by Lyle Howard
The camera panned over to a young black man who held the door open for the entire entourage, and then remained cloistered in the wings. When the camera shifted back to the stage, Williams was removing a small bundle of index cards from the inside pocket of his impeccably tailored Italian wool suit, and was placing them neatly on top of the rostrum.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. My name is Leon Williams, and, for those of you who don’t know me, I’m the Captain of Detectives for the City of Miami Police Department. I’ve called this press conference in the hope that one particular person,” he emphasized the words, looking directly into the camera, “is viewing this broadcast.”
Waxman and Chase both glanced over at Gabe.
“I’m speaking to the person who has kidnapped the grandson of Thomas and Edna Gibson, this courageous couple who stand here by my side.” The camera panned back and forth over the faces of the distraught older couple. “Now, it’s not normal department policy for someone like me to stand up here and make such a hateful crime a public spectacle, but there are extenuating circumstances in this case. You see, the Gibson’s grandson is Casey Mitchell, the seven-year-old son of Detective Gabe Mitchell, whom all of you know by now murdered Dr. Kenneth Sanborn last night at Jackson Medical Center, and who in turn was apprehended and killed after a high-speed pursuit.”
“They’ve got your son,” Waxman said, appalled.
Gabe knelt in front of the screen. In his mother-in-law’s grieved expression, he imagined he saw the face of his own wife, desperate to have her only child returned safely. “They’re trying to flush me out.”
“The other reason I’m personally involved in this case, besides having been Gabe’s superior officer and a close friend…”
Gabe’s hands knotted into fists.
“I was the one who received the ransom call, and, unfortunately, we were unable to trace its origin.”
“Why did you get the call?” a female voice with an unmistakable Irish brogue shouted out from amid the audience of reporters.
Williams shook his head pathetically. “I don’t know why I was chosen, but when the call came in, I contacted the family right away to confirm that their grandson was indeed missing.”
“Where were you at the time of the call?” the same unforgettable Irish brogue called out.
“I was at a breakfast meeting on the fifteenth floor in the Tower of the Americas building in Downtown Miami,” he underscored the location, “but I don’t see the relevance of that question.”
“What were the kidnapper’s demands?” another reporter shouted out.
“I’m not at liberty to say at this time.”
“But why are you going public with this situation? Aren’t you worried about the boy’s safety?”
Williams began to noticeably fidget behind the podium. “Suffice it to say, we’re doing what needs to be done to ensure the safe return of Casey Mitchell to his grandparents. Again, I’m not at liberty to say anything else in this regard.”
“So there’s another underlying reason for this press conference?”
Williams looked directly into the camera once again. “I have no comment.”
Another unfamiliar female voice rang out from the middle of the mob. “Have you determined a motive for the kidnapping, Captain? Was this done as some sort of retaliation for Dr. Sanborn’s death?”
Williams shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry, I can’t say.”
“Then what is the reason for this press conference, Captain? Are you using this air time to send the kidnapper a message? Are you using this forum to respond to one of his demands?”
“I have only one more thing to say,” Williams announced as he removed his glasses and leaned in toward the camera. “I have given the family my personal assurance that by eight o’clock this evening,” he once again emphasized, “we will have reached a favorable outcome in this matter. That’s all I have to say for now. The family chose to be here in a show of support, but will not be answering any of your questions. Thank you very much.”
The scene switched back to Scott Newman sitting at the news desk. “Well, there you have it. A very determined Captain Leon Williams of the City of Miami Police Department obviously addressing, albeit cryptically, the kidnapper of seven-year-old Casey Mitchell, son of Gabe Mitchell—the detective who allegedly stabbed Dr. Kenneth Sanborn to death last night at Jackson Medical Center. We will continue to follow the events of this desperate story as it unfolds, and, hopefully, we’ll have more details on Eyewitness News at five o’clock, so stay tuned. We’re now going to return you to our regularly scheduled show in progress…”
“Well, I guess that settles that,” Gabe said, as Waxman once again lowered the volume on the television. “They want me there at eight o’clock tonight.”
“Damn, those sons-of-bitches are devious,” Chase groused. “I can’t believe they took your boy.”
“You’ve got to let me help you,” Waxman said, rising to his feet. “You just can’t go waltzing into their trap.”
Gabe took the remote control from the ex-mayor’s hand and rewound the tape. “I appreciate the gesture, Nate, but if I don’t go in there alone, they’ll kill Casey without so much as batting an eye. I don’t have a choice.”
“Hang on a minute,” Chase said as he disappeared from the room, only to return seconds later carrying a wooden humidor. “Here, at least take this. I’ve been keeping it around here as a precaution, but it obviously doesn’t matter anymore.”
Gabe took the box and opened it. The stainless steel barrel of the Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver gleamed in the light. Gabe removed it from the velvet-lined box and swung open the cylinder. The gun was loaded, but had never been fired. “Are you sure, Bennett?”
“Are you kidding? I’m not going to need it anymore. I’ve even got an extra box of ammunition if you want.”
Gabe reached out and shook Chase’s hand. “Thank you, Bennett. I’m sorry I’ll probably never get to repay all of your kindness.”
The old man reached up and put his hand on Gabe’s cheek. “Just get your boy back, and we’ll call it even.”
Gabe took the revolver and placed it gently back in its repository. “Would you two mind if I watch the tape again? I just want to make sure I didn’t miss anything the first time.”
“Of course not,” Waxman said as he sat back down and stared intently at the screen. “Hand me the notepad, and I’ll jot down anything that you tell me is important.”
Gabe handed over the paper and pressed the button for the tape to start playing. It wasn’t 15 seconds before he paused the tape, freezing the image of the young black man holding open the conference room door for Williams. “Damon Washington,” Gabe said astutely. “I had a feeling that was him.”
“Wait a minute,” Waxman said, getting on his knees and moving closer to the screen. “You know that guy? I know that guy!”
Gabe looked down at the ex-mayor who was unceremoniously on all fours. “How would you know Damon Washington? Know him from where?”
Waxman winced as he strained to recall where he had seen that face before. “I don’t know him by name, but I’ve seen him … and on more than one occasion too … at City Hall, I think.”
“With Leon Williams?” Gabe probed.
Waxman shook his head. “No, the Police Plaza and City Hall are miles apart. Come on—think, Nate!” he chastised himself.
“And the name Damon Washington isn’t familiar to you? He’s August Bock’s helicopter pilot, and I think he acts as his legs … you know, his right hand man.”
Waxman scratched his head in frustration. “Where the hell would I have seen him?”
Gabe released the pause button and the tape restarted. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll come to you. Here,” Gabe said, handing Waxman a pencil off the desk, “Write this down: 15th floor, Tower of the Americas, eight o’clock. Boy, what I wouldn’t give to get my hands on a blueprint of that office…”
Waxman jumped t
o his feet like he had been shocked with an electric cattle prod. “That’s it! The office! I saw that guy coming out of…”
“Where?” Chase asked anxiously.
Waxman plopped back down on the couch as though all of his bones had suddenly been stolen along with his trust. “Umberto Espinoza … that piece of …” the ex-mayor exploded, as he fought off the urge to put his foot through the television screen.
“The deputy mayor?” Chase asked, surprised at the assumption.
“No,” Waxman growled, his teeth clenched with anger, “now that I’m dead … the newly appointed mayor!”
“Do you have any legitimate reason to believe that he would conspire to have you killed?” Gabe asked.
“Why else would Bock’s man have been coming out of his office? Espinoza had every opportunity to drug me at my birthday party and then murder my wife.”
Gabe put his glass of tea down on the coffee table. “I’ve got the badge numbers of two patrolmen who will probably be able to confirm that if it’s true.”
Bennett Chase reached across the coffee table and slipped a cork coaster under Gabe’s glass. “Do you really think your deputy mayor was capable of having your wife killed?” he asked Waxman, sounding skeptical. “I mean, why not just run against you in the next election and try to win the office fair and square? Or better yet, and I mean no offense by this, why didn’t he just have you killed?”
Waxman squirmed nervously at the speculation over his own demise. “Let me give you guys a brief history lesson on the intricacies of our local political system. First off, killing me would have only made my wife’s ambition stronger. In the second place, Anna had a very dedicated political following for over 10 years, and everyone knew that I valued her input in every decision I made. Some political pundits went so far as to say that she was Eva to my Juan Peron—pulling my strings like I was her puppet.”
Gabe remembered meeting Anna Waxman once while working security for one of her rallies. She was political dynamite incarnate.
“Anyone who knew my Anna,” Waxman continued teary-eyed, “knew that she was a strong enough woman that, in the event of my death, she would have been immediately recruited to take over my office for the remainder of my term, and would have easily defeated any opponent in the next election. Killing my wife and framing me for her murder was the only way Umberto Espinoza would ever be able to find his way to the mayor’s office over the next 20 years.”
“Espinoza framed you so well, he convinced a lot of people you really were guilty … including August Bock,” Gabe conjectured. “He set you up so well, in fact, that you made it onto Bock’s personal hit parade because you were acquitted. To be honest with you, before all this happened, I would have bet my pension that you really murdered her too.”
“Yeah, you and about 10 million other people,” Waxman added, as he put his hand on Gabe’s shoulder. “You know the funny thing? Anna always warned me about letting that slime ball ride on my coattails, but I wouldn’t listen to her. The city was ethnically divided, I told her. We needed the Latin vote. She always said that if it wasn’t for me that incompetent cretin would still be bumping his nose into parked ambulances.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Gabe says, “but Espinoza seems pretty damned smart to have masterminded this coup d’état. I don’t think you give him the credit he deserves.”
“But thank goodness,” Waxman said, letting out a grateful whistle, “a jury of my peers saw through his sham.”
“And when they found you not guilty…” Chase interjected.
“Much to Umberto Espinoza’s delight,” the ex-mayor quipped, “August Bock sent Gabe to finish the job.”
Gabe looked over his shoulder at Chase. “We were both swindled … but tonight, it all ends.”
Waxman held out his hand. “And you’re sure there’s nothing I can do for you, Detective?”
Gabe shook his hand appreciatively. “Thanks anyway, Your Honor. They’ve got my boy, and I’m going to get him back … or die trying.”
Waxman’s hand tightened around Gabe’s. “If it wasn’t for you, Detective Gabe, I never would have discovered the truth.”
Gabe stood up. “Well, I guess tonight we’ll all be going our separate ways.”
Waxman rose off the couch and stood between Gabe and the old man. One at a time, they placed their hands atop each other’s in an unspoken musketeer’s oath. To look at them, there was probably never such a diverse triumvirate of characters entering into such a symbolic covenant. “You know where you’re headed?” Gabe asked them both.
“Well, my night’s not going to be nearly as life altering as the both of yours promises to be,” Bennett Chase said, enviously, “but I’ll be here minding the mint if either of you should need me.”
“And you?” Gabe asked Nathan Waxman.
“Me?” The mayor’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve got a memorial service to attend.”
49
The starless night fell like a wet blanket over downtown Miami. Ominous grey clouds drifted in over the city, urged on by an easterly sea breeze that smelled of a fresh storm on the horizon. But, as usual, the city would not heed their warning. There was a basketball game at the Arena tonight, and the streets were alive with music and life.
As the cab pulled to the curb in front of the Tower of the Americas, Gabe checked his gun one last time. He looked up to see the Cuban driver peering over the front seat, petrified at the sight of the weapon. “Don’t worry, I’m a cop,” Gabe said, trying to put the driver’s mind at ease.
“Sí, señor,” the driver said, knocking his knuckles on the glass partition that separated them. “I don’t worry. This window is bulletproof anyway.”
Gabe glanced at the meter and pulled out the only bill he had with him—a $20. It would be just enough, including a healthy tip for the driver.
“Muchas gracias, señor,” the driver said, unlocking a small opening in the clear partition. “Do you wish me to wait for you? The building … it looks empty.”
Gabe slipped the gun into his waistband behind his back and pulled the University of Miami windbreaker Bennett Chase had given him up over it. “No thanks,” Gabe said as he opened the door and spotted Shayla Rand’s black Corvette parked just ahead of them by the curb. “I’m expected.”
The taxi pulled away, leaving Gabe standing before two enormous glass doors. A security camera was positioned above the door and, when he stepped into its range, a small red light blinked on above the lens. Gabe took a step back and craned his head toward the sky. The sheer glass building seemed to rise to infinity when, in actuality, it was only 28 stories—but from his vantage point, it appeared to stretch forever.
Pedestrian traffic was light on this street. Unlike many metropolises, very few shops in downtown Miami stayed open past six o’clock. The few people that roamed the street this late at night appeared to be panhandlers or street vagrants settling into their makeshift roosts after a hot meal at the local soup kitchen. During his time on the force, this area had been very familiar to him, but now that felt like 100 lifetimes ago.
Checking his wristwatch, Gabe knew that he was a few minutes early. The air was cold enough so that, when he exhaled, his breath was clearly visible. There was no use showing up ahead of time; whatever waited for him on the 15th floor could hold on a few minutes longer. This might be the last chance he had to meditate on his life and he saw no reason to squander the opportunity.
Leaning against a “no parking” sign, his fists tucked tightly into his orange and green jacket pockets, Gabe reflected on what shambles he had made of his life. It was the same self-loathing lecture he gave himself every chance he got lately, and it never grew easier to hear. But now he had a chance to change it all. Even if he didn’t make it out of this building alive, his son would always know that he came for him. This, more than anything else, was what he hoped to prove by walking into this obvious ambush.
Before he had left the house, Bennett Chase begged for Gabe t
o take him along or to take the rental car. But Gabe would have no part of it. He didn’t want his friend involved. Chase tried to convince Gabe that dying at home wasn’t what he wanted. He’d used the excuse that he didn’t feel it was dignified enough for a combat pilot. He wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, and, while he was still strong enough to make the trip, perhaps he could run interference for him, or act as some kind of a decoy. If he couldn’t die in the air, then meeting his maker while helping Gabe get his son back would be just as honorable a death. Chase had become so worked up during his frenzied argument that Gabe had to sit him down in a kitchen chair to let him catch his breath.
Gabe understood what his comrade meant, and if there had been any chance that Chase could have helped in this situation, Gabe would have enlisted him without hesitation … but there wasn’t. He knew what it meant to die with honor, and for a man and friend like Bennett Chase, the drawn out torment of cancer was not a fitting end. Gabe had seen the look in the old man’s eyes when he handed over his gun. He knew it wasn’t in the house for protection—it was there for when the pain became unbearable. To this end, Gabe was glad he had taken it from his friend.
His farewell to Nathan Waxman had been far less upsetting. The ex-mayor had been sincere in his thanks, but there was always something smarmy about a politician’s gratitude. You always felt like you needed to scrub your hands after shaking theirs. Again, Waxman asked if there was anything he could do to help, but Gabe declined the offer. This had to be kept low key and by the book. Sending in the troops as Waxman proposed would only spell disaster for his son’s safety.
The sound of screeching brakes echoed through the tall maze of concrete and glass buildings. The shrill noise was enough to jolt Gabe’s mind back to reality. He checked his watch and saw that it was time. He had hoped to go into this thing a little better equipped, perhaps even with a schematic of the building’s layout, but Bennett had been unsuccessful on his computer. Gabe shook his head wistfully. You could access the blueprints for manufacturing a pipe bomb on the Internet, but the design of a simple public building was off limits … what a world!