Walking Money

by James O. Born

  Sutter shook his head. “You’re wasting your time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Hodges doesn’t have the cash.”

  “How in the hell do you know that?”

  “Look, there’s something I gotta tell you.” Sutter sat up to lean in close.

  Tasker said, “I’m listening.”

  Sutter took a second and looked around, then said, “You never heard this.”

  Tasker nodded.

  “Dooley took the cash.”

  “For sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Tasker put his hand on Sutter’s arm. “How do you know?”

  Sutter shrugged. “I just do.”

  “Great, let’s get ahold of Nmir.”

  “Not so fast, my brother. Dooley doesn’t have it with him right at this moment, and you know you got to have a slam dunk to convince an FBI man that another FBI man did something like this. You got some work to do first.”

  “Go on.”

  “First, there’s the witness who said he seen you at the bank. He never said it was you, he said it was a white cop in a Buick Century.”

  “They started on me based on that?”

  “And what Dooley said. Anyways, this witness is a small, small crack dealer name Cedric Brown, known as ‘Spill’ on the street. Hangs by the bank and near the Church’s Fried Chicken on Seventh.”

  Tasker was quiet while he thought this over.

  Sutter broke his concentration. “What’re you thinkin’ about? You need to grab this crackhead by the ears and rattle his brain. Find out who he saw. Then maybe Nmir will see what you turn up.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ve done what I can do, my brother. You have to fight or they’ll bury you.”

  Tasker had to sit on the edge of the lounger as his muscles gave way to the fear that pumped through them. Could Hodges have been nothing but a wild-goose chase? Was he any kind of cop?

  Sutter said, “You okay?”

  Tasker nodded. “Maybe I’m just getting what I should’ve gotten four years ago.” He let his upper body collapse onto the lounger and decided to write the rest of the night off.

  DOOLEY backed his issued Buick out of its spot in front of the FBI’s combined task force office on Miami Gardens Drive at the peak of rush hour. From three o’clock on, he’d spent his time finding out everything he could about Tina Wiggins and her slutty sister and roommate, Jeanie. Mac Nmir had come up with that identification, but Dooley saw the resemblance in the driver’s license photos. He’d been forced to use less efficient means of finding this information because he didn’t want anyone to know he was working on it. Usually he’d just hand a name to one of the nerdy, useless criminal intelligence analysts, and a day or two later he’d get a neat little package with all the pertinent information in some semblance of order. This time he had to dig through the computer files and databases, both on and off the Internet, to find out what he could.

  He liked to lead people on about his lack of computer savvy, but only because he didn’t want people giving him more work. If they thought he didn’t know a mouse from a rat, they didn’t bother him about anything computer-related. In reality, he did better than most, and much better than his contemporaries, on the computer. On a task like this, all that time on the computer paid off big.

  Now it was time to put all that information to work. He had a plan this time and it didn’t include any more fucking partners. Jesus, he was sick of people looking to make deals. He’d told Sutter no one would get hurt. And no one would if Sutter helped him get his money back and kept his yap shut. As a precaution, Dooley had strapped on an ankle holster with a little Smith five-shot in addition to his heavy model 13 in his trusty hip holster. His pockets rattled with three speed loaders and his cylinders were full, giving him twenty-four rounds in case of trouble. He couldn’t say he was actually angry; he was tired of being pissed at everyone who tried to do exactly what he’d done: take the money. Technically he’d done the same to the late Reverend Watson.

  Dooley swung east toward U.S. 1 before he could track north toward the Wiggins sisters’ apartment. With a couple of guns, he felt pretty confident in any part of Miami, so he cut through the one nasty housing project in the north end of Miami and then along the huge recreation fields that serviced the projects and surrounding neighborhoods.

  He rolled to a stop at the only working light in the area and checked the paper with Tina Wiggins’s address. As he took a moment to figure the fastest route over there, he heard a ping against the rear window of his car a second before he felt an impact on the rear of the car. He sat motionless for a moment, thinking how he could explain this to the Bureau, when he realized it wasn’t an accident but an assault. The rear windows shattered from a bullet, and now a second round traveled just past his right ear and into the windshield.

  Dooley rolled and squeezed under the dash as he drew his big revolver, then crouched even further. Another shot sent him toward the passenger door, somehow managing to force his girth through the tight quarters. Dooley’s mind raced, first with how to get out, then with who was shooting at him. He reached with his left hand for the door handle, but couldn’t get a decent grip. He squeezed forward an inch, the steering wheel cutting into his hip and the dash into his back. He grunted as he forced every fiber in his body to move toward the door. He reached again and this time another shot forced him back down.

  “Shit,” he said out loud, then again out loud said, “C’mon, Tom, reach.” His pudgy fingers wrapped around the handle and with one movement pulled it then shoved the door open, the dim light from outside visible beyond the open door. He shimmied out to the edge of the door jamb and reached his right hand with the gun out the door, firing two quick shots without aiming, then with great effort, threw himself out the passenger door, landing like a fallen helicopter on the road. Taking one quick glimpse to see his assailant, Dooley scrambled for cover at the front of the car. He hadn’t seen enough of anything to know how many attackers there were, let alone who was attacking him.

  Dooley popped his head over the hood, looking through the blown out windows. A larger dark vehicle was still jammed against his and then another shot pinged off his hood. He jerked his head back down and, panting, checked his pocket for the speed loaders. He found them right where he’d left them, so he took his pistol, popped up again, and this time he fired. Four shots across the grill and windshield of the vehicle. Then he heard someone call his name and he froze.

  “Dooley,” came the unfamiliar male voice. “Dooley, I’m not mad, my friend.” Then two more shots came across the hood.

  Dooley tried to associate the voice with a face. Shit! Where were the cops when you needed them? How long had this been going on? It felt like hours until Dooley checked his watch. More like a minute. The cops probably wouldn’t even get called in this neighborhood.

  Dooley gathered his breath and croaked, “Who’s that?”

  “You don’t know?” came the reply, still from the same place; it didn’t sound like the guy was trying to work his way around on him.

  Dooley shouted back, “I got time and ammo. You do what you want.”

  “I want my damn money back.”

  Dooley could kick himself. Damn Cole Hodges had crept up on him again. Dooley said to himself, “I must be slippin’ to let this jig do this a second time.”

  “Dooley, give me the cash and keep a hundred grand for your persistence. We both keep quiet and come out ahead.”

  Dooley thought that over. He’d negotiate if he had the cash. “Maybe we could work something out, but I don’t have it with me. You kill me and you’ll never find it.”

  “I can find you anywhere I need to. Your office, that nice house in South Miami, you name it, I’ve seen you there.”

  Dooley was stunned. How did that son-of-a-bitch bastard jerk-off do that? He followed me and I never knew it.

  “What’s it gonna be, Dooley?”

  Dooley thought about it.
He had nothing now. No money, no guarantee someone wouldn’t point the finger at him. He took a breath and made a decision. Leaning around the front of the car, he could see it was a pickup truck, probably the same one that had run down Bema. “Give me a couple of days and I’ll work it out.”

  “Where?”

  He thought about a neutral site. “Pro Player Stadium, Thursday at nine.”

  “Wednesday.”

  “Done,” shouted Dooley. He stayed put for a few seconds until he heard the truck back away. Half a minute later, he saw it heading east across the playing fields.

  Now he had to get the cash and then decide what to do about Hodges.

  IT was an impulse more than anything else. He pulled the Jeep off I-95 in Hallandale and headed east. Playing around on the Internet, Tasker had come up with the bank manager’s home address. He figured since he was on his way to West Palm Beach anyway, he would stop at the house and see if anyone was home. He knew Louis Kerpal, the deceased manager, wasn’t married, but he might have a roommate or a girlfriend. Tasker found the small house in a nice but older neighborhood.

  Before he was out of the Jeep, an elderly woman was in the front doorway.

  “May I help you?” She had a tired voice that matched her looks.

  Tasker showed her his badge from a distance. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions, ma’am.”

  “About my son, Louis?” She may have had a slight southern drawl.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He’d figured out her relationship to the dead bank manager and wasn’t to the house yet. Not bad. Tasker had talked to dozens of mourning relatives in his career. His understated manner helped in this circumstance.

  Inside the small house, Tasker accepted a seat in an old high-backed chair while Mrs. Kerpal trudged into the kitchen for two glasses of orange juice. He noticed the photographs, mostly of Louis as he grew up. Tasker recognized some of the wall photos as ones given to the newspapers for stories on the robbery.

  As Mrs. Kerpal sat on the edge of the sofa next to Tasker’s chair, he sensed that she was still in a state of shock over her son’s death. Although she smiled, it was without emotion; even though she looked alert, she didn’t have it together. He decided to move this along.

  “I just need a little information, Mrs. Kerpal, then I’ll get out of your way.”

  “I don’t know what else I can add. The young man from the FBI spent a lot of time with me and I told him everything.”

  “Did your son talk about work much?”

  “Oh, yes, he loved the bank.”

  “Had he ever been the victim of a robbery before?”

  “He was mugged outside the bank after closing, but never a robbery.”

  “Can you remember anything unusual he used to tell you?”

  She spent a moment thinking about it. “No, not really. He wanted to work downtown where the famous people popped in all the time. That was one of his only complaints.”

  “He didn’t have anyone famous in Overtown?”

  “Just the man from the black group.”

  Tasker froze. “Which man?”

  “I think his name was Hodges. Louis loved him. Every time the man was on the television, Louis would go on and on about how he banks at his branch.”

  “Did he say anything else about Hodges?”

  “He had a safe-deposit box that Louis got to look in every week. He loved being in on something like that.”

  Tasker started to formulate a theory. Maybe Hodges had taken his own money. Maybe he’d been forced to. He was about to ask Mrs. Kerpal another question when he noticed an odd look on her face. Then her lower lip started to quiver.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Kerpal?”

  “You’re him.”

  Tasker knew the game was up.

  She pointed at him. “You’re the state policeman who killed my boy.”

  “No, ma’am, it’s not what you think.”

  “I’m not senile, you know. Sometimes it just takes a minute for everything to come into focus. Why are you here?”

  Tasker started to rise. “I’m hoping to find who killed your son.”

  “You want to cover your tracks.”

  “No, ma’am. I...”

  “Get out.” She stood with surprising strength. “Get out right this second. I’ll have nothing to do with you.”

  “But...”

  “Get out before I have the Hallandale police arrest you for trespassing.”

  He scurried to his Jeep before he was arrested for witness-tampering.

  HIS drive from Mrs. Kerpal’s house was brutal; he knew he’d fucked up. If Mrs. Kerpal called the cops, he could be a fugitive by nightfall. Tasker arrived at his former house in West Palm Beach just as the sun set. He’d told Donna he’d come by, but hadn’t said when, so it was half of a surprise. He pulled in next to her minivan and could see the girls through the front bay window as they looked to see who their company was. Then he saw the recognition in their faces as they jumped and raced to the front door. He started to calm down from the drive.

  After his reunion with the girls, he sought out Donna, who’d yet to make an appearance.

  He walked slowly down the hall from the living room, calling, “Donna, it’s me.”

  He stopped at the closed bedroom door. Their bedroom. At least, it was a few years ago. That simple thought made him see his mistake. Not in the shooting, but in how he’d reacted to it. He hadn’t been in it alone. He’d acted like it was just him caught up in events around the shooting but it had really involved his whole family.

  “Donna?” he said, knocking lightly on the door. No answer. When he turned to head back to the girls, the door opened, revealing Donna with a tear-streaked face.

  “What is it?” asked Tasker.

  She didn’t answer, but motioned him into the room. She stopped him with a foghorn honk into a tissue.

  His panic increased. “Donna, what happened?”

  “The newspaper...” was all she got out.

  “What newspaper?”

  “The Post. A reporter was waiting when we got home.” She broke down and cried again.

  “What’d he say? Did he hurt you?”

  “No, no, he’s doing a story on you and your troubles.

  He’s connecting the Sandersen shooting and these new allegations. Oh, Bill, it was horrible. I couldn’t get rid of him. He just kept asking me things. It reminded me of last time. I can’t do that again.” She broke down again.

  “What was his name?”

  She pointed to a business card and kept crying as he picked it up and stuffed it in his pocket.

  He patted her on the back, saying, “It’s all right, Donna. It’s over now.”

  She looked up at him. “No, it’s not, Bill. It’s not nearly over. And I can’t risk the girls. If someone talks to them or teases them, it could be devastating.”

  Tasker just looked at her, waiting for the rest.

  “So until this is over, and I know it will be soon, I want you to stay away. Call the girls, but let’s try and shield them as much as possible.”

  He stared at her because there was nothing left to say.

  BILL Tasker looked at the page of notes that had all the pertinent information about his case on it. If Sutter was right, Dooley had the money. If Tasker was right, it was probably Hodges. The only lead anyone could follow now was the crack dealer/witness. As far as the FBI was concerned, that lead had already been worked. Even though they hadn’t done much else. Even Tasker had to admit that with all the rumors floating around, Tom Dooley was his main suspect, but again the FBI wouldn’t be interested in that kind of stuff. He had to do it. His life had been thrown into a purgatory until this was resolved. He couldn’t see the girls, Tina didn’t want to have anything to do with him until it was over, he couldn’t even go to work if he wanted to. He now knew he had to get his old life back, not just the one from a month ago, the one he lost four years ago on a bloody floor of a ranch house near West Palm Beach. H
e turned and bounded up the stairs to his filing cabinet next to the computer in his spare bedroom. Opening the top drawer, he grabbed the box containing the old SIG Sauer nine-millimeter and pulled out the pistol. He loaded the magazine with bullets he had stashed in his closet, charged the gun and crammed it in his waistband without a holster. Now it was time to kick some ass.

  TWENTY TWO

  AS Bill Tasker settled into his four-year-old Jeep Grand Cherokee, his first priority was to lose the FBI surveillance team. He’d noticed that they came on about four in the afternoon, so they were relatively fresh. It was the official-looking guy with the crew cut, the Asian female and a dark-haired female he’d never seen before. They had cars that reflected the FBI’s conservative tastes: a Taurus and two Buick Centuries. He figured he could show them how a South Floridian could drive.

  Tasker started slow, signaling turns, stopping at lights, just like always. He headed west toward the 826 expressway. At seven in the evening, the traffic on the north-south artery was tolerable. Checking his rearview mirror as all three cars came on the ramp and lined up behind him, a small smile crossed his face. It couldn’t really be this easy. Could it?

  He slowly increased his speed until he hit eighty. As he headed north, he passed the 836 expressway, which runs east and west, and the airport until he reached Fifty-eighth Street. He signaled and slowly crossed the lanes of traffic to his right to allow the FBI agents to follow. He wanted to lose them, but couldn’t resist leading them into Hialeah first. Once the street numbers didn’t match the rest of the county and the locals showed no interest in traffic rules, Tasker was certain these young agents would be tied up for a while. He even smiled at the thought of some poor guy from Iowa who mistakenly believed Hialeah was part of the continental United States.

  He made sure they were behind him and ready, then he took a sharp left onto an avenue with a shopping center on each corner. Hitting the gas, he shot through the gauntlet of cars streaming out of the parking lot. There were some beeps and fingers, but there always were in this huge suburb of Miami. He noticed one of the Buicks didn’t make it past the corner. Then Tasker hung a right into a neighborhood and zipped around a slow-moving pickup truck with a huge, homemade gas tank welded into the bed. This was a Cuban phenomenon where men sold gas for cars door to door. Only the Asian agent in the Century made it past and stayed with Tasker.