Tommy ordered that all New York flights to Fort Lauderdale from Sunday morning onward be monitored by undercovers. That meant the departure gates would be surreptitiously staked out. Tommy was certain that the police surveillance team assigned to Michaels in Suffolk County would track the man to whatever airport he chose to use, but he always tried to have a backup strategy. Because the detectives had already checked the credit card records of both Shannon Michaels and David Wayne, they knew that if either was the killer, he would be smart enough to use only cash while traveling.
Tommy also figured that their man would not travel under his own name, but had the airline reservation systems checked anyway. As expected, the exercise turned up nothing in Shannon Michaels’ or David Wayne’s name. To help with airport surveillance, Tommy had their GNN publicity pictures faxed to the Port Authority police at both JFK and LaGuardia. Copies were quickly made and passed along to the NYPD surveillance teams.
Jackson Davis then called a friend of his, Fort Lauderdale Homicide Detective Julio Lopez. Tommy and Jackson knew they would need surveillance in Florida, and Lopez was the man who could make it happen. That Lopez had played football at Penn State with one of Jackson’s brothers was a stroke of extremely good luck.
The disastrous bad luck was the Mattituck stakeout. Patrolman Calabrese radioed in for help and a mechanic discovered his car problem in minutes. When Tommy got the call shortly after five on Sunday morning, he went ballistic. Rags in the tailpipe. A kid’s trick that Eddie Murphy had used in one of his Beverly Hills Cop movies. Tommy couldn’t believe it. Now they had no idea where Shannon Michaels was. Tommy was so angry he smashed a coffee mug against his kitchen wall. He knew he was far too emotionally invested in the case, much too wired. But he also knew there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
There was, however, something Tommy could do to locate his suspect. He quickly dialed the commander at the Port Authority police office, telling him he needed to be alerted immediately if anyone paid cash for a ticket to Fort Lauderdale. He asked the commander to request that all airline ticket reps immediately report any cash transaction to Florida. Tommy thanked God he had put his backup plan into effect. Though they had lost Michaels, Tommy was confident they’d pick him up again if he tried to fly to Florida.
At six o’clock Sunday morning, Shannon Michaels turned his black Buick Park Avenue into the parking lot of the Harvest Diner on Northern Boulevard in Bayside, Queens. He had spent the last couple of hours driving around and formulating strategy. Shannon had one more mission to complete, and Florida was the perfect place for it. O’Malley and his minions were on his tail, but they had no idea where he was, or where he might be going. So, Shannon figured he would confront Lance Worthington in his hotel room, dispatch him quickly, then fly back to New York before anyone ever discovered the news director missing. It was the same strategy he had used with Ron Costello on Martha’s Vineyard.
After ordering orange juice and a bagel, Shannon imagined how frustrated Tommy O’Malley would be on discovering that yet another TV type had been killed. Shannon smiled at the thought. O’Malley wouldn’t be able to handle it. The embarrassment would be too much. Perhaps the big detective would then overreact and make a mistake.
Shannon’s new plan was simple. He would park, disguise himself in his car, and then proceed to the airline ticket counter at LaGuardia. Using an alias, he would pay cash for a ticket on the eight a.m. Delta flight. He’d be in Lauderdale in three hours, plenty of time to check out Worthington’s hotel. The convention schedule had been printed in Broadcasting and Cable Magazine, so Shannon knew that nothing formal was set for between four and six in the afternoon. Shannon would make his move before the gala dinner on Tuesday evening, when Lance Worthington would probably be in his room getting ready for the festivities.
Shannon left the Harvest Diner and decided to drive around the borough of Queens. He wanted to get to LaGuardia as close to departure time as possible, so he could board the aircraft and fly off without much waiting.
The streets were nearly deserted. Sunday mornings in winter were the quietest time of the year in New York. The drive gave Shannon extra time to think and, as he drove into the open-air parking lot in front of the Delta terminal, he wondered about Ashley Van Buren. Sad to say, his instincts told him that she was now Tommy O’Malley’s ally. Well, he thought, it has been fun.
The flight was wide open and, after receiving $750 in cash from Shannon, the sleepy-looking airline agent punched out the one-way ticket. Seat 10A for “Sean Hardnett.” Shannon then walked down the long corridor and through security. He bought the Sunday New York Times and meandered slowly toward his departure gate.
A few hundred yards behind him, two NYPD detectives were already talking to the Delta ticket agent. He had called the airport police office immediately after finishing a cash transaction with a “Mr. Hardnett.” They got a description of Hardnett and immediately called Tommy O’Malley at home.
Shannon had a bad feeling. Perhaps he was getting paranoid. His inner voice told him not to take the flight, but there was no reason not to. He got up and walked over to the next waiting area, where he sat down and observed the terminal. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. After a few moments, he got up and boarded the plane. Nothing to worry about, he said to himself. No one on earth besides me knows my intentions. No one could possibly know I’m going to Lauderdale.
Tommy O’Malley did not believe in coincidence. A 6'3", well built man paying cash for a one-way ticket to Lauderdale fit Michaels’ description pretty closely. The ticket agent said “Mr. Hardnett” had brown eyes and a mustache, but Tommy did not doubt for a minute that this man was Shannon Michaels in disguise. He told the two detectives on the case to stay away from the suspect, that nothing would be accomplished if the man aborted the trip. Tommy then hung up and immediately called Jackson Davis, who had fallen back to sleep.
“He’s on his way down, Jack. Let’s mobilize quickly. Get the Lauderdale guys on him and meet me at the airport. There’s another flight going down there at eleven.”
Tommy quickly dialed another number. An answering machine picked up. “This is Ashley. Please leave all the information you want, and I will get back to you.” Beep.
“Ash? Tommy. It’s showtime. Shannon Michaels left for Florida early this morning. Jackson and I are taking the eleven on Delta. I kept my promise. See you when I see you.”
Five minutes later, Ashley Van Buren stepped out of the shower. She had heard the phone ring but her hair was full of shampoo, so she let the machine pick up. Dripping wet, she walked over to the phone and pressed the message button. One minute later she was booking her flight on Delta.
* * *
26
FORT LAUDERDALE
DECEMBER 1994
Fort Lauderdale had changed greatly over the past twenty years. No longer was it the small town that Connie Francis had immortalized in the movie Where the Boys Are. The wild college kids were just a memory, neither economically needed nor welcomed in the upscale beachside environs. Lauderdale was now a small city with big city problems. White flight from Dade County, where Cuban immigrants had taken over, had fueled a real estate boom in Broward County, where Fort Lauderdale was located.
But the imported prosperity did not trickle down to the poor living in southwestern Broward, on the edge of the Everglades. Like many American towns, Lauderdale had become a city of stark contrast between the haves and have-nots. Beautiful waterfront estates on the east side of town. Sweltering two-bedroom shacks further west. But the wild card in Lauderdale was the transient factor—unattached people who floated down to South Florida during the winter looking for work or thrills or both. Lauderdale was one of the few places left in America where strangers sometimes outnumbered the locals.
Shannon Michaels knew Lauderdale well. He had actually lived in the northern part of the city, off Commercial Boulevard, for a short time in the early eighties, when he was covering Latin America for GNN. He thought
of the town as wide open, as an easy place to do just about any kind of business.
The Fort Lauderdale Airport, medium sized and clean, was a much better facility than Miami’s chaotic, antiquated airport thirty miles south. At nearly eleven in the morning, Shannon walked off the plane in Fort Lauderdale’s airport. Carrying his canvas traveling bag, he tried to appear casual and relaxed, but something continued to nag at him. It was a feeling he couldn’t identify, but one he didn’t like.
Shannon could see that the airport terminal was beginning to crowd up. Early December was the beginning of “the season” in South Florida, the time when the snowbirds up north flew down to get warm. From the gate, Shannon walked quickly toward the main terminal, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses, his false mustache rubbing against his upper lip. He discreetly scanned the area as he walked. He did not see anything to put him on alert.
The young Hispanic woman thirty feet behind Shannon was wearing a light blue maid’s uniform and carrying a broom. From the description provided by the NYPD, she immediately recognized the tall man wearing the black baseball cap, and stayed with him as he headed toward the exit. The moment Shannon walked through the electronic doors leading outside, she stopped and removed a small radio from the back pocket of her blue pants. “He’s getting into a cab,” she said.
The taxi was spotless, and the driver was an American. Shannon was shocked. Most South Florida cabs were in deplorable shape and driven by recent immigrants. “Yankee Clipper,” Shannon instructed the elderly cabby, who nodded. Shannon thought he might be a retiree supplementing his income.
The yellow taxi pulled into the traffic flow, which was regulated by a brown-clad Broward County deputy sheriff. The cabdriver was cautious, but not timid. His cab quickly broke out of the bottleneck and headed down a road that led to the airport exit, palm trees visible on all sides.
Four cars behind the taxi, a white Ford Taurus with two men in the front seat was keeping pace. This is going to be easy, its driver thought.
The taxi driver was nearly clear of the multilevel parking lot in front of the airport terminal when Shannon’s voice startled him: “I’m extremely sorry, sir, but it appears that I’ve left something very important on the plane. Could you take this exit right here and go back?”
“The return to airport” sign was just ahead. The cabby had no trouble merging into the left lane and making the U-turn. Shannon peered out the back window. He would definitely notice any car following him back into the terminal. He saw a white Taurus hesitate, but then head toward the airport exit.
The Fort Lauderdale cop in the passenger seat of the Taurus spoke into the radio: “Suspect is going back in. Probably wants to see who’s following him. We’ll pull over on Route One and wait for instructions.”
A voice from inside the terminal answered, “Roger that. We’ll pick him up here if he gets out of the cab. There’s only one way out of the airport, so stay put.”
Shannon Michaels apologized again and gave the cabdriver twenty dollars for missing a fare. He then hopped out of the taxi and walked back into the terminal. Methodically, he searched the area with his eyes. Nobody was paying any attention to him. Good.
A circular cluster of phones, five in all, stood to his left just a few feet away. Shannon sauntered over and punched in a number that would connect him to South Boston. He paid for the three-minute call with quarters. A man with a thick Boston accent answered: “Sweeney’s.”
“I need to talk to Sean this evening, sir. Might that be possible?” Shannon kept his voice low and authoritative.
“Could be. Who should I say is callin’?”
“Shannon, like the river. A friend of Liam Mooney.”
“So, where can he reach you?”
“He can’t. I’ll have to call him. Perhaps I could ring you later and you can tell me when he’s available.”
“I’ll do my best. Call around six.”
“I will, thanks. Bye.”
Shannon picked up his bag and walked out into the warm sun. Florida’s climate, inferno-like during the summer, is benign most of the winter months. Shannon looked to his left and saw two cabs remaining in the taxi line. The first one drove over.
“Route One and State Road 84 please.” This time the cab was well-worn and the driver Bahamian.
As the taxi pulled away, a young woman in a maid’s blue uniform interrupted her floor sweeping long enough to speak into her radio: “He’s in a red checker, heading your way.” The cops in the Taurus nodded, and put their white vehicle in motion.
Tommy O’Malley and Jackson Davis, using police department funds, had purchased coach tickets, but were assigned first class seats. When space permitted, most airlines were good about upgrading New York City’s finest. The detectives had been sitting in the departure lounge for a few minutes when a very attractive blonde walked up to the counter. Jackson poked Tommy, then reading The Daily News sports page.
“She . . . has arrived,” said Jackson, deliberately overemphasizing the she. “I wonder how she knew what was going on.”
Tommy looked up sheepishly. “I told her. She did me a major favor.”
Jackson looked amused. “I bet.”
“Fuck you,” Tommy said.
Ashley walked over, a wide smile on her face. “Detectives, how nice to see you both this morning.” She wore a black leather jacket and tight blue jeans. To Tommy, she looked a bit tired.
“You know Jackson Davis, don’t you?” Tommy was trying to sound gruff. He didn’t quite pull it off.
“Yes, I think we met when I visited your lavish headquarters.”
Jackson smiled. “Going for some sun, Ms. Van Buren?”
“Sure. And I believe I’m sitting across from you gentlemen in first. My, the city certainly is generous these days. Does Rudy know about this?”
“Nothing’s coming out of the mayor’s pocket,” Tommy mumbled. “We were upgraded.”
“As well you should be.” Ashley’s green eyes were shining. She was enjoying Tommy’s obvious discomfort.
Ashley was just about to utter another smartass remark when the boarding announcement was made. Tommy and Jackson rose from their seats, and the three approached the ticket-tearing flight attendant. Wordlessly, Tommy took Ashley’s carry-on bag from her hand and carried it aboard himself.
The taxi dropped Shannon Michaels in front of the Sinbad Motel, one of seven seedy motels lining a three-block strip along Route One, a few blocks south of the 17th Street Causeway in Fort Lauderdale. The Sinbad was perfect for Shannon. The management there would take his cash while checking him in under any name he desired. The rate was $32.50 per night—and “Mr. Hardnett” would be staying for just one night.
The Ford Taurus drove on past the Sinbad and turned right at the next corner. Another unmarked car was radioed and, within minutes, pulled into a hardware store parking lot across the street from the motel. Until the New York boys showed up, the two homicide detectives in the brown Ford station wagon would watch Shannon Michaels.
Shannon unlocked Room 17, which was on the ground floor facing a small, littered parking lot. The room was dank and hot. The window air conditioner, he discovered, had been turned off, and Shannon immediately rectified that. The machine groaned as he flipped the switch to high. Two small twin beds stood side by side, each with matching stained bedspreads. The TV was bolted onto the dresser. Obviously, there was no honor system at the Sinbad. A small closet flanked the small bathroom, and one lone wire hanger hung off the wooden rail like a listless bat. His room was one step above a jail cell.
Shannon walked into the bathroom and drew back the shower curtain, startling a large Palmetto bug—a giant roach that is as much a part of Florida as Disney World. The bug waved its antennae, then sauntered toward the shower drain. It acted very put out.
At the very back of the motel room was one small window. It was high up on the wall and Shannon opened it with great effort. The rusty attachment bar finally gave way and Shannon felt a rush of h
umid air enter the room. He quickly closed the window, which was obviously there for ventilation purposes only. It was much too high to see through, and much too small to crawl through.
The room television received only three channels, but one of them was broadcasting the Miami Dolphins-Cleveland Browns football game. Shannon had a number of hours to kill, so he sat back on the sagging bed and watched Dan Marino go to work. He admired the skill of Marino and a few other NFL quarterbacks. They were like surgeons. Precision under pressure. The game, however, was a lackluster affair, and by halftime, Shannon Michaels had fallen asleep.
As Jackson Davis, Tommy O’Malley, and Ashley Van Buren walked off the plane, Julio Lopez, the Fort Lauderdale homicide detective, was there to greet them. Resplendent in plum-colored sports jacket, tan slacks, and brown Gucci loafers, Lopez showed off a smile of perfectly straight white teeth.
“Good to see you, man,” Lopez said, hugging Jackson. Introductions were made and Julio actually kissed Ashley’s hand. Tommy thought it was a bit much, but what the hell, Julio was really helping them out.
Fighting political battles that would have defeated most men, Julio Lopez had risen through the ranks of the Fort Lauderdale police department at a time when Latino officers were widely considered inferior by the white men who ran it. Sometimes the glamour of Florida obscured the fact that it was part of the Deep South. But Julio was a man with a plan, and his strategy included overlooking petty crap like prejudice. After graduating with a degree in English from Penn State, he resolved to live in a warm-weather city and carve out a successful professional life for himself. He chose Fort Lauderdale and law enforcement.
During the eighties, Lauderdale, and all of South Florida, were awash in narcotics. Julio made his name then as an undercover drug cop. Using fluent Spanish and finely honed street smarts, Officer Lopez made bust after bust. After three years, he was promoted to Detective, an astoundingly quick rise. He continued working narcotics until he was fingered by a corrupt cop who was his friend—or so he’d thought.
Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder Page 27