No Good Deed, page 11
part #2 of Lancaster & Daniels Series
She arched an eyebrow. “How does that work?”
“You grab your team, and we all go pay the local club a visit.”
“What do you plan to do, threaten them?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. But I won’t break any laws.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
The FDLE’s primary job was to assist local police when dealing with homicides, drug trafficking, and missing person cases. The Tampa office was one of seven statewide, and employed over two hundred officers, who actually seemed to enjoy their jobs. The receptionist wore a creaseless beige uniform and a shiny gold badge. She handed back their credentials with a smile.
“How may I help you?” she asked.
“We’re here to see Missy Hopkins. She’s expecting us,” Lancaster said.
“I’ll tell Special Agent Hopkins you’re here. Please make yourselves comfortable.”
They moved away from the reception area. Daniels never stopped asking questions when working a case, her brain on overdrive.
“What’s your relation to Hopkins?” she asked.
“Our paths crossed after I joined Team Adam,” he said. “Missy posted an alert on the Missing Endangered Persons Information Clearinghouse about a missing girl named Tammi. Missy had gotten a tip that Tammi was living in Fort Lauderdale with a couple who were living under assumed names.”
“What was their motive?”
“They couldn’t have a child of their own, so they stole someone else’s. The couple had been seen driving around the neighborhood in a pickup, and they abducted Tammi out of her backyard while she was in a kiddie pool. I was given the case, and I decided to play a hunch. My hunch was that Tammi was enrolled in a public school in Fort Lauderdale, and wasn’t at a private school or being homeschooled.”
“What did you base this upon?”
“Two things. The pickup was in bad shape, which meant the couple didn’t have money. That ruled out private school. They could have homeschooled Tammi, but a neighbor who spotted them said they looked like hillbillies. Parents that homeschool need to get certified by the state. This couple didn’t sound like they’d pass.”
“It’s flimsy, but go on.”
“The school district police liaison is named Valerie Richter. I emailed Valerie, and requested that she ask the county’s elementary principals if there were any seven-year-old girls suffering emotional problems or depression.”
“What led you to that?”
“Kids who get kidnapped have a hard time adjusting if they’re older than five. Tammi was seven, and I was thinking she might be struggling with her new life.”
“I can see that. What happened?”
“Valerie came back with several leads. I worked through them, and one stood out. A seven-year-old girl named Tina was having outbursts. Tina’s parents had enrolled her into Embassy Creek Elementary a few months before. The timing was right, so I got permission to visit the school.
“I watched Tina in the playground. Her hair was a different color, and I wasn’t sure it was her. When school let out, I changed my mind. Tina was on a bench with a group of kids, waiting to be picked up. When the parents came, the kids ran to the cars. Not Tina. She let her mother come to her.”
“Tina didn’t want to go with her.”
“Not in the least. That night I contacted Missy, and told her what I’d found. She drove down the next day, and took over.”
“You let Missy rescue the kid? That was nice of you.”
“She deserved it.”
Many cops enjoyed the limelight, and actually seemed to thrive under it. He’d tasted fame as a cop, and hadn’t enjoyed it. To do his work, it was better to be a face in the crowd, and blend into the woodwork. He heard his name being called, and saw Hopkins standing by reception. She was a twenty-year veteran, and her eyes had an ever-present, slightly disapproving look.
“There she is,” he said. “Let me introduce you.”
Hopkins’s office was adjacent to the crime lab. Each FDLE operations center had a crime lab, which police departments relied upon when dealing with difficult cases. As a result, the labs were always busy, and Hopkins shut the door to keep out the noise. She offered them chairs in front of her desk, then sat behind it.
“It’s good to see you, Jon. It’s been too long,” Hopkins said. “I heard through the grapevine that there’s a movie in the works.”
“Shooting begins this summer,” he said. “Would you like a part?”
She laughed. “No, but thanks for offering.”
“I have a favor to ask,” he said. “Special Agent Daniels and I are planning to visit the local Outlaws Motorcycle Club. If I remember correctly, the FDLE was working a case against the Outlaws last year, and you were in charge. I’d like to ask you some questions about that case.”
He’d hit a nerve, and Hopkins shifted uncomfortably.
“I really don’t want to talk about that,” she said.
“One of their gang is a suspect in two murders and a kidnapping, and we need to find him,” Daniels said. “We’d really appreciate it if you helped us.”
Beth was being polite. The FDLE was the most powerful law enforcement body in the state and reported directly to the governor. But the FBI was more powerful, and Hopkins could get herself in hot water if she didn’t cooperate with them.
“All right,” Hopkins said. “What exactly do you want to know?”
“If I remember correctly, your case was tied into amphetamines,” he said. “The Outlaws were cooking speed and supplying it to long-distance truckers, and the Saint Petersburg and Fort Lauderdale clubs were involved. What I’d want to know is, are they still dealing?”
“I could lose my job over this.”
“It goes no further than this room,” Daniels said. “You have our word.”
“Yes, the Outlaws are still dealing speed,” Hopkins said. “The operation was in full swing the last time I checked.”
“Which was when?” he asked.
“A few weeks ago. It pissed me off that we never busted them. Hopefully, one day we will, and they’ll go to prison.”
“Why didn’t you?” Daniels asked.
Hopkins made a face, the memory eating at her. “I’ll give you the official version, and then I’ll tell you the real version. We were ready to shut the Outlaws down when we got word from Tallahassee telling us to suspend the operation, and to put our resources against fighting the opioid epidemic, which is one of the governor’s top priorities. We had five thousand people die from overdoses last year, so it made sense, at least on paper.”
“Are you saying the governor protected the Outlaws?” he said.
“That’s right. He protected them.”
“Why on earth would he do that?”
“One of the governor’s top advisers is Claude Littlejohn, the owner of the King Grocery chain, which is the largest in the state,” Hopkins said. “Littlejohn is a wealthy man who wields a big stick. It’s rumored that you can’t get elected if he isn’t backing you. It was Littlejohn who convinced the governor to drop the investigation.”
“Why?” Daniels asked.
“Because his business depends on trucking,” Hopkins said. “Truckers are supposed to follow something called hours-of-service limits, which is federal law. A trucker is not allowed to drive more than eleven hours straight, but many of them break that rule, and drive sixteen hours or more.”
“Are they on speed?” Daniels asked.
“Most of them are. Get on the interstate at night, and watch the semis fly down the road at ninety miles per hour. It’s scary as hell. I was told that Littlejohn saves millions of dollars by having his drivers break the rules. Not that he needs it. He’s a billionaire.”
It was not the first time a politician had put a donor’s wishes over the welfare of his constituents, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Hopkins excused herself and left the room. When she returned, she was holding a file, which she gave to them.
“The Outlaws are still under surveillance,” she said. “The FDLE considers them a threat, so we monitor their activity. This file contains a log showing every vehicle that comes to their local club. Every vehicle that isn’t a motorcycle is carrying speed.”
“Can we have this?” Daniels asked.
“Not unless you want to get me fired. Photograph the pages you want on your cell phones. I’m going to the cafeteria for a cold drink. Want something?”
They both declined. Lancaster followed Hopkins into the hall to thank her. She was taking a huge risk, and he wanted her to know how much he appreciated it.
“My name can’t be associated with whatever you’re doing,” Hopkins said.
“You have my word,” he said.
She glanced at the door. “What about your friend?”
“Beth’s good people. She knows how to keep a secret.”
“I don’t like the FBI, Jon. They’re a bunch of arrogant assholes.”
FBI agents weren’t known for their bedside manners. But there was a difference between bruising feelings and betrayal, and he had never known Beth to break her word.
“Please don’t worry,” he said.
“I’ll try not to,” she said, and walked away.
CHAPTER 18
The Outlaws’ headquarters in Saint Petersburg was listed as a nightclub on Google Maps. It was actually a fenced compound in a residential neighborhood that contained a pair of white two-story buildings, neither of which had windows.
They sat in Daniels’s vehicle at the end of the block. Lancaster was watching the house through a pair of binoculars while Daniels was on her cell phone arranging for a helicopter to fly over the compound for the purpose of scaring the daylights out of the bikers inside. It was dinnertime, and the neighborhood was quiet.
“Done,” Daniels said, ending the call. “The chopper’s pilot will text me when they’re in range. How are things looking at the club?”
“I think we just got lucky.” He passed the binoculars so she could have a look.
“I’m seeing a purple minivan drive into the compound and a wooden gate being pulled back by two guys wearing leather,” she said. “Now the van’s inside and the gate’s being closed. Think it’s a shipment of speed?”
“I do. The timing’s right.”
“How so?”
“Truckers use speed to stay awake at night, and buy it at truck stops on the interstate. The one percenters wait until dark to make their deliveries.”
“What’s a one percenter?”
“It’s what the Outlaws call themselves. Ninety-nine percent of bikers are law-abiding citizens. The other one percent are criminals.”
“So they’re proud of breaking the law. What degenerates.”
She pulled out her cell phone to read a text. “We caught a break. The FBI’s crime lab identified the body the fishermen pulled up in Tarpon Springs. His fingerprints were altered by the salt water, but his neck tattoo did the trick. His name is Skyler Seeley, and he served ten years in Raiford for raping a woman in Miami.”
She passed him the phone, and he studied Seeley’s mug shot. Rapists were on the low rung of the genetic totem pole, and Seeley looked like a Neanderthal. When he’d left the force two years ago, identifying criminals through tattoos had been an inexact science. He didn’t like challenging Beth, but wanted to be certain they had the right guy.
“How many bullets did he have in him?” he asked.
“Two. Both in the same spot. Nice shooting.”
“Thanks. How do you positively identify someone by a tattoo? Back when I was a cop, that wasn’t very reliable.”
“It is now. When a person gets arrested, their physical description is put in a police report, including weight, height, hair color, and any tattoos. Since most criminals are inked, the bureau thought it would be a good idea to compile a Tattoo Recognition Database. By getting a tattoo, these idiots make it easier for us to track them down.”
She got another text. “The team’s ready and so’s the chopper. Let’s roll.”
Her team was parked at the other end of the block in two black SUVs. Each vehicle carried three FBI agents dressed in body armor and carrying assault rifles. They would come running the moment she hit a button on her cell phone.
They crossed and walked up the front path. He pulled a pack of chewing gum from his pocket and offered her a stick. She declined with a shake of her head.
“Take one anyway. It will make you fit in,” he said.
“Is that the deal? I should have worn my leather jacket.”
She popped the gum into her mouth and blew a bubble. They reached the front stoop, and he noticed there was no bell to ring, or welcome mat. He rapped on the front door, and a moment later it opened a foot; a wild-looking guy wearing a leather vest with nothing underneath stuck his head out. He was missing both front teeth, and every word that came out of his mouth was accompanied by a whistle.
“What the fuck do you want?” the wild man said.
Daniels blew a bubble and popped it. Lancaster laughed and said, “I just got out of Coleman, and was friends with Snivelhead. He wanted me to pass a message to the head of your club. Is he around?”
The wild man’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Jon, my friends call me Jonny.”
“If you knew Snivelhead, tell me his real name, and how long he’s in for.”
“Snivelhead’s real name is Willy White. He’s a lifer.”
“Who’s the bitch?”
“She’s my parole officer.”
“Is that a joke? I’m not laughing.”
“She’s my girlfriend. Not that it’s any of your god damn business.”
Daniels popped another bubble, and the door was closed in their faces. In a whisper Daniels said, “How do you know Snivelhead?”
“He ran the Fort Lauderdale operation for the Outlaws,” he whispered back. “I helped put him away.”
“What for?”
“He decapitated a guy that he didn’t like.”
“How charming.”
The ruse worked, and the wild man returned. “Hawk said you can come in.”
He ushered them inside. The club took up the downstairs and was a paean to the biker lifestyle, with a pool table, a long bar that took up a wall, and assorted black leather furniture. A Lynyrd Skynyrd song about white supremacy played on a flashing jukebox, while a trashy woman in a tank top was passed out on the couch. A leather-clad man at the bar spun around on his stool. He sported a purple Mohawk and had muscles on his muscles. This had to be Hawk. He growled like a junkyard dog, and the pool players stopped their game and fell silent.
“Dirty Pete said you had a message from Snivelhead,” Hawk said. “What is it?”
“I lied. There is no message,” Lancaster said.
“Is this a joke?”
“No. But we do want to talk to you about Dexter Hudson.”
“Who?”
“Dexter Hudson. He’s a member of the Outlaws.”
“Never heard of him. I think you have the wrong address.” The pool players all laughed. To the wild man he said, “Dirty Pete, show these nice people out.”
“Let’s go,” Dirty Pete said.
“We’re not done,” Daniels said.
“Oh yes, you are. Start moving.”
Dirty Pete placed his hand on Daniels’s shoulder, which was a mistake. When they were dating, Lancaster had learned not to initiate physical contact with Beth, but to let her take the lead. She had been abducted by a pair of serial killers while in college, and thrown in the trunk of a car. By a stroke of luck and the grace of God she’d managed to escape, and as a result of that experience, she’d developed an aversion to men who thought they had the right to place their hands upon her.
She kicked Dirty Pete in the groin with enough force to make every male in the room wince. He groaned in agony, and sank to his knees. Pulling her wallet from her purse, she tossed it onto the pool table so her badge was showing.
“FBI,” she said.
Out came her cell phone. She pressed a button on the screen, summoning the troops. Hawk watched her with a bemused look on his face.
“Where’s your search warrant?” he asked.
“I don’t have one,” she said. “I came here to ask you a few questions, which I’m legally entitled to do, and one of your men assaulted me. You’re all under arrest.”
“You’re arresting us?” Hawk said in disbelief.
“That’s right.”
“God damn bitch,” Dirty Pete said, choking in pain.
Daniels grabbed Dirty Pete’s ponytail and jerked his head back. “Open your mouth again, and I’ll stick my shoe in it.”
The clubhouse began to vibrate, and the walls shook. It felt like an earthquake, and Hawk took a cell phone off the bar and pushed a button. Lancaster assumed he had an app that allowed him to view the surveillance cameras on the property, and was now looking at the police chopper dancing over the house and the small army of armed FBI agents poised to break down the front door and rush inside. Hawk let out a curse and tossed the cell phone back onto the bar, knowing he was beaten.
“Dexter isn’t here,” Hawk said. “He came by a couple of months ago, said he’d just gotten released from Raiford, and wanted to check in. He played some pool and drank some beer and then split. Haven’t seen him since.”
“Where’s he staying?” Daniels asked.
“The hell I know,” Hawk said. “I’m not his mother.”
One of the pool players snickered. Daniels clenched her jaw.
“We’re going to check the place anyway, just to be sure,” she said.
“I know my rights,” Hawk said. “You can’t do that without a search warrant.”
“Have it your way,” she said. “I’ll place you and your asshole buddies under arrest, and then I’ll get a search warrant. I happened to see a van pull into your compound earlier. We’ll start looking there first.”
It was a masterful stroke. Daniels had nailed Hawk without revealing that she knew the van was loaded with speed and compromising the source of her tip.
“All right, you win,” Hawk said. “Dexter is staying up in New Port Richey. He’s got a room in the back of a strip club he’s living in. The owner’s an old friend of his.”
