Square Snapper (Detective Inspector Burgess) (28 page)

“Bro, there’s one thing that bothers me.”

“What’s that, Archie?”

“This guy, Captain; he’s not saying much, is he? What do you make of that? He’s implicated the guy in Miami, but then Hofstein says he’s dead. Who can say if he’s really the one he was dealing with. Don’t you think it’s kind of convenient that this Cujo character is dead? It makes for a pretty cold trail.”

“Ice cold, Arch. I think you’ve hit upon something. I just don’t have a feeling of closure on this. In my experience, when someone gets caught trying to make a run for it, they’re normally relieved to confess all. Sometimes they’re even eager to finally get to brag to us about their exploits. I think it’s strange this guy is keeping quiet when he knows we have enough evidence to put him away for several years. Also, what I’d really like to know is who hired that guy who tried to kill me. I can’t believe it’s an isolated case. It’s got to be connected. I guess Captain doesn’t want to be involved in a murder conspiracy. Better to be a drug dealer than party to a murder. That has to be why he’s not talking.”

“Either that or he’s covering for someone else. I’ve heard of lesser players being promised rewards when they get out of jail, if they just keep quiet. You know, the Mafia does that a lot. They look after their own when they stay loyal to them.”

“I hate to say this, but I agree. We may have a lieutenant here, but I don’t think we’ve got a general… I wonder if we ever will.”

“How long have you lived in Bermuda, Archie? You’ll learn. We’ll only ever find out if the people want us to, otherwise, nobody will talk. Anyway, I’m going to have to make that call to the superintendent ‘ay-sap’ to tell him my suspicions about Furbert.”

“You know he’s going to make you personally responsible for that, as if you’ve been negligent in your duty to allow a mole to operate in your department… as if it’s your fault.”

“Yeah, I know what he’s like.”

There was a knock on the door and Pamela walked in obviously excited. “Sir, we’ve heard back from Interpol. You’ll never guess what -”

“What?” cried Archie and Burgess in unison.

“Our assassin has been identified from a fingerprint on a visa. He’s apparently quite a celebrity in Croatia - a member of their Olympic Biathlon team! Can you believe that? Anyway, they say the Croatian government wants to send somebody over to collect the body and try and hush things up. Interpol went over to his house in Zagreb and - you won’t believe this -”

“Well?” Archie was getting impatient.

“It’s like a palace. They’re interviewing his Filipino butler and have gone through the entire place. It’s got a shooting range, huge gym, cross country ski trails in the grounds… incredible stuff. They also found his weapons room which had all sorts of sniper rifles and other hand guns. They’re really excited as they think they can clear up a few unsolved murders now that they have the guns. Turns out this guy trained as a sniper during the Bosnian war. He had a whole wall of photographs. Only thing is, he’d altered his appearance with some cosmetic surgery but they’re pretty certain they can cross-reference the fingerprints. They’re really hyped about this.”

“Not nearly as jazzed about it as you are, though,” laughed Burgess. “That’s great news. Now let’s keep it between us for now. Don’t tell anyone else. I’ll tell the superintendent.”

He turned to go back into his office and shut the door as he sat down to make the call. At least he had some good news to mitigate what he had to tell him about the leaks from his department.

Chapter 60

Beads of sweat kept accumulating on Archie’s forehead. He was hot in his dress uniform. Gonzalez’s funeral had been a formal affair carried out in the heat of a brilliant Miami summer’s day, palm trees swaying in the lightest of breezes, the smell of the flowers on the casket pungent in the humid air. As Gonzalez had been killed in the line of duty, the boys in blue had come out in droves including the department’s brass as well as representatives from the Mayor’s office. This was no private family funeral. This was a Dade County Police Department “full-honour for a fallen hero” funeral. He had watched as his comrades gave him the full treatment – a motorcycle escort, honour guard and bugler playing taps at the graveside. There were a few civilians in black and other sombre colours punctuating the sea of blue but it was exactly as he had seen it in the movies: mother and sister seated with sunglasses, lips set tight in grief, lesser family members behind and then rows of police officers in dress blue, buttons and buckles winking in the sun. He had found it all very moving. Listening to the formal eulogies in the church and then talking now with his colleagues afterwards, he realized that, even allowing for the instant sainthood normally bestowed upon the departed, Gonzalez must have been a pretty exceptional cop. Certainly, he had been well liked and respected. He was glad to be able to get to know Hofstein who was struggling with issues of his own over the killing of his partner. His reaction to it all reminded Archie a little of Burgess after the killing of the assassin. Was this what post traumatic stress was like? At least he had been able to fill in Hofstein on the recent turn of events in Bermuda. He had been fascinated by it all, horrified by the attack on Burgess, yet pleased at the progress on the case. Archie was glad he had come and planned to stay another day to talk more with Hofstein and report back to Burgess and the superintendent.

His belly full of police talk, beer and sandwiches, he said his goodbyes to the Gonzalez family and made his way to a waiting taxi. It was time to get out of uniform and cool off back at the hotel. Tomorrow would be another day and Hofstein wanted to introduce him to some whiz kid called Jacobs whom, it appeared, everyone was counting on to give them a break in the case. He had instantly felt sorry for Jacobs. That was the kind of pressure you did not need – a bit like how a kicker must feel just before scoring the point that would take his team to the Superbowl.

Back at the hotel he changed into a pair of khaki shorts and golf shirt and made his way down to the beach bar. Usually, this would be a time when he would be checking out the girls in their bikinis. It was almost a surprise to him to find that, instead, his thoughts had turned to Pamela and he wished he could share the moment with her. What was happening to him?

In Dallas the Reverend was seething with frustration. He had spent a fraught hour with members of his Public Relations agency who had cautioned him to tone down the rhetoric. “Don’t use words like ‘erase the scourge of drug addicts’, rather use ‘erase the scourge of drug
addiction
’
…” ‘Hate the sin, not the sinner,’ they had admonished. The words rattled around in his head like pills in a bottle… as if he needed to be preached to by a bunch of stuffed shirts. Who was paying their salaries anyway? “You’re attracting the wrong kind of attention,” they had warned.
Well who cares? The truth hurts
. The real truth was that his ego could not take their criticism. Their words had worked him into a lather and he had stormed out of the meeting like a spoiled child.

All in all, he was not having a good day. He had sent communication after communication to Cujo but with no response. What was going on? He had never left it so long before getting back to him. All he wanted to know was when the next shipments were coming in and whether they could “doctor” a small percentage of them. He had sent the messages in code as he had done a million times before. What was keeping the man from responding?

Time was marching on and he had to prepare another sermon for his TV show. He knew better than to re-hash an earlier one. Letters from his listeners had taught him that they were not impressed by that. He tried to make each sermon fresh and full of gravitas. The message was basically the same: if you followed the Lord, heaven. If you did not: hellfire and damnation. It was a formula that resonated with his followers and never failed to bring in the cheques. Usually he could make up a sermon on the back of an envelope but, somehow, his preoccupation and the recent words of caution from his PR agency were stymieing his creativity. Where was Cujo and why was he not in touch with him? He felt like he was losing control of the drug dealer. That would never do. Anxious, he debated whether to call his cell phone. He had rarely done that in the past but, then again, the drug dealer had always been attentive to the Reverend. The anxiety was getting to him. Reluctantly, he picked up his private phone and began to dial.

Back in the precinct, the duty sergeant froze as the cell phone in the plastic bag in the evidence lock-up began to ring. He immediately ran inside to answer it. He knew the drill and tried to make his voice relaxed and friendly as he answered with a simple “Hello.”

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been waiting to hear about the shipments.” The voice on the other end was angry.

The duty sergeant felt his heart lurch. He knew that everything hung on what he said next. Either he could convince the caller that all was well or he would sense something was wrong and they could lose him. He took a deep breath and prayed he could pull this off.

“We’ve run into some problems. I’ll get back to you in a bit.”

“Okay, you know where to reach me.”

The sergeant hung up with shaking hands. He looked in the evidence book and noted that Lee Hofstein was the detective who had logged it in. He dialled his number.

“Hofstein,” the tired voice replied.

“Detective, it’s Velazquez from Evidence. I’ve just answered the cell phone you had left with us overnight. I think I may have a number for you.”

In spite of his depressed state, Hofstein’s spirits began to lift. “I’ll be right there… and thanks!”

The detective literally ran down to the Evidence Room. He had logged in the contents of Cujo’s pockets after the shooting and had missed sending the phone to the Forensic Computer Lab for processing due to the wounding of Gonzalez. This was a huge break. He almost hugged Velazquez when he saw him.

“I guess whoever was on the other end expected a Hispanic voice, otherwise I don’t think I could have pulled it off.”

“It just goes to show, that when you think all is lost, God looks out for you!” Hofstein was becoming more of a believer with every passing day on this case.

“Oh, Detective, it appears you lead a sheltered life. Shining Light Ministries belongs to the famous Reverend William Wylie… you know, the television evangelist? He’s one of those fire and brimstone preachers… Has people eating out of his hand. He’s become quite the celebrity.”

“Are you kidding? Yeah, I have heard of him. Are you sure?”

“Yep. It’s his Church’s phone. Someone in his Church is in contact with your drug guy.”

Hofstein grabbed the duty sergeant by the shoulders and kissed him soundly on both cheeks. “Velazquez, you’re a superstar. Thanks!”

The duty sergeant looked after him, mouth gaping. “The boy’s losing it,” he muttered. Hofstein raced back to his office.

Chapter 61

Archie’s cell phone rang as he sipped on his second Tequila Sunrise. It was Hofstein in a huge state of excitement.

“Slow down, Hofstein, I can’t make you out too well over the sound of the music.”

Hofstein briefly explained what had happened and arranged to meet Archie over at the Forensic Computer Lab. It would seem he was going to meet the whiz kid sooner than he thought. Archie felt the thrill of the chase emanating from Hofstein and his adrenaline began to pump as well.

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll meet you there. He hung up, paid his bill and raced back into the hotel to get the doorman to flag him down a cab.”

The Reverend was perplexed. It was not often that he had talked to Cujo and he wondered what kind of problems they were encountering in Miami… or Colombia for that matter. He realized that he actually knew very little of how the whole operation worked. He had always felt it better to remain arm’s length. Now, however, he felt isolated, cut out of the loop and it was not a feeling he enjoyed. Frustration bubbled in him as he waited for the telephone to ring. He liked to be the one calling the shots and, suddenly, he felt like he was no longer in control. His ego railed against it. He paced his office, his temper becoming increasingly foul. The pool of secretaries outside his office kept their heads down and prayed he would not call them in.