Gator A-Go-Go (18 page)

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

B
elle Glade sits near the middle of the state, on the southeast shore of Lake Okeechobee. The horizon low and flat. Cane elds forever. Plumes of dark smoke rose in various directions, some from intentional burns of harvested fields, others out the stacks of sugar-processing plants. Below the town was a prison camp. A yellow crop duster swooped, the one that terrorists with rashes on their hands had tried to hire. To the north, an uninviting, single-row motel with a leaking tar roof on the side of Route 715. Scraggly bushes, termite damage, a cracked office window fixed with masking tape.

The motel was almost always closed, except when the government needed it. Because it owned it.

Currently, no vacancy. Lights on in all eight rooms, but the front sign remained dark. Agents in T-shirts and jeans stood watch outside, pretending to work on a carburetor. They didn’t blend in. People of their sort never put up in the glades unless there’s a bad reason. All locals avoided them, except sheriff’s deputies, who knew something was up during their first stay but couldn’t get to the bottom of it despite hours of questioning in the parking lot. Almost blew the safe house. So feds began bringing tackle boxes and towing bass boats. Near every deputy fished that lake.

In the middle room, Randall Sheets rocked nervously on the edge of a bed. They’d just reeled him back from Detroit for his big day of testimony. A digital clock said five
A.M.
Ramirez sat facing him. “It’ll all be over in a few hours.”

“Can’t come soon enough.”

“Just remember what we talked about. The prosecutor will guide you through everything. Keep your answers direct and tell the truth. We’ll put them away.”

“I don’t see how my testimony can do that. I think the guys I was dealing with were at the bottom.”

“We have another witness. Management insulates themselves by staying away while the lower rungs get their hands dirty. Between the two of you . . .”—he interlaced his fingers—“. . . we connect the whole operation.”

“Will . . .
they
be there?”

“Not in the grand jury. Not even their defense attorneys. You have nothing to worry about.”

Three spaced knocks on the door.

An agent standing next to Ramirez—the one with the machine gun—went over and checked out the window. He opened the door.

Six more agents entered. “We’re ready.”

Everyone put on dark windbreakers with hoods. Ramirez handed one to Randall.

“What’s this for?”

“Just put it on.”

“Wait,” said Randall, looking around a room of identically dressed people. “Snipers?”

“Just an abundance of caution. Put it on.”

A string of headlights filled the dark parking lot. Engines running. Vehicles in a perfect line, facing the exit.

Room number 4 opened, and windbreakers ran for the convoy.

Pop, pop, pop.
Sparks on the pavement. Pinging against fenders.

“Where’s Randall?” yelled Ramirez. “Get him down!”

Agents flattened the witness and formed a pile.

Pop, pop. Ping, ping.

“Where the hell’s that coming from?”

“Over there!” An agent braced behind a Bronco and returned fire toward distant muzzle flashes. “The cane field!”

“Get him in the car!” Ramirez slapped the trunk. “Go!”

The front half of the motorcade sped east into the waning night. The rest of the team remained behind, raking sugarcane with overwhelming firepower.

The convoy reached Twenty Mile Bend, dashboard needles at the century mark. Randall wanted to see outside, but they were sitting on him again. The approaching dawn brightened over Southern Boulevard, where they were joined by helicopters for the final turnpike leg to the federal courthouse in Miami-Dade County. But back then it was just Dade.

They brought Randall through a secure garage gate in back. He entered the courtroom and took the stand next to a jury with less interesting mornings.

Randall Sheets was, as they say, the perfect witness. Steady, confident testimony. Even he was surprised by his grace under pressure.

Indictments came down.

Across south Florida, a series of predawn raids.

The front door of a Spanish stucco house opened. The SWAT team brought Hector, Luis, and Juanita out in handcuffs—“Call the lawyers!”

Same scene at five other locations, two dozen associates in all. Everyone was booked. And bonded out just as quickly by one of Florida’s top law firms. TV crews waited in the street. “
Is it true you’re kingpins?
”

An agent in the Miami FBI office picked up a phone and dialed.

A cell rang somewhere south of Miami. “Hello?” A hand quickly went over it, and the person walked outside. “Are you crazy calling me now? . . . No, I can’t talk. They’re circling the wagons. Everyone’s under suspicion . . . What I’m saying is they know you’ve got an informant in the family . . . How can you say there’s no way?
We’ve
got someone inside with you . . . I don’t know who our guy is, sheriff, janitor, anyone. Point is that’s how they must have found out . . . I understand you’d really like the name of our informant—I just need more time . . . Don’t even joke about taking back immunity. I’ll contact you as soon as I hear something. And never call me on this line again!” The phone slammed shut.

Another phone rang. Another person answered. “. . . Yes, I can talk . . . I see . . . You think you know who the informant in our family is? Very good, who? . . . You’ve only narrowed it to two people? That’s not good . . . I realize it’s a huge risk getting at the files right now. That’s what we pay you for . . . No, time’s already run out. Haven’t you been watching the news? . . . Okay, what are the two names?”

THE PRESENT

Four
A.M
.

Serge’s surveillance had synchronized his watch with the rounds of local police.

The latest squad car rolled toward him. And kept going. Serge jumped from a hedge on the side of A1A.

Pedro was already bound and gagged in his seat. Serge popped open a toolbox. He began loosening hex-head bolts with his largest socket. Some were stuck from the years, needing WD-40 and a hammer banging on the wrench handle.

Minutes later, all the right bolts lay on the ground. Serge’s wrist-watch said to dive in the bushes. Another cruiser drove by.

Quiet again. Serge dashed back.

Stifled screams under the gag. Serge untied it.

“Please ! Dear God ! Whatever you’re thinking . . . I’ll, I’ll pay you. Cash, cocaine, anything!”

“The name,” said Serge.

“What name?”

“Who you’re after.”

“They’ll kill me.”

Serge turned to walk away. “Suit yourself.”

“Okay, okay. Andy McKenna.”

“Andy? He’s just a kid. What’s he ever done to you?”

“Nothing. It’s his dad . . .” And Pedro laid it all out from soup to nuts.

“How many of you are there?”

“Four.”

“Good, very good,” said Serge. “Now, who’s behind it?”

Silence.

“Come
onnnnnnnnnn
. . .“ Serge gave him a buddy jab in the arm. ”You’re doing great.”

“Guillermo.”

“Guillermo?”

“But he’s just the crew leader for Madre.”

“Wait . . . but . . . you don’t actually mean
the
Madre.”

Pedro nodded.

“I remember reading about her back when
Miami Vice
was still on the air.“ Serge blew a deep breath through pursed lips.”Thought for sure she’d be dead by now.”

“Far from it,” said Pedro.

“So history comes full circle.” Serge stroked his uncharacteristic two-day stubble. “What impressed me is how you’ve been able to track him. Students on spring break are like stray cats. But I have a theory.”

Pedro clammed up again. Then: “I’d rather you kill me.”

“So it is what I think?”

“They keep me in the dark on that. You have to believe me.”

“I do. Does this Guillermo have a cell number?”

Another nod.

Serge got out a scrap of paper and pen. “Ready when you are.”

Pedro rattled off digits. Serge stuck the note in his pocket. “Most excellent. See how easy that was?”

“So you’re going to let me go?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Serge replaced the gag, then whistled in awe. “And how!”

Another cruiser rolled up the street.

When it was gone, Serge poked his head from the bushes and walked to a breaker box . . .

DAYTONA BEACH

T
he 911 call came just after dawn from a commercial air-conditioning repairman. He’d been cleaning coils on the pebbled roof of a two-story motel just south of the band shell. Soon, the roof swarmed with detectives and a forensic team, photographing Pedro from every angle. Or what used to be Pedro. Now he was more like Flat Stanley, his clothes a thin package of human jelly in a fly-swarmed stain.

They combed the rest of the roof. No sign of a trail from the maintenance doors—or anywhere else. It was like he just materialized out of the blue at the very spot they’d found him.

How the hell did he get there? And in that condition?

Nobody could figure it.

Until another 911 call. This time from the amusement boardwalk.

Luxury suite number 1563.

Two gentle knocks at the door, followed by two more. Students flinched.

“Who the hell can that be?”

“It’s Serge’s signal.”

“What if it’s someone
using
Serge’s signal?”

Melvin checked the peephole and undid the chain.

They saw Serge and bent forward as one, anxiously awaiting any news.

He strolled into the room like nothing happened.

“Well?” asked Joey.

“Just boring investigative work. Tedious documents and records.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Can we leave the room?”

“No. You’re okay for now, but I have some more chores until it’s completely safe.”

Speculation shot around the room. “Andy,” said Serge. “Could I have a word?”

“Sure.”

They stepped into the bathroom. Serge placed a paper bag by the sink and combed his hair in the mirror. “Or should I say ‘Billy’?”

Andy crashed into the tub, taking down the plastic curtain.

“I’m sorry.” Serge helped him up. “Have a weakness for the dramatic.”

The student grabbed a towel rod. “How much do you know?”

“Everything. Your father, the flights, yanked out of kindergarten . . .” Serge poured a cup of water from the faucet and handed it to him. “Why didn’t you tell me at the band shell?”

“Because I’m not supposed to,” said Andy. “That’s the big rule they gave us. Any exposure, and the whole family must relocate and start over. Almost happened a couple times in third grade when there was another Billy. Then we
had
to move. Michigan to Massachusetts.”

“What happened?”

Andy stared at the floor.

“Can’t be that bad.”

A tear fell. “My mom shot herself.”

“Sorry,” said Serge. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

“That’s okay. Long time ago.”

“Because of the witness program?”

Andy shook his head. “I was just a little kid. Dad told me she’d been very sick and was finally at peace. Went into remission before we left Florida, but it recurred. Because of how she’d . . . chosen to leave, local authorities had to run a mandatory investigation and officially rule the cause of death. Our witness liaisons thought it was too much attention, and off they shipped us again.”

“You still should have mentioned something,” said Serge. “Didn’t that business back in your Panama City room make any lights go on?”

“I was absolutely certain it couldn’t be the reason. We’re talking over fifteen years ago.”

“These people have been known to hold grudges.”

“Okay, so now we figured it out.” Andy braced an arm against a tiled wall and lowered himself onto the closed toilet lid. “Take me to the FBI.”

“Afraid I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

Serge gave him a penetrating look.

Andy got a different expression, backing up against the wall. “You’re . . . not . . .”

“Relax. I ain’t with nobody. It’s something Pedro told me.”

“Who’s Pedro?”

“Better you not know. Especially now.”

“What’d he say?”

“My suspicions were correct,” said Serge. “They have someone on the inside. That’s how they’ve been tracking you. And until I find out who, we can’t contact the authorities.”

“But what about my dad?”

“I can only solve so much. Right now you’re my responsibility. Consider me a guardian angel.”

“
You?
”

“Couldn’t be in better hands.” Serge reached for a white paper bag by the sink. “Here. Have a taco.”

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

A rented Taurus drove west from the Detroit airport.

Snowdrifts.

“I don’t know if I can get used to the cold,” said Randall.

“You will in time,” said Ramirez. “And thanks to your testimony, we rounded them all up.”

“I’m safe now?”

“As long as you stick to the program.” Ramirez had opted for the rental instead of the obvious government sedan. He handed a thick brown envelope across the front seat. “That’s your kit, everything you’ll need. New Social Security cards, Michigan driver’s licenses, birth certificates, credit cards with phony transaction histories, bank accounts. We made some deposits to get you started.”

Randall looked at the documents in his lap. “But why Patrick McKenna?”

“Because it’s a common name.”

“Couldn’t I have picked something?”

“Flash Gordon was taken.” Randall stared at him.

“Sorry,” said Ramirez. “That was supposed to be a joke. Break the tension.”

An exit sign.

Battle Creek.

They got off the interstate and wound through anonymous neighborhoods.

“Remember what we talked about,” said Ramirez. “It’s critical. Randall Sheets never existed. And Patrick McKenna always has. You need to set aside some quality time rehearsing with your family over the next weeks, calling each other by new names.”

“I think we’re smart enough to—”

“I’m serious. Can’t tell you how many people we’ve had to move again because of slipups in the wrong place, and it usually happens at the beginning. After a while, it’ll come naturally.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“One more thing,” said the agent. “The phone in the living room. Its wire runs through a little tan box. That’s the encrypter. There’s a switch on the side. Don’t call me unless you absolutely have to, but if you
have
to, flip the switch for a secure line.”

Patrick looked out the windows as they swung onto a sleepy, tree-lined street. “I just want to see my family.”

The car pulled up to the curb. Patrick grabbed the door handle, then stopped and turned. “I never thanked you.”

“Go on, they’re waiting.”

Patrick ran up the walkway and rang the doorbell.

Ramirez watched the tearful reunion on the front steps. He waited until the door closed, then drove back to the airport.

THE PRESENT

Police headquarters.

An evidence bag of hex-head bolts lay on the conference table. Detectives gathered around a TV set. Someone inserted a DVD that had been discovered by the employee who’d made the 911 call from the Daytona Beach boardwalk.

An early-morning glow had just broken over the Atlantic, but not the sun, giving the image a grainy, low-light effect.

On-screen: Pedro, secured in his seat, gagged, eyes of horror.

Offscreen: “
. . . Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . liftoff!
”

The video camera on the safety bar showed Pedro suddenly accelerate skyward in the open-air ball of the Rocket Launch. The beach and boardwalk receded quickly, tiny buildings and cars like a child’s train set.

Then the ball reached its zenith, and elastic cords jerked hard. The padded, U-shaped restraining bar over Pedro’s chest—minus its bolts—flew off like the pilot’s canopy of an F-16 Falcon during subsonic ejection.

Followed by Pedro.

The now-empty ball continued bouncing on its cords, camera still running.

A detective slowed the DVD to frame-by-frame. On one of its last bounces, the ball caught the background image of a miniature Pedro sailing out over motel row.