Allies
Page 37
“The lawyers are gonna keep trying to get through to him.”
A chilling thought suddenly intruded into Tuffy’s mind. Surely to God they don’t want me to hit a guy in police custody? He paid even more attention to Meraz’s words and his eyes looking for a hint of where this was going and started running through response options.
“Anyway,” said Meraz, “that’s our problem and not yours.”
Tuffy sat back in his chair, a bit of relief flowing through him.
“We’re gonna take another shot at Cabello,” Meraz said. “It’s a two parter; grab him if we can, kill him if we can’t.”
Tuffy nodded but had to throw in his two cents even if Meraz took it the wrong way.
“After the first try he and the cops have gotta be on their guard now. Is there a realistic chance that another try to grab him is gonna work? With respect boss, to my way of thinking it’s a lot less risk for everyone involved, including me, if we just go straight into a hit. Any attempt to grab him is just gonna complicate that.”
Meraz cast his eyes over to Hernandez.
“That’s very true, Antonio,” Hernandez said. “Luis expressed the very same doubts to me before you came over. We talked it out and we . . . I’ve decided that it’s a risk we need to take. If we cut the head off this snake, it’s just going to grow another one. Cabello’s organization is still young and weak but growing stronger and, to a large extent, hurting our position back in Tamaulipas. There are things that we need to stop and others that we have an opportunity to take over but to do either we have to get deeper into Cabello’s organization than we’ve been able to. I think we need to take one more shot at taking him but as you can see by your involvement, this is the last shot. I’ve decided that if it doesn’t work then you will put a stop to him and we will look for another way. You understand?”
“I do Jefe.”
Tuffy didn’t understand.
It had taken another hour to go over the outline of the plan but it had still been an hour short of the lunch hour when they had finished. Instead of going home to feed the girl, he had made the short trip northward to the I-275 and then turned west onto the Howard Franklin Bridge causeway across Old Tampa Bay. From there he had continued southwest until the I-294 intersected with State Road 694 which took him across urban Pinellas Park—with a short stop at a Subway—and then across the Narrows on the southern Gulf Intracoastal waterway. A short drive southward along the four-lane, beach house and condo lined Gulf Boulevard brought him to one of his favorite hangouts; Redington Shores County Park Beach.
The Park formed a significant gap in the shoulder to shoulder crowd of private beachfront properties. An ample parking lot provided space for almost two hundred cars but still he was sometimes hard pressed to find a parking space during peak summer periods. Winter, however, had just ended the day before and today, only a few cars were parked amongst the hundreds of palm trees that were planted around and throughout the lot.
Tuffy parked close to the dunes that separate the beach from the lot. He took the northern of the two boardwalks that crossed the dune and the bushes and sea oats that covered it. He walked over a few feet and sat down on the forward slope of the dune, well clear of the sea oats—it wasn’t that he was particularly concerned about the laws that protected the dunes—it just made sense to him that he shouldn’t damage the fragile plants that helped keep the dunes stable. Tuffy had no hesitation to break laws when it benefited him; mindless vandalism on the other hand had never been his thing.
Tuffy stared out at the waves that rolled in to the shore gently lapping the beach. He guessed they were at mid-tide and rising. He loved watching the waves and he loved the sea and the beach. He lived in the middle of an urban setting that had what he believed were hundreds of miles of shoreline of one type or another but yet it was always a rare treat to actually come to the beach.
He unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite followed by a long drink of Coke and let out a deep sigh. Meraz’s coffee had been good but hadn’t done anything to quench his thirst. Neither did anything that either Meraz or Hernandez had said quench his concerns about this new plan. There was a lot of risk here and the bosses knew it but had decided it was a risk that they and particularly Tuffy and whatever other soldiers Meraz finally assigned would have to take.
There was nothing about this order that Tuffy had liked. His biggest concern was the quality of the guys that would be assigned to do the grab-job. He knew the quality of the folks that worked for MQ-27. As a whole they could be tough and ruthless but, while quite able within their own fields, were entirely incapable of putting together the type of complex operation called for. The first attempt had gone off the rails real fast even when they had had the element of surprise on their side. Everyone was still mystified how the cops had reacted so fast. He’d be greatly surprised if Cabello wasn’t ready for them and more importantly, if the cops weren’t even more ready for them. Why had there been cops so close to Cabello’s house in the first place? There was entirely too much that they didn’t know and Meraz hadn’t allocated nearly enough time to properly reconnoiter and plan this take down.
Tuffy took stock. He couldn’t decide for the moment which caused him more concern: the new mission or the situation with Sandy and the girl. It was crystal clear that the mission could end up with him sidelined in jail for a while but the situation with the girl could lead to his death. Nonetheless, within him there was a hope that he could still work things out with Sandy even if he got rid of the girl. It’s not as if she’d go to the cops on him if he killed the kid. The question was would she still stay with him and would things ever again be the same between them.
He finished his sandwich and glanced once more at the waves rolling in. One day I’ll own a house on the shore, he thought. If I can just keep my shit together I can do that. He didn’t notice that in his thoughts he had said to himself that I’ll own a house, not we’ll own a house.
It had been three o’clock before Tuffy had returned to the house and set the tuna sandwich that Sandy had prepared that morning, together with a can of Coke, inside the girl’s room. He still couldn’t care less one way or the other if she ate it or not. If she starved it would solve half of Tuffy’s problems.
He’d left her there and had made the rounds to several hardware stores to rebuild his murder kit supplies. He finished at a Publix where he had picked up a whole barbecued chicken with a side of pasta salad and creamy coleslaw and a half portion of key lime pie for supper.
He’d arrived back only a few minutes after Sandy had returned from school.
“I’ve brought supper,” he said.
Sandy walked over and hugged him.
“She didn’t eat her lunch,” she said. “It’s still there.”
Tuffy silently chalked up one more notch for starvation but held his mouth and instead handed Sandy the plastic bags of food while he took the others with the hardware to the bedroom.
Sandy was unpacking the food into the fridge when he came back.
“I’m not quite ready for supper yet,” she said. “Do you want a beer.”
“It’s always Miller time,” he replied and took the beer she offered.
“How was your day?” she asked as she followed him to the living room couch.
“Meraz called and I went over to see him. They want to take another go at grabbing Cabello and want me in on it as a backstop in case it goes south.”
“How do you feel about that?”
Why do women always want to know how you feel about something rather than what do you think?
“I think that it’s an unnecessary risk,” he said simply.
“Do you have any choice in this?”
He laughed wryly and peeled a bit of label from his beer bottle rolled it up and tossed it on the coffee table.
“Not so much,” he said. “I’m in a special position but no way have I earned the right to turn down a job. At this point I do what I’m told. I can offer my opinions and,
if I make sense, they may take my ideas into account. Bottom line though is I do what I’m told or it’s over for me.”
He looked at her sitting on the couch. She’d made herself small; her feet tucked in tight under her butt, her shoulders hunched, her head tucked in, her hands holding her beer tight in her lap; a habit of hers that he had always found endearing. Her voice was equally small.
“She’s a big risk, isn’t she? Amber?”
Tuffy nodded.
“I’ve been thinking all day,” she said. “You know—after this morning. At first I said to myself that we could all just run away and go somewhere else but then I said to myself: where do we go? what do we do for money? how do I finish my education? What do we do with the house?” She paused and gathered herself in. “And I didn’t have an answer.” Again she paused. “I even said to myself; if Tuffy gets caught he’s still a juvie; what can they do to him? Just a few years, that’s no biggie.” She looked at him sheepishly. “I don’t know what to do Tuffy. I don’t want to lose you but how can I let a little kid die?”
By now her tears were flowing freely.
Just like that, life had gotten more complicated.
CHAPTER 50
Tampa International Airport, Tampa, Florida
Tuesday 20 Mar 07 2200 hrs EDT
Mark felt tired as he leaned on the door of the two-car shuttle transporting him from the Airside C terminal where Southwest operated from. Below he could see the lights of cars making their way around the airport’s internal ring road while ahead of them shone the lights of the airport’s tower, the tri-wing Marriott hotel and the main Landside terminal with its baggage claim which was their destination. Sage stood across from him in the opposite doorway talking animatedly on her cell phone.
The automated shuttle slid quietly into the small two-track station and opened its doors to discharge the handful of passengers on board. Sal led the way while Sage brought up the rear still talking. By the time they had made their way down to baggage claims, she’d finished.
Like most airports, Tampa’s baggage claims area was long on standing room and short on seating. The few seats that were open were as Sal was wont to say over the hill and far away, a phrase he admitted having picked up from watching Sharpe’s Rifles on Masterpiece Theater. Sal had chosen to seat himself on the edge of the baggage carousel which sat quiet, empty and unmoving. Mark joined him.
Sage remained standing. Mark assumed that sitting down on a baggage carousel was obviously beneath a lady’s dignity.
“That was Whitlock,” she said. “He’d sent me an email to call just as soon as I got in. The guy that your people took down in St Pete’s wants to make a deal.”
Sal looked up. “What? The guy trying to take out Cabello?”
She nodded.
“Apparently he wants to make a deal and has info about who did Adolfo Herrera. I’m going over to St. Pete PD. Whitlock’s still over there and we have one of our ADAs on tap to sign off on it if it’s good stuff. You want to come with?”
Mark gave it a thought and factored in just how tired he was and the drive he still had ahead of him to Lakeland.
“Nah,” he finally said. “You go. If it has to do with who did Herrera then that’s your thing. If it brings up any tie to Lewis, then let me know right away even if I’m in bed already.”
Even in the dark, Sage could tell that her car had become covered in light grey cement dust that had settled down on her car while she had left it in the long-term parking garage complex at the airport. Great, one more thing I’m going to have to do tomorrow. She threw on her wiper/washer and watched as the dust first turned to a grey sludge, then a series of streaks across the windshield and finally, two broad, somewhat clean, arcs.
She pulled out of the garage and decided against using her SunPass to pay for the parking, firstly because she wasn’t sure that there was enough money in her account and secondly by using her credit card she’d have a receipt for reimbursement of the charges. The exit took her along the George J Bean Outbound Parkway where a short mile later she breezed through and avoided the interchange to Clearwater and the Veteran’s Parkway and instead followed straight through to the I-275 South ramp.
Almost immediately she found herself on the causeway crossing Old Tampa Bay. The orange glow of the lights rendered the waters of the bay almost invisible against the velvet black of the surrounding environment. Ahead, on the horizon was a ribbon of twinkling lights marking the bay’s far shore. There the highway bent to the left heading south into the heart of St. Petersburg before going on across the mouth of Tampa Bay itself via several keys and islands and the Sunshine Skyway Bridge.
There’d be no crossing the Skyway tonight however. She grabbed the 5th Avenue N exit and made her way the short distance along dark and empty city streets to the visitors’ parking area in front of the police complex. While modern looking with four-storey bronze panels between white pillars, the cluster of buildings was showing its age. The one housing the detectives—dating back to the 1950s—was crowded and only marginally adequate for some of its functions.
Sage made her way through reception where Whitlock was waiting for her. She badged her way through and they made their way up to the Major Crimes Unit of the Crimes Against Persons Division of the Department’s Investigative Services Bureau.
“How was Mexico?” asked Whitlock. “Did you bring me anything?”
Sage chuckled.
“Mexico was interesting. Got caught up in a nice gunfight and found tons of stuff. We’re getting together tomorrow morning at our office with all the players and do a full debrief.”
They turned into the MCU’s offices. Sage made a scan of the place, a jumble of wooden workstations and steel pedestal desks. Where there were desks, they were set up in pairs facing each other, the desktops having wooden desktop organizers that ran the entire length of the desks but were low enough that partners could still look over their tops and talk to each other while seated. Everywhere there were computers, binders, stacks of papers, graphs, photos and diagrams hung on the walls or pinned to boards. Only two desks had occupants, both dressed in grey slacks, white long-sleeve shirts and different but equally garish ties. A casual wave from one acknowledged their presence but otherwise, no one made a move to say hello.
“Do we have a St. Pete liaison?” she asked.
“Yup. We do but he’s gone home so it’ll just be the two of us and Ollie from Guns and Gangs. St. Pete’s pretty much ceded all jurisdiction to Tampa PD on this one.” He pointed across the room to a table that held a two-pot coffee brewing machine. “Our perp’s just down the hall. I just want to grab a coffee. You want one?”
Whitlock preceded Sage into the interview room and put one of the two coffees in his hands on the steel table in front of Platt. Platt nodded his thanks. Sage took in the other two occupants of the room with a glance.
The first, sitting across from and slightly to the right of Platt, was clearly the lawyer based on his wearing the profession’s de rigueur uniform of a single-breasted, charcoal-gray suit. The only displays of individuality—if that’s what they could be called—were his Republican-red tie and a shadow fade haircut. Somewhat incongruous, if not pretentious, for a thirtyish something white man, she thought.
His early-twenties companion—Hispanic by skin tone—sported very much the same hairstyle but added a closely cropped goatee. A long-sleeved plaid shirt didn’t hide the gang tats that crept out under the sleeves and up from the collar to entwine around his neck and face. A hint of baggy jeans and shoelace-free sneaks peeked out from under the table.
Whitlock and Sage both pulled up chairs to Platt’s left, facing the prisoner and ignoring the lawyer. Wordlessly Platt slid a business card along the table to Sage. Without picking it up she gave it a quick glance.
T. Augustus Winchell, Jr., Esq.
Attorney At Law
Suite 1000, The Brockridge Bldg,
Tampa, FL 33602
800-555-1212 813-555-1212
“So Alejandro,” she said. “Alejandro Sandoval, is it?”
The young man slouched back in his chair while his lawyer scribbled something on a yellow legal pad. What was worth writing down at that point was beyond Sage’s understanding.
“You can call me Poochie, if you want,” he said with a crooked smile on his face.
Sage didn’t want to but did want to get the little bastard to feel at ease.”
“I’m told that you’re prepared to give us some information on who murdered Adolfo Herrera and Maria Tanara.” She paused and gave Sandoval an opportunity to open up to them.
Sandoval again looked bemused, gave his shoulders an infinitesimal shrug. “Maybe. Depends on what you’ve got for me.”
“Let’s see Alejandro,” said Platt dragging out the Alejandro to make it sound like an insult. “What we’ve got for you is an attempted kidnapping and carrying a weapon while out on parole from a string of property and violence offences. With your record you’re immediately going back to jail on the parole violation for the remaining four years of your six-year sentence and you’re looking at another ten to twenty over and above that.”
“That’s not necessarily true,” chimed in Winchell.
“Sure it is,” said Platt also ignoring the lawyer and looking at Sandoval. “I thought we’d gotten beyond all this bullshit. We know what you want. You want the charges dropped and you want to relocate yourself and your wife and kids who, you’ve told us, won’t make it if you go back in. Right?”