Walking Money

by James O. Born

  He flashed his backup badge, since he didn’t have an ID anymore, and said, “I just need to follow up on some of the things we asked about the robbery.”

  “When did you ask?” She seemed confused.

  “Last week. After the manager was shot.” He tried to sound bored. His stomach rumbled as he pushed on. He’d never had to impersonate a cop before.

  She nodded and said, “Oh, you mean Mr. Nmir with the FBI.”

  He paused, then committed. “Exactly.”

  She lowered her voice and said, “Let’s talk in the back where it’s a little more private.” She led him toward the counter then through the rear door. She stopped in a narrow hallway and motioned him past. He could barely squeeze by, noticing her amusement at his discomfort. Once alone in the small office, she turned quickly, bumping into Tasker. “Now, what did you need to know?”

  “I was just going over information leading up to the robbery.” Tasker was surprised she hadn’t asked him for more identification or why he was following up anything.

  “I told Agent Nmir all I knew, which wasn’t much.”

  “Can you go over it?”

  Now she paused and looked at him, but he wasn’t sure if it was apprehension or something more personal. Then she said, “I didn’t know Louie Kerpal outside of work, but he seemed like a nice guy. I asked him if he wanted me to wait with him the day of the riot. He was so particular about protocol, he sent me on my way so he could call the main office and lock up.”

  “Was that the last contact you had with him?”

  She nodded.

  “Anything else you think I should know?”

  She thought about it and said, “I went through which boxes were opened with Agent Nmir and then gave him the supporting documents.” Her hand dropped to Tasker’s knee. “I had no idea the FBI employed such attractive men.”

  He shifted in his hard wooden chair. “Which boxes were opened?”

  She snatched her hand back and dropped to a professional tone again. “Several, but the only one that looked like it was missing anything was the one rented by Cole Hodges.”

  “Looked like it was missing stuff?”

  “We haven’t been able to reach Mr. Hodges to confirm there was anything there.”

  Tasker nodded and considered this.

  The bank manager added, “Louie always got excited Thursdays when Mr. Hodges made deposits.”

  “Why was that?”

  She shrugged. “I guess he was just proud of a well-known client. He also liked to open the box vault for someone not storing drugs.”

  Tasker ignored the comment and asked, “What do you think was in the box?”

  She leveled her eyes at him and simply said, “Cash.”

  LEAVING the bank, Tasker took a few minutes to look at the surroundings. He walked out onto the sidewalk and looked back at the bank. A small black man in a dirty T-shirt that bore a Confederate flag with a red circle and slash over it stared at Tasker.

  The man said, “What are you doing here?”

  Tasker ignored him.

  The man came toward him. “Cops disturb the natural flow of the neighborhood.”

  Tasker looked at him. “What makes you think I’m a cop?”

  “You all look the same.”

  “What’s your name?”

  The man looked surprised, then said, “Everybody calls me Spill.”

  “Well, Spill, you’re wrong, I’m no cop.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “An actor.”

  “No shit, you’re an actor? Prove it.”

  Tasker slowly started toward his car. “Spill, I’m acting like you don’t stink. I’m acting like you’re not bothering me. And now I’m going to act like I miss talking to you when I drive away.”

  Tasker saw the messy street bum stare at his Cherokee as he headed west toward the interstate.

  TWO hours after the idea of using Bema popped in his head, Dooley concentrated on the road while listening to his task force partner.

  “What’s this all about, Tom?” Rick Bema asked from the passenger seat of Dooley’s Buick.

  “I got a proposition for you, amigo, and we need to speak in private.”

  “Private is in the car, not the fucking Everglades.” Bema twisted to face him as Dooley pulled the car over on the side of a deserted access road next to a deep-water canal in the industrial section of Miami. As isolated as you could be without taking an hour drive west.

  Dooley said, “This is fine, we’re all alone.” He sighed like he’d been exercising and turned to face the younger man. Dooley’s hand rested on the butt of his revolver tucked inside his coat pocket. “Now, Rick, I have an opportunity to make some money, and I thought you might be interested.”

  Bema cut his eyes up and down the portly FBI man. “Yeah?” he said slowly.

  “Could you use, say, a hundred grand?”

  “Yeah,” he said with more authority.

  “What would you do for that kind of cash?”

  “What needs to be done?”

  “Find someone and keep your mouth shut.”

  “Who?”

  “Cole Hodges.”

  Bema took a second, “That crook, why?”

  Dooley explained how Hodges had taken the cash from the bank, and skipped most of the following details. He waited for the big question and it came.

  “Did Billy Tasker have anything to do with it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then who set him up?”

  Dooley tightened his grip on the pistol. “Me.”

  Then Bema surprised him. “If Hodges took over a million, why is my share only a hundred large?”

  Dooley smiled. “All right, amigo, how ’bout twenty percent?”

  “Why not fifty-fifty?”

  “Because I brought this deal to you. I’m already involved.”

  “Yeah, and lost the money, so I want fifty percent.”

  Dooley said, “Thirty.”

  Bema: “Forty-five.”

  Dooley: “Forty, and you help me throw the blame onto Tasker.”

  Bema paused. “What do I have to do?”

  “Make a phone call.”

  “How much money are we talking about?” asked Bema.

  Dooley did some fast calculations in his head and said, “Around six hundred and change. Think about it, Rick, all that money, tax-free. You can buy a fucking girlfriend with that kind of jack. Trust me, amigo, it’s easier that way.”

  Bema hesitated. Dooley thought that the Cuban son-of-a-bitch bastard turd was about to back out, so he fingered the trigger of his hidden pistol. He’d force the guy out of the car first, then pop him so he’d be easy to drop in the water. Bema still stared at him.

  Without warning, the young detective simply said, “Where’s a phone?”

  AS the sun began to set and the temperature to drop to just under ninety, Bill Tasker finished writing down all his thoughts on the case against him and making a list of lawyers he’d call tomorrow. His lack of progress in the case convinced him he might need some legal help. His trip to the bank showed him that he could still do some police work. Finding out about Cole Hodges was the first lead that interested him as a cop. In every case, at least big cases, something happens that changes things, that breaks it open. Maybe this was that spark. Tasker’s instincts said that Hodges was more involved than a possible victim. That was the advantage he had over the FBI: He had a real cop’s instincts and that couldn’t be underestimated. After the Oklahoma City bombing, it was a state trooper, following his instincts, who had caught Timothy McVeigh, and the FBI almost screwed up the case by withholding documents just before the bomber’s execution.

  Tasker looked around the first floor of his three-bedroom town house. At least it was clean. He sighed and let his gaze flop toward the patio. It was still a mess and he was hungry. Time for his earlier idea of a hamburger while he straightened up. He slowly leaned forward to slide off the couch as he wondered how he’d gotten so tired
doing so little during the day. He wandered onto the patio to the grill and, squatting down, checked the propane gas canister. Feeling like it had some juice left, he turned it on and hit the automatic ignition on the off chance that the worthless thing would work. Instead, all he heard was a hollow click. He stood up, cursing, and padded back into the house to find the lighter and see what he could throw together to grill.

  As he rummaged through the refrigerator, he heard a sharp knock on the front door. He thought about ignoring it, then it turned to a banging, much louder this time. He slammed the refrigerator door, annoyed someone would invade his sulking time.

  Almost to the door, he answered another set of knocks, “Coming, coming, what’s the problem?” Pulling open the door, he stood silent for a moment, then blurted, “What’s this all about?”

  Tina Wiggins stood, smiling, her arms filled with groceries. “Thought you might like a home-cooked meal. Sorry I didn’t call.” She looked at the staring Tasker. “Did you have plans?”

  Tasker blinked hard a couple of times. “No, no, come on in.” He stepped back as she came through the door and seemed to take over the room.

  “Sorry about the banging. My hands were full and I had to kick the door to make any noise.”

  Tasker didn’t care if she’d driven a car through the patio, he was glad she was here. “Whatcha got?”

  She said, “Steak for the grill.”

  “Great, I was just getting ready to fire it up.”

  Without warning she leaned across the breakfast bar, reached a slim hand around his neck and laid a deep, serious kiss on him. It seemed to suck the air out of his lungs and made the blood rush to his head. She let go like it was a wrestling hold and he took a step back.

  “Wow,” was all he said.

  “I’m sure I can come up with more of that later.” She smiled and focused her eyes on him like lasers.

  Another knock broke his pleasant daze.

  “Who’s that?” asked Tina.

  “Probably someone with ribs,” Tasker said, moving with deliberateness through the living room. When he opened the door, he was surprised again. Slayda “Mac” Nmir stood in the doorway with three other men, all dressed in casual clothes but looking deadly serious.

  Tasker said, “What now?”

  Mac held up a legal-looking document. “Warrant for your house.”

  Tasker’s eyes bulged. “You got paper? For this house? On what PC?” He knew that probable cause for a warrant, commonly known as “PC,” could be slim, but there had to be something.

  “Anonymous tip that you stashed some of the cash here.”

  “Now that’s thin.”

  Mac shrugged. “That’s what I have.”

  Tasker raised his hands. “Okay, you got me.”

  Surprise flashed across Mac’s face. “Huh?”

  “In the kitchen, on top of the fridge.” Tasker bowed his head. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

  Mac motioned for the other FBI men to stay put and followed Tasker into the kitchen. As they walked through the house, Tasker stopped and raised a hand toward a speechless Tina.

  Tasker said, “Tina, this is Mac. Mac, Tina.”

  Mac asked, “And who is this?”

  Tasker hesitated. “My...” He looked at Tina. “My friend. Another FDLE agent.” He looked at Tina. “Be right back.”

  Mac hurried to follow Tasker into the kitchen. Tasker reached on top of the beige Amana side by side and grabbed a large round coffee can.

  Tasker said, “Here it is,” handing it to the FBI agent.

  Mac eyed him carefully as he slowly twisted off the lid. He reached in and pulled out a small wad of cash. “What’s this?”

  “All the hidden cash in this house. That’s correct, I’m Mister Big all right.”

  Mac didn’t crack a smile. “I wouldn’t joke. C’mon, Tasker. I’ve been really good to you. I don’t want a spectacle, but I gotta do my job.”

  Tasker sighed. “Gimme a break, Mac, an anonymous tipster? That’s the oldest trick in the book. I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m just waiting for you guys to clear me.” He was pissed, but something about the young FBI man made Tasker ease up. The guy seemed okay. “Tom Dooley could have had as much to do with that robbery as me.”

  “No way, he may be an idiot but he’s FBI.”

  “That’s crazy. I’m a cop, too, and you’re still hassling me.”

  “But you’re not Bureau.”

  “You guys do know that shit is annoying, don’t you? Like you’re better than everyone else.” Tasker fixed his eyes on Mac. “What about Cole Hodges?”

  Mac froze, then said, “How’d you get that name?”

  Tasker gave no response, wanting to see if he could spook someone else for a change.

  Mac paused then said, “Mr. Hodges has been unavailable.”

  “Unavailable?”

  “As in missing.”

  “Maybe that’s a lead you could pursue.”

  Mac stiffened. “I won’t divulge the workings of this investigation or the FBI.” He locked his gaze onto Tasker and continued. “Now, Mr. Tasker, how do you know about Cole Hodges?”

  “I asked around. You know I can look into things, too.”

  “If you talked to any witnesses, I can look into new charges.”

  “You mean the Eighth Street Boyz? Someone had to look at them. You guys never even talked to them.”

  “Why? They didn’t do it.”

  “You’re that convinced it was me?”

  “Let’s look around and see.” Mac composed himself and lowered his voice. “We do have this tip. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  “A two-year-old could’ve come up with the tipster trick to get a warrant for a fishing trip for evidence.”

  Mac said, “The tipster said it was in your grill. Let’s take a look.” He stood, staring Tasker down. Tasker shrugged and padded out of the kitchen, past Tina, who hadn’t moved, and then through the sliding doors, with Mac right behind. Mac held up one finger to the other agents, who were still milling around out front.

  Still feeling calm and in control, Tasker thought this might end the whole inquiry. As they approached the grill, Tasker held out his hands like the girls on The Price Is Right, saying, “And here it is. A two-year-old GrillMaster, with separate propane tank.”

  Mac rolled his eyes, stepped past Tasker and lifted the lid. All activity froze. Sitting on the grill itself were four bundles of cash all crammed to one side.

  Tasker swallowed hard. “Wait one damn second. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but...” As he started to go on, Mac turned to look at him. Bile backed up in his throat and cut off his air. He gasped but couldn’t speak for a few seconds.

  “I wouldn’t say anything, Tasker,” Mac said. He motioned for the others to come in and then sprang to action himself. “Turn around, Tasker,” he said, helping the shocked man to spin, patting him down as he did it. Mac turned to the nearest FBI man. “Steve, check that couch, inside and out.” As the man moved, Mac said to the other two FBI agents, “Clear these rooms and the upstairs.” They darted into an open doorway.

  The first agent, Steve, said, “The couch is clean.”

  Mac turned Tasker back around. “I’m not going to put you in cuffs. You can sit here on the couch. We shouldn’t be too long.” He looked up at Tina. “You can leave or we’ll search you, and you have to stay on the couch, too.”

  Tina looked from Mac to Tasker, trying to decide what to do.

  Tasker hesitated, then said, “You should go.”

  She grabbed her purse and started toward the door.

  “Hang on,” Mac said. “We need to have a look in your purse before you go.” He crossed the room and had the purse before she could argue. He pried it from her hand and did a quick peek inside.

  Tina finally regained her composure, looking at Mac and the other FBI man. She ran her hands down her tight tank top, then lifted her short tennis skirt, exposing her panties. “You think I might have
the cash secreted on my body, too?”

  Mac said, “Sorry, but we have to be sure.”

  She stepped toward the door. The hurt look on her face told Tasker that she thought he’d lied to her. She held back a parting comment and slipped out, slamming the door as she left.

  Tasker stared at the two FBI men, who were joined by the others.

  The oldest agent said, “All clear, Mac.”

  Tasker remained silent as they started the search. The screech of Tina’s tires lingered in his ears.

  TWELVE

  TOM Dooley grumbled silently about the working conditions he allowed himself to accept. He sat in the passenger seat of an eight-year-old, rusted-out, yellow Camaro, fingering the trigger of his .38 as the residents of Liberty City walked past, barely noticing the only white face around. The car itself smelled musty and the window on his side rolled down only halfway. This, added to the fact that he was suddenly poor again, caused his stomach to growl with acid and his morning coffee.

  He caught a glimpse of Rick Bema still talking with a tall, young black kid wearing an Oakland Raiders wind-breaker over a Miami Heat T-shirt. Bema seemed pretty casual with the guy, talking with his hands like all Cubans, then after a few minutes handed him some cash. The muscular Dade County detective bounded across the four-lane highway and slipped back into his Camaro.

  Bema said, “He don’ know where Hodges would be, but he know his right-hand man. A guy named Ebbi Kyle. He say that Kyle might be over at the Liberty City branch of the CCR.”

  Dooley nodded. “How much you pay him?”

  “Fifty.”

  “You guys always overpay snitches. I’d have given him a smack in the noggin and sent him on his way.”

  “And you still wouldn’t have a chance to find Hodges and our money.”

  Dooley smiled, catching the subtle changes in his partner’s speech. He used “our money” now and seemed plenty interested in finding Hodges. Bema also understood the importance of keeping the pressure on Tasker so no one started looking at them.

  “You know anything about this Kyle character?” asked Dooley.

  “Just a description: black, skinny, with green eyes. They call him ‘Pitcher’ on the street.”