“Yeah, I know the poem. Did you know my full name is Alfred Lord Tennyson Rice?”
“Yeah. That’s a pretty cool name.”
Al scoffed. “You wouldn’t think so if you were in grade school and the other kids were bigger than you. They’d call me ‘your lordship’ and steal my lunch money. At least that stopped in middle school.”
“How so?”
“That’s when I got my growth. In seventh grade, I was the biggest kid in middle school. No more teasing and no more stolen lunch money. How about you? Were you Sir Galahad in school?”
“When I was in third grade, three fourth-graders tried to steal lunch money from a new kid in my class. I lit into all three of them.”
“Fourth-graders? Boys a year older than you?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“They beat the shit out of me.” I laughed. “But they let the other kid alone. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a one-sided fight. I bloodied all three noses and kicked two bullies in the balls. I gave better than I got, but they outnumbered me and they were bigger. I was sore for a week.”
“But you did it regardless. Why?”
I shrugged. “I never considered not doing it. The new kid was scared and he was the underdog. It wasn’t right for those bullies to steal his lunch money. By the way, they never tried that again, so getting my ass kicked was worth it.” I lifted my cold coffee again. “Look, Al, I do other stuff. I’ve found lost children—at least a lost teenager who got in with the wrong crowd. I’ve caught wayward husbands, and I’ve uncovered my share of bogus insurance claims. It’s not like I go from one gunfight to another. Mostly my days are pretty tame.”
“Whether or not you get paid, I appreciate what you’re doing for me and for Momma.”
“Don’t be so serious, Al. You’ll make me all teary-eyed.” I grinned. “I hate it when that happens. Not good for my tough-guy image.”
My phone rang. The screen said it was Tank. “Oh crap,” I said as I accepted the call. “This can’t be good.”
Chapter 60
Ngombo held Doraleen Rice’s arm while Bones glanced both ways down the alley. “All clear,” said Bones. He pointed the remote at the Caravan and both rear doors glided open. “Load her up, Teddy.” Ngombo muscled Doraleen down the metal steps and shoved her into the left rear seat.
Moffett wobbled his bulk down the steps as lightning split the sky. Thunder boomed, the ground shook, and several car alarms yowled.
Bones closed the rear door with the remote while Ngombo hurried around and took the right rear seat. Locking the steel warehouse door behind him, Bones slid behind the steering wheel. He engaged the child locks so no one could unlock the rear doors from inside.
Moffett reached inside the other front door and made sure the passenger seat was shoved all way the back. The rain hit, pelting him with large drops. Thunder rolled again. “Shit,” he said. He shoehorned his bulk into the seat and buckled his seat belt with great difficulty. “You shoulda parked the Denali back here, Teddy. It’s got wider seats than this damned Dodge.”
Ngombo knew the seats were the same size, but he didn’t argue. Moffett had trouble squeezing his immense body into any vehicle except maybe the trailer of an eighteen-wheeler, but Ngombo didn’t dare say that. “Next time, Monster.”
Bones turned the windshield wipers on and put the van in gear. “We going to the Tuscan site, boss?”
Moffett ignored him. “Head out to the Loop. We’ll make the call from there this time.”
As the van pulled past the dumpster where Tank was hidden, no one in the Caravan saw him call Chuck.
###
I disconnected Tank’s call. “Call Gene Lopez,” I told Snoop’s Bluetooth as I squealed away from the parking place. The speaker rang once and he answered. “Gene, this is Chuck McCrary. Moffett and two other men are on the move with Doraleen Rice. They’re in the Caravan. We’re following. I’ll call you when I know where they’re headed.”
“Don’t endanger any civilians, Chuck. Stay back. We’re fifteen minutes out,” Lopez said. “Keep me posted.”
I didn’t tell him that I was so far back I was out of sight. GPS trackers are illegal without a warrant. Lopez was picky like that.
I bounced the van out the driveway and fishtailed down the street on the wet pavement. I squealed around the corner and headed toward the alley. Tank had run from the dumpster to the street. I jammed to a stop and popped the door locks.
Tank slammed open the door and leapt into the rear seat. “Damn, you’d think the rain could wait five minutes longer.”
“Mother Nature can be so inconsiderate,” I said. “Did you see Doraleen?”
“She looked scared but otherwise okay. Her and three other men. One was Scarface; I saw his dreadlocks. The second man was so huge it must be Moffett. The driver was an average sized white man.” He clicked his seatbelt.
“The driver is Bones,” said Al. “He’s Monster’s right hand man. He’s the one who knew to pull the battery on Momma’s phone so you couldn’t track it. He’s pretty tech-savvy for a high school dropout.”
Now that I’d picked up Tank, I slowed the van down. “Al, hand the tablet to Tank. Tank, start that tracker app. Let’s see where they’re headed.”
“They’re headed west,” Tank said, “Maybe they’re aiming for Loop 495.” He handed the tablet to Al in the front seat. “Hold the screen where Chuck can see it.”
I-495 looped around Port City from I-95 near the north end of Atlantic County, west toward the Everglades, south about two miles away from the Everglades, and back to I-95 near Atlantic County’s southern border. It was a good place for Moffett to make his 4:30 call to Al. The Loop has good cell service and fast-moving traffic. The cell signal would be impossible to triangulate, and there were ample exits to escape on after he made the call.
“Call Gene Lopez,” I said. The Bluetooth rang him.
“Where are they headed, Chuck?” he asked.
“Looks like they’re headed to the Loop this time. They’re headed straight west on NW 115th Street. They have five miles to go.”
“They’ll go either north or south from that entrance,” Lopez said. “Which way would you turn if it was you?”
“Beats the hell outta me,” I answered. “Six of one, half a dozen of the other. I’ll let you know as soon as he turns.”
“We’re on 45th Street. I’m headed straight west to the Loop to throw up a roadblock ahead of him if he turns south.”
“Too many exits. He’ll jump off at 63rd when he finishes the call.”
“Maybe, but I got nothing to lose if we try,” Lopez replied. “There’s only a fifty-fifty chance he’ll turn south regardless.”
“And if he turns north?” I asked.
“I didn’t tell you this since you’re a civilian, but if he heads north, stay on his ass. We’ll catch up soon as we can.”
###
Ngombo accessed the tracker app again. Rice’s phone was on and revealed its location as an arrow on the screen. He studied it for a minute, trying to figure out what he was seeing. He reached over Moffett’s shoulder and held the phone where his boss could see the screen. “Something is wrong, Monster. Rice’s phone is on 115th Street two miles behind us. It is following us. How can this be? The last time we saw it, it was at the rehab facility.”
Moffett grabbed the phone and zoomed in on the map. “The crazy bastard is following us. He’s following me for crissakes. Stop the car.” He showed Ngombo’s phone to Bones. “Bones, how could Al Rice follow us? He’s two miles back.”
Bones frowned as he studied the screen. “That goddamn McCrary put a tracking device on this car.” He pulled into the next convenience store and parked on the back side, away from the other cars. “Don’t let her signal anybody.”
Ngombo drew his knife and held it to the woman’s neck below her ear. “Do not make one sound, not one wave, not one false move.”
Doraleen’s eyes widened. She no
dded.
Bones peered out the windshield. “Goddamn rain. Wait here.” He opened the door, scurried to the back bumper, and squatted out of sight. A minute later he stood with a small black box in his hand. He jogged around to the front of the store, feet splashing in the puddles. In a minute he came back and slid into the driver’s seat.
“What did you do?” asked Moffett.
“I put the tracker on another car. Let McCrary follow them for a while.”
Chapter 61
“They’ve stopped ahead,” said Al. “You better hang back. What the hell? They pulled off the road.”
I hit my turn indicator, dropped my speed to thirty, and slipped into the right lane. Other traffic flowed past us. After a half-mile, I asked, “They still stopped?”
“Yeah. You better slow down.”
I did. “Where did they stop?”
“The intersection at 158th Avenue. Must be a store or something there,” said Al.
Tank said, “That doesn’t make any sense. They have a kidnaped woman in the car. If someone sees her or she manages to get out, they’re screwed.”
“Not necessarily,” I answered. “The van has tinted windows. It’s difficult for someone on the outside to see in. With this rain, nobody’s gonna hang around a parking lot. They put her in the back seat, and Scarface is there to keep her under control. Still, it’s unusual.” I risked a quick glance at the screen. “There, they’re moving again.” I increased the pace to the speed limit.
“Wait a minute,” Al exclaimed, “they turned around; they’re headed east. They’re coming back this way. Maybe they forgot something back at the warehouse.”
I shook my head, then realized Al was watching the screen. “Not hardly. It’s gotta be something else. They changed their plans.” I had a bad feeling, but I kept it to myself. No sense making Al and Tank feel worse than they did already.
“Remember,” Tank said, “we’re watching for a silver Caravan, not a Jeep Grand Cherokee this time. Al, with you in front, you see better than me. The rain spoils my view through this side window. Hand me the tablet and I’ll monitor the tracker. You two watch for Momma Dora’s van.”
Al handed Tank the tablet.
“Tank,” I said, “tell us when they get two blocks away. I’ll drift over to the left lane so we see the eastbound traffic better.” I accelerated and slipped into the left lane.
“Here it comes,” Tank said a minute later. “They’re two blocks ahead and headed this way.”
I split my attention between the pickup truck ahead of me and the vehicles eastbound on the other side of 115th Street. Cars, delivery vans, eighteen-wheelers, and minivans. I hoped a big truck didn’t block our vision when the Caravan passed. My gut told me something was haywire. I needed visual confirmation. When the van passed, I intended to let them get two blocks away, make a U-turn, and drop in behind. I studied each minivan that came at us. There were a lot. Also a lot of big trucks. “Is that it?”
“No,” said Al. That’s white, not silver. There.” He pointed. “No, that’s an older model.”
“The map on the screen says they passed us,” said Tank. “Did you see them? Did you see Momma Dora?”
“I didn’t see a damned thing,” I answered. “I missed them. How about you, Al? Anything?”
“Nothing, y’all,” answered Al, “and I watched every damned minivan. Maybe they were in the far lane hidden by a big truck.”
“Turn around, Chuck,” Tank said from the back. “They’re three blocks behind us.”
I slipped into the left turn lane and pulled a U-turn. “I want visual confirmation.” The traffic got heavy as we approached the rush hour, and the rain didn’t help. It took two miles to catch up.
“They’re a half-block ahead,” Tank said. “Do you see them?”
“All I see is that white Caravan that passed us back before we U-turned.” I pulled closer. “Even if we got the color wrong, it’s the wrong license number.”
“Let’s follow from the tracker,” Al said. “Tank, give me the tablet. I have to be doing something.” He took it from Tank. “Okay, we’re behind them. They have to be there.”
“I don’t see them, Al. I think we’ve been had.”
“Don’t give up, Chuck,” said Al, his voice breaking. “That’s Momma up there.”
I drove east in silence. The rain stopped.
My Bluetooth flashed an incoming call, Gene Lopez. “Accept call.”
“Which way did they turn, Chuck?” he asked.
“Something’s fishy, Gene. Stand by.” I glanced at the tablet in Al’s lap. The red arrow slowed as if it intended to turn. Ahead, the white Caravan moved into the right lane. Its turn indicator flashed. It splashed through a gutter and parked at a big box electronics store. So did the red arrow on the tablet. “Gene, I have bad news.”
Chapter 62
I pulled into a Java Jenny’s for a skull session. God knows I needed coffee. Maybe a chocolate chip cookie or two? Or a dozen? Maybe a new brain? I’d been had, and I didn’t feel like the world’s greatest private investigator. “It’s time for Plan B, gentlemen.”
Tank munched on a chocolate chip cookie. “What’s Plan B?”
“Pay the money—”
Both men started to object, and I raised both hands. “Hold on, gentlemen. Let me finish. Pay the money, follow the money, free Doraleen, and capture Moffett. Oh, yeah, and retrieve the money. That’s Plan B.” I bit off half my cookie. “Unless either of you can think of something better?”
Al said, “This is above my pay grade, Chuck.”
“You’re the expert, bro,” said Tank. “That’s why you make the big bucks. What do we tell Gene Lopez?”
“Gene will be a problem,” I answered. “He has warrants to tap every phone we own: yours, mine, Doraleen’s, and Al’s. We need to operate under Gene’s radar.”
“Why? Kidnapping is a federal crime,” said Tank. “Aren’t these guys the experts in hostage situations?”
My phone rang; it was Flamer. “Tri-Patron Imports is a corporation whose registered agent is Leonard Satin.”
“Surprise, surprise,” I answered.
“And he’s the registered agent for the Florida Land Trust that owns the building.”
“Aha,” I said.
“I can’t believe you said that.”
“That’s what the cool private investigators say when they find a clue.”
“Geez,” Flamer said and disconnected.
“I was asking about the FBI,” Tank said. “Don’t we want them involved in this?”
“Usually, yeah, but not this time. The FBI obeys the Fourth Amendment to the Constitution, even with scumbags; I don’t.”
Al selected another cookie. “Which amendment is the fourth?”
“That’s the one against unreasonable searches and seizures,” Tank answered. “It requires search warrants, probable cause. Stuff like that.”
I nodded my agreement. “But we three are private citizens. All we care about is getting Doraleen back safe and sound. We don’t care about no stinkin’ constitutional rights for scumbags. We do what’s best for Doraleen. Period. Including the civilian equivalent of water-boarding, breaking and entering, mauling and general mayhem on the evildoers.”
“Evildoers?” said Tank.
“Evildoers. Snoop is a big fan of George W. He said it on our last case. Those bad guys were Chicago mobsters. Since Snoop’s in a coma in Cedars Hospital, in his honor I can safely say that the scumbags who shot him and kidnaped Doraleen are, in fact, evildoers.”
“As I remember,” Tank added, “George W. said he would bring the evildoers to justice or he would bring justice to them.”
I lifted my coffee cup. “I’ll drink to that. When we finish here, buy yourself and Al new phones that the FBI doesn’t have taps on. I keep a second phone under my Mexican name, Carlos Calderone. That way we three can communicate without the FBI listening. We’ll figure out a way to send a message to Moffett with the new phone nu
mbers so the FBI can’t interfere.”
Al’s cell rang. His eyes widened like it was a bomb about to explode. He held it toward me. “I never figured Monster would call, since they know we put that tracker on their van.”
The caller ID on the screen was a number I didn’t recognize. Another burner phone. I answered. “Hello.”
“You don’t sound like Al Rice.” I recognized Moffett’s voice from the phone tap I’d heard with Gene Lopez.
“This is Chuck McCrary. I am working with Mr. Rice to get his mother back.” I knew Lopez was recording every word with the phone tap. “We can have your $200,000 by five o’clock tomorrow.”
“It’s $225,000 now. There’s more interest due.”
I raised an eyebrow in Tank’s direction. He nodded.
“Okay,” I answered, “$225,000 by five o’clock tomorrow. I’ll bring it.”
“No, I want Rice to bring it.”
“Not gonna happen, Moffett. There’s a reason Al handed his phone to me: I represent him. If you want the money, I’ll bring it.” I didn’t give him a chance to object. “What kind of bills do you want?”
“Used fifties in forty-five bundles of one hundred bills each.”
“Is a soccer bag okay? Easier to carry.” I wanted the soccer bag. A briefcase wouldn’t fit my purpose.
“Yeah, sure. Whatever. There’s a bench on the boardwalk at North Beach near 154th Street that’s shaded by four sabal palms. Be there tomorrow at noon with the money. Sit on the bench and you’ll receive further instructions. Bring the phone you’re using now with you.” He disconnected.
I added the burner phone’s number to Al’s contact list as Monster.
I used my Carlos Calderone phone to send a text to the number: Cannot get the money by noon. Will have it by five. FBI is tapping Al Rice’s phone. Communicate with me on this number from now on. McCrary.
I opened the applications window on Al’s phone. I found it: the tracker app. I showed the screen to Al. “Moffett must’ve put this tracker app on your phone when he kidnaped you and mangled your hand a few weeks ago. He used it earlier today and saw that your phone was a couple miles behind him on 115th Street. That’s how he knew we were there. I suspected something hinky about your phone yesterday when I heard the voicemail message he left. He said Tank couldn’t hide you out west in the boondocks forever. How else could he know you were in west Port City? It was the only thing that made sense.”
Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5) Page 20