Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5)

by Dallas Gorham

  “You’d better uninstall the app, Chuck,” Tank suggested.

  “Nope. Now that we know Moffett can track Al’s phone, maybe we can use that against him.”

  “How?”

  “I haven’t figured that out.” I pulled the battery from Al’s phone. “But it’s something we know that he doesn’t know we know. Maybe we’ll think of a way to use it.”

  Chapter 63

  The next morning, there was no change in Snoop’s condition. Janet insisted I keep his Toyota.

  It took Tank a while to raise that much cash in used fifties. New fifties were easy, but Moffett didn’t want those. We collected used ones from three different bank branches.

  And I made additional preparations.

  The afternoon thunder clouds had gathered over the Everglades by the time I parked in the 154th Street lot at North Beach. The sun wouldn’t set for another three hours, but the clouds gathered to our west already shadowed the beach. Just my bad luck, the topless women had left for the day. I stuck the battery back in Al’s phone and turned it on. At least that way the FBI would know where the phone was.

  My Calderone phone announced, “New message received from Monster.” It was a text: Drive south on A1A at 30 mph.

  I headed south at 25 mph. Ninety-nine percent of the traffic drove at or above the 35 mph speed limit. Within three blocks I spotted the Jeep a block behind me. I sped up to 30 and called Tank. “Close up enough to read the license of the red Jeep a block behind me. Then drop back and have Kelly Contreras identify it. Maybe it’ll give us a hint where Moffett stashed Doraleen.”

  Another text came in: Turn right on North Bay Causeway. Increase speed to 45.

  I made the turn as a light rain began to fall.

  Another text: Park in Fishermen’s Pier Park. That was a small island park in Seeti Bay on the north side of the causeway. The pier had been standing for generations. The parking lot was sand and gravel. Any real pavement was a distant memory worn away by decades of trucks and cars parking under the sea grapes and casuarina trees to try their luck on the old pier.

  The rain stopped by the time I bumped down the driveway to the rutted lot and splashed through the puddles that hadn’t soaked into the ground yet. The park was always jammed on a Saturday, but it was late afternoon and many fishermen and families had left to beat the afternoon showers. I pulled into a spot in the center of the park and watched in my mirror as the red Jeep passed on the causeway.

  “New message received from Monster.” Drop bag in trash can at far west end. The package will be released after we count it.

  I texted back: No. I want proof of life. I hit send, squeezed into a parking spot, and waited.

  My phone rang. It was from another number I didn’t recognize. Had to be another burner phone. “Hello, this is Chuck McCrary.”

  “Chuck, this is Doraleen Rice. I’m okay. There’s a knife at my throat. That’s all I’m allowed to say.” The call disconnected.

  I saved the number that the call came from in my contacts under the name Proof.

  “New message received from Monster.” Drop bag in trash can at far west end. Continue driving west on causeway.

  I replied to the text: That was not Doraleen Rice. I need proof of life.

  My phone rang. It was from the Monster contact number. “What the fuck are you trying to pull, McCrary?”

  “That wasn’t Doraleen Rice. I’ll ask her a question only she will know the answer to.”

  “Screw you. You’re gonna get the bitch killed if you don’t stop screwing around with me.”

  “I have the money; you want the money. I’ll give you the money, but first you gotta prove Doraleen is alive. Take it or leave it.”

  “What’s the question?”

  “Unh-uh. Doesn’t work that way. I’ll ask her myself and hear the answer from her own lips.”

  Moffett groaned and grunted. “She’ll call you back.”

  In a few minutes the Proof number called me again. “This is Chuck McCrary. Is this Doraleen Rice?”

  “Yes, Chuck. Teddy said you wanted to ask me a question.” She spoke slowly, and she had named one kidnapper. Smart lady.

  “Are you on speaker phone?”

  Doraleen said, “Is this thing on speaker phone? I’m not sure what that means.”

  “Yes, it is on speaker phone.” A meticulous accent like Doraleen had described. It was Scarface.

  “I will ask a two-part question, Doraleen, if that’s who you are. What did you call me the first time we met?”

  “I called you Chuck.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. You called me by a famous poem.”

  She paused and I listened to the background noise. “Oh, yes, I called you my Sir Galahad.”

  I was sure the pause was intentional.

  “Okay, second part, Doraleen. Finish this sentence: All-arm’d I ride, whate’er betide…”

  She paused again. “Until I find the party girl.”

  “Okay, Doraleen. I’m satisfied it’s you.”

  Scarface disconnected.

  Doraleen had given me three clues in our conversation.

  Two minutes later my phone said, “New message received from Monster.” Drop bag in trash can at far west end. Continue driving west on causeway.

  Most action in Fishermen’s Pier Park centers around the pier. A small beach to the east lies far enough from the pier that the fishing lines don’t interfere with the few swimmers. A few people wade from the beach into the warm bay waters near the pier to fish from the bay. The rest use the pier. The rest of the park shore is protected from storm erosion by boulders and rip-rap that keep people away from the water. Few people hang around those areas. They park and walk to the pier or the beach. As a result, the trash bin at the west end is seldom used except by occasional picnickers.

  I got out of Snoop’s Toyota and glanced around as I lifted the canvas soccer bag from the back seat. The picnic tables under the shelters had been used by families enjoying a spring day with a bayside picnic, as they had done on this same site since 1925. This late in the day, most concrete tables were empty. Even under a shelter, a picnic in the rain isn’t much fun. With the rain stopped, at least for a while, a few SUVs and vans had their back hatches and doors open as people set up their picnics and fishing sites again.

  At least one vehicle in the lot came for a more serious purpose. Which one?

  I ambled toward the west end, dodged the puddles, and studied the parked vehicles that remained. Moffett’s gang was partial to SUVs and minivans, but that included most of the vehicles in the park. One blue Honda SUV had two men in it, wearing light jackets as they sat with their windows up, air conditioner blasting. I wore a jacket myself to hide my shoulder holster. I pulled out my phone and stopped as if I was punching in a number. I held the phone to my ear and walked behind the Honda. I snapped a picture of its license as I passed. It was the same color and model Gene Lopez had described as a TCL vehicle. Lopez had given me the license number, but I didn’t recall it.

  I reached the trash bin, sweating in the humidity left over from the rain. One paper Burger King bag lay in the bottom, soaking wet, along with a few plastic bags, crushed paper cups, and paper scraps stuck to the bottom with the glue of spilled drinks and other sticky substances I didn’t want to think about. Other than that, the bin was empty. I dropped the money bag over the edge. I hoped I hadn’t bruised the Burger King.

  I examined the image of the Honda’s license. It was the missing fourth car that belonged to TCL Enterprises. I texted Kelly with the Proof contact phone number and a message: Ping this phone. Doraleen Rice is there.

  I returned to Snoop’s car. I watched the blue Honda in my mirror as I splashed my way from the rutted lot back to the causeway. The man on the passenger side got out and walked toward the trash bin.

  I drove west on the causeway.

  Chapter 64

  Except for Fisherman’s Pier Park on the north and the bridge to Pink Coral Island on the s
outh, North Bay Causeway is a narrow strip dredged from Seeti Bay in 1925. Technically, the causeway is wide enough for four lanes of traffic to stream between Port City and Port City Beach. Maybe, but there was no safe place to pull over and slip in behind the blue Honda except on a perilously narrow shoulder that should be marked No stopping unless you want to be rear-ended. The two thugs in the blue Honda might not know I’d spotted them. If I’d been that lucky, I didn’t want to blow it.

  I called Flamer. “What you got on Bernard Prevossi?”

  “No criminal record, which is no surprise since he’s got those liquor licenses. The state is picky about who they issue those to. He’s forty-five years old. Born in Crestview, Florida. Graduated Florida State with a degree in business. Worked for a Certified Public Accounting firm in Tallahassee for two years. No record of him passing the CPA exam. Married once. No children. Divorced twenty years ago. Bought a small pub in Tallahassee. Kept it for eight years, sold it when he moved to Port City. Never mentioned in a single court case or civil lawsuit, which is a surprise when you consider all his business interests.”

  “Who handled his divorce?”

  “Lemme see… Guy named Oswaldo Duran.”

  “Okay, see if Leonard Satin or Oswaldo Duran are the Lone Ranger types or has either one ever been in a law firm. Find out what law firms they’ve been with the last twenty years. No, make that twenty-five years.”

  “Give me ten minutes,” Flamer said, then disconnected.

  While Flamer and I had been talking, Kelly sent me a text: Phone not GPS type. While it was turned on, pinged from tower in 8100 block of NW Charles Boulevard.

  That was the neighborhood where the three strip clubs were. I replayed Doraleen’s brief phone call in my mind. The first clue from her call was Scarface’s name. The second was the music playing in the background, The Stripper by the David Rose Orchestra. The third clue was her answer to the quote from Sir Galahad. She changed the line from “holy grail” to “party girl.” Doraleen was held at a strip club, and I remembered where I’d heard The Stripper before.

  How was Moffett connected to the Orange Peel?

  I pulled the battery from Al’s phone. I didn’t want Moffett to know I was on the way, nor Gene Lopez. I put my car in gear and headed toward the showdown.

  Chapter 65

  Flamer called. “Oswaldo Duran and Leonard Satin were both of counsel to a big law firm with, like, seven or eight names in the title.”

  “You said ‘were.’ What about now?”

  “Satin is still of counsel, Duran moved to Port City ten years ago.”

  I slowed down and pulled to the right lane. “What does ‘of counsel’ mean?”

  “That’s an attorney who offices with a law firm, or the firm uses him for only a few clients, or he consults on a particular case. Neither one is a partner and they file their legal stuff in their individual names, no firm name involved. It could be a simple office-sharing arrangement.”

  “So the big firm’s partners wouldn’t necessarily be involved?”

  “In this case, with over a hundred lawyers in the firm, they wouldn’t know what either of these guys did.”

  “Check out Oswaldo Duran’s time in Port City. See what he’s been up to.”

  “I did. Duran never married. He’s of counsel with a big firm here in Port City. He was one of the lawyers who got Florida’s same-sex marriage ban overturned. He’s gay.”

  “Hmm. Being one that overturned the same-sex marriage ban doesn’t mean he’s gay,” I said.

  “Doesn’t mean he isn’t either.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “His home address is the same as Bernard Prevossi’s and has been for eight years. Think about it, Chuck. Prevossi was married a year, didn’t have children, divorced, never remarried. Duran is single, never married. They’ve lived together for the last eight years. Do the math; they’re gay.”

  “Okay, but so what?”

  “So Prevossi owns gay bars and strip clubs and is involved in ugly sex trade stuff. It’s guys like him who give gays like me a bad name.”

  “They can’t all be like you and Kennedy, Flamer, like all straight people aren’t like Tank and me. Thanks for a good job.” I disconnected and sped back up.

  Tank’s voice came from Snoop’s radio speaker. “The guys in the blue Honda found the first tracker. They dumped it in the parking lot before they got on the causeway.”

  I had slipped the first GPS tracker in a side pocket of the money bag and zipped it closed. I sewed the second, smaller one, under the bag’s false bottom. “Let’s hope they don’t look for a second one. Where is the bag now?”

  “Would you believe it’s in the Orange Peel?”

  “Yeah, I’d believe that. I’m on my way there. You and Al meet me there.” I told him about my proof of life conversation with Doraleen. “I’m gonna call Gene Lopez. We gotta get the FBI over there before they move her again. They arrived too late the other two times.”

  “Let’s hope third time’s the charm,” Tank said.

  “Maybe we’ll have a nice reunion scene with Al and Doraleen when we rescue her.”

  I texted Moffett: Where can I pick up Doraleen Rice?

  My phone rang. I accepted the call and Moffett’s voice came from the radio. “You crazy bastard, I have half a mind to kill the old lady right now. I warned you not to screw around with me. Where’s the rest of my money?”

  “Moffett, I gave you half the money as a good faith gesture. Now it’s your turn to have a little faith. Turn Doraleen Rice loose and I’ll give you the rest of the money. Where can I pick her up?”

  “You can pick her up in hell,” he shouted over the phone.

  “Don’t be silly. You don’t want the woman; you want the money. I have the money; I do want the woman. You’re the one who’s screwing around. Let’s do this thing, and we both get our lives back. Where do I pick her up?”

  “I’ll get back to you.” He disconnected.

  ###

  Ngombo sat in the office at the Orange Peel and listened to Moffett’s tirade on the phone. This was bad, very bad. Bones had warned him that Moffett was… off in some way. This was not the strong, smart criminal Ngombo went to work for six months ago. He had respected and admired that man as the leader that he, Ngombo, aspired to be.

  Moffett was now a loose cannon, bouncing around the deck in a suddenly stormy sea and threatening to sink the entire ship. But what could he do about it?

  First Moffett had insisted Bones drive the four of them to the Orange Peel when they left the Tri-Patron building. The logical choice was the Tuscan site, but Moffett shouted and cursed at Bones when he suggested it. The Tuscan site was easy to get the woman into without being seen; no one was around at night. The Orange Peel was crowded with strangers at night. Even the back rooms might have a dancer or bouncer wander around at any time.

  Ngombo and Bones had waited with the woman in the van for several minutes until the rear lot emptied of people. Moffett had gone around front and opened the rear fire door for them to drag the woman inside. Ngombo had brought Doraleen Rice to the office, as Moffett directed him. Later Moffett gave him the key to a store room in the rear of the club to lock her in for the night. It was a small room, little more than a closet. At least it had a toilet and sink, if not a shower or tub. Maybe it was a dressing room used by the club’s previous owners. A speaker near the ceiling broadcast the music played in the showroom. Now it contained files, boxes, cleaning supplies, and extra chairs.

  When McCrary demanded proof of life, Moffett had sent Ngombo with a new burner phone to the storeroom. After the first call, he had let himself out, locked the woman in, and reported to Moffett in the office. When McCrary was not satisfied, Moffett screamed and cursed like a crazy man before he sent Ngombo back to see the woman again.

  This place was evil. Ngombo had known at some level about the human trafficking business Moffett ran with his other men, but this was the first time he had come fac
e to face with the actual result. He couldn’t ignore that these women were prostitutes. This was not a fit place for a warrior. He wondered why the gods had conspired to bring him here.

  Chapter 66

  I called Lopez. As soon as we connected, I got back on the road toward the Orange Peel. The longer we delayed, the more likely he would miss her again. I briefed Lopez as I sped across town. “Moffett has Doraleen Rice at the Orange Peel Gentlemen’s Club. If you hurry, you can raid the place before they move her. I’m on my way there to make sure they don’t escape.”

  “I’ve heard that before. The other two times they flew the coop before we got there and you lost them.”

  “If at first you don’t succeed…” I said. “The money bag is there. Her proof of life conversation came from there, but time’s wasting. They might move her any minute. I’m meeting Tank and Al Rice over there. We’re on our way.”

  I didn’t tell him Moffett had said he’d get back to me over an hour ago. I felt the sweat run down my ribs, and it wasn’t from humidity this time. Had I pushed it too far by giving him only half the money? I shoved the thought aside; Tank and Al had agreed to the strategy. No battle plan survives contact with the enemy. I hoped Moffett hadn’t gone off the rails. If he had; all bets were off. I punched the accelerator harder.

  Lopez brought me back to reality. “We executed a search warrant on Tri-Patron Imports yesterday.”

  “Oh?”

  “We found a dormitory with twenty beds. We think they’re involved with human trafficking as well as this kidnapping. We found evidence they were holding Asian women there.”