by Carl Schmidt
Angele and Holly left the room and walked to the rental car company across the street to pick up our third car. By eleven o’clock, Angele was behind the wheel.
“Just wait there for now, Angele,” I said through the mic. “When it’s time for us to leave, I’ll drive out of the hotel in Xavier’s rental. Xavier will drive Archie’s car a block or two behind, and you can follow behind Xavier.”
We waited for an hour. Then the phone rang.
“Hello,” Xavier said.
“Are you ready?” Joe asked.
“I’m all set.”
“What are you wearing?” he asked.
“First things first, Joe,” Xavier replied. “Before I put one foot outside this hotel, you need to understand something. I have informed my lawyer, and several of my friends, exactly what is happening here. They know who you are. If any harm comes to me, they will go directly to the FBI with the information. Is that clear?”
“Nothing is going to happen to you, so long as you do what you’re told,” he replied.
“OK. I’m wearing blue jeans, a yellow Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses and a floppy, olive green rain hat.”
“Wait a minute,” he shouted. “I want to be able to see your face clearly.”
“Listen, Joe, I’m easily recognized in public. I’m sure you don’t want people crowding around when I hand over the bag.”
There was a long pause at the other end of the line.
“All right. What kind of bag is it?”
“It’s a brown backpack, just as you requested.”
“Good. Now get into your car. When you are ready to drive away from the hotel, I’ll give you instructions. Leave your phone on for now.”
“All right,” Xavier replied. “It will take me about ten minutes to get my car from the valet.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Joe said.
• • •
We made our way separately to the two cars. I got in Xavier’s, and Xavier got behind the wheel of the BMW. Archie wanted both hands free in case he needed to use his .45.
“I’m leaving now,” Xavier said.
“OK,” Joe replied. “Is your gas tank full? You’ve got a long drive ahead of you.”
“It’s full,” Xavier said.
“Get on the 95 and head north. I’ll call you back later with instructions.”
I checked on the location of Tina’s car a couple of times as we drove along the interstate. It was still in the south Miami area. It looked certain that she was not involved.
We had caravanned a full hour before Joe called again.
“You should be getting close to Fort Pierce,” Joe said.
“Right,” Holly replied.
“Right,” Xavier echoed. I mouthed “right” along with him. There were cars around me at the time. For all I knew, someone could be watching.
“Get off the freeway at Okeechobee Road and go west. That’s route 70.”
“Will do,” the three of us replied.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon when we reached the town of Okeechobee, at the north end of the lake, known by locals as “The Big O.” By then, Joe and Xavier were permanently on open mic.
“Turn left on South Parrot Avenue,” Joe said.
A few seconds later, my cell phone rang. No one could possibly be viewing me at that moment, so I was free to move my mouth. I turned off my mic and answered the call.
“Father O’Reilly!” I said. “Where have you been?”
“Jesse, sorry I didn’t get back with you sooner. I’ve been on a retreat for several days. I got in late last night and didn’t bother to check my messages. I noticed your call just after lunch. What’s up?”
Except for Xavier’s identity, I gave him the details of our situation. I finished with, “Our client will not call for police protection unless you are willing to tell the authorities about Nicole Shepard and her paternity scheme. Otherwise, there is a distinct possibility that he could be implicated in her murder. We are in Florida on our way to meet with the two who are responsible for Nicole’s death. Would you be willing to testify in court, if it goes that far?”
“Yes,” he said firmly. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Thank you, Father,” I replied. “I have to go. I’ll call you later and let you know how this turns out. We’ll have to contact the authorities immediately.”
I hung up, turned my intercom microphone back on and said, “Holly, call 9-1-1 now. Our Portland client has agreed to testify.”
“Great,” she said.
Then I added, “Turn off your microphone while you’re talking with the police. There’s no one who can see me now. Xavier can respond to Joe directly for the time being.”
Almost immediately, Joe came back over the line, “Three miles south of Okeechobee, you’ll come to a T-junction. Turn off the highway into the gas station on your right and park by the palm trees.”
I was there in a couple of minutes. As I pulled in, Holly came back online and explained that a highway patrol car had just left Fort Pierce to assist us. That was forty miles away. The closest FBI office was in Miami. For the time being, we had to rely on the local force, and only one car was responding.
As I parked near the palm trees, I spoke to our team, “I’m here,” like a ventriloquist, just in case I was being observed.
Xavier spoke up, “I’m here.”
“OK,” Joe said. “Now comes the fun part. You’ll see a bicycle locked to a light pole. The combination of the lock is 7532. Put the pack with the money on your back and get ready to ride. I hope you’re in good shape.”
I put on the backpack, walked to the bicycle and unlocked it.
“Ready,” I said, without moving my lips.
I looked around the parking lot. There were several cars parked at the convenience store. One of them was a white Lexus SUV.
“Sophia might be in the lot,” I said, with my back to the car. “There’s an SUV like hers parked behind me.”
“We’ll check it out when we arrive,” Archie said.
“Don’t confront her,” I replied. “If it is Sophia, she’ll be in direct contact with Joe.”
“Right,” Archie said. “Holly and Angele will keep tabs on her.”
“First of all,” Joe went on, “notice that there is a GPS tracking device attached to the frame. Don’t remove it. I want to know exactly where you are at all times.”
“OK,” Holly said, and Xavier and I repeated it.
“Cross the ditch to the south and turn right onto the bicycle trail. You’ll ride between the canal and the lake for quite a ways. If anyone follows you, we’ll scrap the drop off and go back to plan A, where we sell the photos to the Enquirer.”
“I’m riding alone,” Xavier said.
Archie whispered into his mic, “We need a second bicycle. There’s a mobile home park down the road a couple of miles in the direction you are riding. I’m going down there to see if I can get a bike. Holly, park in the lot near the Lexus and don’t let it out of your sight. I’ll swing by and pick up Angele’s iPhone. I may need that to find Jesse later on.”
I started peddling down the trail. After a while, I saw Archie speeding down the road parallel to the bike path, and then he disappeared.
“I’ll ride slowly,” I said. “It will give you as much time as possible to get on the trail with me.”
“Speed it up,” Joe shouted. “At that rate, it will take all day.”
“Tell him you’re out of shape, Xavier,” I said.
“I’m out of shape,” he echoed, breathing heavily.
“Nice touch,” I thought.
About fifteen minutes down the road, I saw the mobile home park on my right.
“Get back onto the highway, cross over the bridge, and then pick up the trail again on your left,” Joe said. Obviously, he was monitoring my exact location.
For the next twenty minutes, I followed directions and peddled. Then Archie came on the line.
“I’ve got a bike,” he said. �
��I’m on my way.”
I dawdled as much as I could to let Archie catch up. He was able to follow my path from my own GPS signal. He had one eye on the trail and one on the iPhone. An hour later, he caught sight of me.
“I’m two hundred yards behind you, Jesse,” he said. “I’ve got your back.”
The trail ran atop the Herbert Hoover Dike, somewhat parallel to route 78. From time to time, I could see the highway in the distance. Xavier drove Archie’s car along the road and periodically pulled over to let us close the gap, though I rarely saw him. He couldn’t talk with us directly because he was in constant cell phone contact with Joe Dunham, but Archie kept him informed as to our location.
After I had ridden almost thirty miles, the trail angled back toward the highway. I was about to cross it when Joe yelled, “Stop right there!”
So I did.
“OK,” he went on. “Off to your right is a stand of palm trees by the canal. Walk your bike down there. Near the water, you’ll see a wooden box. Put the backpack on the ground and cover it with the box. Let me know when you’ve done that.”
A minute later, I replied, “The box is on the bag,” and Xavier echoed what I said.
“Now, ride the bike back to your car,” Joe replied.
It was almost five o’clock. The sun would set in forty-five minutes, and it would take at least two hours to get back to the gas station on a bicycle.
“It’ll be dark before I get there,” I said, and Xavier echoed that as well.
“Do you think I give a rat’s ass?” Joe bellowed. “I’ll be tracking you for the next hour. If you stop anywhere along the way, we’re done. And leave your phone on.”
“Archie,” I said. “I don’t think he can see us. There are no cars on the highway. Come down here and ride my bike back like he said. I’ll set up behind the trees and wait for him. It could be our only chance.”
“I’ll be right there,” Archie replied.
“Get moving, shithead,” Joe yelled.
“I’m just catching my breath,” I replied. Xavier sounded as tired as I felt when he reiterated my plea.
Archie arrived half a minute later and held out his firearm.
“You want my .45, Jesse? It’s got more stopping power than your .38.”
“We’re in pretty tight quarters here, Archie. I’m comfortable with my own gun; we go way back.”
We quickly exchanged shirts, and he donned my sunglasses and rain hat.
“All right,” he said. “Good luck.”
He looked like me as he peddled back along the path toward the north end of Lake Okeechobee.
“That’s better,” Joe said, when Archie was out of sight.
“It sure was,” I thought, because it meant that Joe hadn’t been close enough to witness our exchange.
I put Archie’s bike near the canal, and I lay down in some tall grass twenty feet from the box. If Joe arrived before dark, the video camera in my Yankee cap would record the show. The remote control for the camera was in my left hand. Rhonda was in my right, and the safety was off.
49
Shootout by the Big O
I was physically tuckered out and dehydrated, but jacked up on adrenaline. I had ridden the bicycle nearly thirty miles over a dirt path with five pounds of Kevlar and a ten-pound pack on my back. I hadn’t had a drop of water to drink since leaving the car. A number of important things had transpired during my ride.
Sophia Stockbridge had backed her Lexus into a parking space that gave her an unobstructed view of the bicycle and its rider. When Angele and Holly arrived at the gas station, they parked near her car and strolled passed it on the driver’s side on their way to the convenience store. Sophia watched them closely the whole time. When their eyes met, Holly smiled and waved. The Southern hospitality worked out well because Sophia waved back nonchalantly, and Holly noticed that she had a wireless headset in her right ear.
When Angele and Holly left the store five minutes later, Sophia had not moved. They approached her car from behind and took note of the Florida license plate. It had become clear that stealing plates was standard operating procedure for Anthony Doyle’s harem of con artists. First day of grifter school probably included instructions on how to use a Phillips screwdriver in a parking lot.
Angele drove their car a short distance away and parked out of sight. She then got out of the car and positioned herself behind a tree where she’d be able to keep an eye on Sophia without being seen.
Holly gave the plate number to Sergeant Paul Withers, the trooper who was en route to assist us. In a couple of minutes, he got back with her and said it was registered to Reginald Sweeps, who owned a 1998 Toyota Celica and lived in Juniper, just north of Miami.
Sergeant Withers was then about fifteen miles from the scene. Holly advised him that he should keep his distance and not approach the Lexus. Sophia might alert Joe, and the trap would spring closed prematurely. Probably the only charge that could stick to her would be driving a car with stolen plates, and Joe might disappear into thin air.
Withers was not pleased to be taking orders from a civilian, let alone a woman, but once he realized that two ex-police officers were on our team, he decided to cooperate. He parked a quarter-mile from the convenience store and waited for Holly to call the shots.
It had been about four o’clock when the Florida State Police finally looked up our Maine credentials and determined, more or less, who we were. By four-fifteen, they had dispatched two unmarked patrol cars from West Palm Beach, which were speeding in our general direction along state highways on the south side of Lake Okeechobee.
Sophia left the parking lot shortly after Archie and I exchanged bicycles. Angele and Holly followed her at a safe distance, and the patrol car stayed well behind them. Archie had provided my precise location, so it was pretty clear where Sophia was going. We fully expected Joe and Sophia to converge on the backpack. Sophia was half an hour away. Joe, of course, might show up at any moment, but I expected them to arrive together and cover each other. No doubt they’d be armed.
Unfortunately, Archie—and his .45 caliber Glock—would not be available for the rendezvous. He had to keep the GPS tracking device moving along the bike trail.
My voice signal was patched directly to Sergeant Withers’ phone through Holly’s cell. Our connection wasn’t great, but at least I didn’t have to shout in order to be heard.
“Sergeant, don’t close the net until Joe and Sophia arrive for the backpack,” I said. “I’m in excellent position to take them by surprise.”
“We will do our best to intercept them before they are on top of you,” he replied. “We show your exact position to be ten miles north of Moore Haven at the intersection of state highway 78 and the Herbert Hoover Dike.”
The next twenty minutes crept along like a snail in a lettuce patch. The back of my mouth was completely dry and felt like cotton. I tried to swallow several times, but there was no saliva left to clear the way. At the same time, my body was soaked in perspiration, especially under my vest, which felt like fifty pounds of Kevlar.
At five twenty-five, my heart quickened as I heard a vehicle exit the highway and pull onto the bike trail. Immediately it made a U-turn and then backed up until I could just make it out at the top of the dike. A green pickup came to a stop about twenty feet above me and a hundred feet south of where I lay in the bushes. Everything was quiet for at least a minute. Then I heard the driver’s door open. I could just barely see a man’s head through the cab windows. He stood there for a few minutes without making a sound or moving in any direction.
At five-thirty, the white Lexus pulled up and also made a U-turn. After its engine shut off, I heard the door open, and the guy from the pickup called out, “Stay there; I’ll get the backpack.” It was the first time I’d heard Joe Dunham’s voice without the digital makeover.
As Joe topped the ridge, he came fully into view. The sun was setting to his left, but there was enough light for me to make him out as he slipped c
autiously down the embankment. A glint of light reflected off the revolver in his right hand before he became engulfed in the long shadow cast by the bank of the highway.
He walked slowly down the hillside and cast furtive glances in all directions, looking for any trouble that might be lurking below. I lay in a prone position and barely moved a muscle. I turned on the spy camera, gripped my .38 Special firmly with both hands, and kept it pointed in Joe’s direction through the grass.
When he reached the bottom of the hill, he looked around one more time. He rotated to his right, put his revolver in his left hand, and pulled something out of his pocket. He then hurled it through the air, and I heard it splash in the canal. Then he turned back to uncover his treasure. When he tipped the box over, he smiled broadly and whispered, “All right!” with a noticeable measure of glee. He set his revolver down and unzipped the backpack.
The moment he saw the newspaper and the books, he wailed, “What the fuck?”
I held my breath and shut my eyes as he reached in to remove the top books, obviously hoping his prize was nestled underneath.
KABOOM!
The bomb exploded immediately.
Joe stumbled in shock and fell on his back. Even in the dim light I could see that he was covered in orange paint.
He was completely dazed and had landed several feet from his weapon, so he was not my primary concern at that moment. Sophia was. She cried out, “Joe! Joe! What happened? Are you all right?”
I looked up and saw Sophia standing next to the pickup at the top of the hill. She too had a pistol in her hand. I weighed my options.
I could get the drop on Joe without much trouble and subdue him before he had a chance to retrieve his weapon. I could then position myself behind Joe, but there was no telling whether that would prevent Sophia from firing off some shots. On the other hand, if I waited much longer, Sophia would probably come running down the hill, and Joe might regain his equilibrium and his gun. I’d then have to deal with two armed killers at close range in fading light.
“Hold it right there, Joe!” I blurted out in a muffled tone, hoping Sophia wouldn’t hear me. I followed that up with, “Don’t make a move or I’ll shoot!”