Tampa Burn (17 page)

 

 

BEFORE
Tattoo told us he'd find his own way home and banged twice on the car's roof, cutting us loose, I told him to tell his clients that Pilar was going to have to dump the satellite phone they'd given her. If a lone car had managed to tail us for more than an hour through all that Miami traffic, the probability was that I'd been right. Some kind of GPS tracking device was involved—probably installed in the phone.

He said he'd tell 'em. But that didn't mean it was O.K.

I drove us west away from the ocean, then south on I-95, keeping my eyes on the rearview mirror, watching for the black Chevy. As I drove, the three of us discussed the maybes. Who might be following us.

Pilar, still shaken, her voice trembling, said there were two possibilities: one or both of the federal investigators she'd spoken to in Masagua. It could be them, or it could be they'd leaked information to people who'd decided to come hunting for what sounded like an easy score.

“Marion's already mentioned the other possibility, too,” she said. “It could be people associated with the kidnappers but who're out for themselves. They know I picked up the money at the consulate, and they're trying to take it before I make the exchange.”

Tomlinson had one more alternative: “It could be that the kidnappers are lying. Telling us we're being followed just to soften us up, make us more eager to cooperate. If it's one kidnapper, singular, not kidnappers, he was down there in the boat all alone, watching us.

“So, could be he was buying time because he's doing everything by himself. First, he makes sure we're not being followed, then later, he arranges a drop spot for the cash. But he
tells
us we're being followed because he wants to keep us on the defensive. Scared and eager. He wants us to think he's gonna kill Lake, that he can walk away from the deal, no problem.”

In my mind, I could see the video, the man in the mask doing everything himself, but telling us over and over that he wasn't acting alone.

I hoped Tomlinson was right.

But what if he wasn't?

Certain inferences could be made if a rogue group in a black Chevy was tracking the satellite phone that Pilar was carrying. Tomlinson was thinking the same thing, because he asked Pilar, “Does your ex-husband know about you and Doc? That he's the father of your son?”

“Yes.”

Her flat tone said how uncomfortable she was with the subject.

“Does he know Doc by name, I mean? Where he lives?”

I said, “He knows who I am. Finding out where I live wouldn't take much effort. So, if these people are insiders, we're not going to lose them by just dumping the satellite phone. That's where you're heading with this. They'll find us on Sanibel. Pick up our trail there.”

I was still thinking about who might be following us. Who it could be, or where they may have heard about Pilar and the cash. There was yet a third possibility that no one had mentioned. Pilar was mad at me anyway, so I decided to go ahead and risk offending her.

“There's at least one other person who knows. The question is, how much does he know?”

Sounding puzzled, Pilar said, “Aside from the people we've mentioned, there's no one else. Who?”

“Your friend Kahlil. He just sold nearly a half-million dollars' worth of emeralds for you. Did you tell him the reason they had to be sold?”

“Of course. He deserved an explanation.”

“Then he's someone else to consider. Maybe he's a talker. Maybe he told a friend. Or a dozen friends.”

Oh yeah, she was offended.

“Kahlil is one of the most decent and generous men I know. A moral man. We are . . . Kahlil and I are close. Please don't suggest that he has something to do with this.”

Turning to look out the window, she added, “Not coming from you.”

I
was varying my speed, still watching our rear. There were plenty of Chevrolets, some black Chevys, but none that seemed to be tailing us. If they had an electronic fix on us, though, I knew there was no need for them to maintain visual contact. All they had to do was stay close.

I wondered how they were going to work it. How they planned on separating a briefcase full of cash from Pilar.

I tried to project back: They could've come in from Central America legally by commercial jet. But entering illegally—easy to do by boat, less so by plane, but still doable—would be preferred. It left no tracks to cover later.

Assuming they arrived within the last forty-eight hours, that didn't give them a lot of time to organize, so they'd be winging a lot of it, playing it by ear. They'd come expecting to deal with a lone woman. But now she'd shown up traveling with two, maybe three men.

Maybe they knew Tattoo was a hired middle man, maybe they didn't. That depended on if they had connections with the kidnappers—and they almost
had
to be associated in some way . . . or at least with someone who was leaking good data. Unless I was wrong about the satellite phone, they were well enough informed to secure a GPS receiver that was locked on the right frequency.

But if they
weren't
connected with the kidnappers, or if their source of information had changed, it would then appear to them that the woman had a carload of friends—one of them a formidable giant.

That would make them step back and reconsider.

The question was, would they apply light cover until they got a shot at the woman when she was alone? Or would they try to take us down the first chance they got?

I decided they wouldn't hesitate. For one thing, it seemed likely they'd staked out the Masaguan consul general's office, waiting for us. The Masaguan feds and kidnappers both knew we had to go there to get the money, so it was the logical place to pick up our trail. They saw us exit with the briefcase. They knew we had the money with us in the car. So why give us time to hide it, or lock it away, or deposit it?

They wouldn't, I decided. Not if they saw an opening.

To Pilar, I said, “Where's the satellite phone?”

“In my purse.”

“I want you to take it out and leave it on the seat.”

“Leave it? I'm not going anywhere.”

I'd been watching the green Interstate signs and knew that the East-West Expressway was ahead. I was improvising as I went, following my instincts, heading west toward the wilder, more familiar Everglades.

I said, “Yes, you
are
leaving. I'm going to try and put some distance between us and whoever's back there. Then I'm going to find an exit that looks good, and we'll make a fuel stop. Maybe we'll get a look at the car tailing us. Maybe we won't. Either way, we'll make a show of it, all of us out of the car.”

Tomlinson said, “I love the way your brain works, man. Now, all of a sudden, you
want
them to catch us. I don't
understand
it. But I dig the whole opposites thing.”

“I want them to see for themselves that we're an easier target than they think. That Tattoo Man isn't with us. I'll be looking for a gas station near a hotel, because the moment the Chevy's out of sight, you two are checking in, getting a room.

“I'm going to leave you in Miami and drive back to Sanibel alone. You can take a cab or a limo if you want. Or I can come back and get you tomorrow. Your decision. And Tomlinson? I'm going to borrow your cell phone.”

Pilar said, “I don't think separating is smart. If you confront them, what are you going to do?”

I told her honestly, “I don't know. Whatever it takes to make them stop following us, I guess. I'll have to make it up as I go along.”

“Stop following us?”

“That's right. You heard the big man. I have to find a way to stop them. If the kidnappers see someone tailing us again, they'll make the wrong assumption. They'll kill Lake.”

“By stop them, you mean . . . well, I know exactly what you mean.”

I found her tone and her manner infuriating. Did she have a better plan?

Trying to reassure her, or maybe to get her off the subject, Tomlinson interrupted, saying, “We've got to trust Doc on this one. Let's just let the big horse run, O.K.? He's good at this sort of thing.”

Pilar's tone remained severe as she said, “That's true. Now that I've found out, why do I keep forgetting?”

 

 

I took the ramp onto 836 west across the Miami River, past Miami International, jumbo jets ascending and descending at mild angles over the highway, flaps flared. I dodged in and out of traffic, accelerating aggressively when I could—which was seldom because it was now a little before four p.m., approaching the rush hour.

Because traffic was heavy, I pushed west, driving hard. I didn't want to risk taking an off ramp, searching for a hotel only to get stuck in some kind of rush-hour jam.

On the outskirts of Miami, though, traffic lightened. I took the Palmetto Expressway ramp and then continued to exit when I saw a billboard advertising a Radisson half a mile away. Only a block or so from the hotel was a Circle K.

It would do.

I swung alongside the gas pumps, and all three of us got out. Tomlinson went inside and returned with bottles of water and Snickers bars. Then we loitered for what seemed a long time before the car finally appeared: a new full-sized Chevrolet with windows too heavily tinted to be a rental.

Thus I knew the people pursuing us also had local friends, local knowledge.

I got the feeling that we surprised them. The car came racing down NW Seventh Street, but braked hard when, apparently, the driver saw us. Then the car accelerated onward. The impression was that they feared they'd lost us, were speeding to catch up, and then were startled when they overran us.

The car had a Florida plate, but it was at the wrong angle, and the car was traveling too fast for me to read.

I looked at Pilar then at Tomlinson before I said, “Get moving. Enjoy the hotel. Lock your doors. If someone knocks, don't answer, no matter what.”

As an aside to Tomlinson, I added, “One more thing, old buddy. Don't try to enjoy your little minivacation too much. She'd slap your nose off.”

I wondered if that was true or not.

Handing me his cell phone, he sounded frazzled—but also oddly uneasy—when he replied, “I know, man. I'm hopeless. I don't trust myself, either. Mr. Zamboni and the Hat Trick Twins, they won't touch my Zen students. But the bastards are shameless when it comes to all other women. Those three don't listen to
me
anymore.”

I told him, “Just a friendly warning,” as I got in the car. Then I sat for a moment and watched Tomlinson and Pilar speed-walk toward the covered entrance of the hotel.

Pilar, in her starched white blouse and blue skirt, could have been a coed at some parochial university, sophisticated in her uniform, late for class. Visually and from strong past memory, I noted that she walked with a feline elegance, hips, hair, and breasts moving in countersync cadence, rotating, bouncing, springing.

There were three men standing outside the Radisson's glass doors, luggage at their feet. They'd been talking, but stopped when they noticed her. The men remained silent as she neared, eyes locked on her, seeming to retreat into themselves the closer she got, back-stepping involuntarily from the doorway as if she pushed an energy field ahead of her, or because she merited a deference that common women did not.

I'd seen men behave that way before around her.

I'd reacted that way myself.

Perhaps she still affected me that way. I wondered.

Something else I noted: Pilar carried the photographer's case.

 

 

ONLY
two roads cross the Everglades, connecting Florida's Gulf Coast with the Atlantic. We'd come to Miami via Alligator Alley, the newest, fastest, and northernmost highway. Now I was returning homeward on the narrow, more southern Tamiami Trail, a less traveled two-lane road that augers through ninety miles of sawgrass and cypress swamp.

The highways travel similar topography, but they are unlike in most other ways. Alligator Alley is a modern freeway, buffered by public land on both sides. There are no homes, no businesses, and only one service station along the way. The Trail, in comparison, is old-time Florida. It is a remote and isolated country road that is interrupted by an occasional cluster of Indian chikee huts, or a lone trailer set back in, or a bait stand. The Alley is six lanes. The Trail is seldom more than two. The Alley is faster, busier. The Trail is slower, shadier, more remote.

I drove westward on the Trail, past tacky Deco roadside attractions at Coppertown and Frog City, eyes shifting from the highway to the road behind. I had to stay far enough ahead of the Chevy to keep them from seeing that I was now alone, but I didn't want to get so far ahead that I gave the impression of flight. Didn't want to tip them that I was aware I was being pursued.

So I drove at a consistent ten miles an hour over the speed limit. Fast enough to keep some distance between us, but not fast enough to attract the attention of the highway patrol.

Getting stopped by the cops now would be disastrous. I pictured myself on the highway shoulder, a squad car parked behind, lights flashing as the black Chevy slowed just enough to confirm that I was alone. I imagined the Chevy driving for another quarter-mile or so before making a U-turn, then heading back to the Radisson exit—the logical starting place to resume their search for Pilar. I pictured the Chevy passing again as an officer handed me a ticket.

Yes, disastrous . . .

Or . . . would it be?