Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5)

by Dallas Gorham

Ngombo locked the door behind him. He turned the dead bolt and slipped the door chain into its slot. That accursed white devil in the suit and tie had killed Bud and Hambone. Ngombo didn’t even know the real names of the two dead men, but they had been under his orders, so he said a prayer to his gods for their spirits.

  He dragged himself to a chair and unlaced his boots. He had bruised his heel when he kicked down that old woman’s front door. The door was sturdier than he expected. He’d kicked it twice before the jamb splintered. He rubbed his heel gingerly. He considered soaking it in ice water, but he needed sleep more.

  He leaned his head back on the chair, tempted to fall asleep right there. He had been up all the previous night. Then Moffett sent him to kidnap the old woman. He had caught a short nap in the car between lunch and when the old woman arrived home after school, but he’d had almost no sleep for forty hours.

  He noticed his phone. If he turned it off, he assured himself at least a few hours uninterrupted sleep. No, Moffett insisted he be available 24/7. He’d better leave it on. He scrolled to the next screen and tapped the tracker app he’d installed to follow Rice’s phone. The wait symbol flashed. Ngombo perked up. Maybe the idiot Rice had charged his phone. The map lit with an arrow on Rice’s location, or at least the location of the bastard’s phone. Thank the gods, Rice had charged his phone. Ngombo glanced at his watch. Oh, God, it was late and he was too tired to look for Rice. He noted the phone’s location, closed the app, and fell asleep in the chair.

  Chapter 43

  FBI Special Agent in Charge Eugenio Lopez tolerated me as much as he tolerated anyone who wasn’t a Fed, but that wasn’t much. Even after the genius way I had handled a nasty bit of business for him in Chicago a few weeks before, he didn’t look happy to see me. Or course, Lopez never looked happy. “Are you here as a witness to the Doraleen Rice kidnapping?”

  “Nope.”

  “How about the attempted murder of Raymond Snopolski a/k/a Snoop?”

  “Since when is attempted murder a federal crime?”

  “Since it was in connection with a kidnapping. Were you a witness?”

  “Can’t say that I was.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I need to find Doraleen Rice.”

  “So do a bunch of us professionals whose job that is. Butt out. You can read about it in the paper when we find her.” Gene had known me long enough to know I wasn’t a butt-out kind of guy, but he went through the motions.

  “What does the FBI know about TCL Enterprises, Inc.?” I checked my notes. “Registered address Box 2277, Port City Post Office north branch?”

  Gene slid his keyboard out. “Hmm. That is interesting. The name has come up before.”

  “In connection with what?”

  “You know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with a civilian.”

  “Perish the thought,” I said. “What would the neighbors think?”

  “How do you take your coffee?”

  “Thanks, Gene, but I had a cup on the way here.”

  “You didn’t hear me, Chuck. How do you take your coffee?”

  Oh… sometimes I’m a little slow on the uptake. “A little cream, no sugar.”

  “It will take me three minutes to get coffee.” He left.

  I turned the screen where I could read it. Human trafficking? I took notes.

  ###

  Flamer called.

  “Stand by,” I said, “Let me pull over.” I did. “What have you found?”

  “You sent me on a real scavenger hunt, you know that? This was like finding the Titanic. Really deep diving.”

  I have never known Flamer’s real name, only his email address and the Flamer21 handle. He’s never told me the significance of the 21 either.

  “What kind of researcher doesn’t like a challenge, Flamer?”

  “Yeah, well, this is gonna cost you extra, big guy.”

  Flamer would be a bargain at twice the price, but I’d never tell him that. “Okay. What did you learn about the Crazy Lady and the Orange Peel?”

  “The owners use three different legal entities: the club building, the land it sits on, and the liquor license. The Crazy Lady building belongs to CL Operations Ltd., a Caymanian corporation registered with a lawyer in Grand Cayman, but CL Operations Ltd. doesn’t own the land that the building sits on. CL Operations Ltd. leases the land under a ninety-nine-year lease at a pretty cheap rent. That land belongs to the CL Land Trust, a Florida Land Trust controlled by a Tallahassee lawyer named Leonard Satin. The Crazy Lady’s liquor license belongs to a guy named Bernard Prevossi. It’s in the email I sent.”

  “How cheap is the rent?”

  “Real cheap. Barely enough to cover the property taxes.”

  “Why so cheap?”

  “Ask your CPA.”

  “Good idea. Copy Tank on the emails after we hang up. How long has this screwball ownership arrangement been around?”

  “Satin arranged the Crazy Lady ground lease three years ago, when the club building was first built. That’s when the CL Land Trust acquired the land.”

  “Let me get this straight, Flamer. The Tallahassee attorney, Leonard Satin, had this CL Land Trust buy the vacant land and lease it to CL Operations Ltd. in Grand Cayman, which then built the building?”

  “Right. Construction took six months. The club has been open a little over two years. Bernard Prevossi owns the liquor license, but he had no official connection to the Florida Land Trust, nor the Caymanian corporation.”

  “Great. What about the Orange Peel?”

  “It’s a similar scheme, but different. The Orange Peel building is eleven years old. The land and building were purchased by the OP Land Trust, another Florida Land Trust set up by Leonard Satin. The same day, the OP Land Trust sold the building and leased the land to OP Operations Ltd., a different Caymanian corporation registered with the same law firm in Grand Cayman. Another ninety-nine-year land lease with rent high enough to pay the property taxes.”

  “So the same lawyers set up different legal entities to do the same deal.”

  “Right.”

  “And when did this round-robin deal occur?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  I knew the answer to the next question, but I had to ask. “And the liquor license?”

  “Also belongs to Bernard Prevossi.”

  Bingo. “Have you checked out Prevossi?”

  “Working on it now.”

  Rule Seven: There is no such thing as a coincidence—except when there is. The Crazy Lady and the Orange Peel belonged to the same person, but was the owner Leonard Satin, Bernard Prevossi, or someone else whose name hadn’t popped up yet? I had another idea. “Check out the Fuzzy Bare strip club, spelled B-A-R-E, a few blocks up the same street.”

  “I’m not into strip clubs, Chuck. Unless they’re tranny or gay.”

  “Very funny. Find out who owns it, smart guy, and send a copy to Tank.”

  “I will, Chuck. Just pulling your chain.”

  Banker Lady told me the dancers were independent contractors. But suppose Jennifer was transferred, for lack of a better word, by the mysterious club owner, whoever he was, from the Crazy Lady to the Orange Peel to improve the new club he recently bought. She was a star dancer, no doubt, and the showroom had filled for her performance.

  I called Tank and explained the complicated legal structures used to acquire and operate the strip clubs. “Flamer’s copying you on the emails. Look at them and tell me what you think. Charge your professional consultation fee to me.”

  “If I do that,” Tank said, “you’ll add ten percent to cover your overhead and charge it back to me as out-of-pocket expenses on the case.”

  “What makes you think my overhead is only ten percent?” We shared a laugh.

  “I’ll look into it,” Tank said, “no charge. But I practically guarantee you it’s done to avoid U.S. taxes while accumulating tax-free money offshore.”

  “Thanks. On another subject, have the kidn
appers contacted you?”

  “Nope. Where are you?”

  “Downtown near the Federal Building. I visited the FBI agent handling Doraleen’s kidnapping case.”

  “And…?”

  “And the two men Snoop killed had long criminal records. Did you get Al admitted to the Sunny Place as John C. Calhoun?”

  “Yeah, last night. I was about to visit and see how he’s settling in.”

  “Remember to take the Mercedes,” I reminded him.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “I also need to pursue Scarface.” I said. “I put a GPS tracker on his Cherokee last night.”

  “That’s good news. Maybe he’ll lead you to Momma Dora.”

  Chapter 44

  Ngombo bolted upright and cricked his neck. Damn, he had fallen asleep in his chair and his back was killing him. His phone played a jungle drums ringtone he’d found on the internet to remind him of his homeland. That had awakened him. He tried to rub the back of his painful neck and discovered his right arm was asleep.

  He checked his watch and swore in his native language. He had slept the clock around. Moffett would not be happy. His phone lay where he dropped it the previous night. He grabbed it, clumsy with his left hand, and wrenched his back. “Yes, Bones, this is Teddy Ngombo.” He flexed his arm to restore the blood flow.

  “Where the fuck are you, Teddy?”

  Bones must be angry. He never used language like that. “I am at home, Bones. I had not slept in forty hours.”

  “What are you gonna do, sleep the whole fucking day? We’re short two men, what with Bud and Hambone being gone. Get your ass over here.” Bones disconnected.

  ###

  The GPS tracker I had stuck under Scarface’s Jeep was on the move. I called Gene Lopez. “Gene, you can serve that search warrant on Teddy Ngombo’s apartment without spooking him. He’s not home. He’s driving west on the North Bay Causeway as we speak.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You don’t want to know. Just serve the warrant.”

  “Already tried. We went to the address in the PCPD file and he didn’t live there.”

  “He doesn’t live in apartment 2-G; he lives in 8-G.”

  “How did you learn that?”

  “Masterful detective work. Change the address, get a new warrant, and try again. He’s left his apartment and it’s empty.”

  “Did you find him and follow him out without telling me?”

  “Not exactly. I was just in the right place at the right time.”

  “What the hell does ‘not exactly’ mean?”

  “I had an impromptu date with Ngombo’s next door neighbor last night. I saw him through her window when he came home.”

  “Chuck, I could haul you in for obstructing a federal investigation. What else do you know that you haven’t told me?”

  “Look, Gene, I gave you Ngombo’s license number. I presume you have a BOLO on it. He’s crossing North Bay Causeway. Maybe he’s on his way to where they’re holding Doraleen Rice.”

  North Bay Causeway connected Port City’s northern half to the beach. Snoop was in Cedars of Lebanon Hospital which was in the same general direction Scarface was headed.

  I debated the ethics of continuing to use Snoop’s Toyota. Janet asked me to take it, but Snoop had gotten the Toyota shot full of bullet holes a few weeks before when he worked another case for me. I’d feel guilty as hell if the bad guys shot more bullet holes in his brand new paint job. I decided to return to Doraleen’s house and swap the Toyota for my minivan. Scarface had seen the minivan, but there were thousands like it. He hadn’t seen my 1963 Avanti, but there was no way I would put the Avanti at risk. My late grandfather, Magnus McCrary, gave me the antique car as a college graduation gift.

  Before I got on the freeway, I called Janet to check on Snoop.

  “There’s no change in his condition,” she said. “The doctor said the longer he survives, the more likely he’ll recover. When he said that, I thought, ‘Duh, Dr. Obvious.’ The doctor said his heart wasn’t beating when the EMTs put him in the ambulance. He hasn’t regained consciousness and they say there might be some deficits from oxygen deprivation to his brain before you found him. God, how I hate that word.”

  “What word?”

  “Deficits.” She cried out. “It means my husband might be a vegetable.”

  When I’d found Snoop and checked for a pulse, there hadn’t been one. I began CPR immediately, but I hadn’t told Janet about his stopped heart. It would have served no purpose but to worry her more. “Are the girls with you?”

  “Yes. We’ve been here all night. We’re going to lunch.”

  “I have good news about my hunt for the bad guys.”

  “I need good news,” Janet said.

  “Last night, I found where the guy who shot Snoop lives. I put a GPS tracker under his car. He’s on the move. I hope he’ll lead me to where they have Doraleen.”

  “That’s good to hear. If Snoop wakes up—no, when Snoop wakes up, I’ll tell him.”

  “Should I bring Snoop’s car back so you and the girls will have a second car at the hospital?”

  “My car’s here; we don’t need a second one. You keep Snoop’s car. It makes me feel like he’s on the job, even when he’s at death’s door in a hospital bed.”

  I prayed she was wrong about the death’s door part. “Look, Janet, when I find Scarface, things might get rough. I’d hate to get Snoop’s car shot up again.”

  “That’s why God invented insurance, Chuck. Although, I imagine the insurance company will cancel us if it happens again.”

  “Tell you what, Janet, if the bad guys shoot Snoop’s car again, I’ll buy him a new one and put it on my expense account with the client. Tank can afford it.”

  I checked Scarface’s location again. He had reached the mainland and turned north on NW Sixth Avenue. I had a hunch where he was headed, and it was in the same neighborhood where I liked to have lunch.

  I hit the Day and Night Diner at their lunch rush. I bought a pre-packaged sub and went looking for Scarface’s Jeep.

  Chapter 45

  Ngombo bounced the Jeep up the driveway and slammed it into a parking spot. He waved at the sentry in the upstairs window, jogged around to the rear entrance, and took the stairs two at a time to Moffett’s loft.

  Moffett sat before a large platter with the scraps of a paella meal. Sauce drippings and food crumbs spattered the cloth napkin tucked in his shirt collar. “You’re late, Teddy,” he mumbled around a mouthful of food. “I intended to move our guest this morning. We’re two men short and you put us behind schedule.”

  “I am sorry, Monster. I went forty hours without sleep—” He halted when the boss lifted a hand.

  Moffett set his fork down. “Forget it, Teddy, it’s water over the dam. We’ll discuss it later if it happens again. For now, I gotta assume that someone in the neighborhood saw both the Jeeps at the old woman’s house. Maybe a neighbor’s surveillance camera, maybe a nosy teenager with a cell phone video. Who knows? If that happened, the cops are looking for your Jeep.”

  Bones asked, “You want we should dump the car, boss?”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Bones. Those things are worth thirty thousand apiece, and we already lost one at the Rice woman’s house. We don’t know that Teddy’s Jeep has been made. We won’t use it until we find out for sure one way or the other. We won’t dump it; we’ll just… ignore it for a few days. Park it with its back bumper toward the building so no one reads the license plates from the street. In fact, do that for a couple of the other vehicles in the lot.” He waved dismissively. “In any event, we’re gonna leave those vehicles where they are for a while. Teddy and Bones and Turk, go get the old woman and put her in a different SUV, maybe the Denali. Yeah, take the Denali. Bones knows where to stash her.”

  “Monster,” Ngombo said, “the cell phone of Al Rice came back online last night and I received a hit on the tracking app.”

  “Why didn’t you say so
to begin with? Where is the bum?”

  “At a rehabilitation facility out near the Everglades named the Sunny Place.”

  “After you move the old lady, check the place out. I need to know how good their security is. If it’s a big institutional place, we can’t force our way in and grab him like we did the old lady.”

  Ngombo had dodged a bullet. Moffett overlooked his oversleeping, at least for now. But he was still ordered to dishonor himself with this woman. He hoped the gods knew what they were doing. He went down the hall and unlocked the door.

  “Mrs. Rice, we are leaving in two minutes. If you wish to relieve yourself before a long journey, I shall be back in two minutes.”

  “I need five minutes,” Doraleen said.

  “Very well, five minutes.” That was the honorable thing for a warrior to do.

  Chapter 46

  I found Scarface’s Cherokee a few blocks away in a parking lot on NW Fourth Avenue between 88th and 89th Streets. A face in the second floor window told me there was a sentry. I kept moving and videoed the lot to capture as many license plates as I could, but Ngombo’s and one other vehicle faced the wrong way.

  I pulled to the curb in the next block and called Gene Lopez. “I found Ngombo’s Jeep at 8823 NW Fourth Avenue. He has company.”

  “How so?”

  “There are four SUVs in the front lot and possibly more in the alley. Moffett must like to send his thugs around in big vehicles with room for cement bags, ammo, and bodies in the rear.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I just texted the video of two vehicles’ license plates I saw when I drove past. I didn’t move close enough to video the other two because Moffett posted a sentry in the second floor window. I’ll be interested to know if either one is registered to TCL Enterprises.”

  “Have you found any evidence Doraleen Rice is inside?”

  “Ngombo’s Jeep is parked there. Does that help?”

  “Might be enough to get a warrant to hit the place. Never hurts to ask. Could take a couple hours to get the judge’s signature. Four agents are on the way there to make sure they don’t move her.”