Passing Semis in the Rain: A Tina Johnson Adventure

by Karen Goldner

  That comment made me nervous, and I asked Teresa to get a committed time of arrival from Perez. I was glad to learn the detective had been on his way since she had called him to report we were being followed. He was only about ten minutes behind us.

  The restaurant was busy, and we had to wait for them to bus a table. We had just been seated, the waitress bringing coffee, when Perez walked in.

  "Ramos is dead." He sat down. "The highway patrol is on the scene. They don't know what happened, but it was only a single-car accident. He went off the road and crashed into the post and the outer wall of the express lane ramp."

  "The road was really wet," I said, which was both true and irrelevant to the larger situation. The waitress brought Perez some coffee. He, Teresa, and I drank. Shelly sat shaking. I was sitting next to her in the booth and gave her a hug.

  "This is what you've been doing since you left home?" She started to cry. "Being chased by bad guys and needing a gun and people dying? How can you stand it?" I held her a moment longer and let go.

  "You do what you have to do," I said, in my toughest voice possible. "Besides, we've been able to get to the beach a few times."

  Teresa, Perez, and I laughed at that. Shelly finally gave in with a smile.

  "I don't know about you ladies, but I'm hungry," Perez said as he opened a menu. That seemed like a good idea. Even Shelly recovered her appetite. The waitress took our order, refilled the coffee, and we all sat back for a moment.

  "Ramos never shot at you?" Perez finally asked.

  "No. He winked at me."

  "Well, that's not a crime. So I guess his death was an accident. Driving too fast for weather conditions."

  "Does that matter?" Teresa asked.

  "It makes the paperwork easier for me, that's all."

  We sat a few more minutes quietly, sipping coffee.

  "So is D'Angelo the only one left? And he's still in jail?" I squeezed Shelly's arm, trying to reassure her.

  Perez nodded yes.

  "Well, there was the guy who was driving Ramos in New Orleans," I thought out loud. "Who is he? And where is he?"

  "They actually arrested him in Louisiana," Perez said. "I thought I had told you that, but I guess it slipped my mind. He was picked up by the State Police on the highway. Alone, interestingly. Ramos must have left on foot and the guy never said there was a passenger. The eyewitness accounts at the scene were all over the place. I don’t know when Ramos recovered the Camry. From what I heard, that was nice shooting, by the way. Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"

  "That was the only thing I got from my first husband."

  Perez and Teresa laughed. Shelly snorted. She had known him.

  "I guess it's true that everything happens for a reason," she said. We were all surprised to hear her talking. "If you'd never married that SOB you might be dead on a highway in Louisiana."

  "Sounds like a country song," Teresa said. We were all much more comfortable now. By the time the waitress brought our food no one would have thought that the three of us had nearly been killed by a hit man for a Peruvian drug cartel.

  "We have a theory about Denman," Teresa said as we finished up hamburgers and French fries. "I'm curious whether it's true."

  "Shoot," he said.

  "Not such a good choice of words," Shelly said, sitting back to listen.

  "Tina, you tell him. It's your theory."

  "You're the one who knows about banks," I said, but I continued anyway. "So here's the theory: Denman got money from drug dealers to start his business. We had originally thought the mob, but we also wondered why he folded Denman Construction and started up as a new set of companies in 1996. We found out that one of his sons overdosed on drugs in middle school and Denman realized that he was in bed with guys who were actually hurting people."

  "Imagine that," said Shelly. She seemed to be recovering.

  "So after his son's problem, he wants to get out of business with the cartel," I continued. "Easier said than done, of course, and—this is the part we're less sure about—he has to use somebody else's money and protection. That's where D'Angelo came in. But D'Angelo was also handling money for the cartel. We don't know whether that was a new thing or if he had been doing it all along." I nodded to Teresa. "You explain the next part."

  "You can do it just as well as I can." She smiled at me and I kept talking.

  "When the financial crisis hit, the cartel decided that they had an opportunity to buy what would be a huge money laundering operation. They found National Bank and Trust somehow, and used Denman as the front man." I drank the last of my coffee and looked at the detective. "How close are we?"

  "Pretty much nailed it," he said. "From what we can tell, D'Angelo's relationship with the cartel goes way back. Because of it, he was probably able to broker the deal that Denman thought had gotten the drug money out."

  "We wondered about that," I said. "It doesn't seem like you can just walk away from these people."

  "You can't." Perez picked up his coffee. "Denman thought that he could, and he thought he did for a while. D'Angelo, the middleman, made a lot of money letting him think that. The middleman usually does."

  "And then Christine decided that she wanted some of it." I wrapped my hands around the coffee cup and stared into the empty bottom.

  "She did," said Perez, draining the last of his cup.

  "You know, after we found out about his son, I actually felt a little sorry for the guy," said Teresa.

  "Maybe not sorry for him," I interjected, "but I saw him as somebody who had gotten in over his head."

  "Not sorry enough not to try to take him for twenty million dollars." Perez played it like a straight line.

  "Okay, you've got me there," I admitted. "But it wasn't his money, really. And anyway, after what he ended up doing I have no problem with him getting knifed in jail."

  We all agreed on that, and for a few minutes no one said anything except when Perez thanked the waitress as she delivered a slice of peach pie.

  "What's going to happen with D'Angelo?" I finally asked. "Shouldn't we be worried about him?"

  Perez had taken a big bite and we had to wait for him to swallow.

  "Yes," he said. "You should worry about him. But honestly, if I were D'Angelo I would be more worried about myself. If they get rid of him, all the rest of the loose ends don't matter."

  "And we're the loose ends?" Teresa asked, fast enough that her voice didn't have time to quiver.

  Shelly's eyes widened.

  Perez nodded while he swallowed another bite. "Well, you're two of the loose ends. But you can expect that there are more. Susan, for instance, might know more of what was going on than simply the assassination. The cartel can't know for sure. Or Susan's goons, maybe. Or some other person that we—or they—don't know about. It's easier, cleaner, if they just get rid of D'Angelo. You may be witnesses to his crimes, but you don't know who's behind him."

  "It's weird to say this, but you've actually made me feel safer," I said.

  Perez wiped his lips with his napkin and grinned. "Look, D'Angelo is in jail until at least Monday. On the way over I called Turner Guilford Knight and asked them to make sure D'Angelo's access to other inmates was limited—both for his own protection and for yours."

  "Turner who?" asked Shelly.

  "Turner Guilford Knight Correctional Facility. County lock-up, basically. The jail. Anyway, between the bank examiners and the FBI and our forensic accountants, his money is tied up. So hopefully his limited access to another hit man, and limited access to his money to pay a hit man, will keep you girls safe until tomorrow. And honestly, I think by then, you won't have to worry about Frank D'Angelo any longer."

  40

  Just to be careful, Perez and a uniformed officer accompanied us back to the condo. The officer stood outside the door as we moved Shelly's stuff into my room and tried to relax a little bit. Easier said than done: we jumped at every little noise we heard.

  About eleven there was a knock
at the front door. Teresa had already gone to bed, but Shelly and I were talking in the living room. She looked at me, wide-eyed, and I told her to go into Teresa's room. If Teresa woke up, they would be safer together, I figured. I pulled Mark's .38 from my purse and approached the door slowly.

  "Who's there?" I asked. I realized as I said it how ridiculous I sounded.

  "Officer Clark, ma'am."

  I squinted through the peephole. He certainly looked like the uniformed officer, and no one else was in the hallway.

  "You don't need to open the door if you don't want to. I wanted to tell you that I'm being called off duty. Detective Perez didn't know if you were awake, so he told me to see if I could get your attention and then ask you to call him. I'll wait while you call, if you'd like."

  "Yes, please wait," I said as I found the detective's number in the recently called list on my phone.

  "I was wrong," Perez said as he came on the phone. "I had thought that it wouldn't be until breakfast when they'd get to him. I was off by eight hours. D'Angelo died thirty minutes ago. You are a free woman."

  Sunday morning was bittersweet. Teresa had to pack for a mid-afternoon flight. The three of us walked on the beach and spent some time lounging with orange juice and coffee, watching surfers and parents with little kids hunting for treasure. Shelly ran down to the water's edge to get her toes wet.

  "I'm sorry we didn't get the money," I said to Teresa.

  "Will you quit apologizing for that? This was never about the money." Then she looked at me and I looked at her and we both laughed. "Okay, it was sort of about the money," she said. "But it was more than that. Saving President Moreno, that wasn't about money. That was about you doing the right thing, and the brave thing. And how you saved us Friday morning? You are amazing. I'm glad we're friends."

  "I'm glad, too. Strange to think that it was only a couple of weeks ago that I pulled up in front of your house."

  Teresa hugged me and said, "Wait until I tell Ray about this."

  41

  After we made the airport run, I took Shelly to dinner at the place in Little Havana where Teresa and I had eaten nine days earlier. She’d never had Cuban food, and she loved it. We were sharing a piece of tres leches cake and a flan empanada when my phone rang. It was number I didn't know, with a Miami area code.

  "This is Charlie," said the voice on the other end.

  "Charlie?" I made an "eek" expression to Shelly, who looked amused and puzzled.

  "Charlie Ryan. The security guy. Remember me?"

  I was amused and puzzled, too. I really hoped he was not calling for a date. "Of course I do. What's up?"

  "I was talking with Bob Perez this afternoon." It was funny to think of Detective Perez by his first name and it took a second to understand who Charlie was talking about.

  "About all the recent excitement?" I asked.

  "Yes, it was quite a story."

  "Well, it’s been quite a couple of weeks."

  "He suggested that I might want to talk with you about a job."

  My eyes widened, which confused Shelly even more.

  "I definitely could use a job," I said. "Doing what?"

  "Security, of course," laughed Charlie. "That's what we do. I’m always looking for good people. We don't start out too high, but there’s a lot of room for advancement." He quantified his definition of "not too high." It was twice what I’d made in my best year of telemarketing.

  "I'm in," I said, not caring to negotiate.

  Shelly spent the rest of her Florida vacation helping me find a condo. After two days, I rented one that was reasonably priced—by Miami, not Omaha, standards—and available immediately. It wasn't on the beach, of course, but was in a cute neighborhood. It had been renovated a few years earlier; the kitchen had a lot of space and the bathroom was beautiful. I used my mad money to buy some furniture and stock up my new life.

  Mark and I talked, and I mailed him a cashier's check for a thousand dollars.

  "What about the .38 and the tablet?" I asked him.

  "Maybe I could come visit sometime and get them in person?"

  "I'll have to find out my work schedule and everything." It came out less enthusiastic than I intended, but Mark seemed to understand.

  "Of course. I'm in no rush for the gun and the computer. When you have time and I have time, we'll get together. I do like the idea of knowing someone in Miami."

  "I want you to visit. It would be fun to see you again, and I'd like to thank you in person for all your help."

  "And I would like to be thanked in person. Several times."

  We both laughed.

  After getting Shelly on the plane back to Minneapolis, I called Janet and we talked logistics. I had four days before starting my new job, and that wasn't enough time to drive to Omaha and come back; at least, not if I wanted any sleep.

  Janet interpreted this as an invitation.

  "I've got a week coming," she said. "I'll put in for it tomorrow and bring your stuff down the week after next. It will be so fun to visit you in Miami!"

  I decided I needed to get used to houseguests.

  I was sticky after a humid Miami day, so I hopped in the shower.

  The water washed over me as I realized I was in a bathroom covered in Mediterranean tiles. Stepping out, I grabbed a fresh fluffy white towel. There was no Denzel, of course. There wasn't even a Mark. It wasn’t quite as luxurious as my fantasy. Still, it was real and it was mine.

  I quickly rethought the scene, and realized that a lover and a spa shower were unnecessary diversions from the plot. I had found a home. I had found a purpose. This was the opening scene in the rest of my life, and nothing could feel better.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Long acknowledgments always annoyed me, at least until I sat down to write this one and realized there are a lot of people who need to be included. Don’t be afraid when I start by thanking a terrific public school education; I am not going to name teachers one by one back to Kindergarten, but it is worth making the statement.

  More recently and more specifically, there were a number of friends who helped make the book possible.

  First, thank you to Reppard, for everything, for encouraging me to keep writing in the first place, and for a lot of really good suggestions on the story.

  The Edgy Writers Group, in my Chicago Edgewater Neighborhood, was most helpful and I appreciate their support. This is true collectively, and a special thanks are due to four of its members: Jordy, who suggested restructuring the beginning; Rita, whose willingness to share details of South Florida saved me airfare to Miami and whose other insights were valuable although not quite as specifically quantifiable; Lori, my first teacher about how publishing works; and Sarz, who gave me the confidence to finally make this happen.

  My dear friend Jennie was a source of constant support and advice. Thank you to Myra for honesty that somehow managed to be both brutal and kind at the same time.

  What great good fortune to have a neighbor, John Kurtze, whose professional wisdom has been invaluable. Thank you, John.

  My friends Ken, Tom and Chuck all gave me great ideas which, as it turns out, were not able to be used in this book. Gentlemen, these ideas may turn up elsewhere.

  And thank you to National Public Radio. Somehow whenever I got stuck in a plot twist, you were there with just the right inspiration. Keep pledging, folks.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Karen Goldner grew up in Omaha and spent the first half of her life in small Midwestern cities. After a six month break driving around the United States, she landed in Chicago, the greatest of all Midwestern cities. She spends her days as an advisor helping small businesses grow and her evenings writing and exploring Chicago, not necessarily in that order.

  After thirty years of writing government reports, speeches, and poetry—and a few months of blogging her travels—Karen began writing fiction. Passing Semis in the Rain is not her first novel, but it’s the first one that she likes. She is working on another b
ook in the Tina Johnson series. The second one, of course, is set in Chicago.