“What evidence?” I had a disturbing mental image of Miyo being held against her will. Miyo’s doppelganger, the stripper Tammy, I had seen at the Crazy Lady might have been held in this very place.
“It’s pretty technical stuff which involves DNA markers and other scientific evidence. My CSU guys turned the place inside out, and our lab geeks tell me someone at that warehouse has run Asian females through there—a lot more than twenty. I have to believe my own experts.”
“Hmm. There were Asian strippers and waitresses at the Crazy Lady who barely spoke English. One girl practically offered to do me right there on the table. There were other Asian women at the Orange Peel who I didn’t talk to. Moffett may smuggle in illegal Asian women and force them into prostitution and dancing in strip clubs that belong to a man named Bernard Prevossi.”
“Bernard Prevossi?”
“Yeah. Does that ring any bells with you?”
“No. What’s the connection to Moffett?”
“I don’t know. I do know that Tri-Patron Imports is a corporation whose registered agent is Leonard Satin, a Tallahassee attorney who is trustee of a Florida Land Trust that owns the building where they held Doraleen. Satin connects the same way to the other strip clubs. Prevossi holds the liquor license on three strip clubs on Charles Boulevard and others around the state. Maybe in other states too, but I’m concerned with the ones in Port City. Maybe he gives Moffett a commission for bringing in the girls.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Unfortunately, no,” I agreed. “But maybe we make it the last, at least for Prevossi, Satin, and Moffett.”
###
When Moffett entered the Orange Peel office, Ngombo set his coffee down beside the couch. Bones and Moffett had gone to the showroom to watch the girls dance. Ngombo stayed behind to avoid the impure women. Moffett grinned at Ngombo and took the big leather chair behind the desk. “You’re missing a great show, Teddy. Finest pieces of ass in the whole country. Enjoy yourself.”
“With respect, Monster, I am a warrior. I wish to remain here.”
Moffett shrugged. “Your loss, Teddy.”
Pete the bookkeeper opened the door. Ngombo had seen Pete twice before, once at the Tri-Patron site and once at the Tuscan site. On those occasions, Pete and Moffett retreated to a private office to conduct business.
Moffett rose from the chair behind the desk and walked around to shake hands with the bookkeeper. “Pete, you want a drink?”
“This isn’t a social call, Monster.” He took the big leather chair behind the desk and motioned Moffett into a visitor’s chair. That surprised him; Pete acted like the boss, and Moffett acted like the employee. Perhaps he misunderstood the relationship between the two Americans.
“What the hell were you thinking when you brought that woman here?” demanded Pete. “We have secure places for things like that.”
Moffett spread his hands and hunched his shoulders. “I thought—”
”No,” Pete interrupted, “you didn’t think. Or you were thinking with your dick, which is the same thing. You only brought her here because you wanted to see Jasmine again, didn’t you?”
“Her name is Jennifer now,” Moffett replied weakly.
“I don’t give a good goddamn what her name is this week. As far as I’m concerned, she’s a product that I sell, and don’t you ever forget it.” He shook a finger at Moffett. “I loan her to you as a favor—an employee bonus, if you will—but she belongs to me. They all belong to me. Don’t press your luck with me, big boy.”
Moffett cut his eyes toward the African.
Pete followed his glance. “Teddy, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, Teddy Ngombo.”
“Why don’t you wait outside, Teddy?”
Ngombo nodded and left.
Chapter 67
When I reached the Orange Peel, the rain started again. I circled the building. The silver Caravan was parked near the fire door in the back. The rain was a blessing in disguise; no one hung around the parking lot. I stopped in the driveway, ran through the rain, and stuck another tracker under the rear bumper.
I called Tank. “I’m parked at the Orange Peel where I can watch the front entrance. You and Al park in the rear where you can see both fire doors. The Caravan is parked back there. How long before you get here?”
“We’re twenty minutes out,” said Al. “Tank’s driving; he handed me the phone. His Mercedes doesn’t have a Bluetooth.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be a superb product of German engineering?” I asked.
“Maybe that was a different model.”
“Must be. Okay, call back when you’re close. The FBI may get here before you do.”
I turned on Snoop’s music system and listened to Willie Nelson. Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain fit in as the rain fell in the Florida night.
The silver Caravan emerged from behind the building and splashed its way across the front lot. The headlights hit raindrops on my windshield and blinded me with scattered light.
I paused Willie, booted my tablet, and started Snoop’s car. “Call Tank,” I told the Bluetooth.
“What’s up, Chuck? My GPS says we’re still seven minutes out.”
“The Caravan just left the Orange Peel. I put another tracker on it and I’m following.”
“Do you buy those things by the case?”
“I should; I go through so many.”
“Was Momma Dora in the van?”
“It’s raining here and their headlights blinded me as they left. I couldn’t see inside. She might still be in the Orange Peel. Where is the money bag now?”
“Al, check the tablet for the money bag. Where is it now?” I heard Tank say.
There was a mumbled reply.
“Still in the Orange Peel, Chuck,” said Tank.
“Okay, it’s up to you, but I suggest you two stay at the club and wait for the FBI if you get there before they do. Doraleen may be with the money. I’ll follow the Caravan in case she’s in that. Let me know what the FBI finds.”
I disconnected and played Willie again. I needed something to sooth my anxious mind. Come to think of it, that was a good title for a country song, Come Sooth My Anxious Mind, or maybe Sooth My Anxious Heart. Too bad I’m not musically inclined.
I stayed a half-mile behind the Caravan. By the time it reached I-495, the rain had stopped, or maybe we drove out from under the cloud. The Caravan followed the loop west at two mph below the speed limit with me in warm pursuit. Their speed indicated they were taking no chances on getting stopped; Doraleen must be with them. Damn, that means that the FBI will miss her again.
They hit the big curve and followed the loop south to the NW 115th Street exit. Surely, they wouldn’t return to Tri-Patron Imports? They took NW 115th Street east to NW 103rd Avenue and turned south. When they passed 108th Street, I knew they were headed somewhere else. But where?
Chapter 68
Tank shook hands with Gene Lopez. “Thanks for getting my money back, Special Agent Lopez.” Chuck had advised him to always use FBI titles.
Lopez grinned. “Please, call me Gene, Tank. It’s a real pleasure to meet you after watching you on TV all those years. I’ve been a Pelicans fan practically forever. You guys were robbed in that Super Bowl game. If it hadn’t been for that bad call, you would have a Super Bowl ring instead of an AFC Championship ring.”
Tank touched his ring self-consciously. “It is what it is, but thanks for your comments.”
Lopez continued. “I don’t want to raise false hopes, Tank. The money may be yours, but it’s also evidence in a kidnapping and in a human trafficking case. Might be a long time before the cases are settled and the money is released from evidence.”
Tank shrugged. “Again, it is what it is. Fortunately, it’s not like I need the money right away. Take all the time you need to make your case. Now if you’ll excuse me, Al and I have a few errands to run.”
“Do those errands involve Chuck McCrary and the w
hereabouts of Doraleen Rice?” Lopez asked.
Something made Tank hesitate. “Like I said, we have errands to run.”
Lopez put a hand on Tank’s arm; he couldn’t reach Tank’s shoulder. “What kind of errands?”
Tank stared down at Lopez’s hand until he removed it. “Gene, am I under arrest, or is Al?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“Then we’ll leave. Have a nice day.”
###
Tank called me. “The FBI raided the Orange Peel. Momma Dora wasn’t there. They did recover the money, but it’ll take a year or more before I get it back. What’s happening with you?”
“The Caravan drove back out to the same neighborhood where the Tri-Patron Imports is. They’re driving two miles under the limit, so I’m pretty sure Doraleen is with them. Lopez and the FBI are liable to be tied up at the Orange Peel for hours. Head this way. I’ll text or call you when I know where they stop.”
“You want me to bring Al in with me? He doesn’t know shit about shooting.”
“Al didn’t stay at the Orange Peel?”
“He said he wanted to rescue his mother. Something about being less sheep and more tiger.”
“It’s up to him. There will be at least three shooters holding Doraleen. Any addition to the arsenal has gotta be better than nothing. You have those vests from yesterday?”
“Yeah.”
“Put them on before you come after me.”
“They’re bulletproof?”
“Let’s hope so; I’ll be wearing one just like them.”
The industrial neighborhood where Tri-Patron Imports was located began development at NW 90th Street in the 1980s and worked its way north as new sites where sold. The further south we drove, the older the buildings were. The map displayed on my tablet showed the van had turned east on NW 95th Street and pulled into a parking lot on the south side. I stayed a half-mile behind. This late at night there was no traffic in the area, and I would stand out like a bonfire on a beach.
I parked in a lot with two other cars in it off NW 103rd Avenue south of NW 96th Street. That put me around the corner from where the Caravan stopped. I strapped on my own armored vest, locked the van, and mentally crossed my fingers for luck. I moved along the warehouse wall where I was less noticeable.
The 10200 block of NW 95th Street looked like dozens of blocks around it. The parking lots were empty or nearly so. The widely-spaced streetlights lit the street well enough, but they didn’t reach the lots or buildings. The industrial tenants had few or no outside lights; it was pointless in a neighborhood largely abandoned after business hours. I slipped along the walls across the street until I stood opposite the unit where the silver Caravan sat.
The Caravan was parked in front of another long structure with four units, similar to the arrangement at Tri-Patron Imports except the building had two stories. Two other vehicles sat in the lot, both SUVs. I hoped they had parked overnight and that their drivers had caught a ride with someone else to the Tri-Patron location or elsewhere. At least the windows on this side were dark. I couldn’t see the back, but I didn’t risk wasting the time to reconnoiter the alley.
There were small signs above the main entrance door and the cargo door I couldn’t make out in the dark. A pylon near the street gave me the street address. I texted it to Tank with instructions to park where I parked and approach on foot. I put my phone on silent.
As I snuck across the street a light came on in a second floor window, then one in the next window. I jogged faster hoping no one in the lighted room inside could see me in the dark outside. I raced across the pavement, jumped the flower bed, and trotted to the all-glass entrance. I could read the two signs now: Tuscan Carriage Lights—Office and Tuscan Carriage Lights—Deliveries. Tuscan Carriage Lights, TCL Enterprises Inc.? Hmm.
I stood under the roof over the office door where I was invisible from above. Nine p.m. As far as I knew Flamer never slept, so I texted him: Tuscan Carriage Lights, 10266 NW 95 St. Need corporate info and building ownership. ASAP of course.
Within seconds, my phone signaled a reply: Of course. What else is new?
Chapter 69
Al was jarred from his thoughts when Tank’s phone screen lit the Mercedes interior and announced a new message from Chuck McCrary. “Al, would you get that?”
He fished the phone from the cup holder between the front bucket seats and read the message. “Chuck says to park on NW 103rd Avenue south of NW 96th Street. Says we’ll see his van. Momma is at Tuscan Carriage Lights, 10266 NW 95 Street. Says we should wear vests. She’s in imminent danger and he can’t wait on us or on the cops. He’s going in. We’re supposed to call the cops, preferable Kelly Contreras. He says to let her make the collar. What’s that mean: the collar?”
“Don’t you watch cop shows on TV?” asked Tank. “It means the arrest.”
“I haven’t watched much TV in the last few years.” He’d been too busy with drugs and alcohol and self-pity. Maybe I’m addicted to all three?
“Put that address in the GPS,” Tank said. He accelerated up the entrance ramp to I-495. “Then call Kelly Contreras. Her number is in my contact list.”
Al grabbed the GPS and punched in the destination, clipped the unit onto the dashboard stand. “Who is Kelly Contreras?”
“She’s a Port City police detective. She’s Bigs Bigelow’s partner.”
“The Bigs Bigelow as in the Bigs Brigade? Your old playing partner?”
“The same.”
“He’s a cop?” Al asked.
“Geez, you have been out of the loop, haven’t you? Welcome to the real world. Bigs has been a cop for several years. After he retired from the NFL, he went to the police academy. He began as a patrolman and now he’s a detective. He and Kelly are the ones who found your car abandoned beside I-95 earlier this week. Chuck and I met them there the afternoon of the day you showed up at Momma Dora’s. That’s when Kelly gave me her card. I think Bigs wants to fix me up with her. Oh, I forgot to tell you, your car is in the police impound, whenever you want it back.”
Al’s mind raced in multiple directions. Where had the last decade gone? Tank had finished his football career and gone on to the next chapter of his life. Bigs Bigelow, whom he knew by reputation, became a police detective. What had he become? A drunken junkie who ran through most of a million dollars of another man’s hard-earned money. He felt lower than a snake’s belly.
“Hey, wake up, Al,” said Tank. “Call her and put it on speaker.”
Al snapped back to present time and called the police detective, switching the phone to speaker.
“Kelly, this is Tank Tyler. Chuck texted me the address where Doraleen Rice’s kidnappers are holding her. It’s in the same industrial district as Tri-Patron Imports. He said you might want to make the collar. Steal the FBI’s thunder, I guess.”
“What’s the address?”
“I’ll forward his text to you after we hang up. He’s there now and I’m on my way as his backup. He won’t wait for backup when Doraleen is in imminent danger.”
“It’ll take me five minutes to organize the logistics, but, yeah, we’ll have a SWAT team there within twenty or thirty minutes. Can you wait for us?”
“Chuck says she’s in imminent danger. You can read it yourself. Let me hang up and send it to you.” He turned to Al. “Disconnect and forward Chuck’s text to her.”
Al did as he was told. He said, “How many guns did you bring?”
“Two Glock 19s and a Browning .380 in an ankle holster, why? You don’t intend to run in there, guns blazing, do you? This ain’t the movies, ol’ buddy. A guy could get killed.”
“This whole mess is my fault, Tank. I’m carrying a load of guilt that feels like a hundred-pound sack of rocks. Maybe if I help rescue Momma, it’ll feel like I took a few rocks out of the sack. Lighten the load, so to speak.” He grabbed the GPS on the dashboard and moved the screen where they both could see it. “So, yeah, I’m going with you, if you’ll give me a g
un. Hell, isn’t that why I have the bulletproof vest?”
“We hope it’s bulletproof. Okay, I’ll loan you a Glock. You ever fire a pistol?”
“No, but it doesn’t look that hard.”
“Shooting is like golf, Al. You watch the pros on television, and they make it look easy. But when you’re on the driving range, you find out it’s tougher than it looks. Two things to remember: First is, don’t pull the trigger; you squeeze it.”
“Don’t pull the trigger. Squeeze it. What’s the second thing?”
“Aim at the center of the guy’s body. Never aim for anyone’s head or arm or leg; you’ll miss every time. Aim for the center of his body.”
Al swallowed hard. “Aim for the center of his body.”
“Now that I think about it, there’s a third thing: Beware of the slide. That’s the top part of the Glock. It slides back a couple inches every time you fire. If your hand is in the way—like if you use the wrong two-handed grip—it’ll cut your hand and you’ll drop the gun, sure as hell. If you do use a two-handed grip, place your left hand under your right to support it. The other way, it’ll cut you every time.”
Tank reached over and squeezed Al’s forearm, never taking his eyes off the highway. “There’s plenty of guilt to go around, Al. If I hadn’t stood by when Bettina Becker was drunk… If I had made y’all leave her alone, you wouldn’t have been kicked off the team. You might have…” He lapsed into silence before he spoke again. “You feel guilty for what you did. I feel guilty for what I didn’t do. Plenty of guilt to go around, bro.”
Chapter 70
Big numbers were painted on the glass door in silver with black trim: 10266. A decal on the window wall beside the entrance warned that the property was secured by a burglar alarm system. I peered through the glass at the alarm panel mounted on the wall. It glowed green. Did green mean disarmed? Or did green mean armed and secure?
Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5) Page 22
