“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Daddy is an archeologist and Mom travels with him. Right now they’re on their way back from South America so they can head up north with their baby girl to get her all settled into New York City. Yes! I have the prize right here, don’t I?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kody told him. “I wish I could say that someone would give you trillions of dollars for me, but I’m not anyone’s prize. I’m a bartender-waitress at an Irish pub who’s struggling to make ends meet as an actress.”
“Oh, honey,” Dillinger said, “I don’t give a damn if you’re a bad actress.”
“Hey! I never said I was a bad actress!” she protested. And then, of course, she thought that he was making her crazy—heck, the whole situation was making her crazy—because who the hell cared if she was a bad actress or a good actress if she wasn’t even alive?
Dillinger waved a hand in the air. “That’s neither here nor there. You’re going to lead us to the Anthony Green stash.”
Startled, Kody went silent.
Everyone, of course, had heard about the Anthony Green stash.
Green was known to have knocked over the long-defunct Miami Bank of the Pioneers, making off with the bank’s safe-deposit boxes that had supposedly contained millions in diamonds, jewels, gold and more. It was worth millions. But Anthony Green had died in a hail of bullets—with his mouth shut. The stash was never found. It had always been suspected that Anthony Green—before his demise—had seen to it that the haul had been hidden somewhere in one of his shacks deep in the Everglades, miles from his Biscayne Bay home.
Rumor followed rumor. It was said that Guillermo Salazar—a South American drug lord—had actually found the stash about a decade ago and added a small fortune in ill-gotten heroin-sales gains to it—before he, in turn, had been shot down by a rival drug cartel.
Who the hell knew? One way or the other, it was supposedly a very large fortune.
She didn’t doubt that Salazar had sold drugs; the Coast Guard in South Florida was always busy stopping the drug trade. But she sure as hell didn’t believe that Salazar had found the Green stash at the house, because she really didn’t believe the stash was here.
Chills suddenly rose up her spine.
If she was supposed to find a stash that didn’t exist here...
They were all dead.
“Where is everyone?” she asked.
“Safe,” Dillinger said.
“Safe where?”
No one answered Kody. “Where?” she repeated.
“They’re all fine, Miss Cameron.”
It was the man behind her—Barrow—who finally spoke up. “Dillinger, she needs to know that they’re all fine,” he added.
“I assure you,” Dillinger continued. “They’re all fine. They’re in the music room.”
The music room took up most of the left side of the downstairs. It would be the right place to hold a group of people.
Except...
Someone, somewhere, had to know that something was going on here. Surely one of the employees or guests had had a chance to get out a cell phone warning.
“I want to see them,” she said. “I want to see that everyone is all right.”
“Listen, missy, what you do and don’t want doesn’t matter here. What you’re going to do for us matters,” Dillinger told her.
“I don’t know where the stash is. If I did, the world would have known about it long ago,” she said. “And, if you know everything, you surely know that history says Anthony Green hid his bank treasure in some hut somewhere out in the Everglades.”
“She sure as hell isn’t rich, Dillinger,” Barrow said. “Everything is true—she’s taken a part-time job because what she’s working is off-off Broadway. If she knew about the stash, I don’t think she’d be slow-pouring Guinness at an old pub in the city.”
Dillinger seemed annoyed. Kody was, in fact, surprised by what she could read in his eyes—and in his movements.
“No one asked your opinion, Barrow,” Dillinger said. “She’s the only one who can find it. I went through every newspaper clipping—she’s loved the place since she was a kid. She’s read everything on Jimmy Crystal and Anthony Green and the mob days on Miami Beach. She knows what rooms in this place were built what years, when any restoration was done. She knows it all. She knows how to find the stash. And she’s going to help us find it.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Kody said. “You can get out now. No one knows who you guys are—the masks, I’ll grant you, are good. Well, they’re not good. They’re cheap and lousy masks, but they create the effect you want and no one here knows what your real faces look like. Pretty soon, though, walls or not, cops will swarm the place. Someone will come snooping around. Someone probably got something out on a cell phone.”
She couldn’t see his face but she knew that Dillinger smiled. “Cell phones? No, we secured those pretty quickly,” he said. “And your security guard? He’s resting—he’s got a bit of a headache.” He shook his head. “Face it, young lady. You have me and Barrow here. Floyd is with your friends, Capone is on his way to help, and the overall estate is being guarded by Baby Face Nelson and Machine Gun Kelly and our concept of modern security and communication and, you know, we’ve got good old Dutch—as in Schultz—working it all, too. I think we’re good for a while. Long enough for you to figure out where the stash is. And, let’s see, you are going to help us.”
“I won’t do anything,” she told him. “Nothing. Nothing at all—not until I know that my friends and our guests are safe and that Jose isn’t suffering from anything more than a headache.”
Not that she’d help them even then—if she even could. The stash had been missing since the 1930s. In fact, Anthony Green had used a similar ruse when he had committed the bank robbery. He’d come in fast with six men—all wearing masks. He’d gotten out just as fast. The cops had never gotten him. They’d suspected him, but they’d never had proof. They’d still been trying to find witnesses and build a case against him when he’d been gunned down on Miami Beach.
But her demands must have hit home because Dillinger turned to Barrow. “Fine. Bring her through.”
He turned to head down the hallway that led into the music room—the first large room on the left side of the house.
It was a gorgeous room, graced with exquisite crown molding, rich burgundy carpets and old seascapes of famous ports, all painted by various masters in colors that complemented the carpet. There was a wooden dais at one end of the room that accommodated a grand piano, a harp, music stands and room for another three or four musicians.
There were sofas, chairs and love seats backed to all the walls, and a massive marble fireplace for those times when it did actually get cold on the water.
Kody knew about every piece in the room, but at that moment all she saw was the group huddled together on the floor.
Quickly searching the crowd, she found Stacey Carlson, the estate manager. He was sixty or so with salt-and-pepper hair, old-fashioned sideburns and a small mustache and goatee. A dignified older man, he was quick to smile, slow to follow a joke—but brilliant. Nan Masters was huddled to his side. If it was possible to have platonic affairs, the two of them were hot and heavy. Nothing ever went on beyond their love of Miami, the beaches and all that made up their home. Nan was red-haired, but not in the least fiery. Slim and tiny, she looked like a cornered mouse huddled next to Stacey.
Vince Jenkins sat cross-legged on a Persian rug that lay over the carpet, straight and angry. There was a bruise forming on the side of his face. He’d apparently started out by fighting back.
Beside him, Betsy Rodriguez and Brandi Johnson were close to one another. Betsy, the tinier of the two, but by far the most out-there and sarcastic, had her arm around Brandi, who was nearly six feet, blond, blue-eyed, beautiful and shy.
Jose Marquez had been laid on the largest love seat. His forehead was bleeding, but, Kody quickly saw, he was breathing.
T
he staff had been somewhat separated from the few guests who had remained on the property, finishing up in the gardens after closing. She couldn’t remember all their names but she recalled the couple, Victor and Melissa Arden. They were on their honeymoon, yet they’d just been in Texas, visiting the graves of Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow in their separate cemeteries. They loved studying old gangsters, which was beyond ironic, Kody thought now. Another young woman from Indiana, an older man and a fellow of about forty rounded out the group.
They were all huddled low, apparently respecting the twin guns carried by another man in an identity-concealing mask.
“Kody!” Stacey said, breathing out a sigh of relief. She realized that her friends might have been worrying for her life.
She turned to Dillinger. “You’d better not hurt them!”
“Hurt them?” Dillinger said. “I don’t want to hurt any of you, really. Okay, okay, so, quite frankly, I don’t give a rat’s ass. But Barrow there, he’s kind of squeamish when it comes to blood and guts. Capone—my friend with the guns—is kind of rabid. Like he really had syphilis or rabies or something. He’d just as soon shoot you as look at you. So, here’s my suggestion.” He paused, staring Cody up and down. “You find out what I need to know. You come up to that library—and you start using everything you know and going through everything in the books, every news brief, every everything. You find that stash for me. Their lives depend on it.”
“What if I can’t find it?” she asked. “No one has found this stash in eighty-plus years!”
“You’d better find it,” Dillinger said.
“Help will come!” Betsy said defiantly. “This is crazy—you’re crazy! SWAT teams aren’t but a few miles away. Someone—”
“You’d better hope no one comes,” Dillinger said. He walked over to hunker down in front of her. “Because that’s the whole point of hostages. They want you to live. They probably don’t give a rat’s ass one way or the other, either, but that’s what they’re paid to do. Get the hostages out alive. But, to prove we mean business, we’ll have to start by killing someone and tossing out the body. And guess what? We like to start with the big-mouths, the wise-asses!”
He reached out to Betsy and that was all the impetus Kody needed. She sure as hell wasn’t particularly courageous but she didn’t waste a second to think. She just bolted toward Dillinger, smashing into him with such force that he went flying down.
With her.
He was strong, really strong.
He was up in two seconds, dragging her up with him.
“Why you little bitch!” he exclaimed as he hauled his arm back, ready to slam a jaw-breaking fist into her face.
His hand never reached her.
Barrow—with swift speed and agility—was on the two of them. She felt a moment of pain as he wrenched her out of Dillinger’s grasp, thrusting himself between them.
“No, Dillinger, no. Keep the hostages in good shape. This one especially! We need her, Dillinger. We need her!”
“Bitch! You saw her—she tackled me.”
“We need her!”
The hostages had started to move, scrambling back, restless, frightened, and Capone shoved someone with the butt of his gun.
Barrow lifted his gun and shot the ceiling.
Plaster fell around them all like rain.
And the room went silent.
“Let’s get her out of here and up to the library, Dillinger. Dammit, now. Come on—let’s do what we came here to do!” he insisted. “I’m into money—not a body count.”
Kody felt his hand as he gripped her arm, ready to drag her along.
Dillinger stared at him a long moment.
Was there a struggle going on? she wondered. A power play? Dillinger seemed to be the boss, but then Barrow had stepped in. He’d saved her from a good beating, at the least. She couldn’t help but feel that there was something better about him.
She was even drawn to him.
Oh, that was sick, she told herself. He was a crook, maybe even a killer.
Still, he didn’t seem to be as bloodthirsty as Dillinger.
Dillinger stepped around her and Barrow, heading for the stairs to the library. Barrow followed with her.
“Hey!”
They heard the call when they had nearly cleared the room.
She turned to see Capone standing next to Betsy Rodriguez. He wasn’t touching her; he was just close to her.
He moved his gun, running the muzzle through her hair.
“Dakota Cameron!” he said. “The world—well, your world—is dependent on your every thought and word!”
She started to move toward him but Barrow stopped her, whispering in her ear, “Don’t get them going!”
She couldn’t help herself. She called out to Capone. “You’re here because you want something? Well, if you want it from me, step the hell away from my friend!”
To her surprise, Dillinger started to laugh.
“We’ve got a wild card on our hands, for sure. Come on, Capone. Let’s accommodate the lady. Step away from her friend.”
From behind her, Barrow added, “Come on, Capone. I’m in this for the money and a quick trip out of the country. Let’s get her started working and get this the hell done, huh? Beat her to pieces or put a bullet in her, and she’s worthless.”
“Miss Cameron?” Dillinger said, sweeping an elegant bow to her. “My men will behave like gentlemen—as long as your friends let them. You hear that, right?”
“I can be a perfect gentleman!” Capone called back to him.
“Tell them all to sit tight and not make trouble—that you will manage to get what we want,” Barrow said to her.
She looked at him again.
Those eyes of his! So deep, dark, blue and intense!
Surely, if she really knew him, she’d recognize him now.
She didn’t. Still, she couldn’t help but feel that she did, and that the man she knew wasn’t a criminal, and that she had been drawn to those eyes before.
She shivered suddenly, looking at him.
He didn’t like blood and guts—that’s what Dillinger had said.
Maybe he was a thief, a hood—but hated the idea of being a murderer. Maybe, just maybe, he did want to keep them all alive.
“Hey!” she called back to the huddled group of captives. “I know everything about the house and all about Anthony Green and the gangster days. Just hold tight and be cool, please. I can do this. I know I can do this!”
They all looked at her with hope in their faces.
She gazed at Barrow and said, “They need water. We keep cases of water bottles in the lower cabinet of the kitchen. Go through the music room and the dining room and you’ll reach the kitchen. I would truly appreciate if you would give them all water. It will help me think.”
But it was Dillinger who replied.
“Sure,” he said. “You think—and we’ll just be the nicest group of guys you’ve ever met!”
Chapter Two
Nick Connolly—known as Barrow to the Coconut Grove crew of murderers, thieves and drug runners who were careful not to share their real names, even with one another—was doing his best. His damned best.
Which wasn’t easy.
Nick didn’t mind undercover work. He could even look away from the drugs and the prostitution, knowing that what he was doing would stop the flow of some really bad stuff onto the city streets—and put away some really bad men.
From the moment he’d infiltrated this gang three weeks ago, the situation had been crazy, but he’d also thought it would work. This would be the time when he could either get them all together in an escape boat that the Coast Guard would be ready to swoop up, or, if that kind of maneuver failed, pick them off one by one. Each of these guys—Dillinger, Capone, Floyd, Nelson, Kelly and Schultz—had killed or committed some kind of an armed robbery. They were all ex-cons. Capone had been the one to believe in Nick’s off-color stories in an old dive bar in Coconut Grove, and as far as
Capone knew, Nick had been locked up in Leavenworth, convicted of a number of crimes. Of course, Capone had met Nick as Ted—Ted Johnson had been the pseudonym Nick had been using in South Florida. There really had been a Ted Johnson; he’d died in the prison hospital ward of a knife wound. But no one knew that. No one except certain members of the FBI and the hospital staff and warden and other higher ups at the prison.
None of these men—especially “Dillinger”—had any idea that Nick had full dossiers on them. As far as they all knew, they were anonymous, even with each other.
Undercover was always tricky.
It should have been over today; he should have been able to give up the undercover work and head back to New York City. Not that he minded winter in Miami.
He just hated the men with whom he had now aligned himself—even if it was to bring them down, and even if it was important work.
Today should have been it.
But all the plans he’d discussed with his local liaisons and with Craig Frasier—part of the task force from New York that had been chasing the drug-and-murder-trail of the man called Dillinger from New York City down through the South—had gone to hell.
And the stakes had risen like a rocket—because of a situation he’d just found out about that morning.
Without the aid, knowledge or consent of the others, for added protection, Dillinger had kidnapped a boy right before they had all met to begin their takeover of the Crystal Estate.
It wouldn’t have mattered who the kid was to Nick—he’d have done everything humanly possible to save him—but the kidnapped boy was the child of Holden Burke, mayor of South Beach. Dillinger had assured them all that he had the kid safely hidden somewhere—where, exactly, he wasn’t telling any of them. They all knew that people could talk, so it was safer that only he knew the whereabouts of little Adrian Burke. And not to worry—the kid was alive. He was their pass-go ace in the hole.
Law and Disorder Page 2