Passing Semis in the Rain: A Tina Johnson Adventure

by Karen Goldner

  "Where was this, Tallahassee?" She was testing me.

  "No, it was Lake City."

  She nodded with the slightest hint of a smile. "Why didn't you call the police?"

  Ah, the twenty million dollar question. "I don't trust cops. I figured the best thing was to come down here and find you, the security people, and let you deal with it. Like you said, it's your job."

  "What's your name?" Jane laughed out loud when I told her. "So you're the real Tina Johnson?"

  I nodded. "And what is your name?" I was getting tired of thinking of her as Jane Lynch.

  She paused for a second and shrugged. "Susan." No last name. "Hamilton told you this before she died?" she asked, and I could see her running through the timeline in her head.

  "Yes, but not immediately. I mean, I went to her room to get my ID back. We talked for a few minutes, and that's when she told me about Moreno. Then she decided that if I were dead she could steal my identity, since the cops had cleared Tina Johnson. We fought and I ran out of the room, but kept an eye on it from outside. That's when I saw the guy from the Camry go inside. He came out just a couple of minutes later. After he took off, I went into her room. She was lying on the bathroom floor, shot."

  "Did you speak to her then?"

  Susan was watching me closely. I had to be careful: nothing about the money. "Yes, but not really. She said a couple things I didn't understand, and then she died. It wasn't more than a minute or two after I found her."

  "She said something else," Susan coaxed and accused at the same time.

  My brother had once told me that the most effective way to lie was to tell a fake lie. Then I could confess to the lie without telling her the truth. "Well, I told her to go to hell," I said, looking suitably sheepish and slightly ashamed. "And after that's when she said the words I didn't understand."

  Susan seemed satisfied at that, or at least, satisfied for now. I opened the door and she walked through first. She turned back and asked, "Is that why you came to this bar and got all friendly with Charlie? How did you find us?"

  "I thought it looked like the kind of bar where security people would hang out, not as over the top as those bars by the hotel. And yes, I flirted with Charlie because I didn't think I could just come up to your table and say, 'hey, are you the security for the Summit?' I lucked out when Charlie came over. It's easier to chat up a guy than a woman when you need them to talk about something confidential."

  Susan smiled and her eyes twinkled. "He is so punked. I love it. Nice work!"

  We walked to the table and she pulled up a chair for me. She gave me a full introduction and Charlie looked more than a little disappointed. His friends, on the other hand, laughed until they sent him to the bar for the next round.

  17

  The security team turned out to be a lot of fun and welcomed me into their fold, though I wasn't exactly one of their own. I was more like a mascot or something. For a couple of them I was more like an aunt.

  It was a late night. They didn't have to report until noon and these were people who could drink for six or seven hours straight. I called it quits before they did, around midnight. After all, I hadn't slept well in the back of the Vue in Lake City.

  Before I left, and before we were all too toasted to remember it later, I made sure that they took the threat seriously. And they did. My description of Passenger Guy was too vague to be helpful, but they had already received other intelligence that Moreno was being targeted. That's what they called my warning, "intelligence," which I liked.

  I learned something else extremely interesting, and more than a little disheartening, from my new friends: Kevin Andrews was dead.

  This was not a random current events discussion, like talking about a tragic car crash when it pops onto the television over the bar. The reason the security people knew about his death was because the National Bank and Trust was being investigated for a variety of crimes involving, of all people, the Peruvian cartel. Nobody at the table was in white collar investigations, so they didn't talk much about the details going on at the bank. But when a vice president of a bank that is being investigated by the FBI winds up dead, it gains the attention of the criminal investigators, too.

  He had been killed around noon in what was supposed to look like a mugging gone terribly wrong. Lunchtime is about the only time that there are people on the streets in downtown Miami's business district, and the sidewalk in front of the bank was crowded by local standards. A kid had run up to Andrews as he was hailing a cab, attempted to grab his wallet out of his suit jacket, and then pushed him right into a truck that was speeding through a green light. The kid disappeared in the crowd, and Kevin Andrews died in the street. The kid was either black, white, or Hispanic, and was wearing a long sleeved T-shirt or a hoodie or a nylon jacket, depending on which witness the police interviewed. Had it not been for the FBI's interest in Mr. Andrews' employer, it was unlikely that the crime would have drawn significant law enforcement attention given the lack of leads.

  "Where was he going?" I asked.

  "That's the ten thousand dollar question," Susan answered lightly.

  I realized that it was actually part of a twenty million dollar question and shut up. I wanted their help in protecting Moreno, but did not want them to know that I was on the trail of the money. I let the subject change to Miami Heat basketball and we all ordered another round.

  Susan gave me her card and wrote her cell phone number on the back. She said this was in case I thought of something else, but it seemed more like she wanted me to have her number in case I got into trouble. I appreciated that. Charlie gave me his card and cell phone number, too, presumably in case I wanted to get into trouble. I had to give him credit for being a good sport about the whole situation.

  It was not until I returned to the Vue and turned on the phone that I realized Teresa had never called. That was a little strange, but I hadn't known what to make of her flying to Miami, anyway. There would be time to figure that out in the morning. I turned the phone off and made it to my motel without any GPS; Susan had agreed with Mark's advice on that.

  "You can't be too careful," she had said. We both immediately laughed at how ridiculous that sounded, given what had already happened.

  When I got to the room I put the gun on top of the nightstand and ordered a wake-up call for seven. Late night or no late night, Teresa or no Teresa, Friday was going to be a busy day.

  18

  The sun woke up about fifteen minutes before seven. I decided to risk turning on my phone for a minute in case Teresa was trying to reach me. Sure enough, a text popped up.

  "Arriving MIA North Terminal 11:15 a.m. Can you pick me up?"

  So Teresa was coming.

  "Yes," I texted back. "See you then."

  "Thanks." I appreciated that Teresa used actual words for texting. Partly this was because my old boss would often use "thx" rather than "thanks" on notes and emails, and it always seemed like she didn't believe you were worth those extra three letters.

  I turned the phone off and got out of bed to retrieve the tablet from the desk across the room. There were two beds, which would be convenient with Teresa. I wondered whether she would want to stay in the clean but rundown motel, or somewhere nicer.

  The tablet told me I was about half an hour away from the airport, so there was no rush. I took a shower, brushed my teeth, and put on a little makeup. Only then did I start to feel the slightest bit hung over. I laid back on the bed; it wasn’t yet seven thirty.

  When my eyes opened at eight forty-five, I felt like a new woman. I pulled on some clothes, then went downstairs in search of the promised free breakfast. There was an apple that looked fresh enough and, most importantly, hot coffee.

  I finished my coffee in the privacy of my room, and examined Kevin Andrews' business card. I located his office on the tablet and pulled up a story about his death, which reported it as a mugging. There was no mention of the bank investigation. I couldn’t remember from the previous e
vening's discussion whether the investigation was still confidential or whether there had been public indictments. A quick search for National Bank and Trust pulled up nothing about any federal probe, so I decided that I was privy to inside information. I wondered what, if anything, regular employees of the bank, like tellers and customer service people, knew. They probably had a sense that something was going on, but maybe did not know what. Teresa might have a better idea of what we could expect.

  Teresa. I jumped when I thought of her plane, but calmed down when I saw it was only ten o'clock. It was before checkout time, and the credit card I had given the front desk was the one I had reported as stolen. As long as I paid cash before they charged the card, no one would be the wiser. I decided that it was probably best for me to move to a new motel—perhaps one where Teresa could pay for the room with her card, and I could give her my half in cash. I threw everything in my bag, put the gun and the paper pad from the desk in my purse, looked around one last time, and checked out.

  It ended up taking less than a half hour to get to the airport, so I pulled into the cell phone lot to wait. I thought about what I wanted to learn from Teresa. The paper pad came in handy for making notes.

  What was the best way to confirm that the numbers on the back of the card referred to a bank account at National Bank and Trust? Since Kevin Andrews was dead, should I pretend to know him or not know him? What exactly is involved in transferring twenty million dollars? And the related question, how can I establish a bank account that no one will know about? When did he shut down my account? I wasn't sure whether this question mattered, but I was curious. What was his relationship with Christine? This was not something I expected Teresa to be able to answer, of course, but it was another thing I was curious about. That made me remember Frank D'Angelo. Where was Frank in all this? My stomach tightened for a moment as I realized that he might have already gotten the money. So another question that Teresa and I needed to answer was whether the money was even still there.

  As I pulled the Vue out of the cell phone lot and around to the North Terminal, I realized that I had started thinking of Teresa and me as partners. Given that I still had no idea why she had flown to Miami to help me, I was not sure that was a good idea.

  19

  Teresa was standing right where I thought she would be, but she almost missed me because she was texting. I had to honk and wave. She had one of those small suitcases on wheels with a retractable handle, which she tossed into the back seat.

  She was wearing a black pantsuit with a coral blouse. Her hair was short and curly and very neat. She looked every bit the part of a traveling businesswoman. Even her suitcase, black with a green and pink ribbon around the handle so she could tell it apart from everyone else's, spoke of her experience. As she hopped into the car and we sped away from the near chaos of the airport receiving line, she gave me her big smile.

  "I hope you weren't waiting long,” I said. “I was told to keep my phone off. This morning I only turned it on to check for messages, and I didn't want to keep it on."

  "No problem. I was just texting you to let you know where I was, and you found me the old-fashioned way."

  We drove out of the airport toward the Dolphin Expressway, which would take us east, although I did not have a specific destination in mind. I didn't know what to say to Teresa, so I said nothing, and she must have felt the same way. When I saw that the Expressway was a toll road, I kept driving south until turning east on Flagler Street. After a few minutes the buildings became very colorful, with nearly all the signs in Spanish.

  "This must be Little Havana," she observed.

  My window was rolled down to the warm breeze and all sorts of good smells wafted into the Vue.

  "Hungry?" we both asked at the same time. That broke the ice, and I pulled over at a place that advertised Comida Cubana Tradicional.

  "I love Cuban food," Teresa said as we walked inside.

  I had never had Cuban food, but I didn't want to admit that.

  The waitress brought us water and menus. I loved chips and salsa, but wasn't sure whether to expect them here. I didn't want to embarrass myself by asking, so I let Teresa order.

  "Mariquitas, por favor?" she asked the waitress, who nodded and brought over some odd-looking chips and green salsa.

  "They're made from plantains, like bananas," Teresa said. They were tasty, sweeter than normal tortilla chips, and the salsa was garlicky and good. Teresa suggested that we split a Cuban sandwich once we saw the waitress bring one to another table. It was about a foot long and probably four inches wide, stacked with ham, pork, cheese, and pickles. The sandwich looked fantastic, and I was happy not to need to figure out anything else on the menu.

  The waitress walked away with our order.

  "You speak Spanish?" I was impressed. My Spanish education had ended after a couple of years in high school, and reading simple words was about all I could handle anymore.

  Teresa had just popped a plantain chip in her mouth, so she nodded while she chewed. She swallowed and said, "A little. I actually speak pretty decent French, which is useless most of the time. I would be better off speaking better Spanish." She said this in a very modest way, but I have to admit that every time she turned around she was doing something that made me feel inadequate. I could tell that she could tell, and she changed the subject.

  "Were you able to learn more since we talked last?"

  "Yes," I started slowly, glad to be able to tell her what I had been able to learn, but still uncomfortable. I liked Teresa, and needed her help, but I really needed to understand why she was so willing to drop everything, lie to her boss, and fly to Miami. I told her that.

  She smiled so broadly I could have counted her teeth." Oh, that." She laughed. "After you left I thought a lot about what you were doing. It is so brave, to simply drive off the way you did. My life has been all about saving money so I can retire at sixty, but lately I had been starting to think about what happens if I never get there. Or when I do, if I'm sick or something. Then you show up, and you're making the most of now, and that inspired me. I called to see if I could crash your New Orleans party to have a few days of fun. But even better, you are in the middle of a real adventure and one where I could actually be helpful. You should not be talking about that bank stuff over the phone anyway, and for once in my life I made a rash decision, to come down here and help you."

  "Teresa, this 'real adventure' has already involved my nearly being killed twice." That was a bit of an exaggeration, but not too much. "There are really dangerous people involved here. It's not a movie, and it's not a lark." I paused.

  Her lips slipped over her teeth but she still had a smile, and she was nodding. "I do understand. And I do want to help."

  We paused as the waitress delivered the sandwich, split onto two plates as Teresa had requested. I was surprised to taste mustard along with jalapenos.

  "Cuban food is a lot different than Mexican," I said after my second bite.

  "Do you like it?"

  I tried to say "it's delicious," but had taken a third bite by then, so I had to answer with a nod. Teresa's chuckle turned into a broad grin.

  Between bites, I filled Teresa in on what I had learned the night before. Her eyes widened when she heard about the federal investigation into National Bank and Trust, and they got even wider when I told her about Kevin Andrews.

  "Mas agua, por favor," Teresa asked the waitress, who obliged and also handed us the check. Teresa picked it up, graciously explaining that I needed to conserve cash. I thanked her, and also laughed at the phrase "conserve cash." It sounded much more strategic than "save money."

  "I have a list of things I thought you might be able to help me with," I said as I pulled out the paper pad with my scribbles and Kevin Andrews' business card. Teresa confirmed that one of the numbers on the back was most likely a bank routing number, and the other number could be a bank account. She needed to get online to confirm that, but she was pretty confident.


  "What exactly is involved in transferring that kind of money out of an account?" I asked her as she sipped her water. "I assume it's different than if I just went in and transferred a hundred bucks from savings to checking."

  She nodded as she set her glass down. "Yes, it would need to be documented and would be handled as a wire transfer. The process can take several hours, because wire transfers are not necessarily instantaneous."

  "What kind of documentation?"

  She reverted into banker mode. "Well, of course for that amount of money they will want to see that you are the owner of the account and that you have the authority to transfer funds. Then they will want to know where the money is going. Some banks have a procedure where they will require additional validation, like security questions that were set up in advance. If it's a business account, for that large of an amount, you typically would have to provide some sort of corporate resolution or something like that, authorizing you to make the transfer or authorizing the transfer to occur at all. And obviously you need a bank account in order to be the recipient of the wire transfer. The bank may have documentation requirements for that account as well, although usually they are more concerned with protecting the money that is in their bank rather than wherever the money ends up."

  This was not good news.

  Teresa smiled sympathetically. "It won't be easy," she said.

  "What if somebody at the bank thought that I was doing this on behalf of Kevin Andrews? Would that make it easier?"

  Teresa shrugged. "Maybe, although given the circumstances of his death and the fact that the feds are investigating the bank, using his name might actually raise suspicions."

  That made sense.

  "Mas agua?" asked the waitress. We both mumbled "si, por favor" as she refilled our glasses. The lunch crowd was starting to fill the place up, but there were still a few empty tables, so I didn't feel guilty about staying a few more minutes.