebrow.
“Neck massager.”
She looked at him.
“For my mom.”
She smiled. “Good answer.”
They sat on a nearby bench and Tasker asked, “What was with the cryptic phone call?”
“I didn’t know if they’d tapped your lines and I saw surveillance at your house. That’s why I didn’t just come over.”
“Surveillance at my house?”
“Yeah, looked like younger FBI guys, but I wasn’t sure.”
Tasker was skeptical. “A title three on my phone and surveillance. I think you’re watching too much TV. The FBI doesn’t work quick enough to get a tap this fast, and I haven’t seen anyone around the house.”
“That’s my read on it and you can’t be too careful.” She cocked her head. “Been anywhere you don’t want them to know about?”
“Yeah, all over. The Eighth Street Boyz, the bank, and this morning I saw my buddy Deac Kowal.”
“The black guy with the city?”
“He’s retired now. But he told me the CCR’s attorney, Cole Hodges, is definitely a crook. He’s a lead I’m trying to follow up.”
“Why would he take his own cash?”
“It wouldn’t have been his, it would’ve been the Committee for Community Relief’s.”
“But he could still get to the box.”
“I haven’t worked it all out yet.” Then Tasker looked at her and said, “I came here, what’s so important?”
Tina took a moment, then said, “I’m sorry I ran off the other night, but the whole thing just freaked me out. I don’t care what you did, I’m just disappointed you didn’t feel like you could tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell, Tina. I’ve been set up and now I’m just trying to figure it all out.”
She stared at him silently as he thought, Why not? It sounds crazy enough to be a movie plot. In real life, no one ever gets framed, but now I have to convince people someone is setting me up. He felt like a moron. No one would believe him, not even his girlfriend.
Tina said, “We’ll work something out. Do you have a lawyer yet?”
“I’m looking.”
“Can I help with something?” She gave him a deadly earnest look.
“Not yet. I don’t want you implicated in any way.”
“If it involves moving a couple million dollars, you can go ahead and implicate me.”
That comment stayed with him the rest of the evening.
SLAYDA “Mac” Nmir leaned back into the Gap store across from the Dadeland Mall’s food court. He watched Tasker and the female FDLE agent, Tina Wiggins, talk for about ten minutes before she hugged him and headed toward the south exit. Mac, who prided himself on his cool professionalism, had to take a second to savor the action of her long legs grinding against each other where they met her trim but shapely upper body. He took a breath and re-focused on Tasker, who was still sitting next to the wishing well, just staring into space.
Mac had to admit that the guy sure seemed lazy to be some kind of master criminal. When he wasn’t sulking around his apartment, he lay on his couch for long stretches, apparently trying to sleep. When he did leave the house, surveillance had managed to lose him every time within a few blocks. Mac was curious how Tasker knew so much about Cole Hodges and why he’d talked to the Eighth Street Boyz. Mac puzzled trying to figure out the state cop. He always thought crooked cops didn’t pout when they were discovered. They set about pushing the blame on someone else or tried to run. This guy seemed real torn up that anyone would even question his integrity. If it weren’t for his past, Mac would have figured he couldn’t be involved in a bank robbery. Just when Mac would start to think the guy was innocent, something would pop up to incriminate him. His interest in the bank for surveillance. Who would ever think someone was going to rob a run-down piece-of-shit bank like that? The crack dealer who saw Tasker’s car in the area. His disappearance before the riots. Someone should have remembered seeing him during that time. The gas pump records computer at the state pumps hadn’t been activated because of the state of emergency, so he might have been one of the thirty-two cars to gas up in the four hours prior to the verdict. And most damning was the cash they’d found in his grill at his town house. Mac had to admit he’d never have gone for a search warrant if his boss hadn’t told him to make something stick after the news story came out on Channel Eleven. Everyone thought it was Mac who had leaked the story. Although he loved seeing his work in public, he’d never even met the young reporter who’d broken it. That Olga Vasquez, who he’d heard had fucked half the agents over at the DEA. Now the office was awash with inspectors trying to figure out who’d let out confidential information.
Now, as he watched Tasker and reviewed the acts in his head, he had his doubts again. The grill was outside, after all, and easy enough for someone to plant the cash in, but there was always something else. Something no one could plant and was part of Tasker’s permanent record: the shit he got into up in West Palm Beach with the crooked cop on the force. He’d paid a price, with the transfer and his wife leaving him, but still if the reports were accurate, he didn’t always do what people expected. He had his own kind of edge. All Mac could do was keep watching and see what turned up.
FOURTEEN
TASKER had been on I-
95 northbound for almost an hour and a half before reaching the Forest Hill Boulevard exit to West Palm Beach. He didn’t mind the drive. Getting out of Dade County felt like someone lifting a curse off him, and the anticipation of seeing the girls kept his mind on happier things. He’d almost cried when his ex-wife called him out of the blue and said he could see the girls as long as they didn’t stay down at his town house. She was just worried about the effect of news stories or seeing another FBI man question their dad. She had seemed pleasant, even supportive, when she had called the night before.
The trip gave him a chance to think about something other than who had set him up and how he could straighten out this mess. An attorney he’d retained had told him to sit tight and he’d figure out what the Feds had on him. The thing that bothered Tasker was that the attorney talked as if he were guilty and they would just try to get away with it, instead of believing he had nothing to do with any of this dirty business. Tasker figured the guy had been in Dade too long and was used to representing real crooks.
Tasker also spent the drive thinking about Tina Wiggins, who’d been good about calling and even risking the occasional visit to see how he was doing. He had the feeling that, even though she wouldn’t admit it, she thought he’d robbed the bank and had the cash stashed safely somewhere. She was a hard one to get a fix on, but he sure didn’t mind trying to figure her out.
As he turned into the neighborhood he’d lived in for three years before banishment to Miami, he noticed the cleaner, almost renewed look to the houses, with fresh paint and new shrubs. He saw his girls in the driveway more than six houses away and let a broad grin break out across his face. It didn’t even dim when he noticed his ex-wife, Donna, leaning in the front door frame, her blond hair in a loose braid, tight belly peeking beneath a short T-shirt. He almost didn’t recognize her at first and couldn’t figure it out until he realized it was because she was smiling.
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