Crucero glanced at his heavyweight gold watch and scanned the crowded bar. He’d probably made an 8:30 reservation and his date was late.
I grabbed a corner table and ordered a club soda with a twist. Whoopee, it was party time for the hard-working private eye. The Pelican Roost made great banana daiquiris. Too bad I was on duty.
As I sampled my yummy club soda, a six-foot blond piece of arm candy walked into the bar wearing tropical sandals and a gold outfit. The neckline plunged to her waist and revealed the best cleavage money could buy. Miss Cleavage parted the crowd proudly with her chest as she strutted over to Crucero and presented her cheek to be kissed. She whispered in his ear and rubbed her assets on his arm. From the lack of tan lines on her chest and back, I surmised that she sunbathed nude, or at least topless. Crucero grinned and squeezed her behind as she perched on the barstool next to him. Miss Cleavage ordered a white wine. Ten minutes later, they had a bayside table with a skyline view. Reservation or not, this guy had clout.
I watched them for an hour from the bar. The ceiling fan stirred the humid night air without conviction. I could work up a sweat lifting my drink.
My pager buzzed and flashed. I leaned toward a party of four at the next table. “Excuse me, my party hasn’t arrived. Would you like a table now?”
They would.
I swapped pagers with them. “Tell them you’re the George Washington party. Enjoy.”
I watched for another hour, then followed Crucero and Miss Cleavage to an exclusive private nightclub with a velvet rope and a bouncer in a tuxedo at the entrance. Their parking lot was not as well-guarded as the Pelican Roost’s. I attached the GPS tracker to the Corvette and watched from my minivan. At 2:30 a.m., the couple staggered to his car. Crucero stuck his hand down the front of Miss Cleavage’s dress as he helped her into the passenger seat, and she stroked his private parts through his slacks as he closed her door. Driving home, he weaved from lane to lane and narrowly missed causing two collisions.
Chapter 6
My condo was a mile from Crucero’s. I hired an off-duty cop, Robby Gorski, to watch Crucero’s parking garage in case he used the BMW, but I figured he would use the Corvette again. Miss Cleavage looked more Corvette than BMW. I monitored the GPS tracker from home. The Corvette moved shortly after noon on Sunday. I dismissed Robby and headed down to my Caravan.
Miss Cleavage must have arrived at the Pelican Roost in a taxi or Uber, because Crucero didn’t take her to retrieve her car. I caught the Corvette and kept it in sight as he and Miss Cleavage crossed the Beachline Causeway, top down in the South Florida sunshine. Crucero didn’t speed. Maybe Miss Cleavage was reluctant to mess up her hair with the top down. He wore his hair in a ponytail, so he didn’t worry about the wind. I followed them to Coconut Grove. I recorded Miss Cleavage’s trendy address and left Crucero and his arm candy to enjoy their afternoon delight. What did a cover girl dish like her see in a short, fat blob like him?
I drove to Crucero’s apartment. He’d be occupied for at least an hour as he climbed the Twin Peaks in Miss Cleavage State Park. From there it was an hour’s drive to his apartment. I would monitor the Corvette’s movements with the tracker app on my smartphone. Technology makes a PI’s life easier when you ignore inconvenient privacy laws.
Crucero’s apartment was in a rental high-rise, not a condo. The security was limited to a few cameras. I parked my Caravan in the loading zone and removed a flower arrangement I’d bought at Walmart along with items to disguise my appearance. I carried the flowers to the reception desk. I held the bouquet high to obscure my face, but I could see the house phone. “Flowers for Tony Crucero.”
“Just a moment.” The receptionist grabbed a house phone and punched Crucero’s apartment number.
Bingo. Apartment 1212.
He hung up. “Mr. Crucero doesn’t answer. You wanna leave them? I’ll make sure he gets them when he comes back.”
“Sure.” I set the flowers on the counter. “How about my tip?”
The guy shrugged. “You can come back later, or you can leave them. Your choice.”
I left the bouquet. Let the poor schlub collect the tip when he delivered the flowers.
I drove the minivan back home and switched to the sedan I had rented the previous day. Returning to Crucero’s high-rise, I piggy-backed under the garage gate on the bumper of a resident’s car and spiraled my way to the top floor and into an unassigned space.
I hiked down the ramps three floors until I found Crucero’s BMW. I attached a tracker device to it and hid behind a pillar to watch the keypad door lock. Another resident’s car squealed up the ramp and parked. A woman grabbed a Macy’s bag and walked to the door. I was too far away to read the numbers, but I watched her hand movements as she punched four digits on the pad. Top left, lower right, lower left, ending with a tap on the right.
Three possible combinations. The second one worked. The World’s Greatest Private Eye on the job. I stored the number in my phone for future use. Most of these places wait a year or more before they change codes, if they ever do. I never know when another case—or this one—will bring me to these same apartments again.
Elevators always have security cameras, so I climbed the fire stairs to Crucero’s floor. My mouth was dry as I checked the Corvette’s GPS tracker again. A little pre-action jitters, routine before a mission, even one as simple as a B&E. Crucero was in Coconut Grove knocking boots with Miss Cleavage, having more fun than I was. I opened the door to the elevator lobby. As empty as the space behind the moon.
There were five apartments on the floor. A discreet brass plaque with the coat of arms of San Cristobal was mounted on his door.
I picked the lock in two minutes. My heart rate climbed a little higher. The last tumbler clicked and I turned the knob.
As I stepped inside, the alarm system beeped. Damn. I knew this was going too well. The alarm would go off in forty-five seconds. I found the keypad beside the door and punched the disarm button. Enter code flashed on the screen. It’s incredible how many people use 1-2-3-4 as their alarm code. If that failed I had forty more seconds to try Crucero’s birth year, his birthday in both day/month and month/day format, both of which I found on his social media, then the apartment number.
If those failed, I would run like a scalded dog.
“Who the hell are you?” A bulky man in a gray suit and striped tie came from further inside the apartment. He had bodyguard written all over him as plain as if it were tattooed on his forehead. Dark skin, black eyes, and beaked nose. Black hair parted in the middle and pulled tight over his ears. Probably had a ponytail at the base of his neck, but I couldn’t tell from this angle. His face looked chiseled from limestone, an Indian from southern Mexico or Central America. The Colt M1911A1 muzzle he leveled at me measured .45 inches in diameter. Pointed between my eyes, it looked black as a cavern and big as a cannon.
A Special Forces instructor said, “When the balloon goes up, if you stop to blink twice, you might be dead.” Sometimes you have less than a second to make a life-or-death decision.
If I went for my gun, that .45 slug would shred a hole in me big enough to throw a baseball through. If I didn’t reach for my gun, he might kill me anyway. I chose Plan C.
I raised my hands to waist height and answered in rapid Spanish. “I’m the maintenance man. Mr. Crucero reported his ice maker was broken.”
Striped Tie responded in Spanish. “Where’s your tool box?” He lowered the .45. Nobody fears the maintenance man.
“In the hall,” I answered in Spanish. “I’ll get it.” As I moved toward the hall, I grabbed a brass sculpture from the ornamental table beside the door. I hurled it at his head and dived out the door. He fired two shots that slammed into the wall and echoed in the marble-floored elevator lobby. The brass horse and rider must have hit him, because he didn’t chase me as I sprinted to the fire stairs. Either that or he paused to enter the alarm code. I raced down five flights of stairs to the rent car.
I caught my breath and felt my heart slow to normal as I drove back to my own parking garage. I switched out the fake license plates for the real ones. On the way to the airport to return the car, I tossed the baseball hat, surgical gloves, and fake eyeglasses into a dumpster behind a grocery store. The security cameras wouldn’t help if Crucero reported the break-in, but I’d bet he wouldn’t involve the cops.
How many solid citizens post an armed guard in their apartment? What was Striped Tie guarding that was so valuable? Jorge mentioned that some diplomats smuggled drugs. One thing for sure, Crucero was into something dangerous.
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Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5) Page 35