Passing Semis in the Rain: A Tina Johnson Adventure

by Karen Goldner

  It took me a while, sitting in the Vue and staring at the gas station sign, to remember the last time I had really wanted something. It was just before I met Joe, and I had started doing some cake decorating for friends of friends to make a little money. One Christmas there was a cake contest and I was determined to win. I planned for weeks to make this amazing cake, although I had to deal with a few hurdles like a lot of mandatory overtime and doing errands for my roommate who had broken her leg . The cake was a cross between a wedding cake and a Noel log, if you can imagine that, and it was spectacular. And I won!

  Joe liked me to make him his birthday cake, of course, but he thought cake decorating was a little silly, so after we got together I gradually stopped.

  I stared at the gas station sign some more. It had been a long time since I had thought about my Christmas cake. I smiled at how now my current goals were much larger when the phone rang.

  Teresa. The banker.

  Sometimes simply answering a phone call can change your life.

  15

  "Just wanted to see how you were doing," she said. "I called yesterday afternoon and didn't hear back. Hope it's okay that I called again. I decided to take a few days off and was thinking that I might—" she paused "—join you in New Orleans?"

  It took a minute to remember that she had no idea about Christine or the FBI or the white Camry. I brought her up to speed about everything but the twenty million. She was suitably astonished.

  "So where are you now?"

  "Nearly to Miami." Now it was my turn to pause. My plan for the money had relied on the same sort of computer magic that Mark had pulled off with the GPS. That door had been shut. Here I was with a bank problem and a bona fide banker on the phone. Would she help me? Would she turn me in? I had no reason not to ask. After all, I hadn't done anything yet. I could always say I'd been joking.

  "Teresa, there's another thing. I might need your help to get some money." I had intended to ask, "Could I ask you some questions about how banks work?" but that wasn't what came out.

  "Did you say get some money?"

  "Yes. Christine had squirreled away, um, quite a bit of money. She told me about it before she died. It's in a bank in Miami, and obviously she can't get it."

  "Where did she find this money?"

  I'm not good at lying to a friend, and even after one evening, Teresa had become a friend.

  "She took it from her boss."

  "The mobster?"

  "Yes."

  Teresa was quiet. I waited. I looked at my phone to make sure I hadn't dropped the call. She was still there. Finally: "I don't know that I could do anything. What is it that you want?"

  That was enough. She was in.

  "I'm not sure," I said. And I wasn't. I didn't want to limit my request to information now that she might be willing to do more. Since I had no particular plan, I just talked. I talked through my thoughts about Kevin Andrews. I told her what I had: an account number, a routing number, a PIN, and a banker's business card. I told her what I didn't have: Christine's identification, or anywhere to put the money.

  She was quiet again, then another surprise.

  "Can I meet you in Miami tomorrow?"

  "Of course." Before I could say anything else, her voice rose a third of an octave.

  "Aunt Sandra, if you need me, I'll be there."

  She must still be at work. I didn't say anything, since this "conversation" was clearly for the benefit of someone on her end of the line.

  "Auntie, I'll check with my boss. Hopefully I can get off for your surgery." She paused and I heard a little background conversation, ending with her saying "thank you so much."

  "Yes, I can be there. Let me check the flights and I'll call you later tonight. What time do you need to start the prep?"

  This was a little too realistic, I thought, but it made me smile. She was playing out the whole thing, so I figured I might as well help.

  "About seven p.m.," I said, choosing a time that seemed like when a person would "start the prep."

  "I'll call you before then. Love you, Auntie, and don't worry about anything." She said "thank you" again to the person on her end as she hung up.

  This was strange.

  On the one hand, it was reassuring to learn that I had a co-conspirator in this effort, particularly one who knew the banking business. On the other hand, although I thought of her as a friend, I had only just met Teresa. Why would she would drop everything, lie to her boss, and come to Miami to help someone she had spent one evening with? And what were we actually going to do when she arrived?

  The more I thought about Teresa and the phone call, the odder it seemed. However, until I could talk with her again, I could only guess at her motives, so I decided to focus on something else.

  My mind turned to President Moreno, and I figured it wouldn't hurt to get some local news. I turned on the car radio and played with the tuner. During the rush hour traffic report I heard something useful. The announcer told people to stay away from Biscayne Boulevard downtown over the next couple of days because of the summit. I looked at the tablet's map to see where that information would focus my search for Moreno. Just as I figured out that the InterContinental Hotel was on Biscayne Boulevard, the radio announced the summit would occur at the InterContinental. Great minds run in the same channels, as Mother used to say.

  The summit would be the day after tomorrow, Christine had said. That gave me some time to check out the InterContinental and identify Moreno's security people, which was good, because my stomach had started demanding attention.

  I looked in my backpack and counted the money Mark had lent me. Most of it was still there, although I had gotten gas a couple times since Lake City. I didn't want to spend another night in a parking lot, so I used the tablet to find a cheap motel.

  "Cheap" is a relative term in Miami in late February, but I was able to find a place that was less than Sweet Magnolia and did not give me the complete creeps when I checked in. I couldn't say as much about the diner next door, so I found a boring but reliable chain restaurant down the road. I was not interested in food poisoning.

  By the time I had eaten it was nearly five. I called Shelly. I knew she would be impressed with the story, and hoped she would have some good advice. She often did, although it had always been about men or work or family. I had never asked her how to stop an assassination. I couldn't help a chuckle over that thought as I dialed her number.

  She definitely was impressed. When I told her about Mark she interrupted me frequently for details, which I was happy to share. She said she was “surprised, but not shocked” to learn that our old classmate Christine was involved in organized crime. When I got to the part about confronting Christine in the motel, and finding her dying, she said nothing at all until I was finished and then all she was able to say was "wow."

  "Yes," I said. "It's been quite a time."

  "What are you going to do?" she asked.

  "I need to get to Moreno's security people to warn them. I think that Teresa will be able to help with the bank. But other than showing up at the InterContinental, which I'm not even sure I can get into, I don't know how to find the security people."

  Shelly was quiet for a minute. This was a good sign. When she started talking right away it generally meant that she was filling space, but when she took the time to think, she nearly always came up with a good answer.

  Except now.

  "Wow," she said again. "I don't know. I'm sure that the hotel itself will be on complete lockdown and getting through to someone who would tell you anything would be nearly impossible."

  Then it hit me. "There has to be a special event planner for this, wouldn't there?" I asked. "Or even a special caterer? Somebody who gets called in by the hotel for big deals like this?"

  "That's a great idea," she said, and I realized that I could figure this out on my own. What I needed from her was positive reinforcement. I got that, and I also got research support.

  "The InterC
ontinental Hotel?" I heard clicking on her end of the line as if she typed on her laptop.

  "Okay," she finally said. "The company that does special events catering at the InterContinental is called South Florida Private Dining, Inc. I'm sending you a link to their website so you have it. It doesn't look like a huge company or anything, just a high end caterer. Their president is named Sarah Stapleton. I found her email address, which I will also send you, but I think the best thing is to call her."

  "Yes," I jumped in. "I'll call her and get the name of the security team, or better yet, have her introduce me or get me his contact information or something." As I said it, I realized how naïve that sounded.

  Shelly came to the same conclusion. "That might be hard. Why would she trust you, right? I'm trying to see if I know anyone who knows Sarah Stapleton." More clicking. I waited.

  "Got it!" she said. "It says that Sarah Stapleton is on the national board of a women's business organization. Nikki's neighbor"—Nikki was Shelly's daughter—"is also in that group. She was just telling me last night that she had been to their convention. I will go across the street right now and see if she can reach out."

  "This has to be done pretty quickly, since Moreno arrives tomorrow," I said. "Don't tell her the whole story, just tell her that it's urgent that I talk with Moreno's security team and that we thought that Sarah Stapleton would be able to help make that happen. In the meantime, I'll try to figure out other ways to get to the security people."

  I stopped and corrected myself.

  "I mean, I will figure out other ways. No trying, just doing."

  Shelly was a big Star Wars fan, so she understood the reference. "Sounds good," she said. "I'll be in touch soon."

  Back at the motel, I signed onto email on Mark's tablet and looked at the website for South Florida Private Dining, Inc. I wrote the phone number on the paper from Sweet Magnolia that contained my other notes.

  Looking at the map on the tablet, the InterContinental was surrounded by a bay to the east and downtown Miami to the west. Just north of the hotel was a large park, and there were some restaurants and buildings that looked like either offices or condos, and then the bay again.

  None of these images inspired me. I searched the Internet for security firms. There was a long list, and it was hardly likely that I could find success by calling them up and asking if they were protecting President Moreno.

  So much for the Internet. It was risky to go downtown to the hotel, because I was afraid of running into Passenger Guy. But waiting for Shelly's neighbor to possibly give me an introduction to this Sarah Stapleton person who might possibly give me an introduction to the security people seemed pretty tenuous, at best. And this had to happen fast. It was intimidating to think about running into the hit man, but there was no other choice.

  I decided it was like being on I-10, following a semi in the rain and having no choice but to pass him. I was going to have to go downtown.

  16

  It was nearly seven when I found it. The InterContinental Miami is next to Bayfront Park, which is where I parked the Vue. There were a few walkers and joggers in the park, but I was surprised at how little was happening. Friday nights at Omaha's Old Market were busier.

  I walked south through the park toward the hotel. It had occurred to me that the security people might have worked today, getting ready for tomorrow, and if I were lucky perhaps I could bump into someone who might direct me to Moreno's detail. It had also occurred to me that since it was after hours, this "bumping into" was likely to occur in a bar.

  There were several high-end restaurants and clubs near the hotel, along with glass and stone buildings that were either condos or offices or both. Before leaving my motel, which was decidedly less upscale than the InterContinental, I had done my best to fancy up my limited wardrobe. This had been unsuccessful. I looked like a low-end tourist from Omaha, although a freshly showered one with nice-fitting jeans. My first stop was the InterContinental’s bar. Walking into the luxury hotel I felt like a Beverly Hillbilly.

  The bar was not busy, so it only took a few seconds to decide that if the security folks were having a drink, they weren't having it here. I scooted out, but not until after receiving a look from the bartender that confirmed I would be happier elsewhere.

  I walked west, away from the ocean, and looked up and down Biscayne Boulevard, Highway 1. I needed to find a bar where regular people would drink. The expensive restaurants in the tall glass and stone buildings along the water were unlikely to have beer on special or reasonably priced burgers.

  There was a MetroMover station across the road and two people stood in front of it. They pointed me around the corner when I asked where to find a reasonably priced pub.

  The first one met all of my criteria except for the lack of men and women in uncomfortable black suits. I walked a half block further and poked my head into a darkened bar that was completely different from the glass and light that I had seen in the rest of downtown. It was dark enough that I needed to enter the bar to see who was there, which meant it was dark enough that there seemed to be promise in doing so.

  I was not disappointed. Back in the corner were seven or eight people, mostly men but a couple of women, all dressed in identical black pants, black jackets, and white shirts. The men were wearing ties, or at least, had been wearing ties. The women wore their hair pulled back or very short. Bingo.

  I sat at the bar and ordered a draft beer. My luck continued to be good, and one of the men came over to the bar when he saw me. He asked the bartender for another round. The way he looked at me, I decided he had volunteered to be the waiter for his table as an excuse to come up to the bar.

  He was over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and the kind of chest you see on older guys who used to be ripped. His hair, blonde and a little white, was combed back. He had a crooked nose, as if it had been broken a couple of times. His blue eyes sparkled when he asked me if he could buy my beer.

  I gave him a "yes, thank you" smile and introduced myself.

  "Charlie," he said, hopping onto a stool while the bartender fixed Charlie's large drink order. "New to Miami?"

  I wasn't sure exactly how to take that question, so I decided to flirt in order to keep the conversation going. "Is it that obvious? How can you tell?"

  "You're not tan. A woman as good-looking as you who had been living in Miami would be tan. And this isn't a tourist bar, so it's not like you just got in from New Jersey or somewhere."

  "Aren't you smooth," I said with a smile, as if I were interested in playing along. "Are you a detective or a pick-up artist?" I was pretty proud of that line. Perhaps this was going to be easier than I had thought.

  He laughed. "Actually, I used to be a detective. Now I do private security."

  If I had been talking with a woman, it might have been challenging to get her to describe her security work to me. But men are simple creatures. My next line was obvious.

  "Oh, security? Wow, that sounds dangerous." It was hard not to laugh.

  My big risk here was that the bartender was going to finish getting Charlie's friends' drinks and interrupt our conversation. Fortunately, there were more glasses to carry than one person could, and a stocky black guy came to the bar to help. He would end up making two trips, because Charlie was busy telling me about the dangers he faced, all the while denying to me that there was anything special or brave about his work. His false modesty was more transparent than his cocktail glass.

  In ten minutes, I learned that Charlie and three of the people at the table—Stocky Black Guy, a blonde woman who looked quite a bit like Jane Lynch, and a white guy with a shaved head—worked for a company that provided security for international events, including the upcoming summit. The rest of the group was made up of hotel security people and Secret Service.

  The mention of federal agents made me nervous. And while my flirting had been an excellent way to get Charlie to open up, I became concerned that he would not take me seriously when I had to c
hange the direction of the conversation.

  Again, luck was on my side. Jane Lynch rose and walked toward the bathroom, at the back of the bar. I smiled coyly at Charlie and told him I wouldn't be gone long.

  I stopped Jane before she went into a stall.

  "This will sound crazy, but I have been told by a reliable source that President Moreno is going to be assassinated when he's here for the Summit." The minute I said "reliable source," I regretted it. I sounded ridiculous.

  "This will sound crazy, but I really have to pee," she said flatly, and went into the stall. I waited, feeling like a stalker, and positioned myself in front of the exit door when she came out.

  "Look," I said, possibly a bit desperately. "I was with Christine Hamilton before she died. She's the woman who worked for the mob middleman who was handling money for one of the drug cartels. She was supposed to testify but took off instead."

  Jane finished washing her hands and looked at me with absolutely no emotion. She shifted her focus to the brown paper towel she pulled from the dispenser as she dried her hands.

  "Do you know who I mean?" I asked, determined to get a response.

  She must have sensed that I would keep talking until she answered, and it would have been awkward for her to fling me to the side in order to leave the bathroom—although I had no doubt she could have done so. "Yes," she finally said.

  "Christine told me that the cartel was going to try to assassinate President Moreno when he was in Miami."

  "And?"

  "And what?" I asked back.

  Jane Lynch looked at me like I was in third grade. "Don't you think that our whole operation is based on the assumption that someone is going to try to kill him? What is it that you think we do?"

  She had me there. Maybe I could give her a detail that would be helpful. "There were these two Latino guys who followed me from New Orleans. They shot at me." I paused, but she seemed unimpressed. "Both of them in suits, or at least blazers, and the one who shot at me had a really thick neck. I saw him go into Christine's motel room and when he came out, I went in and she had been shot. She died before I could call 911."