The Guardians, page 25
Frankie manages to say, “She died in 1998, according to the obituary.”
“That was the year, no one knows the day. My cousin Wendell got concerned and went to the house, found her lying peacefully in the middle of her bed, sheets pulled up to her chin. Dead for days. She left a note with instructions to bury her next to her children, with no funeral or ceremony. She also wrote that her last act on this earth was to put a curse on the house. Sad to say, but we were relieved when she died. We buried her in a hurry, in a thunderstorm, a quick service with just the family, and the moment we lowered her into the ground lightning hit a tree in the cemetery and we jumped out of our skin. I’ve never been so scared in my life, and never so happy to see a casket get covered with dirt.”
Riley takes a long drink and wipes his mouth with the back of a hand. “That was my grandmother, Vida. We called her Granny, but most of the kids around here called her Voodoo behind her back.”
In a voice as firm as possible, Frankie says, “We need to see the attic.”
“You’re crazy, man.”
“Who’s got the key?”
“I do, but I haven’t stepped inside in years. The electricity was cut off long ago, but you can sometimes see lights at night. Lights moving around. Only a fool would walk through those doors.”
“I need some air.” They step outside into the heat and walk to their vehicles. Riley says, “You know, this is weird. Kenny’s been dead for twenty years and nobody from the outside has shown any interest. Now, in less than a week, you and two others come snooping around.”
“Two others?”
“Two white dudes showed up last week, asking questions about Kenny. Where did he grow up? Where did he live? Where is he buried? I didn’t like them and I played dumb, gave ’em nothing.”
“Where were they from?”
“I didn’t ask. I got the impression they wouldn’t tell me anyway.”
38
Quincy’s first surgery is a six-hour repair job piecing together a shoulder and collarbone. It goes well and the doctors are pleased. I sit with him for hours as he recovers. His battered body is mending well and some of his memory is returning, though the attack is still a black hole. I do not tell him what we know about Drummik and Robert Earl Lane, or Adam Stone and Skip DiLuca. He’s heavily medicated and is not ready for the rest of the story.
There is a guard of some variety sitting by his door around the clock, often more than one. Hospital security, prison guards, Orlando police, and FBI. They take turns and I enjoy chatting them up. It breaks the monotony. I often marvel at the cost of it all. Fifty thousand dollars a year to keep him in prison, for twenty-three years now. A drop in the bucket to what the taxpayers are now spending to keep him alive and fix up his wounds. Not to mention the security. Millions, and all wasted on an innocent man who should never have been incarcerated in the first place.
I’m napping on the rollaway cot in his room early one morning when my phone buzzes. Agent Nolton asks if I’m in town. She has something to show me. I drive to her office and follow her to a large conference room where a tech guy is waiting.
He dims the lights and, still standing, we look at a large screen. A face appears—Hispanic male, age about sixty, ruggedly handsome with fierce dark eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard. Agnes says, “Name is Ramon Vasquez, longtime senior management in the Saltillo Cartel, sort of semiretired now.”
“The name is familiar,” I say.
“Hang on.” She clicks and another image appears, an aerial of a small resort tucked into the side of a mountain that is surrounded by the bluest water in the world. “This is where he spends most of his time. The island is Martinique, French West Indies. The getaway is called Oriole Bay Resort, owned by one of a million faceless companies domiciled in Panama.” She splits the screen and the face of Mickey Mercado appears. “Three days ago our friend here used a Honduran passport to fly to Martinique where he met with Vasquez at the resort. We showed up but couldn’t get in, and that was probably a good thing. The next day Mercado used a Bolivian passport to return to Miami through San Juan.”
It hits hard. “Vasquez was the boyfriend of Diana Russo,” I say.
“Still is. They’ve been together since about the time of her dear husband’s untimely death.” She clicks again. Mercado disappears and half of the screen is black. The other half is still the island. “No pictures of Diana. According to what we’ve been able to piece together, and I won’t bore you with stories of how shaky intelligence can be anywhere in the Caribbean, they spend most of their time living in luxurious seclusion at their resort. She sort of runs the place but keeps an extremely low profile. They also travel a lot, all over the world. DEA is not sure if their travels are related to trafficking, or if they just want to get off the island. They think Vasquez is past his prime but still does a little consulting. Could be that the Russo murder happened on his watch and he’s expected to clean up the mess. Or, it could be that he is still active in the business. Whatever he does, he’s extremely careful.”
I back to a chair, fall into it, and mumble, “So she was involved.”
“Well, we don’t know for sure, but she suddenly looks a lot guiltier. She renounced her American citizenship fifteen years ago and became a full-fledged citizen of Panama. Probably cost her fifty grand. New name is Diana Sanchez but I’ll bet she has others. Who knows how many passports. No record that she and Ramon have ever officially tied the knot. Apparently, they have not reproduced. Seen enough?”
“Is there more?”
“Oh yes.”
* * *
—
THE FBI WAS monitoring Mercado and was preparing to arrest him when he made an inexplicable blunder. He picked up the wrong phone and made a call to a number that cannot be traced. The conversation, though, was recorded. Mercado suggested to the man on the other end that they meet at a crab shack in Key Largo for lunch the following day. Moving with a speed that is remarkable and makes me happy to be on the same side as the FBI, Nolton got a warrant and her agents arrived first. They photographed Mercado in the parking lot, filmed him eating crabs with his contact, and photographed both as they got into their cars. The late-model Volvo SUV is registered to Bradley Pfitzner.
On film, he looks to be in decent shape, with a gray goatee and waves of gray hair. Retiring in luxury seems to be suiting him well. He’s almost eighty years old, but moves like a much younger man.
Nolton says, “Congratulations, Post. We finally have the link.”
I am too stunned to speak. She says, “Of course we can’t indict Pfitzner for having lunch, but we’ll get warrants and we’ll know when he takes a pee.”
I say, “Be careful. He’s pretty savvy.”
“Yes, but even the smartest criminals do dumb things. Meeting with Mercado is a gift.”
“No clue that Pfitzner has any contact with DiLuca?” I ask.
“None whatsoever. I’ll bet my paycheck that Pfitzner does not even know DiLuca’s name. Mercado moves in the dark world where he knew about the Aryans and arranged the hit. Pfitzner probably supplied the cash, but we’ll never prove it unless Mercado sings. And guys like him do not rat.”
I’m overwhelmed and struggle to keep things in order. My first reaction is “What a train wreck. In the span of three days Mercado leads you to Ramon and Diana Russo, and then to Bradley Pfitzner.”
Agnes nods along, quite proud of their progress but too businesslike to gloat. “Some of the puzzle is coming together, but there’s a long way to go. Gotta run. I’ll keep you posted.” She’s off to another meeting, and the tech guy leaves me alone in the room. For a long time I sit in the dim light and stare at the wall and try to process these bombshells. Agnes is right in that we suddenly know a lot more about the conspiracy to murder Keith, but how much can be proven? And how much can help Quincy?
I finally leave the room and the building and drive back to the hospital where I find Marvis sitting with his brother. He tells me he talked his boss into a few days of vacation and he’ll be around. This is welcome news and I hurry back to the motel and gather my things. I’m inching out of town in traffic when inspiration hits so hard I’m almost compelled to pull over and walk around my car. I keep driving as a simple yet beautiful plan takes shape. Then I call my new best friend, Special Agent Agnes Nolton.
“What’s up?” she says crisply after I hold for ten minutes.
“The only way to nail Pfitzner is to suck him into the conspiracy,” I say.
“Sounds like entrapment.”
“Close, but it might just work.”
“I’m listening.”
“Have you already packed off DiLuca to parts unknown?”
“No. He’s still around.”
“We need one more job before he vanishes.”
* * *
—
AT HIALEAH PARK, DiLuca takes a seat in the grandstand far away from other spectators. He holds a racing sheet as if ready to start betting on the horses. He’s wired with the latest bug, which can pick up a deer snorting thirty yards away. Mercado appears twenty minutes later and sits next to him. They buy two beers from a vendor and watch the next race.
Finally, DiLuca says, “I have a plan. They moved Miller again, between surgeries. He continues to improve but he ain’t leaving for some time. The guards are rotating and there’s always somebody watching his door. The prison sends a few boys over now and then. That’s where the plan begins. We borrow a guard’s uniform from Stone and one of my boys puts it on. He eases in late at night. On cue there’s a bomb threat at the hospital, maybe we’ll blow up something in the basement, nobody gets hurt. Typically, the hospital will go berserk. Active shooter drill and all that craziness. In the melee, our boy gets to Miller. We’ll use an EpiPen needle, get one from the pharmacy, and load it with something like ricin or cyanide. Jab him in the leg and he’s gone in five minutes. If he’s awake, he won’t be able to react in time, but they keep him knocked out a lot. We’ll do it late at night when more than likely he’ll be asleep. Our man walks out and disappears into the confusion.”
Mercado sips his beer and frowns. “I don’t know. Sounds awfully risky.”
“It is, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. For a fee.”
“I thought there were cameras everywhere.”
“Above the door, but not in the room. Our guy gets in because he’s a guard. Once inside, he’ll do the deed in seconds and then join the chaos. If he gets his picture taken, no big deal. No one in hell will ever know who he is. I’ll have him on a plane within an hour.”
“But Miller’s in a hospital, surrounded by good doctors.”
“True, but by the time they identify the toxin he’ll be dead. Trust me on this. I poisoned three men in prison and did it with homemade juice.”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”
“It’s no sweat for you, Mickey. Except for the cash. If our boy screws up and gets caught, he won’t talk. I promise. If Miller survives, you keep the other half. But prison hits are cheap. This ain’t prison.”
“How much?”
“A hundred grand. Half now, half after his funeral. Plus the other twenty-five grand from the first hit.”
“That’s pretty steep.”
“It’ll take four men, me and three others, including the bomb maker. It’s far more complicated than shanking some stiff in prison.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“You want him dead or not?”
“He’s supposed to be dead already but your thugs screwed up.”
“Dead or not?”
“It’s too much money.”
“It’s chump change to your boys.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Across the track and next to the paddocks, a crew in the back of a delivery van films every movement as the bug captures every word.
* * *
—
PFITZNER TAKES LONG walks with his second wife, fishes with a buddy in a sleek thirty-two-foot Grady-White, and plays golf every Monday and Wednesday in the same foursome. From all indications—dress, home, cars, nice restaurants, clubs—he is quite affluent. They watch him but they do not go into his house—too many security cameras. He has an iPhone that he uses for normal conversations, and he has at least one burner for the more sensitive calls. For eleven days he ventures no farther than the golf course or the marina.
On the twelfth day, he leaves Marathon, driving north along Highway 1. By the time he reaches Key Colony Beach the plan is activated. It is ramped up when Mercado leaves Coral Gables, headed his way. He arrives in Key Largo first and parks in the lot outside Snook’s Bayside Restaurant. Two agents in shorts and floral-print shirts ease in and take a table near the water, thirty feet from Mercado’s table. Ten minutes later, Pfitzner arrives in his Volvo and goes inside without his gym bag, one of several mistakes.
As Mercado and Pfitzner dine on seafood salads, the bag is removed from the Volvo. Inside are five stacks of $100 bills wrapped tightly with rubber bands. Not fresh new banknotes, but bills that have been stashed for some time. A total of $50,000. Two stacks are removed and replaced with newer bills whose serial numbers have been recorded. The gym bag is returned to the rear floorboard of the Volvo. Two more agents arrive, rounding out the team of ten.
When lunch is over, Pfitzner pays the bill with an American Express card. He and Mercado exit and step into the sun. They hesitate by the Volvo as Pfitzner unlocks the door, opens it, grabs the gym bag, and, without unzipping it and looking inside, hands it to Mercado, who takes it so nonchalantly it’s clear he’s done it before. Before Mercado can take one step, a loud voice yells, “Freeze! FBI!”
Bradley Pfitzner faints and falls hard into the car next to his Volvo. He crumples to the asphalt as the agents swarm Mercado, take the bag, and slap on cuffs. When Bradley stands, he’s dazed and there is a cut above his left ear. An agent wipes it roughly with a paper towel as the two suspects are loaded up for the ride to Miami.
39
The following day, Agent Nolton calls with the news that Skip DiLuca is on a plane headed to Mars with a new identity and the chance for a new life. His girlfriend plans to join him later. Agnes passes along the latest with Pfitzner and Mercado, but nothing has changed. Not surprisingly, Nash Cooley’s law firm is representing both, so the prosecution will soon grind to a halt while the lawyers gum up the system. Both defendants are trying to get out on bond but the federal magistrate won’t budge.
Her voice is more relaxed, and she ends the conversation with “Why haven’t you asked me to dinner?”
Any pause would show weakness so I immediately say, “How about dinner?” In my usual state of cluelessness around the opposite sex, I had not bothered to notice if she wears a wedding band. I would guess her age at forty-two. I seem to remember photos of children in her office.
“You’re on,” she says. “Where shall we meet?”
“It’s your city,” I say, on my heels. The only food I’ve eaten in Orlando has been in the basement cafeteria of Mercy Hospital. It’s dreadful, but cheap. I desperately try to remember the balance on my last credit card statement. Can I afford to take her to a nice restaurant?
“Where are you staying?” she asks.
“At the hospital. It doesn’t matter. I have a car.” I’m staying in a cheap motel in a sketchy part of town, a place I would never mention. And my car? It’s really a little Ford SUV with bald tires and a million miles on the odometer. It hits me that Agnes knows this. I’m sure the FBI has checked me out. One look at my wheels and she’ll prefer to “meet” at the restaurant rather than go through the formality of me picking her up. I like the way she thinks.
“There’s a place called Christner’s on Lee Road. Let’s meet there. And Dutch treat.”
I like her even more. I may even fall in love with her. “If you insist.”
With a law degree and eighteen years of seniority, her salary is around $120,000, or more than mine, Vicki’s, and Mazy’s combined. In fact, Vicki and I really don’t consider ourselves on salary. We each extract $2,000 a month to survive, and give ourselves a bonus at Christmas if there’s anything left in the bank.
I’m sure Agnes realizes that I live in poverty.
I dress in my only clean shirt and well-used khakis. She breezes in from the office and, as always, is well put-together. We have a glass of wine at the bar then retire to our table. After we order another glass of wine, she says, “No shoptalk. Let’s talk about your divorce.”
I chuckle at her abruptness, though I’ve come to expect it. “How’d you know?”
“Just guessing. You go first and talk about yours, then I’ll talk about mine, and in doing so we’ll avoid talking about work.”
Well, I say, it was a long time ago, and I launch into my past. Law school, courting Brooke, marriage, the career as a public defender, my nervous breakdown that led to seminary and a new career, the calling to help the innocent.
The waiter hovers and we order salads and pasta dishes.
She’s had two divorces, actually. A minor one that followed a terrible first marriage, and a major one that was settled less than two years ago. He was a corporate executive who was transferred a lot. She wanted her career and got tired of moving. It was a painful split because they loved each other. Their two teenagers are still trying to cope.
Agnes is intrigued by my work, and I’m happy to talk about our exonerees and our current cases. We eat and drink and talk and enjoy a delightful meal. I’m thrilled to be in the presence of an attractive and intelligent woman, and also to be dining outside the hospital cafeteria. She seems to crave conversation that is unrelated to her work.
