by Owen Parr
“Yes, Lieutenant, they tracked him going south.”
“Well, let’s get these birds in the air. We’ll fly over Canistear,” he said, looking at the pilots. “Understand, that we’ll need to hand this over, once we reach the State line.’
“I understand. What about the FBI? Are they bringing helicopters?”
“Yes, they are. They can cross State lines. I’ll inform them of this new information. You think this Belford, switch cars, or just disconnected the GPS?”
I thought for a second, “I don’t think he’s going to risk stealing a car. My feeling is, he switched license plates, at the most, and killed the GPS on his jeep.”
“Okay, we’ll go with that. He reached for his car radio, and communicated the route he wanted the cars to take, and informed everyone. The helos were going to be flying over Canistear Road.”
Patrick, the orange man, was standing next to me. “What are we going to do?”
I replied, I don’t know, let me see. Turning to Phillips, I asked, “Can we go in the helos?”
Phillips turned to size Patrick, then, looked at me. “How about you each go on a different helo? But, remember, we stop at the State Line, then we go back to base. From there, we can get you a ride back to Manhattan. Is that okay?”
“Thank you, that will do just fine,” I replied.
I turned to Mr. Pat, “You okay on a helo?”
“Really lad? You know how many helos I have been in, during the Viet Nam War? Remember, that war was like going to the office. Every day, they fly us over to the action, then, they picked us up at the end of the day. Screwed up war, that was.”
“Mancuso,” shouted Phillips, over the roar of the helos, “you can both jump in the third helo,” he said, pointing to it, “you’ll both be fine.”
I gave Phillips thumbs up, and both Patrick, and I, ran to the helo.
“Put these on, guys,” said the second officer in the helo, as she handed us a pair of headsets, and motioned for us to put them on. Otherwise, the noise from the helicopter would have made our ride unbearable.
I had forgotten the feeling when a helo takes off. I had only been in one, many years ago with the NYPD. The sudden thrust up is quite the surprise, and then you’re feeling like you’re floating on air. For Patrick, I imagined, perhaps some flashbacks to Nam might be going through his mind.
“How many miles before we reach the border with Pennsylvania?” I asked.
The pilot replied, “About one hundred miles.”
“Shit, then he may already be gone beyond your jurisdiction,” I said, glancing at Patrick.
The second officer said, “He may have stopped for gas, or, as you said, to get another license plate. We’ll give it our best. How far south is he going, any clues?”
“No man, I have no clue,” I replied.
The pilot said, “From Canistear Road, he’ll get on the Jersey Turnpike. At that point, he can get on I-95, all the way down to Florida, if he wants.”
Florida? I thought as I turned to Mr. Pat, and then a torrent of ideas began popping into my mind. Otto, Syracuse’s Orange man, football, Orange Bowl in Miami, Marcy parent’s condo in Miami Beach. “How far to Miami, do you know?” I asked.
The pilot replied, “I drove it last year during the summer, we stopped, because of the kids, but, it’s a twenty-hour drive.”
“That’s it,” I exclaimed, “he’s going to Miami Beach.”
Patrick queried, “Why, Miami Beach?”
Glancing at Mr. Pat, I replied, “Because Marcy’s parents have a place there, and it’s empty. Perfect plan B, if he thinks we know about Whistler, British Columbia. That’s why he went south.”
Patrick retorted, “That’s quite a stretch, don’t you think?”
I shook my head, “Belford’s been hanging with Marcy and her parents, and I’m sure they’ve been talking about their annual trip to Miami Beach. He assumes they aren’t going, as long as she’s missing. So, empty condo, no false identity required. It’s ideal.”
Patrick asked, “I guess it makes sense. You think he’s using Gruntel’s identity for gas, or, anything else?”
“Doubt it, now that he knows we’re on to Gruntel. He’ll use cash, or, another identity, if he has one,” I replied.
“So, what do you want to do?” Mr. Pat asked.
I looked at my watch, forty-one hours, since Marcy’s abduction. I glanced outside, towards the east, without responding to Pat’s question. The sun was blinding me, as we flew south. Turning to look back at Patrick, I replied, “I think we should fly to Miami, and wait for this asshole.”
“You’re taking a big chance, Joey. What if they catch this guy before he reaches Miami?”
“I replied, Mr. Pat, the original plan was for you and me to catch him before the posse got involved. Now, you have FBI, and police, involved in the chase. Not much we can do. We’ll stick with these guys until they can go no further.”
Patrick opened his massive arms, and said, “Okay, so, Miami Beach, here we come.”
29
Almost two hours wasted flying over New Jersey until we could go no further. The Pennsylvania State Police, and the FBI, continued the search for Belford on the air, and on the ground. An “all-points bulletin’ had been issued. But, no one knew for sure, if Belford was still driving south, and if he was occupying his white Jeep SUV.
The New Jersey State Police helicopter that had taken us on this aerial search had asked and received permission to drop us off at the Manhattan Helicopter site, on the East River, just a few blocks from our pub. We landed, thanked the pilot, and the second officer, then, Mr. Pat and I, still dressed in our bright orange EMS uniforms, strolled, the few blocks to Captain O’Brian’s Pub and Cigar Bar.
Forty-five hours had gone by since Marcy’s abduction. It was noon. Every time I looked at my stopwatch, my heart sank further in despair. Was Marcy drugged, was she tied and bound, what could she possibly be thinking? — Were the thoughts that occupied my every minute. I walked next to Patrick, New York’s Financial District streets packed with people, yellow cabs drove by every second, but, I did not see anything, it all seemed out of focus for me at this point. It was like my first parachute jump before the chute opened, flying at a million miles per hour, with a knot in my stomach, and the world out of focus.
Patrick’s thunderous voice and Irish brogue startled me, “We’re here.”
“What?” I replied, coming out of my nightmarish thoughts.
“We are here. I’ll knock on the door.”
“Someone better be here, I used the second officer’s phone to call Agnes, an hour ago.” The pub’s door opened. Father Dom, Agnes, and Angela were standing by the entrance.
They all looked at our orange uniforms, but, no one said a word. Quietly, we walked back into the pub, and across into our office. “Agnes, did you make reservations for Patrick and me?”
Agnes replied, “I did.”
Angela added, “I’m coming with you guys.”
I glanced at Angela with an inquisitive look.
Not giving me a chance to say anything, she said, “Joey, Miami is my town, I worked vice all over the city. You need my contacts there and my knowledge of the area.”
I thought for a second, and asked, “Great, what time do we take off?”
“You’re all on the three pm, out of Kennedy, to Miami International,” Agnes replied.
I looked at my watch, my stomach turned. It was still on the stopwatch counter. I knew what time it was, but, I asked again. “What time is it?”
Dom replied, “It’s noon Joey. I’ll drive you to your place. You need a shower, and some packing to do. I suggest that you, Mr. Pat, have Angela drive you to your place, and do the same,” he added, looking at Patrick.
“Very well,” I said, “we’ll meet at Kennedy at two o’clock. Agnes, did you make any reservations for us?”
“Done,” Agnes replied, “I have all three of you staying at a little boutique hotel in Miami Beach, near M
arcy and parents’ condo. By the way, how’s that ankle?”
“Much better, I had a cold-pack on it, during the wasted helicopter chase. It bothers me that’s all, but, I’ll be fine.”
Without wasting any more time. Patrick and Angela left on her car to his place, and father Dom and I did the same.
“Nice Caddy brother, who’s car is this?” I asked Dom, as we both sat in a brand-new Cadillac Deville.
“Is the Pastors’ at Saint Helen's, he let me borrow it.”
“He’s got bucks.”
“It was a donation to our church, from a local Cadillac dealer, who’s a member of our parish.”
“Sweet,” I replied, patting the leather seats.
“Joey, I think you’re taking a big chance betting that Belford is on his way to Miami, no?”
“Perhaps Dom, but, I’ve given this a lot of thought. Marcy tried to tell us about Whistler, British Columbia. I think Belford picked up on that. Although she was only able to partially shout out the name, Belford is too smart.”
“So, because of that, you think he switched from there to Miami Beach?” he asked, as we were now on the Brooklyn Bridge driving to my place.
“If Belford was willing to travel for three days to reach British Columbia, with Marcy as a prisoner, his travel to Miami, which is about twenty hours, has to be much easier. Don’t you think?”
“You’re sure he knew about the condo?”
“I’m sure he knew. He’s been hanging at Marcy’s place almost twenty-four-seven. The Rodriguez’s go down there at the of January, until March. Marcy usually visits for a week, or two, during that time. He knew. And, it’s there, empty, and convenient to hide in.”
“Then what? What’s he going to do from there?” he asked, turning to look at me.
“That’s four steps ahead, bro. I’m trying to be three steps ahead. If I can surprise Belford in Miami, then, his next move is not on his terms, it’s on my terms.
Looking straight ahead, Dom said, “This fucking asshole, forgive my Spanish, has been three steps ahead of us all the way, no more. What’s your plan?”
“We’ll be in Miami Beach before sundown. With Angela’s help, we’ll set up a surveillance of the condo. I hope to enlist, one, or two, of her vice buddies.”
“You’re going to try and do this under the radar? No official police help?”
“If I can. I’m leery of a posse coming after this guy. He’s well-armed, and no telling what he’ll do, if cornered. At this point, he’s got nothing to lose. You know what I mean?”
“I agree, he’s demented, if he’s killed all the ladies, we think he did, plus his parents. We know he’s unstable.”
“Exactly. I don’t want him committing suicide-by-cop, with Marcy alongside him.”
‘Shit, you’re right,” Dom said, as we exited the bridge.
“If I’m right, and I need your prayers on that, then, Patrick, Angela, a couple of other guys, and I, can handle the situation. The surprise is on our side.”
“What made you think of Miami? I mean, that was quite a stretch.”
“Funny you should ask that. It was a few minutes after I spoke to you, remember I said to you; ‘keep talking to the Man’? Well, all of a sudden, I looked at Mr. Pat, all six feet, four inches of him, with his red beard and hair, wearing the bright orange overall, and it happened.”
“What happened? Miami just flashed in your mind?”
“It was more like a flurry of thoughts,” I said, then snapping my fingers, as I recited the thoughts, “it went from looking at Patrick sitting in the helo, to; Otto, Syracuse’s Orange man, football, Orange Bowl in Miami, Marcy parent’s condo in Miami Beach. Boom, I had it.”
Father Dominic smiled as if telling me; the Man did put those thoughts in my head. “I think someone sent you a message.”
We reached my humble abode. I was famished. I forgot the last time I ate something. While I showered, shaved and packed, Dom, made me a sandwich, which I inhaled in a few seconds. I packed my passport, as a form of ID, and other credit cards, since my wallet was sitting, hopefully, in the back of Belford’s Jeep.
On our way to Kennedy Airport, I called Angela, to make sure she recruited no more than two of her past vice cops’ associates. She was ahead of me and informed me that a Jote, and a Tico, were ready, willing and able to help.
Agnes had provided me the exact address of Marcy parents’ condo, which was on Collins Avenue, and about 26th street, on Miami Beach, facing the Atlantic Ocean.
We were booked a few blocks south of the condo, at the Raleigh Hotel. Also, oceanfront, except I was not expecting to spend much time on the beach.
30
Our flight arrived at Miami Airport on schedule, at six-thirty in the evening. Miami welcomes you uniquely the moment you step out of the plane; it slaps you with a warm embrace of heat, coupled with high humidity. Quite the change from New York’s thirty plus degrees, we left behind. One recognizable friendly scent was that of the cafecitos, which are available everywhere in the airport. Angela led the way, in search of her cohorts that were waiting for us outside the gate. She had spent six years with Miami police’s vice division, before her husband’s recent job transfer to New York City, led her to join the NYPD.
Angela smiled, as we approached two characters that looked to have come out from the belly of the underworld, or from the movie set for the next, Pirates of the Caribbean. “Joey, Patrick, say hello to Jote and Tico,” she said, embracing scary hombre numero uno.
Jote, was a skinny little guy, sporting gold earrings in both ears. A Pancho Villa, or a thick and full mustache that hid his upper lip, and dropped an inch on both sides. To add to the décor; sleeve tattoos on both arms. A closer look revealed a neck tattoo, which was almost unrecognizable, due to the very thick solid link gold chain that covered it. A gold President’s Rolex, known within the drug world, as the confirmation of having done your first job, or, ‘having been crowned.’ Of course, a full gold wristband on his other arm. Tight jeans and a Grateful Dead colorful tee shirt completed the ensemble.
“Hi,” I said, to numero uno, and asked, “how do you pronounce your name again?”
“Hah, always the same man. Pero, think of Santa’s — Ho, ho, ho, then add, Te, like in Te-nnessee. Get it? Ho-te.”
“Oh, like in a hotel, without the L,” I said.
“Coño, that’s better, bro. I’ll have to remember that one,” said Jote.
I smiled, “I hear you guys speak, and I think I’m back in Brooklyn, or Jersey.”
Jote said, “Sí, pero, one moment, man. In New York, you have a lot of New York-Ricans, nothing against the brothers, but, Cubans speak Spanglish. That is; the art in one sentence, to combine both English, and Spanish words, we don’t even think about it, it just happens.”
“What do others do?” I asked, glancing at Patrick.
“Bueno, I don’t want to be critical. Pero, others, mesh an English word with a Spanish word together. We don’t do that shit. ¿entiendes? See what I did there?”
“Sí, whatever you say, brother,” I replied. We all laughed.
“You must be Tico,” I said, turning to his partner, that other than for one gold tooth, a scar under his right eye, a shaved head, and a Fu Manchu mustache, looked pretty reasonable, compared to ‘Ho-te.’ I thought Johnny Dep was around the corner waiting for us.
Angela followed with introductions for Patrick, who immediately became ‘big red dude,’ as Jote nicknamed him.
Walking out of the air-conditioned airport, into a much warmer and humid atmosphere, Jote asked me, “Angela gave us the background story, man. We’re sorry your lady is in such a predicament. But, we’ll nail this hijo de puta, don’t worry about that. What’s your plan?”
Looking first at Jote, then, at Tico, I replied, “For one thing, I don’t want the whole Miami PD to involve in this. Did she make that clear?”
Jote smiled, glanced at Tico, and Tico replied, “Sí, man, we’re cool with that. Just the five of
us, no one else. But, are you sure this dude is coming to Miami?”
“I am now, after speaking to my New York office. Normally, the parents of my fiancé call the condominium office, ahead of time, to have the hurricane shutters opened and rolled sideways on their windows. This way, when they get here, it’s all done.”
Jote asked, “Yeah, so what happened?”
“I had my office called the condo’s office. We were playing a hunch you see. The condo manager says Marcy called to have the shutters closed. Claiming the Rodriguez’s weren’t coming anytime soon.”
Tico inquired, “But, that’s true, no?”
I looked around the van, “The call from Marcy came in yesterday. That tells me Belford wants privacy, a place to hide.”
Big red dude — Patrick said, “Finally, we are one step ahead of this guy.”
I turned to face Patrick in the backseat, “I hope so, Mr. Pat. I hope so.”
Jote asked, “Bueno Mancuso, what’s the plan, mano?”
I went ahead and shared my plan with the newly formed and mucho eclectic team.
My thoughts were on Marcy, as I sat in the passenger seat. The ride in Tico’s van was quiet. We made our way across Biscayne Bay, headed to Miami Beach, riding on what Jote told us was the Julia Tuttle Causeway, although the signs read I-195. I had never been in Miami Beach before. A year ago, Marcy had invited to visit her, and her parents, but, I had been busy with something, or other. Riding east, with the sun setting on the west, made the colors of Biscayne Bay captivating. Biscayne Bay was enormously wide. As we reached the top of the bridge, blue, orange, and silver, meshed together in the bay, as if an artist was delivering his craft in front of us. In the horizon, the buildings glimmer with the reflection of the sun striking their glass windows. Above them, the sky exploded with an abundance of ever-changing colors, as we moved further east unto Miami Beach itself.
Reaching the end of the Causeway, Tico went straight on the street called, Arthur Godfrey Way, still headed east. I asked, “How far are we from the condo?”
Tico turned to look at me, and replied, “About three miles. This road will take us to Indian Creek Drive, where we make a right and merge into Collins Avenue, and we’re there.”