Within three hours, they have a possible match to an ex-con living in the area. He lives in Davie, an affluent area near Fort Lauderdale for an ex-con.
Davie is one of those places where people who work in Miami or Fort Lauderdale’s metro areas can imagine that they are still living in the countryside. It is still somewhat unincorporated, has huge lots, some horse property, farms, and the like. It used to just be a farming and ranching town. A cowboy town.
Now many of the “ranches” have been replaced by mini-mega mansions. In a subcommunity called Southwest Ranches, it isn’t the Southwest and the houses sure as hell aren’t ranches. Some of the manicured areas of Davie hold homes of many a sports celebrity—many living on big lakes, complete with boats and Jet Skis in their backyards. The community is also close enough to the Intracoastal Waterway and Hollywood Beach that if you want to enjoy an ocean boat cruise, it’s less than thirty minutes away. Yet Davie, with its sleepy small-town persona, affords the rich a sense of anonymity and luxury that they desire, many living in gated communities. None of the flashiness of Coconut Grove or Miami Beach or Star Island.
Cat runs the guy’s name through a database.
His photo pulls up. By the look of his shoulders and neck, he is well over three hundred pounds. Bald. Tatted up. His eyes shine like coal from the photo. Pure hatred spews from every pore of his body.
He is a brute.
Yes, he was convicted for murder. He’s got a rap sheet a mile long, everything from pimping to burglary, drug possession and dealing crack cocaine and heroin as a young man. When he got older, he graduated to the hard-core stuff—rape and gang-related double homicide. This is one dangerous character. He will not go easily or quietly. He’s the kind of guy who wouldn’t think twice about killing a cop or two, or killing himself, if it came down to it. He was incarcerated in the federal pen for most of his adult life. He is covered in tattoos, starting with his face. There is a series of signature teardrops on the outside of the left eye going down his cheek. His dark pupils seem to bore through the camera in his mug shot. There is not an ounce of humanness in his expression. Just pure animal-like rage in his eyes. Like a bull raging to be released from a cage only he can see. There is no way this guy will cooperate willingly with anything the FBI or PD wants.
He will kill himself first.
And there is no way, from the look in the photo, that this guy will go back to prison. He will pop a cop first. That is for sure.
“We’re going to need a warrant,” Cat says to Nate. “And probably SWAT when we take this guy down.”
Nate nods.
Ignacio Santiago Rodriguez, a.k.a. Big Tiny will not go willingly into the night. The brute will take out the world first. From his look, it is a miracle he didn’t kill Roxie. It is a miracle she is still alive.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
There are times when even justice brings harm with it.
—Sophocles, Electra
“Are you kidding me?” Isabella screams into the phone. “Don’t say another word. Get over here right now,” she screams at Big Tiny.
“What?” Thomas Pierce says to her.
Thomas has that innocent schoolboy look about him that normally she finds charming. But today, right now, she is so livid, she can hardly breathe. “Wipe that smirk off your face.”
“What?” His question now is really a question as opposed to a come-on for more sex. Isabella has had enough sex this evening. Someone must take control of the situation.
“That was Big Tiny. I swear to God, the man is an idiot.”
“What are you talking about? What happened?” Thomas is truly concerned now, his eyes boring into Isabella.
“Jesus Christ, Thomas. What was Big Tiny thinking? He decides he is going to have some fun with Roxie from the office. He barges in on her at her home. Only thing is, our little Miss Roxie can protect herself.” Isabella’s words come rapid-fire. “She jabbed him good in his neck. He ran like a stuck pig. That’s all I’ve heard for now. I told him to get his ass over here.”
Pierce says nothing. There is not much to say. And certainly nothing that he can say that will calm Isabella.
“He’ll be here in ten minutes.”
Isabella’s face is almost as red as her hair.
Thomas Pierce knows better than to say a word.
She turns around and starts pacing the floor. Back and forth. Thinking.
“Call Clayton. Tell him to get over here now.”
Pierce does as she says.
He dares not do anything else.
“He’s on his way.”
Isabella barks some more, “Tell the staff to take the night off and get the hell out.”
Once again, Pierce does as she says.
Soon, Big Tiny’s voice comes over the intercom from the front gates outside of Pierce’s mansion. He sounds exhausted. “I’m here.”
Isabella presses a six-digit code into a keypad in the bedroom that opens the remote gate. Big Tiny is at the door. He rings the doorbell only once before Isabella opens the huge eight-foot-tall front door wide. In an instant, she is in his face, so close he can smell her sweat.
“What the hell were you thinking? Are you a moron, or what?” Her neck muscles stand at attention as she leans into Big Tiny. He shrinks away, cowering.
Big Tiny is afraid of no one.
Except Isabella.
He has seen, and knows, the things she is capable of.
“Don’t,” he says, as if a single word will defend him against her fury. As if she will obey his request.
“I can’t even believe you would do something like this. Are you insane?”
Big Tiny says nothing. He just looks at Isabella.
“For God’s sake, you must be the dumbest ass on the face of the earth. Going after Roxie in her own house. Leaving evidence behind. I mean, who does that? Who is that stupid?”
“Get in the house.” Thomas Pierce is behind her, his voice trying to sound commanding but coming out like a squeak.
She turns on her heels, directing her anger toward him now. “And you, you hired this dumb bastard. To do what? To mess up my life? To mess with the Operation? What in God’s name were you thinking?”
There is nothing more intense than Isabella at the full force of her fury.
It is the Eastern European in her, Pierce is sure. That and her upbringing have told her to like and trust no one. If you are betrayed, betray the betrayer. This is the way of Isabella. He knows with Big Tiny’s actions tonight, she feels the ultimate betrayal.
“Wait until Clayton gets here before we start jumping to conclusions. And let’s call Yosef. He may be able to bring something special to the table in this situation.” The way that Thomas emphasizes the word “special,” Isabella knows exactly what Thomas has in mind.
The Israeli is also a fixer – of a different kind. He knows how to fix everything. Isabella thinks about this and her hot temper is suddenly cool. She is fire and ice. Hot and cool all at once.
She understands.
She turns around to Big Tiny, her voice suddenly a kitten’s purr, all sweet and soft and sexy. “Come in. We will deal with things. There is always a way.”
Always the vixen, she flashes a glimmering smile of pure sexual energy at Thomas. She watches Big Tiny’s massive frame walk through the front door.
As Isabella watches Big Tiny enter the house, she hides what she thinks. If they are unable to solve what happened tonight, she will kill Big Tiny herself. With her bare hands and her favorite tool—a piano wire.
So simple and effective.
But let us see what the Israeli can do first. Thomas is right.
Isabella can hear Thomas on the phone to Yosef, summoning him to come over as well.
Soon they are all gathered in Pierce’s living room. Marble floors the color of black night. Couches done in white leather. There is contemporary art all around. No flowers or plants. A full-sized black grand piano is perched, black on a polished black floor. This room is
stark and commanding, as Isabella intended when she redecorated it last year. The perfect place for a meeting like this.
Big Tiny sits on a ten-foot-long custom-made white leather couch. His frame looks small. There is dried blood on his chest, all the way down his pants. He seems unsure what to do, looking at Isabella with big puppy-dog eyes for direction.
Pleading for her to have mercy on him.
She has never felt mercy in her life.
He should know this.
He has seen how vengeful she can be.
“So, start from the top,” Clayton Pierce says. “Tell us everything.”
Clayton is watching Isabella as he says the words, watching for her reaction. He loves to watch her when she is like this. All boiling blood, venom and spite. To have raw sex with her right here on the floor would feel so good. If he did, she would take her anger out on him, rake her fingernails down his back, gouge his neck.
But now is not the time or the place.
These things will have to wait.
Big Tiny speaks, sounding almost timid. The Israeli, Yosef, is behind him, watching his shoulders. It is remarkable how much people give away with body language. Something the Israeli is well versed in, both through classes and by way of human experience.
Big Tiny is lying. That is a certainty.
His voice is small for such a big man. “She was out walking that stupid dog when I entered the house. I wanted to make sure she didn’t have anything on us. You know. That she hadn’t snuck anything out of the office. I was checking around her living room.”
Big Tiny looks around to make sure everyone is watching him.
They are.
Yosef is watching Big Tiny from behind, paying attention to every muscle movement, every twitch, his head movement, his wide shoulders, his breathing.
“She came through the front door. Surprised me. That damned dog. I was on her before I could figure what else to do. It was the only thing that I could think of. I just reacted. Her front door was closed when I jumped her. No one saw me on her. I was choking her. Her dog was going crazy. I had her by the throat. I could hear the life going out of her. I was laughing. It was good. Like I was having an out-of-body experience or something. I could just hear the life leaving her. No, I could feel the life leaving her.”
Big Tiny stops for a second, as if he is reliving the entire thing in his head.
“And then that damned dog clamped down on my calf.”
Big Tiny glances down at his pants, dried blood there, as if backing up his story with pure physical evidence.
“I couldn’t get the dog off me. No matter what I did, it wouldn’t let go. Then, suddenly, her hand, no, her nails jab up under my neck. She knees me hard in my nuts. There is blood. I realize it is my blood.”
Big Tiny sucks in air, as though in his mind, he is reliving it all over again.
“I can’t hardly think. Both she and the dog are on me. The pain makes me release her. She is on the floor in my blood. The damned dog finally lets go of my leg.”
Big Tiny closes his eyes. Yosef watches the big man’s shoulders sag even more.
A sure sign of defeat, the Israeli thinks. I will have to kill him tonight. Life is so efficient for an Israeli.
“I’m outta there. Like in a New York minute. I’m bleeding out all over the place. Not sure if I killed her but I messed her up pretty good. She won’t be talking for a while.”
Isabella asks her most important question of the night. “Did she see your face?”
Big Tiny’s shoulders shrug some more. He is a man defeated.
Yosef will have to work tonight.
“Yes.” Big Tiny’s voice is so soft, it is almost inaudible.
With that, the Israeli is on Big Tiny from behind, a syringe at Big Tiny’s throat. For a millisecond, the Israeli, Yosef, looks at Isabella for guidance, says nothing with his mouth, only with his eyes, pleading, You want me to kill him? Yosef’s eyes glisten in delight at the mere thought.
Isabella glances quickly at Clayton and Thomas, then back at Yosef. She does not need their approval, but it is nice to make them think so.
She nods at Yosef.
With that, the Israeli plunges the syringe into Big Tiny’s neck; the needlepoint penetrates through the giant’s muscles and sinews, all the way to Big Tiny’s spine. The animal sedative called Halothane will do its work. Big Tiny is gagging, choking and gurgling as the relaxant drug storms a path through his veins and quickly stops his heart. The giant is dead. His massive frame is slumped over, white foam coming from his mouth, his eyes in a blank stare at nothingness.
Let this be a lesson, Isabella thinks.
I have no time for the incompetent and insecure.
Nothing will compromise this Operation.
Nothing.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Justice is not to be taken by storm.
She is to be wooed by slow advances.
—Benjamin N. Cardozo, The Growth of the Law
A warrant comes through in less than twelve hours. Cat, Nate and PD SWAT move toward Big Tiny’s custom-built home in Davie. As expected, the white Italian-style house is set back on a one-acre lot, surrounded by black iron fencing and an automatic wrought-iron gate. All black and gleaming white marble set upon green grass. The big Peterbilt semi cab sits in the long side driveway, next to a three-car garage. In the Florida sun, the cab’s big chrome radiator looks like silver centennial soldiers lined up for a march. From the smell of the grass, it has recently been mowed.
The air does not move.
Cat walks up to a white-pillared gate, presses the button with the word “Talk” on it and speaks into the intercom, announcing who they are and that they have a warrant. There is no answer on the other end. Just static.
Cat figures the guy inside is either stalling or running.
Probably running.
She instructs SWAT to cut the gate. Get the hell in there. SWAT Commander Michaels silently instructs one of his team members to cut the wires to the electric iron gate. He uses only hand and eyes to signal. His team knows what he needs. As soon as they cut the wires, a blaring alarm sounds from inside the house.
Whoever is in there knows that they are coming.
Great, there goes the element of surprise.
But who is she kidding? As soon as she announced their presence into the guy’s intercom, the element of surprise was out the window. They already know that this guy is not going to give up and come peacefully with his hands up. He is not going to comply with instructions to come out and give himself up. Given half a chance, he’s going to run. Or fight.
So, it is what it is.
Twenty-plus SWAT guys move up the driveway, guns drawn at shoulder height. They move silently, like ants in a colony, each supporting the other, surrounding the house. Some move stealth-like to the backyard. Then, a loud shout of “Hands down.” One of the SWAT guys has got something. And whatever it is—it isn’t good. “Hands down” usually means either a suicide or the perp is already dead at the hands of someone else.
Both are not good when you’re executing a warrant.
Both are not good when you’ve got twenty-plus SWAT guys in full gear, guns drawn.
Before Cat can think, her legs are running toward the area where the “hands down” shout came from. Her breathing is ragged. She needs to know what is going on.
Has their guy blown his brains out?
Has he made the ultimate decision—not to be taken at all?
Has Big Tiny committed suicide?
She prays the answer to these questions is no.
We need him alive.
But in her gut, she knows different.
Her sixth sense.
She is around the corner, behind the monster-sized house, her hands on her knees, sucking for air, looking up at the SWAT guy who shouted, pleading with his face.
“We got something,” is all he says, matter-of-fact. His firearm is down by his side. His face is neither happy nor sad. Ju
st is.
“What?” Cat can hardly talk but she needs to know.
“We got this . . .” The guy looks over his shoulder at the patio. There is a white Carrara-marble-lipped swimming pool about fifteen feet long. Its water is not blue, but red, a stark contrast against the surrounding white marble in the gleaming Florida sun. In the middle of the pool, a body. A floater—facedown. Obviously, he’s been dead for a while.
A big bald floater, dead to the world.
Dead to the bugs that swarm over him.
Dead to his big outstretched shoulders and python-sized forearms.
Cat knows in an instant who this floater is. It is Big Tiny.
“Oh no,” is all Cat can manage.
Things have just gone from bad to worse.
Cat’s worst nightmare.
“Holy crap,” is all Nate says, looking at the body and then at Cat. She says nothing. What is there to say? Her face says it all. They are out of luck and out of time.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Who will guard the guardians themselves?
—Juvenal, Satires
In the next twenty-four hours, Cat’s life goes from manageable to hell in a handbasket. Her FBI superiors want to know why she hadn’t moved quicker on bringing in Big Tiny, since he was the only link they had to whatever it was that was going on in South Florida.
They are pissed off that she has involved an untrained civilian, a legal secretary no less, and potentially left her for bait for a ruthless rapist and killer.
They are concerned that her investigation is going nowhere fast.
They are concerned about Cat’s judgment.
Is she being objective?
Or is she cracking under the pressure of an investigation that is going to pieces?
To make matters worse, the media gets hold of Roxie’s situation from some of her neighbors. They are asking what is going on. Are the quiet neighborhoods of Fort Lauderdale and North Miami a killing ground for a serial rapist and a cold-blooded murderer? Given an ongoing active investigation, Cat can say nothing to answer these questions. This makes the media hungrier for answers. And it makes them speculate even more about what is happening.
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