by Wolf Riedel
“Oh, man,” he sobbed. “You didn’t have to kill her.”
“Yeah, I did,” Tuffy said. “You dissed me out, dude. You figured because you’re a veterano you could get away with that. You’re wrong, man.”
“You’re gonna do me anyway. You wouldn’t be here if Gordo and Loco hadn’t said to do it; it’s pretty clear that you’re their blow man now. What the fuck. Why should I show respect?”
“Because I’m still the vato who decides how you die, man. You’d do well to remember that. . . . Now, where’s the girl?”
CHAPTER 24
Seminole Hard Rock Hotel & Casino, Tampa, Florida
Sunday 11 Mar 07 1000 hrs EDT
Slotting in had meant that the second half of the weekend was going to be shot. Instead of a day at home with the family, Mark was resigned to a day in a hotel room or worse. At least it was going to be a nice hotel room. What made the Seminole an excellent meeting place was that there were hundreds of rooms, hundreds of thousands of square feet of casino, shopping and restaurants and several covered parking garages. In short, there were dozens of reasons why people could go there and easily get lost. On top of that was the fact that while arranging for a suite for a meeting on short order was pricey, Sundays were slow days—unlike Friday or Saturday—and as a result rooms were offered at a significantly cheaper rack rate. Not the cheapest. That would be Mondays. But Sundays, with a government rate, weren’t too bad.
Mark, Sal and Tony had arrived first. At the desk, Tony had rejected the first suite that had been assigned and selected another, ostensibly for the view but in reality to minimize the chance that the rooms were monitored. On entering the suite the three had swept its three rooms—bedroom, bathroom and dining/living room—for listening devices. A dining table with four chairs, a couch and two wing chairs would provide adequate seating. The drapes were drawn and the suite’s electronic devices—two TVs, two phones, a DVD player and a radio—were all disconnected and placed in the bathtub with some towels thrown over them. A little overkill, maybe, thought Mark. But better safe than sorry. The year before they’d been bugged with laser mics by the Russian FSB and these days Mark tended to err on the side of caution.
The next to arrive was Master Sergeant Paul Hurley, a special agent with MacDill’s AFOSI Det 340 and currently the handler for the detachment’s undercover officers and confidential informants. Hurley’s bulked up body appeared more suitable for the Navy’s Shore Police and for rousting drunken sailors out of bars than for the subtle ballet of manipulating erratic people and delicate situations. At just twenty-six Hurley was a bit of a streamer within the office.
“Mark. Sal. Tony,” he said to each with a small nod of his head as he entered the room.
Each replied with a nod or wave and a short, “Paul” in turn.
“Room’s cleared,” added Tony. “I brought a bunch of soft drinks and donuts. They’re over on the table.”
“That some kind of cop joke, Tony?” asked Paul with a grin.
“Nah,” he replied. “Just thought we might need the sugar rush before this thing’s done.”
Lucky arrived next followed a few minutes later by Ezzy. The pleasantries were quickly dispensed with and the five sat around the suite’s dining room table.
Hurley started the ball rolling.
“Ezzy told me about your case last week,” he said, “and I told her to give it her top priority.”
Mark’s eyebrows went up an imperceptible fraction. That’s unexpected but good of them, he thought. When he’d given Lucky his marching orders all that he’d hoped for was that the AFOSI folks would keep their eyes open.
“The long and short of it is that it melded in with some of the stuff we were already working on with Tampa PD.” He turned to his diminutive agent. A few years younger and many pounds lighter, Ezzy had what Mark would describe as an average military appearance; pretty but not too pretty, tough, but not too tough. She went to lengths to refine that appearance; no make-up, hair in a tight bun, no jewelry, clean and neat—but not flashy—clothes. “Ezzy, tell ’em where you’re at.”
“When Lucky talked to me about this gun conversion shit I started thinking about a confidential informant by the name of Clara that Paul has in the squadron. She works over in the machine shop where they’ve got all kinds of shit for making parts—machines, metal, whatever you need for whatever size or type of part you want. The shop’s pretty much full of civies but there are a few military there too. Anyway the only problem I got is that this CI’s pretty much a flake.”
“Do you work with her?” asked Sal.
“Yes and no,” said Ezzy. “She’s in the same squadron where I’m working. She’s in one of the workshops and I’m in the admin offices. I don’t handle her though. That’s Paul. She knows me as a clerk but has no idea that I’m undercover. I’d probably be dead by now if she did. Like I said she’s a flake. Heavy into booze and sleeping around and moving small amounts of drugs. Not one to keep secrets very well and it’s a bloody miracle she hasn’t given herself away yet.
“Anyway it wasn’t long after I got to the squadron that I id’d her as a player and a possible resource for Paul to work on.”
Hurley took up the briefing. “Clara thinks it’s cool—I think that’s her favorite word, cool—to work for the cops. Kinda a trip for her, raises her self esteem.”
“Sounds more like she should be in therapy,” said Mark trying not to make it sound like criticism.
Neither Hurley nor Ezzy took it as such. “Most of these self medicating kinds had a problem of some type or other before they got into the drugs,” Hurley said. “Our job’s not to look after their emotional needs but to get them the hell away from the dangerous toys we all play with.”
“And sometimes that means taking someone like Clara and letting her lead us around to the bigger dirt bags,” Ezzy continued. “So this last week I gave her and her closest friends a little extra attention.”
“Clara had already given us a couple of tips on a girl in her workshop—a Technical Sergeant by the name of Malita Silvera. Clara’s had a hate-on for Malita for some time now. Best I can make of it is that Malita’s a damn good worker and a real wiz at fabrication but that Clara, being a flake and all, is a bit of a fuck-up in the shop. Also, being that she’s just an airman, means that Malita’s been riding her ass to get her to buck up. Clara’s response is to rat Malita out as being one of the main links in the flow of blow and grass.”
“I thought our big issue was Oxy,” said Sal. “And now heroin out of Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“We in the Air Force are a kinder and gentler organization,” said Ezzy with a bit of a smile before turning serious again. “We’ve got the same issues. Docs subscribe Oxy for some injury and before you know it your boy’s on opiates for life. I think the thing here is that Clara’s in with a crowd that’s more connected to your South and Central American product line.”
“Anything that helps us?” asked Mark. “With Malita, I mean.”
“She spends a lot of extra time in the shop—at night and such,” replied Ezzy. “Being that there’s a lot of civies there you get pretty much an eight to five routine unless there’s a need for overtime for op purposes. I’ve been tailing her. She usually goes home around five or so but at night, around eight, she frequently comes back and puts in maybe another five hours. They all put in time cards when they’re at work but she’s never put in a card for her late-night time.”
“So she’s working there off the books,” said Mark. “Any idea at what?”
“Can’t get that close.”
“Can we install surveillance?” asked Sal.
Ezzy and Hurley looked at each other.
“Don’t have enough gear or folks,” said Hurley.
Mark didn’t hesitate.
“I think we can help if you’re okay with it,” he said. The people and facilities involved were USAF and under AFOSI jurisdiction, not CID’s.
“Yeah we’re good,” said Hur
ley.
Mark looked at Tony.
“Tonight?”
“If Ezzy can show me the areas that I need to cover and tell me when we can have access, then we can get her done,” said Tony. “They’ll also need to get the search authorizations in place.”
Lucky had been scribbling on a small notepad during this conversation and now looked up.
“Ezzy and I think that Malita is also linked in to a boy in CENTCOM’s J6.”
Mark and Sal’s heads snapped up in attention.
“Army?” asked Sal.
“Yup,” replied Lucky with a smile. “A master sergeant by the name of Tullio Cabello. I did a background check and a little light surveillance. Signals corps. His last post was at Fort Huachuka in Texas and he seems to have some seedy friends in town for a master sergeant.”
“We’ll need some more horses,” said Tony.
“I’ll see if I can get you two from Benning,” said Mark.
“Good, that’ll help me cover Cabello after hours,” said Tony. “Lucky can give him a closer look-see during the day. We should set up a tap; work and cell.”
Mark nodded and made a note for his own search authorizations.
“Yeah,” he said. “Put it together and work with Paul here to cover Malita as well.”
Mark turned to Paul.
“You, Sal, Tony and I should do a sit down with Tampa Narcotics.”
The trip had been a short one straight down the I-4 popping off on Exit 45A to downtown, just before the highway transitioned into the I-275. The noontime traffic was moving smoothly for a change and they soon found themselves at the blue high-rise at the corner of Madison and Franklin that was the Tampa PD’s headquarters building. A short walk from the building’s attached garage brought them into the building’s air conditioned lobby.
“Mark, Darlin’. How y’all doin?” Sage Baumgartner’s Kentucky drawl, if anything, sounded more pronounced than usual to Mark. He turned to see the short homicide detective stride up to them from behind them. “I thought that was you and Sal,” she said as she came up and gave Mark a brief hug.
“You’re looking good Sage. Long time no see. How’s it going?” he said.
“Can’t complain,” she said as she took turns shaking Sal and Hurley’s hands. “If I did no one would give a crap anyway. What brings you here?”
“We’ve got a meeting with Elroy Riley,” said Hurley.
She turned to usher them through security and to the elevator. “Elroy’ll be waiting for us upstairs I guess. Sorry I can’t spend more time with you. Ben and I caught a new murder this morning. Man and a woman over at a bar on West Kennedy. Ben’s chasing down a few leads and I came back to do some searches.” Ben was Benjamin Whitlock, Sage’s partner at Homicide.
Mark nodded.
“Hear anything more about the guys that got Tasaev?” she asked as they waited for the elevator.
Tasaev had been a US Army soldier who had been born in Chechnya and who had murdered a Russian FSB agent and a US Army officer in Tampa the previous year. Mark and Sal had been teamed with Sage and Ben in hunting him down. The investigation had taken them to London, Ontario where Tasaev had been taken out by a sniper as he was on the verge of surrendering.
“I spoke to Mike about a month ago,” said Mark. Mike was Detective Inspector Michael Bowman of the Ontario Provincial Police. “He says their guys at CSIS, who are working hand in hand with our CIA and FBI, are a hundred percent sure that the guys that got him were Russian FSB from ALFA. The case is still open and they’re working on finding and locking down any operatives there but they’re sure the boys that did it, except for the one you got, are back in Russia. We’ll never get them.”
“They still bugging your office?” quipped Sal as the doors to the elevator opened.
“No more than yours,” she shot back. During the Tasaev investigation a laser microphone and recorder had been found in a cemetery next to the Lakeland CID offices. Later, after their return to Tampa, the owners of One Tampa Center had reported to the police that a hole had been cut into the glass of window looking onto the TPD Homicide Squad’s offices. Undoubtedly for a similar microphone. Follow up investigations into the short term renters who had occupied the suite had been fruitless.
“Any ID on the guy I shot?” she asked. One of the FSB agents, just a kid really, had Mark and a Canadian police officer pinned down with a rifle when Sage had caught him in the flank and brought him down in a hail of gunfire. The boy had died instantly.
“Nothing at all,” replied Mark. “Undoubtedly an ALFA but the Russians refused to claim him. He’s still a John Doe.”
They had reached their stop and waved good-bye to Sage who would continue up further to her own floor. Hurley directed them down the hall to their meeting room.
Elroy Riley stood at six-foot two and weighed in at a respectable two hundred and twenty. A fade haircut with just over a quarter of an inch on the top of his head disappeared completely about an inch above the ears. Mark put him down at being just over thirty but couldn’t quite pin him down as being either black or Latino; the skin color had him on the Latino side but the name spoke of an African-American background. While Hurley had worked with Riley before, Mark only knew of him by reputation through Tony DiAngelo. The reputation was a good one; a meticulous planner and, while a risk taker, not one to take unreasonable or unnecessary risks. All characteristics which were frequently missing amongst people who’d worked too long in narcotics.
The quick ritual of offered and accepted coffee completed, Riley got right to the point.
“When Paul here called me,” he shrugged his shoulder toward Hurley, “he said that you were doing a homicide that might link into guns here in Tampa.”
“Let me be honest, Leroy,” said Mark. “We’re way short of where we can say that we’ve got a link. What we’ve got is probably more in the nature of a hunch.
“What we do have is two dead soldiers in Ocala, one of their daughters dead, one missing and a young dead Jane Doe and the only thing we’ve got right now that is even close to explaining what went on here is some evidence that this guy bought AR-15s and parts to convert them to full-auto and that he needed money and was earning a living doing it.”
Riley looked at Mark for a minute, then said, “Funny you should mention converting AR-15s. I was just talking to a guy about that.” He reached over to the conference phone in the middle of the desk got a dial tone on the speaker and stabbed in a few numbers. The phone was answered on the second ring.
“Platt,” said the voice on the speaker.
“Ollie, it’s Elroy. I’ve got you on speaker here and have a few folks from the military here with me. You got a few minutes to come on down here to talk to us about what you told me this morning?”
“Sure. Where’re you at?”
Elroy told him and hung up. He turned to the others in the room.
“Oliver’s Guns and Gangs.”
“Oliver Platt? Like the actor?” asked Sal.
“Yup,” replied Riley. “Looks like him too but twenty years younger. Picture him as Harry Rex in A Time to Kill and that’s our Oliver.”
On cue, Harry Rex walked into the room, nodded hello to Elroy and held out his hand to Mark. Introductions were made all around and Platt took his seat.
“Ollie,” said Elroy. “Mark and Sal here are doing a murder investigation in Ocala that may be linked to full-auto AR-15 conversions.”
Platt noticeably sat up at that.
“We’ve got a Special Forces reservist living in Ocala and working weekends in Tampa,” said Mark. “He and his wife were shot dead at their home and their two young daughters were abducted. One of them has since been found dead together with a young black Jane Doe.”
Platt nodded.
“We’ve got records showing that he’s been buying up a lot of AR-15s at gun shows and mail ordering various full-auto conversion parts,” Mark continued. “On top of that he’s getting several thousand a month from unknown sou
rces.”
“Any sign of a workshop?” asked Platt.
“Not directly but we’ve just been exploring the possibility that there may be one in a machine shop at the air base. We haven’t tied up any relationship yet but we’re putting some resources into looking into it.”
“Ollie,” interjected Riley. “Why don’t you tell Mark what you told me today?”
“Sure.”
Platt looked from Paul to Sal and lastly to Mark.
“How much do you guys know about drug gangs in the area?”
“Sal and I know a lot less than Paul,” said Mark. “Why don’t you start us on the ground floor.”
“Okay then. For starters we’ve got a thousand plus known gang members in what in another year or so should be about a hundred different gangs. It’s definitely a growth industry here with new home-grown talent as well as groups from outside moving in. Up until recently our biggest players were groups affiliated with the Bloods and the Crips who had their start on the West Coast and then went national.”
“More recently there has been a growth of Latino based gangs moving northward out of Miami. We did a big take-down of the Latin Kings here last August when they came in to have a big state-wide leadership conference. They’re probably the biggest organization in Hillsborough with maybe a hundred and fifty or more members but they’re not the only ones.
“We’ve also got some folks with allegiance to Mara Salvatrucha 13—MS-13—who are subordinate to the Mexican Mafia. We’ve got some folks aligned with the Trinitarios. Got some Sureños—Sur-13—down by Sarasota and Manatee. All of them major players in drug trafficking and a whole range of stuff from robbery to auto theft to prostitution with a sideline in violence, mayhem and homicide. The violence is on the upswing as the earlier gangs are fighting to retain their turf while the newcomers are pushing in and building new distribution channels.
“One additional new feature that we’ve got right now is home-grown groups that are by-passing the traditional US-based gangs and are aligning themselves directly with the Mexican cartels. What do you know about Mexican gang structure?”