“It’s obvious a lot of the information that nailed you came from Tom Dooley in the first place. Now that may be innocent info passed on by a concerned law officer, but then again we’re talking about Tom Dooley.”
“Yeah?”
“Anyways, he hasn’t been around much at all since the riot and he don’t give me the time of day. It may be because he knows I think he’s a rat, but it may be that he’s been busy on other things.” Sutter opened the door and peered down both hallways, then closed it again, leaning on it to keep it tightly shut. “Then, last week he and Rick Bema become real buddy-buddy. Have lunch together, working on something just between the two of them.”
“So?” asked Tasker.
“Today the Prince of Calle Ocho showed up in a new Corvette.”
“That’s his?”
“You saw it, then.”
Tasker nodded. “Anything else?”
“Saved the best for last.”
“What’s that?”
Sutter took a second, obviously savoring the power he held in this conversation. “The two of them, Dooley and Bema, have something in temporary evidence.”
“So?”
“We haven’t worked a case in weeks and those two haven’t done anything for longer than that. They got something personal up there.”
“How do you know?”
“They check it once a day. They keep the keys separate so they have to be together. I noticed it the other day and watched them every day till today.”
Tasker had to think on that one. He could pass it on, but there really wasn’t anything to look at yet. Just a suspicion on his part. Mac Nmir would be the only one who would be able to check on it effectively, and he’d never believe an FBI agent would be capable of something like that.
Tasker said, “You come up with anything else?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”
“Thanks, Derrick. Might be some help later on. You with me?”
“If that help involves grabbing a million bucks, you can count on me.”
Tasker just looked at the Miami cop, realizing he wasn’t kidding this time.
TOM Dooley waited for Tasker to get what he needed out of his desk and leave in his Jeep before worrying about tracking down Bema and chewing his ass out some more for flashing their newfound wealth. The dumb shit just didn’t seem to get it. This was a long-term plan to retire, not blow the cash quick and have everyone asking questions. Before he was too hard on Bema, he had to figure out what to do with Tasker. The son-of-a-bitch cunt shithead seemed to have a little more guts than Dooley had given him credit for, and he’d said he was about to mount a defense. What would happen if Dooley were able to short-circuit that defense? Make it some kind of accident. This would be the last killing and maybe the most important one. If Tasker died with these questions unresolved, people would assume he robbed the bank, and the whole investigation would end up closed by exceptional circumstance. Dooley grinned at the idea as he trotted from office to office, trying to find his partner.
He found Bema by his Corvette, of course, wiping down the trunk where a bird had dropped on it.
Dooley said, “¡Hola, amigo! How’s it goin’?”
Bema kept rubbing, barely looking up.
“What’s wrong?” asked Dooley.
“I still pissed you treat me like a little kid today. I not stupid. I know how to spend my own money.”
“Never said you were stupid, Rick. I just disagree on spending money right now while things are still hot.”
“That’s fine, but you’re not the boss.”
“No, but I’m majority owner of the cash, remember?”
“That’s another thing. I was the one who got the info on Hodges and I’m the one who got the cash back. I think we should be equal partners.”
“You can think all you want, but we already have an agreement.”
Bema let the rag slip out of his hand as he turned to face Dooley full on. “I been thinking about a lot of things, amigo. And I been thinking I don’ need you at all. I could talk to Mister FBI Special Agent Mac Nmir and in about three minutes have him off Bill Tasker’s back and on yours and never get implicated myself.”
“Sorry, amigo, but you’re overestimating your intelligence by about three thousand percent.”
“Maybe so, but I still got the key to the evidence.”
“So what?”
“I also know something you don’.”
“What don’ I know,” Dooley said, mocking the Cuban’s accent.
“I know your fellow FBI agent Mr. Mac Nmir followed Billy Tasker here.”
Dooley looked at him. “So?”
“So, I noticed that Billy drive off and Mr. Mac Nmir is still sitting in his government car across the street, watching the task force. Why would he stay if Tasker left?”
Accent or not, that caught Dooley’s attention. He instinctively raised his eyes and, without even trying, saw the young FBI man in his G-car in the lot across Miami Gardens Drive. What did that clown want? He turned his attention back to Rick Bema.
Bema continued. “Know that an equal partner would never consider walking across the street and talking to him. But a junior partner might.”
“Rick, you ain’t gonna tell no one nothing, so cut the act.”
“No, by telling Nmir, I could get you off my back and still have the fee I already took from the bag. You’d be the only one implicated. And a decent guy like Bill Tasker is off the hook. This option is looking better and better.” The muscle-bound detective smiled.
“What fee?”
“The forty grand I took when it was still frozen. You don’t see nothing, do you?”
“So I’d say we’re pretty equal anyway.”
“No,” he said, without humor or accent. “Now we split what’s left or I drop a dime on your ass.”
“You’re bluffing,” Dooley said, believing it.
“Don’t push me.”
“Push you? I fucking dare you. He’s right across the street. Go spill your guts. But when you back down, remember our deal and remember who the junior partner is.”
Bema looked shocked on his bluff being called. He turned without a word and stomped to the edge of the parking lot, then looked across the six-lane avenue toward Nmir’s brown Taurus. He paused like he wanted Dooley to say something or call after him, but the FBI man just stared. He felt like reaching for his pistol and ending Bema’s threat right then and there, but there were too many witnesses and it would be tough to explain.
Bema, still at the edge of the parking lot, took a step through the short, sparse ficus hedge and now stood on the empty sidewalk as cars buzzed past at fifty miles an hour. Dooley could see Nmir over Bema’s shoulder. Nmir acted like he didn’t notice the detective coming toward him, but it was obvious he saw Bema waiting to cross the street. Dooley knew this game. In a second or two, Bema would turn and give Dooley a chance to back down, and right now Dooley figured it would work.
Dooley wasn’t used to this uncomfortable feeling of panic. Even if this stupid spic was just fooling around, it had to look suspicious to Nmir. If he called out now, Bema would know he had the upper hand and who knows where his stupid demands would end; but if he came back on his own, everything would be all right. He watched as Bema turned, like he expected Dooley to concede. The smirk on his face said it all; he knew he was in charge and Dooley would have to kiss his ass. That made Dooley remain still and silent. The guy was bluffing, he had to be.
Bema waited for one car to pass and took a step into the road. He paused, waiting for other traffic, and slowly continued his trek toward Slayda “Mac” Nmir.
Dooley felt the fear rise in his throat. He could see Nmir opening his door to greet Bema, who was still not to the middle of the road.
Then it happened. Maybe the first thing to truly shock the twenty-six-year FBI veteran in a long, long time. He stood openmouthed as a big black pickup truck raced from out of nowhere, striking Bema square on and sending him
back across the two lanes he’d just crossed and onto the curb in a heap of blood and strips of Joseph Abboud suit. Dooley could hear the sickening thud of Bema’s body as it slid across the sidewalk and into the same gap in the bushes that he had cut through to cross the street in the first place. Blood from his massive head wound seeped onto the sidewalk and toward the hedge as the blood from his mangled legs filled the gutter near the street. Traffic slowed as several cars stopped and the drivers ran over to help the fallen pedestrian.
Dooley stared, not breathing. This was incredible. He caught a glimpse of the driver. Some kind of Middle Easterner in a turban or something and real dark-skinned. Dooley remained motionless until he saw Mac trying to cross the traffic and come toward him. That snapped Dooley out of it and he shot over to Bema’s lifeless body. He figured he had about ten seconds till Nmir made it across, and the drivers coming to assist were still a few feet away. Dooley leaned over the body like he was checking the pulse or something, and quickly ran his hand through Bema’s pockets until he felt the plastic square that held the evidence key. Fucking perfect. As he reached into Bema’s pocket, he realized the inside was already soaked with blood. He slipped the key into his own pocket just as Mac approached. He had the money, no partners, and Mac Nmir as a witness to the accident. Somewhere he must have done something to make God happy.
Mac finally made it across the street, running toward Dooley and the body. “Is he dead?” the young FBI agent asked, clearly stressed by the accident, pushing through the two drivers who had stopped.
Dooley couldn’t help the sarcasm. “No, nitwit, he’s napping.”
“Jesus, Dooley, what happened? Why was he coming to see me? Did you see who hit him? Is there anything we can do? Did you call nine-one-one?”
Dooley cut him off. “Calm down, Nmir. He’s dead. The fucking truck must’ve been going fifty when it hit him.” He looked at the spreading pool of blood and suddenly doubted Mac’s ability to solve any type of case. If he couldn’t figure out Bema was dead, he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.
Mac was panting now. “I know, I know, I saw it was a black guy.”
That was when it struck Dooley. It was Cole Hodges with his head bandaged. Bema had fucked it up and hadn’t killed him like he said. No wonder no one had discovered the body or reported the smell. That was just one more problem he’d have to handle, but right now he was in control.
SIXTEEN
TASKER sat on his patio with a bottle of Icehouse in his hand and two empties next to him on the ground. He’d spent the afternoon contemplating what Derrick Sutter had told him. The problem now was what to do with the information. Should he try to explain it to Mac Nmir and let the FBI handle it? They hadn’t gotten much else right, why would this be any different? Should he look into it himself? On suspension and suspected of the crime could cause him problems if he got caught. Tasker just didn’t know who he could trust. It seemed like anyone who even heard about the cash became instantly corrupted. He personally couldn’t care less about it. He’d be happy if he just figured out his personal life.
Earlier, after talking with Donna, then punching Dooley, he’d gotten a glimpse of what his life used to be like. When he’d enjoyed the groove of an investigation and felt as if he had nerves of steel. He’d never been a tough guy, but nothing really scared him either. He’d always taken his fitness and tactical training very seriously. He had good judgment and never acted like a bully, treating people professionally and following the rules laid out by the agencies he’d worked for. It was that one time. The time he’d bent the rules and tried to show some leeway and fucked up. This time he hadn’t screwed up. He didn’t have anything to do with it. This time he was going to straighten it all out himself.
Now, with half a buzz on, his mind worked on his problems from different angles. Was the frame-up over or was there still another chapter? Things like that gnawed at him. As he started to write down some thoughts, he heard a car door slam nearby. The way things had been going, if he’d had a gun he might have reached for it, but when the patio door swung open and he saw Tina Wiggins he was glad he was just sitting there, a little drunk.
She gave him a slight smile, “Hey.”
“Hey,” he answered, not bothering to rise.
“Sorry I ran out. Maybe I’m just a little insecure.”
“Sorry I didn’t tell you I was going to see my family.”
She pulled up a lounger and sat next to him. “You still have feelings for your ex, don’t you?”
He hesitated, then figured he’d lived with enough lies the past four years. “Yeah, I guess I do. But I have no idea where we’re going. It was just an afternoon. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You have any idea how many guys would just lie? Most still living at home would hand me a line of shit. You’re a special kind of guy. Sort’ve weird, but special.”
They both laughed and she kissed him again, leaning over him and lingering, letting her breasts lie across his chest. Then she said, “You doin’ okay?”
“Yeah, the same.”
“I mean with the car accident stuff.”
“What car accident?” He sat up as she pulled back to her seat.
“You haven’t heard? It’s been all over the news and I thought someone would have called you.”
He leaned forward. “Tell me, what car accident?”
“The Metro cop from your task force, Bema, was a victim of a hit-and-run in front of the task force office about four this afternoon.”
“Is he alive?”
“DOA.”
He stared at her. “Any suspects?”
“No suspects, lots of witnesses.”
“What time did it happen? I mean exactly.”
She shrugged. “Four, I think.”
Tasker took a second and a gulp of air. “I must’ve just left.”
This time, Tina showed her surprise. “You were at the office today? Why?”
“I needed some papers, but I really wanted to see if anyone knew anything about my case.”
“Did you find anything out?” She leaned in close, her eyes wide.
He looked at her. Was it a good idea to risk her reputation, too? He needed help, but she wasn’t involved and had a bright future. He started to shake his head, when she spoke.
“C’mon, when are you gonna trust me?”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
“I hate to involve you in this mess.”
She grabbed his face with both hands and turned his head toward her. “Billy, I am involved. Now give it up. What’d you find out?”
“Derrick Sutter, the Miami cop, said he thought Tom Dooley and Rick Bema were acting strange and that they had something stored in a temporary evidence locker.”
“At the office?”
“Yeah.”
“And he thinks it’s the cash?”
“Yeah, maybe. Shit, who knows? It’s not enough to act on and it sounds kinda far-fetched anyway.”
“We gotta start someplace,” said Tina.
“I guess.” Tasker let his voice trail off.
“Billy, I know you don’t like going head to head with people, but this is getting serious. Maybe it’d help if you talked to me about what happened when you were in West Palm. You said that was the root of your problem.”
“I said it was the start of my problems, and you have to know the story already.”
“Only the rumors, and they change every time I hear them.”
“It’s not the right time.” Tasker felt anxious, like he needed to get rid of her, but he kept his seat.
“Then when?”
“After I straighten this mess out.”
“What if you can’t?” Her eyes penetrated his.
“Then the prison psychologist at MCC will have plenty of time to help me.”
TASKER pulled off I-95 near the Fort Lauderdale airport. He didn’t like working in Broward County because the supervisor in the Broward FDLE office was an ass
hole. But this could be important.
He walked into the administrative building of Broward University early in the day, before the workers were tired and crabby and less likely to answer questions. He needed background on Hodges and this was the only lead the Florida Bar could provide, other than his office address. So here he was at the private university in Davie, right in the middle of Broward County, twenty-five miles north of Miami. The school sat near the Miami Dolphins training camp in an area where several minor schools shared facilities. In all the time Tasker had been in South Florida, he’d never been to this campus before. All he knew of Broward was that it was a school for rich kids and guys trying to earn a law degree on a part-time basis.
At the registrar’s office he surveyed the front counter until he found the only clerk who didn’t look like a Catholic school matron. He smiled as he came toward her, reading her name tag.
“Hello, Rachel, could you tell me how I’d go about finding out about one of your alumni?”
The twenty-five-year-old with sandy hair didn’t look up, but said, “What would you want to know?”
“Exactly when he graduated, who his professors were, that sort of thing.”
She continued to read something off her computer screen and said, “That’s not public record, sorry.”
Tasker gave her a second, then said, “Rachel, this is important.” He held up his backup badge and hoped she wouldn’t ask for ID.
She raised her head, looked at the badge, then up at Tasker and smiled. “Cool. Who are you after?”
TEN minutes later, as he traversed the small campus to the law school, Tasker looked through the four sheets of paper Rachel had provided. The two biggest things Tasker had learned were that the Cole Hodges who had attended the school had been born on November 12, 1958, and that there was one professor still there from when Hodges had been in school in the mid-eighties. That date of birth put Hodges in his early forties, and Tasker knew that wasn’t right. He hoped this old codger of a law professor would remember him.
Tasker ran down the corridor of small offices until he found one with the name Mulemann on the door. He knocked and opened the cheap door, as a scratchy voice said, “Yes?”
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