The Body Mafia

by Stacy Dittrich

  After the shopping was taken care of, I unpacked all of my suitcases and put everything in drawers and my toiletries in the bathroom. Some of the clothes I balled up and threw in a pile on the bathroom floor, while others were put in a laundry hamper. The condo needed to appear lived-in. In the kitchen I made several frozen dinners, only to dump them in the garbage disposal and throw their boxes in the trash.

  When making the reservations, I had requested the condo be a second-story beachfront with a balcony facing the beach. I took two large beach towels and hung them over the balcony, where they began to flap in the wind. It was a beautiful day, and because I was feeling caught up with everything, I threw my bathing suit on and headed to the beach for a couple of hours.

  Later that evening, I was walking to my favorite oyster bar in the middle of the village for dinner when I noticed the men. Had they not made such a purposeful move not to be noticed, I would never have given them a second look. They were too sloppy looking to be feds. Even undercover, federal agents still have a clean-cut appearance. No, these were Mafia, no doubt about it.

  I was passing an outdoor bar and grill when my attention was drawn to a man who was seated at the bar, drinking a beer. The only reason I noticed him was that he was wearing an Ohio State Buckeyes hat. Whenever I’m out of state and see someone wearing Ohio garb, I automatically notice it for no reason in particular.

  The problem happened when he noticed me, out of thirty people walking down the street, and made eye contact. Even then, I may not have been alarmed, but when he quickly looked away and made eye contact with another man across the street perusing the art vendors, my heart rate skyrocketed.

  The man looking at the art was wearing a white-collared shirt, khaki shorts, and boat shoes in an attempt to fit in with the locals. An intimidating looking man, he was scummy as well. He locked in on my stare, and we both looked away at the same time. Praying they didn’t think I had just discovered them, I stopped at a flower vendor with a large smile on my face and bought several peach roses before strolling down to the oyster bar.

  It was difficult to eat, and I had to fake my way through an otherwise-enjoyable dinner on the patio, trying to conceal my fear and trembling. At one point, I dropped my fork on the floor and was able to take a quick glance down the street as I picked it up. There was no sign of the two men anywhere. The only positive side to the incident was that I now knew what they looked like and could keep my eye out for them. The negative was that they might have decided to bump up their scheduled time to take me out.

  They could have been waiting for me back in the condo for all I knew. If they were, there wasn’t a whole lot I could do. My gun was in the motel room in Cleveland. There had been no way for me to get it through airport security and bring it here. I seriously thought about going to a pawn shop and buying what ever I could get my hands on, but there was a waiting period, and hopefully I would be out of Siesta Key by tomorrow night. If I could survive that long.

  “Salvatore’s got his men down there, sir. Agent Nicholas spotted Frank Trapini watching her on the street today, and Sanders thought he saw Tommy Miglia sitting at a bar.”

  “Damn…What about the Filacis?”

  “No sign of them anywhere, sir. They’re all accounted for in Cleveland. No one’s missing, even Bertola. I don’t think they know about her yet.”

  “Do you think she knows?”

  “I don’t know. They saw her slow down and look at Trapini a little strange, but she kept walking and stopped and bought some flowers. I don’t think she picked up on it.”

  “Did you find the tapes?”

  “We searched Hagerman’s home office after she left, and they weren’t there. I’m assuming she has them with her.” Alan Keane hoped that wasn’t true.

  “That’s bad if she does. If we know about the tapes, so do they. They’re all we got, Alan. Those tapes are gold to us right now, especially with Hagerman gone.”

  “I know…I have some more bad news. Richland Metro just discovered another body today, missing both kidneys.”

  “Jesus fuck!” his boss’s voice screamed through the receiver. “God damn it, Alan, how did that happen? I thought we had people watching everybody involved?”

  “Yes, sir, we do, but we haven’t found the mole,” he grumbled.

  “I don’t know what’s taking so long to find him, but you’d better do it soon!”

  Alan Keane sighed as he hung up the phone.

  Since I had understandably worked myself into a state of paranoia, I stopped at a souvenir shop on my way home. All I could find was a six-inch-long letter opener with a bright green handle that had “Siesta Key” stamped on it. It was better than nothing, and it was also sold in every souvenir shop in Siesta Key—a good thing. If I would ever have to use it, the investigators would be at a dead end as far the letter opener went.

  Nervous as hell while opening the door to my condo, I braced myself for anything. The door didn’t appear to have been tampered with, and I had lodged a broom handle in the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. All was still in place. Semiconfident that no one else was inside, I searched the place anyway. My heightened awareness and instincts were telling me that I might have to move up my departure date. Instead of leaving tomorrow night, I would have to leave to night. There was no other way. Each time I thought back to my nonverbal exchange with the man on the street, I became more positive he knew I had blown their cover.

  Because my original plans on how I would leave had been botched, I had to take my chances another way. I grabbed my duffel bag, which contained everything needed for my trip, quickly soaked my bathing suit in water, threw it over the shower rod in the bathroom, and turned on the television. Just before I left, my eyes drifted to the letter opener that was on the counter. I grabbed it.

  Leaving my condo and walking toward my car, I noticed that one of the towels that had been hanging on my balcony had fallen down to the beach below. For what ever reason, I walked over to pick it up and throw it in my duffel bag. It was while I was bending over to grab the towel that I saw the shadow.

  The hat gave him away. As my hand reached for the towel, a dark shadow appeared instantly on the sand to my right—a tall figure wearing a baseball hat. I waited just a split second longer until I knew he was directly behind me to strike. With my letter opener still in hand, I dropped the towel and stood up, quickly spinning around before driving the blade directly in the left side of the man’s neck. It was the man I had seen earlier sitting at the bar.

  Evidently, he had not expected me to see him or react so quickly, but he had underestimated me. A look of shock washed across his face as his hands dropped the wire he was holding and reached up to grab the letter opener I had just put in his neck. Since I had struck him directly in his carotid artery, blood was literally spraying out of the wound all over the sand and me. The man was making loud gargling sounds as he fell to his knees, and I instinctively pushed him backward, putting both of my hands over his mouth and holding them there. Furiously looking around, I could see no one in the area or anyone else on the balconies. It was less than a minute of the man’s thrashing about, trying to pull my hands off his mouth and moaning, before he became still.

  I was now in the midst of a full-blown panic and tried to get myself together as I felt the dizziness rush in. Taking long, deep breaths, I looked around some more. Where was the other guy?

  I didn’t know and didn’t wait around to find out. This was a monstrous glitch thrown into my equation, which I clearly hadn’t planned for. I stood up, ran over to my rental car, which sat less than ten feet away, and opened the trunk. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely turn the key. Almost on the verge of hysterics, I ran back over to the body and wrapped the beach towel around his head to prevent any more blood from coming out. It was everywhere. And then, with every ounce of strength I had, I dragged the body over to my car. He was so heavy, I didn’t know if I’d be able to get him up into my trunk, but adrenaline took ov
er and I managed. I slammed the lid down and began kicking up sand to cover the bloody trail where I had dragged him, including the pool of blood that lay below my balcony.

  Like a sand crab, I was on my knees, digging a two-foot-deep hole violently with both hands. Packing the bloody sand inside of it, I smoothed clean sand over the area. The enormous amount of sweat that poured down my face mixed in with the blood that had splattered. My clothes were soaked in it as well. My only option was to dive into the ocean to clean myself off. The salt water would help; it would at least clean me enough so that I wouldn’t draw attention if seen getting a fresh pair of clothes out of the duffel bag in my car.

  There was a large garbage can in the parking lot that had been emptied for the day and only had a few empty cans in it. I grabbed the plastic garbage bag out of it and put my soaked clothes inside before tying it up and throwing it in the trunk with the body. Standing by the side of my car, I felt ill and had to sit on the nearby curb for a few minutes, trying to get myself together and think.

  I had a dead body in the trunk of a rental car, registered in my own name. Fantastic. Then I had an idea. I drove out of the parking lot, got on Midnight Pass Road, and headed for Little Sarasota Bay.

  There was a secluded pull-off area just between Turtle Beach and Casey Key with a small wooden pier. Fighting the oncoming numbness in my arms, I dragged the body from my trunk to the edge of the pier and pushed him off. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that the body would be found within the next day or so, but it would be in the water long enough to wash away any evidence I hadn’t thought of, and was far enough away from Siesta Key.

  After ripping the carpet out of the trunk and placing it inside the garbage bag, I pulled onto the road, then got back out to see if any tire tracks were left. The pull-off was mostly gravel, so I was in luck. Stopping at a public beach area, I threw the bag containing the carpet, clothes, towel, letter opener, and wire that apparently he had planned to strangle me with into a large Dumpster before going to a nearby car wash to spray out the inside of the trunk.

  Finally finished, I got back inside my car and began to cry. It was justifiable homicide, without a doubt, but when you factor in the lengths I had taken to dispose of the body, a prison term was guaranteed. If I had called the police, the entire reason for my trip would be blown, and I would be back to square one—even worse off, since the mob would definitely know I killed one of their own. Now, when the body was found, they would only be able to speculate and might possibly blame the other family for getting their revenge.

  Again, I had an insatiable urge to feel Michael’s arms around me right now, reassuring me that all would be okay. Knowing that wouldn’t happen, I stopped at a pay phone and called for a taxicab to pick me up at a restaurant near the condo. My rental car had to remain in the parking lot. Others had to view the situation as if I were still in Siesta Key, in my condo.

  Once I got there, I left the keys in the car and saw that I had some time before the cab would arrive at the restaurant down the street. I noticed a child’s sand bucket sitting by the pool entrance. Filling the bucket several times with water, I soaked the sand where the buried bloody sand was, over and over. As I felt myself relax somewhat, I went through a checklist of anything I might’ve forgotten. When I was confident everything was covered, I walked on the beach toward the restaurant.

  “What’s the emergency?” Alan Keane grumbled sleepily into his phone.

  “You’re not gonna believe this, sir, but she just killed Tommy Miglia.”

  Alan Keane, now wide awake, sat straight up in his bed. He wanted to make sure he heard Gary Nicholas right.

  “What do you mean, she killed him?”

  “He was going to strangle her, so we were about ready to move in, but she got to him first. She stabbed him in the neck.” Gary Nicholas sounded out of breath and panicked. “Right now, she’s loading him into her trunk. What should we do?”

  Alan Keane thought for a moment. “Don’t do anything.”

  “Sir?”

  “I said, don’t do anything! Let her be. Just keep a tail and see what she does with him. If we move in now it will fuck everything up, and they’ll kill her anyway. We’ll deal with this after the fact. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir, I understand.” Gary Nicholas swallowed loudly, which Alan Keane could clearly hear through the phone.

  “Agent Nicholas, neither you nor Agent Sanders are to tell anyone about this, do you hear me? No one!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call me in the morning with an update.”

  Alan Keane slammed the phone down and fell back on his bed to stare up at the ceiling. He would have to call Erie, Pennsylvania, and inform him of this. It was a phone call he dreaded.

  I stopped inside the pool house and put on my dark colored wig, a floppy hat, and a large sweatshirt. With my duffel bag slung over my shoulder, I went out the back door that led to the beach. The cab would be at the restaurant waiting to take me back to the Sarasota airport.

  The ride to the airport went quickly, and after several glances behind us, I concluded that the cab wasn’t being followed. In addition, the car ride gave me the chance to settle down somewhat.

  I rented another car at the airport in the name of Michelle Faulkner and showed “Michelle’s” identification and credit cards. When a law-enforcement officer works undercover, the Bureau of Motor Vehicles will allow them to obtain a driver’s license in that name. Of course, the paperwork is horrendous and has to be signed by the sheriff, etc.

  Using the driver’s license of Michelle Faulkner, one I had used on numerous undercover operations, I’d been able to obtain credit cards in that name. I had committed a felony just by obtaining the cards, let alone charging anything to them, which I had no intention of doing.

  The drive to Miami International Airport gave me a lot of time to think and put things into perspective. Feeling exhaustion like I had never felt before, I was asleep before my flight left the ground for Cleveland. Only when I felt the flight attendant gently shake my shoulder did it dawn on me the flight was already over.

  More than groggy, I made my way to the rental-car desk, then made the drive to the motel I had checked into less than forty-eight hours before. A sense of déjà vu came over me as I tossed the duffel bag to the floor and fell onto the bed fully clothed with my wig still on and into a deep sleep. Like my first day in Siesta Key, I woke up almost twelve hours later, in the middle of the afternoon.

  It was a dreary, cold, overcast day outside, and I wanted nothing more than to stay in bed and sleep. Unfortunately, the events of the last two days flooded my memory, and I immediately felt sick as I dragged myself to the shower to wash away my sins. Then I dressed casually, brushed out the long, dark wig and put it on, and set out to find the Filaci family.

  The suitcases that I had put in the room days earlier contained not only clothing and toiletries but also a complete set of high-tech surveillance equipment that I had purchased with my own money. Some of the items were top of the line, even better than what we had at Richland Metro. Grabbing the night-vision goggles and video recorder, a camera that could record pictures and sound from up to a thousand feet away, I started for the Filaci offices. Jimmy Garito had told me most of them worked out of their offices during business hours on weekdays. He had described Joseph Filaci at our meeting, so I recognized him immediately when he emerged from the office building an hour after I’d begun watching it.

  Joseph Filaci was an extremely handsome man. Unlike Michael’s clean, pretty, model good looks, Joseph had a rugged appeal about him. In his early forties, he had the Italian dark hair and eyes, with two to three days’ worth of stubble on his face in the shape of a goatee. Wearing an expensive blue suit with a black overcoat, he looked very intimidating. He wasn’t overly tall, maybe five nine or five ten, but he was stocky.

  I began filming him as soon as he left the building and continued as he walked down the street and into a local diner on the corner. I jot
ted the time down in the notebook I had with me and logged the time Joseph left the diner and went back to the office building.

  For the next three days, I watched as Joseph Filaci went to that diner every day at the same time. On the fourth day, I decided it was time we met.

  “She’s gone, sir.”

  “She’s what?” Alan Keane couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “She disappeared. We—we last saw her walking toward the pool at the condominium. When she didn’t come back around the building, Sanders went to check, and she was gone. We looked down the beach and all, but she just vanished.”

  “Oh, dear God,” Alan mumbled. “Did they get her?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. That’s what’s so odd about all of this. After she dumped Miglia’s body in the bay, she went back to the condo. When Sanders saw that she was gone, we saw Frank Trapini pulling into the parking lot. He’s been sitting there for hours. I think he’s waiting for Miglia, not realizing he’ll be waiting for eternity. But regardless, I don’t think they had anything to do with it. I think…” Agent Gary Nicholas paused.

  “Go on. What?”

  “I think she figured all of us out and gave us the slip—the Iacconas included.”

  Alan Keane closed his eyes and sighed loudly. The ramifications of this night may prove fatal, he surmised. Knowing the phone calls he would have to make, he gave Agent Nicholas his last order.

  “Find her. Now,” he said, before hanging up.

  He immediately made the phone call he dreaded, and waited until morning to inform his boss in Washington of what had transpired.

  “You know what this means, don’t you?” the boss said in a calm voice that frightened Alan Keane.

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Do what you have to, but don’t let him find out.”

  Alan sighed again. “It’s too late, sir. He’s already on his way to Cleveland.”

  The day I decided to meet Joseph Filaci, I put extra time into my appearance. I wanted to look good, but not to the point where it was distracting, or remembered. I styled the wig to where soft dark curls framed my face before cascading down my back. Before dressing in a casual black pantsuit, I put in the brown contact lenses purchased a week ago. I grabbed my tan overcoat and set out for the diner, arriving ten minutes before Joseph.