Walking Money

by James O. Born

Tasker eyed the injured man cautiously. “What are you holding back?”

  Hodges grimaced at a bump and said, “I think you’ve found out the most important facts, young man.”

  AN hour after arriving at the hospital, Mac slammed down a pay phone and turned to Tasker.

  The dark-skinned young man said, “We’re as good as fugitives.”

  “What?” asked a startled Tasker.

  “Don’t worry, I’m talking figuratively, not literally. If we show up back at the mall or at my office, we’ll be delayed for hours while we answer questions about procedure, not about the case. They know Dooley’s a crook and they’ve got guys processing the scene. So to avoid all that, we’re on the run and not checking in. How’s that sound?”

  “Like you’re becoming a cop.”

  “What’s our next move?”

  Tasker thought about it. “We need more help. Let’s get Sutter; we can trust him and he doesn’t give a damn about FBI procedure.”

  “Okay, Hodges won’t be out of ICU for another four or five hours anyway. The Bureau is sending over someone to watch him. I suggest we disappear prior to their arrival.”

  Tasker nodded and then, hesitantly, asked, “What about Tina?”

  “She’s being processed at the office. She’s asked for an attorney and isn’t saying anything.”

  “What’ll happen to her?”

  “Depends. Right now we have her for unlawful detention of Sutter.”

  “Kidnapping?”

  “Yeah, related charge and they’re working on the money charges. They’ve even sent some agents to talk to her sister. What will she say?”

  Tasker nodded slowly, staring straight ahead. “She’ll talk.”

  “Then I’d start looking for a new girlfriend.”

  Tasker said, “That decision was made for me.”

  THE trick in getting back to the mall and recovering Mac’s car was not being seen by any of the Bureau big-wigs. The place looked like a movie set, with the extra lights and people milling about. There were four separate TV satellite trucks. Tasker couldn’t help staring at the Channel Eleven truck with the young female reporter who’d broken the story reporting him as the suspect in the bank robbery. As Mac paid the cabbie and stood back, surveying the scene, Tasker felt compelled to talk to the reporter. He started toward her.

  Mac said, “Hey, come back.”

  “I’ll only be a minute.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Tasker ignored him as he marched up to the young woman. He asked, “You recognize me?”

  She cast uninterested eyes on him. “No, you recognize me, though.”

  “I’m Bill Tasker.”

  “So.”

  “The name’s not even familiar?”

  “No, now I’m busy, so get lost.”

  “When you report this story, make sure you point out that I didn’t rob the Overtown bank and that you were wrong when you reported it.” He turned; this woman clearly wasn’t worth his time and it felt good to realize that.

  As he headed toward Mac and the car, he heard the reporter say, “Oh shit, wait a minute, Mr. Tasker. Hurry up, guys, get the camera online.” Tasker heard her scurry toward him. “Please wait, Mr. Tasker.” She stopped and turned to her crew. “Would you assholes c’mon.” She turned back toward him. “Mr. Task—” She was cut short by a microphone wire wrapped around her leg that pulled her off balance with such power she smashed her chin into the asphalt, opening a nasty cut that filled the road with blood.

  Mac asked, “What was that all about?”

  Tasker said, “If I was a recovering alcoholic, it would have been one of my twelve steps. Did you find out where Sutter is?”

  Mac nodded. “He went home about ten minutes ago.”

  Tasker nodded with authority now. “Let’s go.”

  THE short ride across the William Lehman Causeway to Sunny Isles gave Tasker a few minutes to gather himself and let it sink in that this most recent nightmare was almost over. Once Dooley was safely in custody, things might start to get back to normal. That didn’t mean he was over all his problems, but it was a start.

  No matter his feelings on the case against him being over, Tasker couldn’t help but worry for Tina and her safety. By now she had to realize she was not getting out of this and that he knew all about her role in the cash. That was the one thing he wished he could change. Tina should still be innocent because it was her association with him that had gotten her in this predicament in the first place.

  He stared out the window silently as Mac made phone call after phone call on a tiny cell phone. The sights of Collins Avenue passed by while Tasker’s mind raced over the events again and again. His mind was surprisingly calm as he looked forward to Sutter’s help in the case. After they found Dooley, there was still the question of the cash. Where was it and who took it? He felt confident these questions would be answered in the coming days.

  Tasker sat up as they came closer to South Beach and Sutter’s apartment.

  “Over there, over there,” Tasker said as Mac ended a call.

  They parked and headed up the single staircase to the second-story landing, where Sutter’s apartment was the only one of four without an ocean view.

  Mac knocked and they waited. After a minute, Mac said, “Maybe he’s not here.”

  “His car’s out front.”

  Mac knocked again and heard a muffled, “Hang on.” After another twenty seconds, the door opened and Derrick Sutter, still in the clothes he’d worn at the mall, stood frowning.

  He asked, “What’s up?”

  Tasker started to answer, when Mac threw his entire weight into the door and kicked Sutter back off his feet.

  Before Tasker could react, he heard two shots. He pulled his pistol and barreled into the dark room as two more shots went off. He turned to see Mac locked in a bear hug with Tom Dooley. The larger man clearly had the advantage, but Mac had hold of his gun hand and was making a fight of it. Tasker sprang up, throwing his whole body into a block that sent all three men into the tiny walk-in kitchen and bouncing off an old refrigerator. They fell on the ground in a heap, Dooley’s gun spiraling across the floor. Tasker lost hold of his gun but managed to kick it under the stove. He then grabbed hold of Dooley’s throat and swung hard with his left hand. With Mac still locked between them, the blow didn’t do much harm. He swung again.

  Mac yelled, “Christ, Bill, wait a second.” Then he squirmed out of the way. “Now hit him.”

  Tasker opened up with a series of four quick, hard blows. Dooley went limp under the barrage as Tasker slowly worked himself free and stood over the fallen man.

  Mac picked up his small automatic, then reached under the stove for Tasker’s nine-millimeter. Tasker warily backed away from Dooley and then, tripping over the big .357, retrieved Dooley’s pistol.

  “You okay?” Tasker asked Mac.

  Mac nodded. “You?”

  Tasker, still gasping for air, nodded. “What about you, Derrick?”

  There was no response. Tasker looked over at the Miami detective and before he saw him clearly, he saw the blood seeping into the green carpet.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  “THINK he’ll make it?” Tom Dooley asked, as he sat on the couch with a bloody dishrag on his mouth where Tasker had split open his lip.

  “He better. Either way you’re screwed.” Tasker had all he could stand of this creep. He gripped the handle of his Beretta but kept his finger off the trigger. He didn’t want to risk inadvertently tightening his finger. Not that he’d miss Dooley. No one would. But if he killed the fat man, he’d be in the same fix he’d been in with Sandersen. Everyone would think he’d killed Dooley to keep him from talking. Right now Tasker would give his own life to make sure Dooley stayed safe. When the FBI man shifted his weight on the couch, Tasker raised the pistol like he would hit him with it. “Don’t move, asshole.”

  “Ohh, the Boy Scout swears.”

  Tasker ignored him and leaned against the fr
ont door, waiting for the local cops he’d called for backup. It had been less than three minutes since Mac had raced Derrick Sutter to Cedars-Sinai with a bullet in his upper chest and Tasker figured it’d be another five until the locals showed. Sutter had lost a lot of blood and even Mac Nmir had suggested it wouldn’t be a tragedy if something happened to Dooley before he went to jail. That was a bad sign for the overweight FBI agent sitting on the couch ten feet in front of him.

  Dooley cleared his throat and said, “No, seriously, I’m worried about Sutter. He took my cash, but I sorta liked him.”

  “How do you know he took your cash?”

  “I saw him with the FDLE broad. You know, Tina.”

  “How did you know she had it?”

  “Look, I know the score. I’m done, that’s all. Don’t worry about trying to get me to confess.”

  “I’m not. How did you know Tina had the cash?” Dooley looked off into space and said, “You can’t know what it’s like to spend so long with an outfit and have nothing to show for it. In the new mother-fucking cock-sucking economy I coulda been rich.”

  “How’d you figure out who had the money?” Tasker asked.

  “You know who’ll be hurt by all this? My son, Andy. He’s the victim in all this. That’s what hurts. Thinking about my boy.”

  Tasker finally ignored him as he rambled. He turned toward the window waiting for the locals. He had Dooley’s revolver in the small of his back. He hadn’t let Dooley move from the couch because he had no idea how many guns Sutter had stashed around the apartment. His shoulder hurt from the fight but he was more or less intact.

  Dooley shut up and stared at Tasker for a few moments.

  Finally unnerved, Tasker said, “What? What is it?”

  Dooley shook his head. “I hope you realize it was nothing personal.”

  “Was to me.”

  “I’m sure, but I mean, it was just a stroke of luck I got to shove the blame on you.”

  “Great.”

  “Really. You’re a good cop and a regular guy. You were the last guy I wanted to cause any trouble for. It just worked out that you had to take the blame.”

  Tasker just nodded.

  Dooley said quietly, “You know I’m done.”

  Tasker smiled. “Sutter would say, ‘You’re done like a Christmas turkey.’”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Tasker smiled. “I don’t know, but it’s nice to have a laugh at your expense.”

  “Yeah, yeah, everyone likes to kick you when you’re down.” He stretched his arms high over his head and leaned forward, stretching from the waist, still on the couch. “I’m tellin’ you, Billy, you shouldn’t beat up on an old man like me. You fucked me up.”

  Tasker watched him, but Dooley made no attempt to get off the deep, soft couch.

  Then Dooley said, “Oh great, I hear the Miami Beach cops using their sirens. This will be embarrassing.”

  Tasker turned and looked out the window. He hadn’t heard anything, but his ears were still ringing from the fight. As he turned back to Dooley, he saw the FBI agent sitting up from a deep waist bend with a small revolver in his hand. Tasker brought up his gun as Dooley cranked off a round.

  Tasker darted to the side, amazed at the speed of Dooley, who rolled off the couch and headed for the doorway to the bedroom. Tasker aimed but didn’t fire, watching as Dooley disappeared into the room. A second later, he heard the fat man catch his breath and yell out to him.

  “Not bad for an old man, huh, Billy?” he panted a couple of times. “You didn’t expect a backup on my ankle. You kids with the automatics never worry about a little extra firepower. Experience counts, my young friend.”

  Tasker’s mind raced. He could wait for the locals and let them deal with him. That way no one could accuse him of trying to silence Dooley or say they were accomplices. Then the FBI man shouted from the bedroom again.

  “What to do? What to do?” He paused. “I can’t wait for a SWAT team to flush me out, Billy. And you know if you shoot me, it’ll look like you were eliminating another witness.”

  Tasker froze.

  “That’s right, I have access to all kinds of files. Little Mac Nmir left shit on his desk all the time. I guess he thought the FBI office was secure.” Dooley laughed. “Now I need to go. You can let me out the front and no one gets hurt, or we can shoot it out. You’re off the hook if I get away. Shit, they’ll catch me anyway in a few days. Why not do us both a favor?”

  Tasker crouched by the refrigerator, aiming his pistol at the open doorway.

  MAC Nmir threw the Taurus into a powerslide to make the turn west toward Cedars-Sinai. Sutter sat slumped in the front seat, still holding his chest and shoulder. The bloody towel seemed to have stemmed the blood flow.

  Sutter said, “You saved my ass up there. How’d you know?”

  “Saw it on TV.”

  “You’re shittin’ me?”

  “Nope. Magnum, P.I. or something like that.”

  Sutter coughed. “Doesn’t matter. You kicked ass and I appreciate it.”

  “You gonna quit police work now that an FBI agent saved you?”

  “Don’t think it counts, because an FBI agent was holding me hostage.”

  Mac nodded. “Good point.”

  After a moment, when the hospital was in sight, Sutter said, “I gotta tell you something.”

  “Hang on, Sutter, we’ll be there in a few seconds.”

  “This is important, about the money.”

  “Hang on.” Only this time Mac meant for him to hang onto something literally because he misjudged a turn and was sliding over a curb at high speed.

  The impact knocked Sutter completely unconscious as Mac brought the car to a stop in front of the emergency room. He hit the gas once more and had an orderly help him with the limp Sutter.

  TASKER had a choice: Let Dooley escape and hope he was captured or shoot him as soon as he came through the door and get accused of the same thing as in West Palm Beach. He raised the gun again and shouted, “Dooley, everyone knows you framed me. If you don’t toss out the gun and come out that door with your hands up, I’ll shoot you and I won’t care if you live or die.”

  “I don’t care, either, Billy. I’d never make it on the inside.”

  Tasker tensed. He didn’t know how the furniture was laid out in the other room or if there was a fire escape on the window. All he could focus on was the door. Then it hit him. Here he was doing nothing again. He had to act, and act decisively.

  Tasker stood up, using his right hand to keep his Beretta aimed at the door, and grabbed one of the small wooden kitchen chairs with his left. He crept forward toward the empty doorway. From the other side of the wall, he heard Dooley again.

  “What about it, Billy? Can I walk?”

  When he was next to the door, Tasker pointed the gun at the wall a few feet from the door and pulled the trigger. He fired one round, then aimed a few inches closer to the door and fired again, then again.

  Dooley yelled, “Shit!” and appeared at the open door as Tasker swung the chair hard at his head. Before Dooley could react, the chair shattered across his head and he tumbled back into the bedroom as his small revolver dropped straight to the ground.

  Tasker stepped into the doorway and looked at Dooley as he rolled on the ground holding his head.

  Tasker said, “That was option three.” He relaxed as he heard the police sirens in the distance.

  TWENTY EIGHT

  BILL Tasker, special agent with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, sat on his porch listening to the morning songs of the tropical birds and the annoying shrieks of the state bird, the mockingbird. In the six days since the shoot-out at the Aventura Mall, as the media referred to it, Tasker felt like he’d slept over half the time. Deep sleep, without dreams. Probably the best sleep he’d had in more than four years.

  Now he sat gently stretching his right leg as he cooled down after a decent morning run of five miles through the qui
et streets of Kendall. He wanted to shower before Mac Nmir came by at nine. One thing Tasker had learned was that if Mac gave you a time, he meant that exact time. He rose for one more stretch when he heard a knock on the front door. He could hardly believe Mac was twenty minutes early but strode to the door, flexing his legs as he went.

  A smile swept across his face. “Thought you were on bed rest at home another three days.”

  Derrick Sutter shook his head as he came inside, turning so his right arm in a sling didn’t bump the door frame. “Four days at the hospital was two too many; I couldn’t face more than a couple on my couch.”

  “What brings you all the way out here?”

  Sutter settled into the recliner next to the couch. “Just bored, needed to talk to someone.”

  “I woulda visited you again. I thought I was wearing you out.”

  “Kinda wanted to talk here.”

  Tasker shrugged, sliding into the kitchen. “Okay.” He grabbed a small bottle of Powerade from the refrigerator. “Want anything?”

  “Nah, I’m cool.” Sutter waited for Tasker to sit down across from him at the end of the couch. “Anything new with the case?”

  “Not much. No one’s talking but Hodges, or I should say, Luther Williams.” Once the Bureau figured out that they’d watched a fugitive on TV dozens of times, they clamped down on him. He was still saying it was all Dooley.

  “Dooley’s sitting at MCC on firearm and civil rights charges on the grounds he used his official position to further the crime and tried to shoot you and Tina.”

  “What do you mean, ‘tried’?” Sutter asked, touching his tender chest and shoulder. “I heard the Bureau doesn’t want to give you credit for figuring the whole thing out. That jackass would still be on the street if it weren’t for you.”

  Tasker shrugged. “I’m just happy they’re not looking at me like a crook anymore.”

  Sutter nodded. “What about the girls?”

  “Tina is being held on the unlawful detention charges and official misconduct, too. She hasn’t said a word and has got a good attorney.”