by Joe Curtis
“No, no—let me warm some soup for you,” she said, blocking the entrance.
“Please, Miss Garza—I need to sit down,” Bob said, pausing. “In my office.”
She saw he was getting pale.
Worried, she said, “Okay, baby. I’ll check on you in a while.” He walked past her, and she shook her head and mumbled, “Drugs. They ruin so many lives.”
Bob gingerly sat down behind his desk. Before anything else, he had some phone calls to make.
***
Mary Catherine did not bother stopping by her home to shower and change. She rode with the transport van from the airport to the storage center, storage container #946—just as Shark had requested. When the van pulled up to the container, Shark was waiting for them in his black Cadillac Deville. Mary Catherine slowly climbed out of the van, still stiff and sore from her trials in Africa and suffering from severe jet lag and exhaustion.
“You look like death warmed over, Mary Catherine,” Shark said, giving her a once-over.
“Here’s your precious cargo,” she snarled.
Shark placed a firm hand on her shoulder and drew her near.
“No—this is our cargo.” He sniffed. “You smell terrible. Oh how the mighty fall.”
“I’m stronger than I’ve felt in years,” she said, glaring at him and roughly removing his hand from her shoulder. “This is my last business deal with you. I’m finished.”
“No, no, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m afraid we are lifelong partners, no matter how long”—he paused—“or how short that life is.”
The remark sent chills down Mary Catherine’s spine, and her lips started quivering.
“I hate you,” she said through clenched teeth. “I wish you were dead.”
Shark just laughed and slapped her face with lightning-quick speed. The slap jerked her head to the side with such force she lost her balance, falling hard enough on the concrete surface to gash her knee. He stepped over her and started barking orders to the grunts to unload the cargo.
***
After pulling himself from Miss Garza, Bob and the queen took off for the police station for another round of question-and-answer. This time his determination was tempered with caution—determination because he had a hardheaded drive to see something through, and caution from realizing that some in the police were in collusion with Shark. How else would Shark’s men have known what car he drove, or where he’d be at that particular time?
“It had to have been either the fraternity idiot or the know-it-all cop who kicked me out last night,” Bob said to himself on the way there. “My guess is the cop, because frat boy is just here for the paycheck and free donuts.”
Bob turned heads when he walked stiffly through the doors of the police station, and he heard an assortment of comments: “What train hit you?” and “Rough date?” and his favorite, “Wasn’t granny there to help you this time?”
Bob ignored all the comments and stepped up to the front desk. A pretty officer raised her head from paperwork.
“Can I help you?” She was clearly disturbed by the bruises on Bob’s face.
“Yeah. I need to talk to someone who’s willing to answer a few questions about a recent wreck.”
“Were you involved in it?” she asked.
“No, of course not,” he said with a sour smile. The woman picked up the phone and said into it, “Yes, Sir. A—” She paused and waited for Bob to give his name.
“Bob McKaren. I’ve been here before.”
She started over.
“Yes, sir—a Bob McKaren wants to speak to someone about a recent traffic accident. Okay. I’ll tell him.”
She looked up at Bob with a smirk and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. McKaren, but Lt. Vannery, who handles public affairs, is in a meeting.”
Bob, becoming more frustrated, asked, “When will he be out of the meeting?”
“He doesn’t know. He actually said he’d be in meetings for the rest of the week.” She smiled, dismissing Bob from her presence. He didn’t take the hint.
“Look, I know somebody knows something about the Care Ambulance wreck that killed a cop,” Bob said, raising his voice and banging his fist on the desk. “I’d talk to the guy who stole the ambulance, but he killed himself. Now isn’t that convenient?” Sarcasm filled his voice.
“Sir, you need to leave the station on your own or be escorted out,” an officer spoke up. Coming around the corner of the desk, he said, “Do I need to show you out?”
Bob shut up and complied with the officer, since he was a head taller, and he was armed.
As the two walked to the door, the officer whispered, “Keep walking and look straight ahead. Listen. Meet me at Versailles at three this afternoon. I’ll tell you what I know.”
Butterflies swarmed in Bob’s stomach. He realized this might be the break he’d been looking for. He said nothing and tried to contain the smile that was trying to force itself onto his face.
***
Bob had fallen in love with Versailles, on 8th Street, which specialized in authentic Cuban food. He was famished, so he arrived early to grab some masitas de puerco fritas and to try to relax a bit. But too many questions were running through his mind for him to relax. Why does this guy want to meet me? What does he know? Is this another setup to finish me off? The mystery cop didn’t even offer his name.
Hopefully all questions were about to be answered as Bob saw him come in. He was Hispanic, with dark skin and jet black hair. Because of his size, he stood out in the crowd. He spotted Bob from across the room and headed straight over. As he walked, he looked around, as if making sure there was no one there who would recognize him. He sat down and offered his hand.
As they shook, he said, “My name is Juan Hernandez.” His glare was intense, penetrating into Bob’s soul. “I’ve been with the Miami PD for seven years. Frederick Tenish was my partner. He was also my closest friend.”
“The officer who was killed in the high-speed chase a few weeks back?” Bob said, making sure they were talking about the same person.
“Yeah,” Juan said, looking around again at the crowd then shifting his attention back to Bob. “I heard you’ve been around the station a few times asking questions about Freddy and that night.”
Juan looked down, as if ashamed of what he was about to say. “I called in sick the night of the accident. I was supposed to be in the car with Freddy. He was my friend, my partner. We looked out for each other.”
“I’m sorry about your partner. But I believe you have information that I need. I’ve been getting the cold shoulder from everyone.”
“Of course you have,” Juan said. Bob leaned forward in anticipation. Juan took another look around and continued. “The reason for the cold shoulder is because of a man known in this part of Miami as Shark.”
“Shark.” Bob let the name roll off his tongue. “We haven’t met face to face, but a few of his friends introduced themselves.” Bob rubbed his hand over the still visible lump on his forehead.
“Yeah—he’s a major crime lord in the Miami area,” Juan said. “He has ties to many places and businesses—and the Miami PD.”
This got Bob thinking. Juan could be the key to ruining Shark, as Mary Catherine wished.
Seeing the excitement on Bob’s face, Juan continued.
“Shark’s tentacles penetrate deep into the department. There’s nothing new about his scheme. He pays off key people, and in return they order patrol officers to turn their heads.”
“What if they don’t?” Bob asked.
“If they don’t, they’re ostracized, put on horrible patrols. Some have even been set up and fired.”
“Shark and Antonio LaCruz—are they the same person?” Bob asked.
“Yes.”
“That means Shark owns Care Ambulance Service, which means he’s connected to the chase that got your partner killed. I bet that’s why the driver committed suicide in jail.” Bob was getting excited and had to watch how loudly he talked.
“That’s not exactly correct,” Juan said, still looking around, making sure nobody he knew was in the restaurant. “Word around the station is, the driver didn’t commit suicide but was murdered to keep from talking.”
Bob sat back in his chair, letting the words soak in.
Juan continued, “The murder was an inside job. Somebody on the inside murdered the ambulance driver.”
“Do you know who?” Bob could hardly contain his excitement.
“I have a good idea,” Juan said. “Tim Emerson’s a cop who works closely with Shark. He put himself on nights. People say he rules the station with an iron fist, like it’s his own kingdom.”
“So you’re saying that Emerson murdered the driver in his cell?” Juan nodded, and Bob went on. “Emerson’s the cop who kicked me out of the police station, and he’s probably the one who sicced the goons on me the other night.”
Bob stopped. He wanted to see if Hernandez knew the entire story.
“Juan, we both agree that the driver wasn’t just a drunk guy taking a joyride in a stolen ambulance. What was he carrying?”
“I was listening to my police scanner that night at home when I heard Freddy had been in the wreck. I rushed to the scene, and before I got there the police stopped me where the ambulance went into the bay. I overheard them talking about marijuana debris floating on the water where the ambulance went in.”
Bob shook his head in amazement. Mary Catherine was correct.
“They’ve been transporting drugs around the Miami and south Florida area in Care ambulances.”
“That’s right,” Juan said. “Bob, that’s all I know. Freddy was a good man. He wasn’t crooked, and he didn’t deserve to die the way he did. The station is no longer safe. I need help from someone on the outside.”
Bob looked into the big Hispanic’s eyes. They were sad and pleading.
“I’ll help you the best I can.” It was hard not to let on that he already knew what Juan was talking about because of his late partner’s mother.
“You’re either really brave or really crazy,” Juan said, showing a slight smile for the first time as he rose from his seat and headed to the door.
After Juan was gone, Bob lowered his head into his hands and said, “Probably the latter.”
Bob had just paid for his meal and was walking out of the restaurant when his phone rang. It was Mary Catherine.
“Hello?”
“Are you ready to meet?” she asked, skipping the preliminaries, which threw Bob off.
“Well, yes, I guess,” he said. “I do have some valuable information that you’ll be interested in.”
“Good,” she answered. “I’ll meet you at your office in an hour.”
“I look forward to seeing you.” But she didn’t hear that because she’d hung up.
Chapter Ten
Smoke from Cubans drifted up to lights hanging from the ceiling as several of Shark’s closest associates met in a back room in a local cigar parlor. Lust for power and money drew these dark men into their business, and now that lust inspired this secret meeting. The masterminds of Shark’s vast underworld were joining together to bring down the boss that had built them up.
“This is the deal,” Hector began. He was trying to take control of this small band. “We will get no further than we are right now with Shark still in power.”
“Yeah, that’s right, but he ain’t gonna exactly step down,” Aedan Lendell said. Aedan was an outspoken middle-aged white man, a jumpy CPA wanted for tax evasion. He was always looking over his shoulder for the boogie man who was to take his life. His proudest possession was his flowing blond hair, which he regularly ran his hands through, a nervous habit he’d developed in junior high school. “We’re going to have to kill him. He won’t go down easily.”
Almost in unison the men agreed.
“We’re gonna hafta set him up,” Nash Tillman offered. He was a slimy back stabber, distrusted more than any other member of the group. He weighed barely 120 pounds, and his height was equally unimpressive at slightly over five feet. His high, squeaky voice pierced through the mumbling. “We have to wait until he’s in a place that he is comfortable at—a place where he lets his guard down, where we can put a bullet through his head.” He banged his boney hand on the table for emphasis.
“I agree,” Hector said. “He’s most comfortable around us. He trusts us.” They all laughed.
“He called a meeting for tomorrow,” Ramiro Herztal said. President of Care Ambulance Service, he was trim and looked good in a suit—unlike Hector, who looked more like a block of wood. “We come to the meeting with a thirst for blood, Shark’s blood. We wait for a signal, then we take him out. But we have to be together. No one needs to get cold feet.”
Ramiro looked around the room.
“If someone does get cold feet, you will wind up at the bottom of the bay.” They all nodded and looked at each other, wondering who’d be first to take the dive.
“I don’t know if we’re ready,” Carlos Salazar said, looking around as the others moaned. Carlos headed logistics for Shark. He knew where all of Shark’s private planes and armored limos were, where they’d been, and where they were going. He was a details guy. “This is a brash idea. We need to think everything through and develop this plan.”
Suddenly, Hector leaped from his chair, sending it sliding several feet behind him.
With lightning quickness, he pulled his gun and said, “Bang—you’re dead, Shark.”
Carlos swallowed hard. A thin layer of sweat formed on his forehead. They were silent for a spell until Ramiro started clapping and laughing. The others joined in.
“Sounds like a solid plan to me,” Hector said, glaring at Carlos. Carlos said nothing, just fiddled with his tie as he tried to calm his nerves.
Hector looked around as everyone fell silent.
“Then we agree. Tomorrow at the meeting we take the mighty Shark down.”
No one said a word, but they all nodded, their stomachs in knots.
***
A shell of a woman walked through Bob’s office door. It was Mary Catherine. She looked older, and she had bruises on her face that had turned green as they’d healed. She walked slowly and carefully, but as he looked into her eyes he still saw the fire he’d seen when they’d first met.
“Who ran over you?” Bob asked as she sat down in front of his desk.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” she answered. “Tell me about what you know and this police officer that you found.” She was clearly in no mood for small talk.
“You were right. Shark basically controls the police department. He has his claws in just about every department,” he explained.
“Of course I was right,” she responded, impatience in her voice. “I’m not going to lie to you or lead you astray. I want to see Shark destroyed. Now that you have this information and this man is willing to share it, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to do what you told me to do,” he said, clearing his throat. He was uncomfortable all of a sudden, as if he was a puppet and Mary Catherine was pulling the strings.
“Good. When?” she demanded.
Bob tried to get control of the conversation.
“Mary Catherine, I will finish the job. I’ll have enough hard evidence so that you can get your revenge on Shark—and it will happen soon.”
“Thank you,” she said and seemed to relax.
Bob looked into her eyes and said, concern in his voice, “Shark is responsible for your son’s death, but you have to be careful. The hatred you feel for Shark could eventually destroy you.”
Mary Catherine said nothing. She just collected her Louis Vuitton handbag, stood, and left. Bob walked to the front door of his office building and watched her leave. Her face was a block of stone, with no change in her bitter expression.
Bob was startled when Miss Garza patted him on the back and said, shaking her head, “That lady’s spirit is sick.”
“Ye
ah, and the sickness is getting worse,” he said as Mary Catherine drove her Porsche out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
Bob plopped down in his chair and let out a sigh.
“Where do I start?” he asked himself as he looked around his desk. The Miami Herald was still open to the story of Mary Catherine’s son. He casually picked it up and started reading it again. He looked at the picture that accompanied the story, showing a police diver emerging from the waters of the bay. All of a sudden, Bob’s heart leapt. He nearly shouted, “Marijuana debris.” He grabbed the paper and did a little dance, then suddenly stopped as something at the door caught his eye. It was Miss Garza.
“I didn’t know whether to laugh or call the ambulance,” she said, an amused look on her face.
Embarrassed, Bob said, “I’m going to the Herald tomorrow.”
***
Nash Tillman’s mother always told him that nothing good goes on after midnight. He was brought up in an evangelical home in north Florida. His parents were good people and had a strong belief in Biblical values. Nash was the black sheep of the family and had a different belief system. He thought it was easier to lie and steal than face the consequences. It was 3:00 a.m., well past midnight, and he was pressing the call button on Shark’s massive gates.
“Yes, Mr. Tillman?” a guard’s voice said over the loud speaker.
“I need to speak to Shark.” Nash waited a moment, then the gates split open, and he drove in.
The doors opened and a huge guard filled the space as he walked up the steps.
“It’s late, don’t you think?”
“I need to speak to Shark,” Nash said, trying to walk past the behemoth. The big man’s hand almost covered Nash’s entire chest and stopped him in his tracks.
The guard bent down to within an inch of Nash’s face.
“Go another step, and I’ll break you in half.” Nash swallowed deeply and froze. The guard walked down the hall, then turned around and said, “Not a step closer, toothpick.”
Moments later, Shark came out in slacks and a white shirt. No tie, no jacket—this was Shark “dressed down.”
“We need to talk,” Nash said.