Miami

by A. C. Fuller

  The Crime Beat

  Episode 3: Miami

  A.C. Fuller

  Copyright © 2019 by A.C. Fuller

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of quotations in book reviews, articles, academic work, or other contexts where brief quotations are warranted.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Author Notes, September 2019

  The Crime Beat: Complete Series List

  About the Author

  Other Books By A.C. Fuller

  About Gary Collins, Consultant on THE CRIME BEAT

  1

  Friday

  Marco De Santis eased the eighteen-foot runabout through the misty bay, guided by the blinking blue light on his phone. The water glimmered as the sun appeared in the east, a speck of orange across miles of dark water. His phone beeped every few seconds, keeping time with the light of the GPS marker.

  He was only a thousand yards from the weapon.

  It was barely five a.m. and already the air was sixty-five degrees. De Santis was comfortable in his black speedo and plain white t-shirt. Knowing he’d have to swim, he’d tucked his clothes and keys in a duffel bag. He’d noticed that, in most of America, men didn’t wear speedos as European men did. But everything was different in Miami. A fit sixty-year-old man in a speedo wouldn’t even draw attention. It didn’t matter anyway. He wouldn’t run into anyone out here. Not this early.

  He navigated the boat around a small island the shape of a crescent moon. According to his phone, he was still on course. The dead drop location was four hundred yards away.

  He slowed the boat, enjoying the thick, salty air. For ten years he’d toiled, working to stash away two million, enough to retire. Tomorrow, he’d have it. The money he was about to pick up—plus the additional $150,000 he’d receive once the job was done—would give him two million plus enough for three or four plastic surgeries. Enough to ensure his anonymity and safety long term. He’d always been proud of his nose. When he was a boy, his mother called it a “Roman nose.” She’d said the prominent raised bump in the center was the mark of a “true Italian.” It was too distinctive, though. Flattening it would be his first surgery.

  Hell, maybe he’d retire in Miami. Going home to Italy was never in the cards. He’d planned to go to a small country where his olive skin would blend in—Latvia, or maybe Crete. But a day in Miami had made him reconsider. He had fifteen more good years, maybe twenty, and he vowed to spend them in the sun. A good surgeon could sculpt a few Cuban features, allowing him to blend in with the community in Miami. Then again, actual Cubans would be more likely to know he was a fraud. In any case, he was less than a week from retirement and he could already taste the Barolo. No matter how hard he tried to not appear Italian any more, he couldn’t give up the wine.

  Tied to a dinghy fifty yards from the tip of the crescent island, a rowboat bobbed in the water. De Santis killed the engine, drifted, then threw the anchor. A second later it landed with a light tug against his boat. He was still in shallow water.

  He put on goggles and pulled an exacto knife and a diving light from the duffel bag, then folded his t-shirt neatly, flicked on the light, and slipped silently into the water.

  The water was warmer than the air, an odd sensation. The lakes of Northern Italy had never been this warm, especially in December. He swam easily—his taut, wiry body a coiled spring—and found the bottom of the rowboat. The package was there. Three feet long and maybe a foot deep, it was held in place by duct tape. With four deft strokes of the exacto knife, he cut it loose, expecting it to drift down into his arms. It didn’t. He tugged, but the package didn’t move.

  He came up for air, holding the side of the boat and emptying droplets of water from his goggles. Across Biscayne Bay, a boat moved through the orange dawn. Judging by its lights, it was roughly the same size as his runabout.

  He dunked back under the water, moving swiftly to the bottom of the rowboat. He held the light up to the spot where the package was attached. A makeshift loop of duct tape had been hooked to a short length of rope tied to a metal ring on the bottom of the boat. Extra protection. The men who’d hired him were cautious.

  With a swipe, he cut the loop. The package fell free, floating down into his arms.

  He swam back to his boat and, treading water, hoisted the package over his head. It weighed about fifteen pounds, just what he’d expected. All U.S. bills weigh roughly one gram. So 2,500 hundred dollar bills would weigh five and a half pounds. The rifle, assuming it was the same model he’d used in D.C., weighed another six. The ammo and the case, another two. All the waterproof bags and tape added another pound. He tossed it into the well of his boat and climbed aboard.

  The other boat was moving toward his. It was a small fishing yacht, maybe twenty-five feet, and it had already covered half the distance between him and the shore. He looked to a wooden dock jutting from the center of the crescent island. He allowed himself to hope that the boat was heading for the dock.

  If the boat didn’t get any closer, he wouldn’t have to do it.

  The boat kept coming. “Damn,” he said quietly. Judging by its speed, he had a minute until it reached him. Using the exacto knife, he slit open four layers of heavy-duty plastic bags. Inside the fifth bag, in shrink-wrapped plastic, he found the money. Always find the money first. Without it, nothing else matters.

  Next, he unwrapped the black rifle bag. Since coming to America, he’d had a policy: always make the customer provide the weapon and ammo. The process of acquiring these was one more way to get caught. He only worked for top-tier customers who knew the best weapon for the job, and how to get it. This job had been unusual. The men had the weapons before contacting him. He couldn’t complain. The custom fifty-calibre rifles were the finest he’d ever seen. He stowed the weapon and the money and pulled a beretta from the duffel bag, placing it under his hamstring as he sat.

  The boat pulled alongside his. A handsome man around his age waved, smiling. He wore white shorts and an unbuttoned pastel blue shirt, his large round belly leading the way as he waddled to the edge of the boat. “You alright?”

  De Santis waved toward the rowboat. “Fine. Saw this old boat tied up and thought I’d check it out. That’s all. It’s anchored.”

  “Odd. Abandoned, you think?”

  The Beretta pressed into Marco’s hamstring. “Guessing so.”

  Two fishing poles were propped in their holders off the back of the man’s boat, which had the words Marlin’s Tomb stenciled on its side. He gestured at the poles. “Fishing?”

  A woman appeared from a small cabin. She was younger, maybe late thirties. Black hair, with a pretty round face. “Let’s go, papi.” She stood next to the man on the side of the boat, wrapping an arm around his waist.

  Marco felt a twitch of conscience. She was pregnant.

  The man said, “Alright then. Wanted to make sure you weren’t stranded.”

  “Thank you,” Marco said.

  As the man turned, Marco stood, sliding the Beretta from under his leg and disengaging the safety in one deft motion.

  When he was a boy, he’d hated this part. As a
teenager he’d resented it. By his early twenties he’d gone numb to it. Now, well, he’d woken up this morning telling himself he had one kill left. Counting the baby, it was four. So be it.

  He squeezed the trigger, striking the man in the back of the head. He crumpled instantly. The woman spun and opened her mouth to scream when she saw the gun. No sound came out. She glanced back at the cabin.

  “Don’t move,” De Santis said cooly.

  She turned back and he met her eyes. She opened her mouth again, stammering, “I…I…a baby…I have a baby.” She ran a hand over her belly, swollen like it contained a perfectly round melon. “Please. You were a baby once.”

  “Once I was a baby, baby Marco. For the last fifty years I’ve been Maiale al Tartufo. Do you speak Italian?”

  She had a slightly Italian look, but spoke without an accent. Miami was diverse enough that she could have been from anywhere.

  She shook her head. “My parents were from Barcelona.”

  “Born here, then?”

  She nodded.

  “You live in Miami?”

  She nodded again.

  “Where would you recommend a new resident live?”

  Her eyes flicked left and right. Desperate. Confused. She began to shake.

  “No recommendations? I hear Coral Gables is nice, but I might move to Little Havana just for the food. Last night I had chorizo croquetas and…what do you think a two-bedroom on the beach costs these days?”

  She didn’t respond, just hugged herself tightly, shaking.

  Marco sat, holding the Beretta by his side. He started the engine and let the runabout drift toward the side of the fishing boat. As one boat glided past the other, he stood and shot the woman in the heart. Leaning forward slightly, he put another bullet in the man’s head—just to be sure—and one in the woman’s belly.

  The echoes faded. The morning was silent, and Marco aimed the boat at the shore.

  2

  Jane Cole floated above a rocky mountain in Afghanistan, watching Matt navigate a Jeep over a dusty road. He wore his Desert Sand Cammies, the light tan of the uniform setting off his dark brown hair. She’d always loved him in uniform.

  Two fellow Marines sat in the back seat, watching as Matt maneuvered the Jeep around twists and turns up a one-lane mountain road, then down the other side. The ride seemed to go on forever. His hair blew in the wind, dust circled behind the Jeep. No one spoke.

  He stopped at a small town, where children played around a stone well. He waved at a child, who ran up to the Jeep. Matt reached out to the boy.

  Suddenly, one of the men jerked forward violently, wrapping a cord around Matt’s throat.

  “Remember the video I showed you?” Warren’s voice entered her dream, drowning out her husband’s choked gasps. “Back in New York?”

  Her eyes shot open. She drew a sharp breath, as though she were the one desperate for air.

  Warren placed a hand on her shoulder gently. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were still sleeping. You okay?”

  She blinked, trying to erase the dream. She’d had it at least one other time. Maybe the night in the hotel in D.C. Maybe her last night in New York. She wasn't sure. “I’m okay. Bad dream. What were you asking?”

  “The video I showed you.”

  She scooched up in her seat. “I’ll never forget it, or what you told me you saw in that guy’s house.”

  “I haven’t followed the guy’s case since I was put on leave, but chances are he’ll get ten to twenty for what he did. He…” Warren trailed off and stared out the train window.

  His face was pinched—the look he got when he wanted to say more, but couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  They’d boarded the train while D.C. was still dark, and Cole had fallen asleep soon after. Now the bright sun sliced through the windows and glimmered off the snow-covered branches that flashed by outside.

  Cole rubbed her eyes. “Where are we?”

  “Georgia.”

  “We passed through North and South Carolina?”

  “You nodded off somewhere in Virginia.”

  She was beginning to realize that Warren had a well of emotion and thoughtfulness just under the surface. But it was as though he tightened his face and the rest of him to keep it at bay. “Rob, what’s up?”

  “Just thinking. Raj Ambani donated to Alvin Meyers, right? To his campaigns?”

  Cole had learned this with a simple Google search. “Multiple times, why?”

  “As a cop, I took down guys like that sick pedophile. That’s an easy one. That guy deserves something worse than death. You believe in hell?”

  Cole considered this. Matt had been religious, but she never had. “I think hell is the suffering we create for ourselves on earth. Hell is thinking we shouldn’t be locked in these bodies, but knowing we are. And I believe locking guys like that pedophile away makes our hell a couple degrees cooler while we’re living in it.”

  Warren studied her, taking it in. She knew he disagreed, and was relieved he didn’t push back too hard. “I think hell’s a place. A place people go for the stuff they do on earth. That guy will end up there, to be sure. But I wonder, will Alvin Meyers and Raj Ambani be there with him?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “While you were sleeping, I looked them up. Both are upstanding citizens, pillars of their communities. At the same time, Meyers was VP as the U.S. expanded its drone program. At the president’s direction, he oversaw the program. We took out tens of thousands of people with machines from the sky, all on his watch. Don’t get me wrong, I believe our cause is just, but...”

  “But?”

  “We took out civilians, too. Kids.” He closed his eyes. “Maybe I’m not as convinced of our righteousness as I used to be, as I wish I was.”

  “What about Ambani? Helluva guy, by all accounts.”

  “Not to everyone. You been on Reddit?”

  She nodded. She’d used the online message board community for research a few times. Like most of the internet, it was a great resource that was also riddled with misinformation and toxic craziness.

  “Hundreds of threads about Ambani’s death there,” Warren said. “Talking about globalization, sovereignty, identitarianism, corporate overreach, and so on.”

  “Racists?”

  “Some, sure. There are some straight up white supremacists there, and they hated Ambani. But—and this was weird—I found myself agreeing with some of the other commenters. The ones who talked about the way companies like Ambani’s are taking over everything. Guys like him are powerful, maybe even more powerful than governments and…”

  He didn’t finish the thought, but it was clear where he’d been headed. “You think the world is better off without him?”

  “Didn’t say that.”

  Cole wasn’t comfortable with where this was headed. As a journalist, she faced a tension between reporting the world as it was, and judging the world for what it should be. As much as possible, she tried to report the facts and leave her beliefs out of it. She wasn’t prepared to consider whether the men who’d killed Ambani and Meyers had legitimate grievances. All she cared about was cracking the case, breaking the story. “Speaking of donations. That reminds me.”

  Warren leaned in close as she tapped her phone. He didn’t resist her attempt to change the subject, so she continued. “The only certain connection are the donations Ambani made to Meyers. Where my mind wants to go next is connections between those two and prominent Miami residents.”

  Starting with “Ambani” + “Meyers” + “Miami,” Cole ran a series of Google searches. Nothing came up. Next she tried searches with only one of the names, plus “Miami.” This led her to a series of dead ends. Both men had Miami connections—from political fundraisers to board meetings to well-publicized vacations. Ambani’s wife had even done a special performance at the Miami opera house.

  Cole set her phone on her lap. “Rob, I…” Pieces of the dream still clung to her. Her mind was fogg
y. She wanted to tell him about it, but something didn’t let her.

  She dreamed about Matt often. Usually the scenes were connected to digital photographs he’d emailed her. Her favorite was the shot of him in the Jeep, which had been taken sometime during his first week in country. In the image, there was a man in the passenger seat. His buddy Bryce. In her dreams, she’d often seen them driving peacefully around the countryside in Afghanistan. That wasn’t how war was, but her therapist had encouraged her to simply enjoy the dreams, that they were just her mind taking something real—the image—and using it to create a pleasant, harmless fantasy.

  The dream this morning hadn’t been pleasant. She banished it from her mind. “Rob, gut instinct, where do we start when we get to Miami?”

  “You know, before your story about me, I was set to become a detective.”

  A wave of guilt hit her. “I know.”

  “Already studying for the exam.”

  “Something in your study prepared you for this?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “Far as I know, there’s never been anything like this.”

  “You’re not making me feel any better.”

  “Not trying to. At first, I thought we needed to look at this like a serial killing, but it’s more like a terrorist attack. In either case, we have two threads. When we get to Miami, I think I should pull one. You pull the other.”

  “Two threads?” Cole asked.

  “The killer and the next victim.”

  Cole nodded. “Go on.”

  “I have an old CI in Miami. One of my best sources while I was NYPD. Kind of guy who might have heard if something was gonna go down in Miami. Maybe he knows something about the rifle. About Maiale al Tartufo, if he came to Miami after D.C.” He sighed. “It’s a long shot, but it’s the best thing I can think of.”