Walking Money

by James O. Born

  “I’ve heard about him.”

  Tasker nodded and kept going. “We took Jack back to a rear bedroom while they conducted the search, and he seemed okay. After a few minutes, when we were alone, he says to me, ‘Billy, I’m done. It’s all true.’”

  Tina’s eyes widened. “What on earth did you say?”

  “I tried to make sure he was calm. I didn’t want a scene, and there was no way I was gonna cuff an old friend. Bitello was in the room but he was just milling around, complaining about being kept from the actual search.” Tasker swallowed hard before continuing. “A few minutes later, Jack starts working on me about how bad it’ll be for him on the inside and that he didn’t have anyone he was close to. He kept on while Bitello wandered out into the main room and got shooed back to me. Finally, Jack gets to his point.”

  Tina was hypnotized. “What was his point?”

  “He wanted a minute alone in his bathroom to get himself together. Now I know you never leave a prisoner alone on his turf, but part of me has to know he’s going to try to commit suicide. But I’m not sure. It’s just not registering with me.”

  “My God.”

  “I tell Bitello that I’m lettin’ Jack take a leak and he starts to go in with him, but I block the way. He starts up with procedure and that it’s a bad idea. I basically ignore him.”

  “Wow, this isn’t anything like I heard it.”

  “You’ve heard the allegations after the search warrant and the official story that was designed to let me keep my job.”

  “You have my attention.” Her eyes felt like an interrogation light.

  “Well, partly because I’m an idiot and partly because I wasn’t thinking about anything other than giving my friend some privacy, I let him go to the bathroom. After about a minute, with me and Bitello waiting on either side of the door—”

  Tina interrupted. “Was he suspicious?”

  “Oh yeah, he told me clearly what a dumbass idea it was.”

  “I’m sorry, keep going.”

  “After a minute, there was no sound, so I opened the door, kinda expecting to see him hanging from a wrapped up shower curtain. Instead, Jack stood there with a Smith model 66 revolver and it was pointed at me. He had a stashed gun in the medicine cabinet and intended to escape. I backed up, but when Bitello saw the gun he went for his. I shouted for him to stop, but Sandersen blasted him from two feet away. I threw myself at him and twisted the gun back at him, and in the fight he got shot in the head. It was too late, Bitello was already dead and the other agents were pulling me off Jack Sandersen’s body.”

  “Billy, that doesn’t sound even close to the story I heard.”

  “It gets worse, much worse.” He ran his hands over his face and took a deep breath. “So I get sent home, everyone thinking it’s a good shoot. Not thinking about my stupid decision yet. Then they find some of my personal stuff during the search warrant. Things like my hunting rifle, diving gear, you know, all the stuff one buddy might loan another or leave at someone’s house if they had a lot of room. Nothing to it at all. But it gets them thinking, and of course the internal affairs guys from Tallahassee have to investigate the shooting and death of an agent. They read into these things at Jack’s house, and a day later, while going over his finances, see he bought both my daughters prepaid college tuitions. Now they see a conspiracy.”

  “I understand your stuff there, but what about the tuitions for the girls?”

  “I guess the shakedown business was good, so he bought gifts for friends. He never even told me.” He took another breath. “So now the media gets ahold of it and runs with the story. They report a theory that Jack and I were partners in crime and I killed him to keep him from talking. The local newspaper, the Palm Beach Post, literally stalks my parents and wife while I vegetated at home. I almost thought it was funny, and figured it would blow over in a couple of days. I did nothing.

  “It lasted a week, then two, and instead of easing up, the media bore down. I became a hermit, my wife and kids had to visit her family in New Smyrna Beach, and my dad...” He stopped.

  “What about your dad?”

  “He had a coronary at his store with three reporters waiting outside. Two days later, I was cleared when they found no other connection between Jack and me and that he had bought thirty-five prepaid college tuitions for all his friends’ kids.”

  “From there, things just went downhill. I won’t go into details but the transfer, drinking and self-pity all added up to me being single, sorry and in the same shit again.”

  “Billy, I had no idea.”

  “Now you see why I can’t just let this play out. Especially now that the media is so involved. I have to clear this thing up.”

  After a couple of quiet hours on the couch, Tina stood and started to gather her things.

  “You can’t stay?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He tried to figure out how not to sound like a lovesick puppy. “How ’bout lunch tomorrow?”

  “I’m meeting my sister.”

  “Bring her along.”

  She smiled. “That’d be fun. Where?”

  “I’m meeting Derrick Sutter over at Chili’s on Eighty-eighth at noon. How ’bout that?”

  “He’s the guy who told you about the cash in temporary evidence?”

  “Yeah, just a hunch.”

  “We’ll be there.”

  Tasker felt different after talking about the Sandersen incident. Not better, just different. And watching Tina leave, he started looking forward to a Chili’s turkey burger.

  DOOLEY couldn’t believe he’d lost the money a second time and to another fucking nigger. Sutter was smart and now he’d either negotiate or act. The best he could hope for from Sutter was a fifty-fifty split. The only reason Dooley figured he’d even get that was to keep his mouth shut. Whatever happened, it better happen soon, because he didn’t have the stomach for much more of this shit.

  Dooley sat at his desk in the robbery task force, knowing that sooner or later the city detective would show up. He checked temporary evidence to see if the guy was slick enough to hide the cash back there, but he hadn’t checked out any lockers. Dooley just sat and stewed. Where had Sutter found that gorgeous woman to use as a decoy? Dooley wouldn’t mind getting her in some type of settlement.

  While he waited, he checked the chambers of the old .38 the Bureau had issued him. The model 13 Smith & Wesson was a relic from another time, but he had resisted the move to automatic pistols, partly because he liked the reliability of the revolver and partly to separate himself from the young upstart agents who thought they knew everything. Mac Nmir was one who dressed like a lawyer and acted like a politician. Those kinds of guys always wanted people to like them. The fucking little dot-head hadn’t even indicted Tasker yet, and Dooley knew it was because Nmir liked the personable state cop and was looking for any reason not to arrest him. If it hadn’t been for Dooley’s maneuvering with the press and a few phony phone calls as a reporter to his boss, Nmir wouldn’t be under any pressure at all to clear the case. Shit, even the bosses at FDLE were behind Tasker. They wanted him back at work as soon as he was cleared. They fully believed he was innocent. Dooley had never seen that kind of support from the Bureau before.

  He had one more call to make, to a guy he knew with the Palm Beach Post. He figured that since Tasker was from there and had been in trouble a few years back, maybe a local reporter could stir up some shit.

  Now there was nothing for him to do but wait for Sutter to come back to the office and see how reasonable he could be.

  ALL morning, Tasker tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Things like: Who in the hell was Cole Hodges if he wasn’t Cole Hodges? He had a dozen newspaper clippings, a Tropic article, a Palm Beach Life photo and a brochure from the CCR. He now realized how badly he missed one of the most important aspects of a large investigative agency: a criminal intelligence analyst.

  FDLE was widely viewed as having the best, most creative cri
minal intelligence analysts, and Tasker was friendly with most of them. The problem was they had a network better than NBC. If he spoke to one, he spoke to all. Unless he wanted his investigation to become common knowledge, he had to think this through. Then he knew exactly whom to call. The one analyst who could make sense out of this and keep his mouth shut. He picked up his phone and punched in the main FDLE Miami number. After three rings he heard the familiar, tired voice with a tinge of a Latin accent saying, “FDLE, may I help you?”

  Tasker tried to lower his voice just in case the receptionist recognized it. “Jerry Ristin, please.”

  “One mom—” The phone switching cut her off.

  After that he heard the raspy voice of his sixty-year-old friend. “Ristin. What do you want?”

  “Jerry, it’s Bill Tasker.”

  “Billy, why aren’t you on the French Riviera?”

  “Funny.”

  “You could at least share with your friends.”

  “Jerry...”

  “Billy, relax, we all know you’re not a crook.”

  Tasker chuckled into the phone. “Jerry, I need a favor.”

  “Name of a good attorney?”

  “I need your professional talents.”

  “My analytical skills? What the hell for?” After a pause. “You’re not working on this bank thing yourself, are you?”

  “Got to.”

  “The Bureau will have your balls if they find out.”

  “They got them now. Will you help me?”

  “Yes, you know I will. What do you need?”

  Tasker gave him everything he had on Hodges, along with his suspicions.

  Ristin finally said, “So? I mean, who’ll care if that asshole is really some other asshole?”

  “Because he may have taken the cash.”

  “I’ll look into missing persons from the mid-eighties, unsolved patterns, that sort of thing, but trying to match this with the current Mr. Hodges is one hell of a long shot.”

  “It may be all I have.”

  TWO hours later, Tasker sat at a large corner booth with Derrick Sutter, taking the chance to speak privately with him before Tina and her sister showed up. He appreciated the chance Sutter was taking meeting him in a restaurant with the FBI surveillance continuing. Although it wasn’t the hardest job in the world to lose those guys whenever he wanted to go someplace unescorted.

  Sutter took a long drink of Coke and said, “You still doing all right?”

  Tasker nodded. “I know I have to do something myself, but I don’t know what.”

  “It’d be nice if we could find the money.”

  “You still think Dooley’s got it in temporary evidence?”

  “Nope.”

  Tasker looked at him. “Where is it, then?”

  Sutter shrugged. “He moved whatever was in the locker yesterday. He had a bag in his hand.”

  “What’d the bag look like?”

  “Just a plastic garbage bag.”

  “You see him leave with it?”

  “He walked out, then I saw him talking to a woman.”

  “Someone from the task force?”

  “No, a tourist or something. Looked like she was asking directions. I mean she was some kind of knockout.”

  “And you haven’t seen our fat FBI friend since?”

  “Nope. I haven’t been by the task force yet. But I got you other leads, too.”

  “Like what?”

  “The crack dealer who claimed you were at the bank. That’d be a place to start.”

  Tasker just nodded, knowing the Miami cop was right. “The Bureau already talked to him. He’s the only one they did talk to.”

  Sutter said, “What about your girlfriend? Can she help?”

  “I wouldn’t put Tina in that position.”

  “But you said you already told her my suspicions about Dooley and the money. You involved her.”

  “I needed someone to talk to. She’s got a good career, I don’t want to ruin it. She’s not used to dealing with snakes like the ones on this case.”

  Before Sutter could answer, Tasker stood and welcomed Tina Wiggins, saying, “Speak of an angel and she appears.”

  Tina put her arm around the shoulder of her sister and said, “This is my sister, Jeanie.”

  Jeanie was stunning in a tight midriff top. The similarities with Tina were obvious, but the differences were even greater. The much larger and more proudly displayed boobs, the exposed stomach and the tattoo of a flaming ring around her navel spoke more to her profession as a dancer. This would be a fun lunch. Tasker couldn’t help but notice Sutter stare at Jeanie like he knew her.

  TWENTY

  DERRICK Sutter walked into the robbery task force office with his head still spinning from lunch. In the eight years he’d been in the Miami police department, he’d been stabbed, had shot three guys and had seen Madonna jogging and had still managed to take it all in stride. But today he’d been truly surprised. He’d kept his cool, but it wasn’t easy. When he saw that Tasker’s girlfriend’s sister was the same girl who’d been talking to Dooley, he knew something was up. He didn’t think Mr. Straight Arrow white-bread state cop was in on it, but his squeeze, Tina, had plans. She was either on the case or on the make. His guess was that she was in it for profit. He’d figure it out soon enough.

  As he sat at his small metal desk and started to gather his intelligence briefs of current robberies, trying to make a stab at his legitimate paying job, he couldn’t keep his mind off Tina and her sister, Jeanie. It bothered Sutter to know someone was up to something in his city. He was about to call Tasker and tell him Jeanie was the woman he’d seen talking to Dooley, when the fat FBI man burst into the empty squad bay, looked right at Sutter and said, “We gotta talk, hotshot.”

  “Why’s that?” Sutter asked, barely containing his smile.

  “You know why, you fucking smart-ass. C’mon, let’s take a walk.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “You won’t know unless we talk.”

  Sutter considered this, and a minute later found himself walking down the back row of the task force parking lot, with Dooley fidgeting and looking around for surveillance.

  Sutter finally took hold of Dooley’s wrinkled suit coat. “Okay, Dooley, what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is you got something that’s mine.”

  Sutter smiled. Now he knew what Tina Wiggins and her sister were up to. He said, “I do? What’s that?”

  “You know, smart-ass, I could fuck you up right now.”

  Sutter started to laugh. To have a fat, middle-aged man threaten him in his own town was a joke. He looked up to see Dooley steam.

  Dooley asked, “What is so fucking funny?”

  “Threats from you. You think I’m some street nigger you can push around. I’d kick your old, fat ass before you even thought about going for that piece-a-shit six-shooter.”

  Dooley shut up for a minute, then said, “I could make it tough for you to spend that cash.”

  “What cash?”

  “Don’t give me that shit, Sutter. You know what cash and what the hell I’m talking about. Now how do we resolve this?”

  “Where’d that cash come from again?”

  Dooley glared at him. “I’ve had enough of your shit. We can be partners or competitors. You decide.”

  Sutter let loose with another easy smile as an idea popped into his head, and he said, “I’ll get back to you.”

  TASKER spent a couple of hours getting what little life he had in order, cleaning out his bank account of the thirty-two hundred dollars he’d saved since the divorce and borrowing seventeen thousand more against his retirement fund, all to pay the attorney who, so far, had only told him to keep his mouth shut and be ready to “lay down some shit” if they went to trial. In fairness to this guy, Tasker hadn’t been very honest with him. He hadn’t told the attorney about Mac Nmir’s last visit or any of the information Derrick Sutter had provided. Although he had let h
im in on his private investigation, which the lawyer had said to cut out immediately. All Tasker wanted this attorney for was legal maneuverings which, until recently, he’d never actually thought would be necessary. With the federal grand jury scheduled to hear his case the following week, he felt time slipping away.

  Donna hadn’t returned since her surprise visit with the girls and he didn’t push things. He intended to call her in the next day or so to arrange a visit with the girls, and he secretly hoped she’d be available, too.

  As he waited to meet Jerry Ristin for lunch to go over his findings, he straightened up the house and occasionally looked out the window to see whose turn it was to watch him. Mac Nmir was in his Taurus sometimes, but usually it was a young Asian female in a Monte Carlo or a white guy with a crew cut in a Crown Victoria. At first he was self-conscious about his security blanket, but now it had almost a comforting effect. He figured that since Bema’s death and with the grand jury about to convene, they needed tighter reins on him. He’d warned Tina, and that was why she liked meeting in other places. She seemed jumpier the past day or so, definitely wanting to shy away from FBI attention. He couldn’t blame her.

  As he was going through his file cabinet upstairs, looking for any other account he might be able to drain, he found the old pistol box he kept stored behind the files. He pulled out the blue plastic box and unsnapped the front locks. Inside was his first personally owned gun, a SIG Sauer nine-millimeter. He had turned in his issued Beretta when he was suspended, and completely forgot to tell the FBI it was here when they did their search. A search that Tasker could now see had been completely inadequate and shoddy. How does a real cop miss a gun during a search? And one in plain sight, not even hidden. He now understood why some of the tougher criminals were always so embarrassed to be grabbed by the FBI. Tasker laughed at the thought as he pulled out the pistol and racked the slide on the well-oiled empty gun.