“Most of the people in prison are there because they are guilty. But some are not. I wasn’t going to let Joe be one of those locked up for something he didn’t do.”
“Have you given Joe the good news?”
“No. I’m afraid he could become a victim again. This one might be even more deadly. Joe’s niece was abducted. Seminole police believe members of the mafia, the guys who were behind Joe’s set up in the first place, kidnapped the girl. Her mother called Joe while he was staying at my river cabin. He took one of my guns and left. I believe he’ll hunt these people down. In the Everglades, Joe might have a good chance. Not in Miami.”
“Now I know what you meant by ‘on the road.’ What can you do?”
“Move as fast and hard as possible. Hope to surprise them. Kimi could be drugged, bound, gagged, and lying in the back of a cargo truck heading to be sold into the sex trafficking world.”
“I feel so sorry for the girl as well as Joe. I remember you telling me about your days working with Miami-Dade PD. You know the places the mob congregates. All of them are guarded well. You could easily be walking into what could become your Alamo. None of the good guys walked out of there.”
“I’ll have backup.” O’Brien glanced at the shotgun wedged between the passenger seat and console. “I’m working with my old partner in Miami-Dade PD.”
“Good. Please call me. Keep me informed, okay?”
“Okay.”
“By the way, that was some excellent detective work in bringing the Hawkins’ men down. I hear Bobby Hawkins will live. These are the times I miss being a prosecutor. I’d love to prosecute that father and son. And I’d relish the opportunity to send members of the mob away for the rest of their unnatural lives. Be careful, Sean.” She disconnected.
***
Dino Scarpa sat at a cluttered desk, eating a slice of cheese pizza, in a back office connected to a warehouse near Miami’s South Beach. A large flat screen TV was mounted on the wall, the sound muted. His cell phone buzzed. He picked it up, looked at the caller ID and said, “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.”
“It’s fuckin’ over. You blew it.” The man’s voice was raspy, his breathing slightly labored.
“Charlie Tiger was fine until that ex-cop, O’Brien, showed up. He has a hard-on for me. He stuck his nose into our negotiations with the tribe and things started to go to hell.”
“Why didn’t you know that guy you tried to make the patsy, Joe fuckin’ Billie, was O’Brien’s BFF?”
“They told me Joe Billie was a loner. He was supposed to be some weirdo that had a beef with a bone hunter. It was a perfect set-up until O’Brien started meddling.”
“And then you send out two guys to hit O’Brien and only one comes back alive.”
“We’ll get him. In the meantime, we got collateral. Tiger’s daughter. That was part of the deal. He either cut us in or we take her out.”
“Part of this screwed up deal in the beginning was the girl’s connection to her uncle, Joe fuckin’ Billie. She was the insurance that he wouldn’t sing. And now you hijacked the insurance.”
“That was only after Tiger went back on the deal. He knew the conditions.”
“She may cause us more trouble than she’s worth.”
“Frank, you always told me we can sell a gun once. Sell a kilo of coke once. But we can sell a girl thousands of times.”
“But you’re giving O’Brien—probably the feds now, an incentive to squeeze us. The question you gotta answer, Dino, is this: is she worth it. Are any of your great fuckin’ ideas that we could powwow with the Indians worth it? Take care of it, Dino. Or I’m sending Joey D down to Florida to do it for you. You’ll be lucky if you even remain as an associate. You understand what I’m sayin’ to you, huh?”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
The man on the end of the line hung up.
Scarpa glanced at the screen. He reached for the remote on his desk, pointed at the screen like he was firing a pistol, unmuting the sound.
The news was on, an attractive anchorwoman, dark hair pulled back, said, “Startling new developments in the murder case of Lawrence Barton. As you may recall, Barton’s body was recently found near an ancient Indian mound in Citrus County. A member of the Seminole tribe, Joe Billie, made bail earlier. And now police say, in a dramatic turn of events, two other men have been arrested and charged with the crime, and that could be the tip of the iceberg. News Eight’s Ryan Thompson has more.”
The picture cut to a reporter standing in front of yellow crime scene tape, the mound in the background, police and emergency vehicles moving in and out of the frame. The reporter, chiseled face, open sports coat said, “Investigators say Lloyd Hawkins and his son, Bobby, are facing charges of murder in the death of Lawrence Barton. Initial evidence earlier led to Joe Billie’s arrest as the suspect. Police say they have evidence, and an apparent confession, that exonerates Joe Billie. They say Lloyd Hawkins made the confession after a friend of Billie’s questioned Hawkins. The man has been identified as Sean O’Brien, a former homicide detective who once worked with the Miami-Dade PD.”
Scarpa leaned over his desk. “What the fuck!”
The reporter continued. “Local investigators haven’t released a full report yet, but they tell us that Hawkins and his son apparently tried to ambush O’Brien, a fight ensued and the confession came, or was obtained after Bobby Hawkins was wounded. He’s recovering from a gunshot wound at Tampa General. One detective told me that the death of Lawrence Barton stems from an alleged business deal between Lloyd and Bobby Hawkins with members of organized crime trying to infiltrate the Seminole gambling business. How Joe Billie, a member of the tribe may possibly fit into the equation is not known yet, or it hasn’t been released. Billie’s attorney, Lana Halley, requested an immediate court hearing for dismissal of charges against her client. The whereabouts of Joe Billie and Sean O’Brien are not known at this time. Reporting from Citrus County, Ryan Thompson, News Eight.”
Dino Scarpa threw the remote against a wall. He picked up his phone and angrily punched buttons. “Need you in my office!”
“Sure boss.”
Scarpa disconnected. He stared out the window at the palm trees and the slow moving traffic on Biscayne Boulevard. The door opened and Tony Rizzo walked inside, closing the door.
Scarpa turned toward him. “I think we got trouble headin’ our way.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Maybe the worst kind. The crazy ex-cop, O’Brien. He’s like some fuckin’ Jihad terrorist. Got no fear of death. Call in some extra men. I don’t know if he’s coming, but if he does, we won’t be surprised.”
Tony smirked. “Look at the bright side, we won’t have to go find him.”
“You don’t know him. The reason he was booted out of the PD is because he doesn’t color inside the lines.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means he don’t play by any of the established rules. If he worked for the big boss, there wouldn’t be any need for half you shit heads. O’Brien’s smart. Probably too fuckin’ smart to just be a cop. When you see him comin’ it might be too late to stop him. Keep the girl healthy. Now I’m thinkin’ we use her as a hostage if it gets down to that.”
Tony shrugged. “Another couple days of treatment, and she’ll be hooked. That’s when they start beggin’ for a fix and will do anything to get it.”
ONE HUNDRED SIX
Wynona Osceola stood waiting in the police department parking lot when O’Brien got there. He slowed to a stop, and she walked out from under the shade of the palm trees. She opened the passenger-side door to the Jeep and got inside. “You must have driven a hundred-miles-per-hour to have arrived this quickly.”
“There’s no time to waste.”
“Where do we start? We don’t know where Joe went. And Scarpa could be anywhere.”
“The family owns property from Lauderdale down to South Beach. Restaurants. Nightclubs. Warehouses. Anywhere
they can attempt to legitimize income. Most often it’s business fronts where they can launder crime profits. One of the better-known spots is a restaurant called Casa Manzoni on South Beach. It used to be where Scarpa worked up through the ranks as an associate and then as a soldier, reporting to Salvatore Costello, who’s doing a life stretch in a federal prison for murder. Years ago, Scarpa told an informant, a street CI who shared it with me, that one day he’d inherit the office above the restaurant. It has a view of the Atlantic. Maybe it’s because Scarpa was from Atlantic City, New Jersey. He has a fondness for oceanfront property.”
“You think that’s where we should look?”
“That’s the first place. I know of three or four more. I called an old friend of mine on the force in Miami-Dade PD. He gave me an updated list. Not much has changed since Scarpa came out of prison.”
“Did you tell your friend what you have in mind?”
“I told him who I’m looking for and why.”
“He’s okay with that ... you coming in there bounty hunter style?”
“Guerilla law enforcement, occasionally, is the most effective way to deal with people who’d sell their mothers to get a cut of casino gambling action at a high performing Indian reservation. He’s available for back-up if we get into a situation that needs it.”
“Sometimes you don’t know that until guns are drawn. And then it’s too late. We have law enforcement in six South Florida counties actively looking for Kimi Tiger. The BOLO, of course, is statewide. The FBI office in Miami is on alert. Maybe we should give them the top three places you think the mob may be hiding Kimi, and let SWAT be considered.”
“I want to bring Kimi out alive. And if Joe’s on the property at one of the places, I’d like to see him walk out.”
“Have you tried calling Joe?”
“So far, he’s not answering or he doesn’t have his phone with him.”
“I’ll try. I have his number.” She tapped the key and placed the phone to her ear. “Joe, it’s Wynona. I’m with Sean driving toward Miami. Please call us. Don’t do anything that will jeopardize your life or Kimi’s life. Call me, okay?” She disconnected.
Wynona looked out the window, her face burdened. She turned back toward O’Brien. “I’m so worried about Joe and Kimi. Since I was a little girl, I admired police officers. I knew one day I would grow up and become one. I was taught right from wrong and good from bad at a very early age. My father used to give me examples. Then, as I grew older, going through college, I struggled with what may be ethically right but morally wrong. I began to look at ethics as a set of rules in which fair-minded people usually followed. But the moral rules were more self-imposed … sort of what a person thinks or feels is morally right or wrong.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking about the body we saw torn apart by the gators. Ethically, especially as a member of law enforcement, I should have done something. But the deeper issue, the way I morally felt considering what the mob was trying to do with my tribal family, overrode my ethics. Does that make me a bad detective? Dishonest? Deceitful?”
“No. You haven’t lied. You haven’t been deceptive. You’ve been proactive. And in crime, like war, sometimes you have to use stealth approaches to win. The only difference in war between nations and war between causes and people is the size of the bombs. We’re at war here. The roots are similar ... control of territory, control of people … greed repackaged. In other words, don’t sweat it.”
O’Brien’s phone vibrated. Dave Collins was calling. “Sean, there’s finally some movement on the car with the GPS tracker. I believe they must have had it parked in a garage or some place that blocked the satellite signal. But now it’s moving.”
“What direction?”
“I’m following it on my computer screen and it looks like the vehicle is at Commerce Drive near Biscayne. That’s within a warehouse district.”
“We’re headed that way. Keep me posted. If we’re lucky, the signal will lead us to Dino Scarpa and his den of thieves.”
ONE HUNDRED SEVEN
Joe Billie drove slowly by the address that Charlie Tiger had given him—1197 Commerce Drive. It was in an industrial section of South Beach. Warehouses. Shipping companies. The building had no name on it. Only the address. It was two stories high, flat gray. Two leafy ligustrum trees grew near the front. The hot Florida sun bounced from pit tar roofs with clunky air-conditioning units humming, the compressors sounding like gears changing. A warehouse was connected at the end of the office building.
The property had a high fence around most of it, rows of barbed wire at the top of the fence. He counted nine cars in the parking lot. One caught his eye. It was the same car that he’d seen in Charlie Tiger’s driveway, a black Mercedes. Billie couldn’t make out the license plate, but he felt certain it was the same car. Washed and waxed, the paint shiny as a black pearl in the sunlight. He could see no movement in the lot or near the building and back warehouse.
He thought of his niece, Kimi. Was she being held somewhere in there? Was she still alive? Or had she been shipped out, maybe in the back of any truck or cargo van leaving the area? Billie could see a long alleyway between the buildings. A dark brown delivery truck was making stops in the back area. Billie drove around the block, parking at the rear of a beige building. The block letter sign read: Anderson Const.
Billie watched the UPS truck making stops. The driver parked near a loading dock, dropped a package off, the gunmetal back door opening and a man signing for the delivery. As the driver hustled back to his truck, Billie got out of his pickup, .357 pistol in hand, and jumped up on the back of the truck, holding on with one hand.
The driver pulled away, turning into the alley and heading in the direction of the gray building with the black Mercedes near the front door.
* * *
O’Brien looked at the incoming text from Dave. The Mercedes is located at 1197 Commerce Drive, commercial district near South Beach. Be damn careful.
O’Brien entered the address in his phone, hit the icon for directions and waited a moment for the voice prompt. “Your destination is eleven-point-two miles away.”
He glanced over at Wynona. “Maybe Scarpa is there. More importantly, let’s hope Kimi is there.”
“And let’s hope we beat Joe. Or that the address Charlie Tiger gave him leads to some mob-owned Italian restaurant with no sign of Scarpa and his crew.”
“Joe had a good start before us. We do know this … one of Scarpa’s cars, the big Mercedes is there. Maybe the man himself is driving it. Tighten your seatbelt.” O’Brien sped up, passing cars on a double yellow line, the art deco buildings and trendy restaurants brushstrokes of color out the Jeep’s windows.
* * *
Joe Billie waited for the driver to slow to a stop before jumping from the back of the truck. He had to time it perfectly to keep from being seen, knowing the driver would park, and come to open the back cargo door. Billie wanted to keep the truck between him and the driver, to stay undetected and look for an opening into the building.
He jumped to the pavement, heard the staccato clicking of the parking lights flash on and off. He moved to the right side of the truck as the driver came to the back area, opened the door, removed a box and headed for the rear delivery entrance to the building, a dull red door. Billie peeked through the truck’s windows, watching the driver ring a buzzer at the door. It cracked open after two rings. A tall, wide man signed for the shipment and closed the door.
The driver jumped back in his truck and drove away. Billie approached the rear door, pistol in hand. He took a deep breath and rang the bell.
ONE HUNDRED EIGHT
When O’Brien was a few blocks from his destination, he shut off the GPS on his phone. He and Wynona said nothing as they got closer to the location. It was the universal quiet between soldiers as each person mentally prepared for battle. She looked out the Jeep’s window, reading addresses. “There it is … coming up on our left …
1197 Commerce.” She took a deep breath, her eyes narrowing in the sun reflecting off the chrome from parked cars and trucks.
O’Brien nodded. “Across the street is 1192, United Recycling. Lots of used tires in the back lot. And I see no cars in the front. I think it’s closed. Good.”
“Why?”
“We might need a diversion.” O’Brien gestured toward the gray building with the cars in the lot. “Because at that office and warehouse, I see the Mercedes we’re looking for. Looks like we have about ten other cars in the lot. If two men came in each car, that’d be twenty hostiles. I have a pump 12-gauge in the back seat. Plenty of rounds.”
“I’ve got some extra magazines for my gun.”
“Let’s circle the block. See what other ways we might find to approach the property. Maybe we’ll spot Joe or his old truck somewhere. If you could open the glove box, there are some extra clips there too.”
Wynona opened the compartment and looked for the ammo clips. She reached in, retrieving them, handing the clips to O’Brien. “I see you still have the jar of liquid that Sam Otter gave you and Joe.”
“Maybe I’ll slip some in the next time I use my juicer.” He smiled.
Wynona shook her head and reached back into the glove box. She lifted out the knife that O’Brien had found in the cave. “This is impressive. Where did you get it?”
“I found it in a small limestone cave near the temple mound. The entrance to the cave was almost covered in honeysuckle vines. I was strapping the trail camera to a tree when I noticed the peculiar way the vines were growing. The only reason I entered was because of something Lawrence Barton’s widow told me.”
“What?”
“I’ll share that with you later. I found the knife; maybe together we can find Joe and Kimi. And something tells me we’re very close.”
O’Brien drove around the block, a semi-truck pulling out of one industrial lot, FedEx trucks entering and exiting another property. “It might be a good idea for you to make a call in just a minute.”
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