Miami Heist Page 7

  “Yes?” he asked again, the voice still even, still patient.

  “Are—are you doing anything tonight?” she asked.

  No reply. Just that patient silence.

  “I mean,” she said quickly, “are you with someone tonight?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  She held the phone to her ear for two or three more seconds—seconds that felt like hours—as her face reddened. Then she slammed the receiver back on the cradle, ran into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

  12

  Full dark: Saturday, the day of the heist, at 2 a.m.:

  A green Buick cruised restlessly along the sandy dirt roads on the outskirts of town, just off Highway US-1. At the wheel, a big, balding man in a black raincoat swept his eyes relentlessly back and forth, comparing what he’d been told to what he was seeing.

  Big Bob Bigelow wiped sweat from his eyes, pushed the windshield wiper lever up a notch against the increasing rain, and went over again and again in his mind the words Harper—or was it Salsa? He couldn’t remember which—had said about the location of the truck they were planning to use to carry the gold away. By now, Harper should have had plenty of time to leave it, where it would sit and wait for them after the business on the island. It was supposed to be somewhere near the shore, just off US-1, south of Coconut Grove. But, after two hours of searching, he hadn’t found it yet.

  “How hard can it be?” he said aloud as 2 became 2:30 a.m. “It’s a big Army truck. Supposedly parked right out where God and anyone can see it.”

  Then, as a bolt of lightning flared in the heavens and lit up the surroundings momentarily, he at last laid eyes upon it: a Korean War surplus Army truck, marked up to look like it was in the area to deliver relief supplies for hurricane victims. It was parked exactly as Harper had described, in a sand-covered parking lot between two big palm trees, for a little added camouflage. Bigelow cursed. How many times in the last hour had he driven through this area and simply not seen it?

  He pulled in next to it, shut his car off, and climbed out—but not before taking two items from the glove compartment of the Buick. Then he went over to the driver’s side door of the truck, tried it to see if it was locked, and then studied the mechanism. He chewed his lip a few seconds and then nodded to himself. Keeping one of the items from the glove compartment under his raincoat, carefully protected from the downpour, he opened up the other. It was a small case containing various lock-picking tools. He looked at the door lock on the truck again and stifled a laugh. This kind was notoriously easy to pick. He figured the Army hadn’t been too worried about anyone stealing their big, slow supply trucks back during the Police Action in Korea.

  Within about two minutes he had the lock undone. He opened the door and looked inside, taking in the vehicle’s controls and the general layout. He climbed up into the cab and moved his hands in a pantomime of driving. It felt right; everything was where it was supposed to be. In other words, he knew he could drive it. That was, of course, if something unfortunate should happen to Harper and Salsa, and only he—and maybe his men—were left to get away with the loot. And he certainly meant to see that something unfortunate happened to them.

  Satisfied, he turned himself around and felt back behind the big bench seat. Oh yes: plenty of room back there. Smiling, he pulled the other item from his car out of his raincoat and looked it over. It was a SIG P210 semi-automatic, fully loaded and ready. Reaching around, he slid the pistol into the space behind the driver’s seat until he felt it wedge securely between a mounting bar and the back wall of the cab.

  “You never know when a backup will come in handy,” he muttered to himself as he climbed back out of the cab and hopped down to the wet sandy surface. He pushed the door closed but didn’t lock it; in an emergency, he would know he could get into the truck at a moment’s notice and that a weapon was there for the taking.

  He got back into his green Buick, yawning all the way. It was now almost 3 a.m. He knew he had to get some rest at some point, because tomorrow would be a very busy day. But he had a couple more things to take care of before he could get back to the house and get some sleep.

  He fought with the ignition for a few seconds, got the old Buick running, and peeled out of there.

  In his haste and weariness, not to mention the darkness and the storm, he failed to note the dirt-colored sedan that earlier had pulled onto the side of the highway a short distance back, its driver watching him. Now, as Big Bob headed for home, the sedan drove out onto the road again, made its way into the parking lot, and pulled into the same spot next to the truck he had occupied just moments earlier.

  13

  Saturday, the day of the heist, at 5 pm:

  Thurston Lansdale, Jr., stood atop the balcony above the main hall, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out over the dozens of wealthy guests in their dark suits and evening gowns who filled the space below. It being south Florida, he himself wore an elegant suit of off-white; his dark hair was sleek and swept back, with gray streaks at the temples.

  Without looking back, he asked, “You’re certain you’re prepared for anything?”

  Standing about six paces behind Lansdale, just inside the doorway that led from Lansdale’s office out onto the balcony, Don Garro closed his eyes and inhaled deeply but silently. He reminded himself for the twentieth time today to be patient with the boss, no matter how paranoid he acted.

  “Of course, Mr. Lansdale,” he said, his voice smooth and reassuring. “We’re all set.”

  Garro took out a pack of cigarettes and withdrew one, then brought it to his mouth. He was in his early fifties, but a constant regimen of calisthenics and running allowed him to consider himself as spry as ever. His hair was blonde going on white; his complexion ruddy from years in the Florida sun; his physique lanky but rugged beneath his dark suit. As he popped open his silver lighter, he regarded his boss.

  Lansdale’s father had hired Garro onto the island’s security force many years earlier, as part of the original security team the senior Lansdale had put into place. After Junior had taken over, he’d let one after the other of that team go, replaced by lower-priced muscle with far less training and experience. Eventually only Garro had remained from the old days. He had been promoted a couple of years earlier to chief, mainly because he was the most senior security officer, and one of the few full-time ones left. Junior didn’t like the expense of paying for quality help when there were cheaper alternatives to be had, simply by waving a few dollars around. So now Garro found himself taking care of most everything that needed taking care of on Ruby Island. And that included indulging the insecurities of his boss. Insecurities that wouldn’t be such a problem if the man wasn’t so damned cheap.

  He lit his cigarette, inhaled, and exhaled gray smoke. Outside, thunder boomed.

  “These are usually pretty well-behaved crowds,” he said. “I wouldn't be concerned. They’re nothing we can’t handle.”

  “I should hope not.” Lansdale unclasped his hands and brought them around, so that he was grasping the railing in front of him and leaning out over the grand hall. “Look at them, Don. The cream of south Florida society. The hoi polloi of Miami. Lining up to bring me their money.”

  “I think most of these people are here for the bridge tournament,” Garro commented.

  Lansdale shrugged. “The tournament might have brought some of them here—some who wouldn’t have come just for the casino, but—mark my words—now that they’re with us on the island, they won’t be able to resist the allure of the gambling in the adjoining halls.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, sir.”

  Thunder rumbled again, louder than before. Loud enough to cause Garro to glance upward in surprise. It actually seemed to shake the walls around them. Rain was starting to patter down on the roof and splatter on the windows on the far side of the office.

  “I have to tell you, Mr. Lansdale,” he said, “what does concern me is this storm.”

  Lansdale
released the railing and turned in a smooth motion from where he had been leaning out over the hall. He looked at Garro sharply. “I thought it changed course. Headed north.”

  “It did,” Garro replied, “but now it’s turned back this way again. I’ve been monitoring it.”

  Lansdale frowned, looking past him at the increasingly rain-streaked office windows. After a moment, he shook his head and turned back to the railing and the hall below. “Well, it’s too late to change anything now. We’ll just have to be careful, and ready for anything. Keep an eye on things and let me know if it’s going to get any worse.”

  Garro nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Ready for anything. He shook his head in frustration. Ready for a bunch of rich people angry their nice clothes are getting wet. That should be the extent of it.

  Stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray on his boss’s desk, Garro retreated down the stairs to the teeming hall. Lansdale meanwhile continued to stand on the balcony, overlooking his guests like a Roman emperor in the Coliseum.

  Neither of them suspected the lions were already there.

  14

  Saturday, the day of the heist, just after 7 p.m.:

  In its somehow uniquely glorious and trashy way, sunset had come to south Florida.

  As darkness settled over Ruby Island and all the little electric lights along its pathways blinked to life, John Harper held a large umbrella over the lovely young brunette he was escorting along with the rest of the crowd from the ferryboat to the mansion. The rain had slacked up a little in the late afternoon, but big, fat drops had started falling again even before the ferry had docked. Now the shower threatened to turn into a downpour and umbrellas were popping out everywhere, even as the wind picked up dramatically.

  It looked to be a big crowd tonight, despite the weather. Many of the others in that scrum of wealthy socialites hoped to win a few extra dollars at the big bridge tournament that evening, or in the casino. Some of them supposed they might lose money, though they were all wealthy enough that such a thing scarcely concerned them.

  Harper, on the other hand, fully expected to be robbed. In fact, he’d arranged it.

  He’d also arranged for the trip back to Miami to be much more difficult for the other people currently on the island. He needed them staying put here for as long as possible. The small bomb he’d just hidden on the ferry would see to that, when the time came. He and his crowd, of course, would have alternate means of transportation available.

  It had been a relaxed day so far, and that was by design. Harper’s operations usually happened in the evenings or late at night, and he liked to have his team take it easy and enjoy themselves in the daytime hours leading up to the gig. Today they’d gone to see an early preview showing of the new James Garner flick, Grand Prix, about race drivers and their wives and girlfriends. Harper thought it was too much a soap opera for his tastes, though the car scenes were admittedly pretty good. But Salsa wouldn’t shut up about the movie afterward, to the point Harper had started to wish they’d skipped their traditional pre-heist movie altogether. Salsa was convinced there was a ton of money wrapped up in racing, if he could just figure out a way to get at it. Eventually he’d dropped the subject, much to everyone else’s relief, when Harper had reminded him they had a potential fortune on the line tonight.

  Through the grand doorway they passed and into the main hall. The big room was already filling up with dozens of over-dressed, over-jeweled men and women, ostensibly there to play cards but mainly there to see and be seen by one another. Harper ignored them and cast his gaze about for the wait staff. Not that he was hungry or thirsty; he simply wanted to be sure they were there—and to be sure of who they were.

  A waiter in a white suit jacket merged into the traffic and back out again near Harper, and he thought he recognized the splotchy face and the spiky red hair, despite it being partially obscured under one of the white hats the staff wore. An embroidered “Danelo’s” on the lapel matched what the waiters had worn the previous week. The waiter caught Harper’s eye and a grin broke its way through his previously-bored expression. Harper smoothly looked away. A moment later, Connie leaned in close to him and said, “That was one of them?”

  Harper nodded.

  They had at least an hour before things would be getting interesting. That’s how they’d planned it. Time for most everyone who should be in attendance to have arrived and gotten comfortable; for the bridge games to get going; for the host and his security staff to grow a bit complacent, hopefully. And of course time for Salsa to arrive, in his own special way.

  If only they hadn’t already met with one unexpected turn of events, Harper was thinking. A turn that had him feeling uncomfortable. And he did not enjoy feeling uncomfortable at the very beginning of an operation.

  Lois Funderburk hadn’t turned up for her rendezvous with Harper and Connie. And that made Harper extremely nervous.

  After the movie had ended, they’d all gone their separate ways. Salsa would be coming over a bit later in the houseboat. The plan had been for the other three to meet later at the pier and take the ferry over together. Harper and Connie had waited there as long as they could, but eventually had to go on without her in order to catch the ferry and keep the rest of their carefully-constructed timetable intact. Lois’s absence worried Harper for multiple reasons, and he knew it would almost certainly drive Salsa to distraction when he found out. But, for now, he had to compartmentalize, stay focused and take things one at a time.

  Harper motioned toward the bar at the far end of the room and asked Connie if she was thirsty. She smiled sweetly at him and nodded. Together they drifted leisurely through the human tides in the direction of the bar.

  As they went, they drank in the buzz and bravado of the crowd. Quite a few people, it appeared, were gathered in a loose circle to their right, and at the center of that group Harper noticed a couple of particularly large, almost hulking men. Instinctively he moved closer to them, steering Connie that way, too. He was intrigued. Anyone that big, dressed that nicely, would normally have to be security. Extra and unexpected security guards—particularly big, strong ones—were not part of the scenario he’d envisioned. Harper wanted to know who they were, and wanted to start preparing contingency plans for them if they posed a threat.

  As he and Connie drew closer to the circle, he realized all those people were focused quite intently on four men at the center. Two of them were the big men; the other two were older gentlemen standing alongside them. It was almost as if they were celebrities, not security. But that made no sense. How could a couple of big, musclebound guys be celebrities, particularly at an event like this?

  Then he heard a couple of names said aloud; the names of particularly wealthy men Harper had heard mentioned before, here and there, in his recent guise as a wealthy Floridian himself. He couldn’t quite recall who they were supposed to be, though.

  And then someone mentioned dolphins. And asked when they might be winning this year.

  Dolphins? Harper frowned at that. Winning? Why would dolphins be winning something?

  And then it all clicked.

  Dolphins. The Miami Dolphins. The new pro football team in town.

  The two older, much smaller guys he recognized from the papers—they were the owner of the team and the head coach. The other two—the big fellas—had to be players. Linemen, most likely. They both had very close-cropped hair and blunt noses and appeared as uncomfortable in the tight black tuxedos they presently wore as they were with the attention of the crowd all around them.

  Football players. This gave Harper pause. He hadn’t expected any big, powerful athletes to be in attendance. And he most definitely did not want any more unexpected things popping up as he was about to get the job going. After thinking it through for a few seconds, though, he shrugged it off and kept walking. They were big but they weren’t bulletproof, and they probably weren’t entirely stupid. They’d go along just like everyone else, he was sure, as long as they we
ren’t pushed too hard.

  15

  “What do you suppose happened to her?” Connie was asking.

  Harper just shook his head once. It was bothering him more and more as time crept by and they got closer to the point of no return. Most of the time, just one little detail being off might be enough to cause him to shut down a heist before it had even started. But here he was, ignoring two warning flags. First Lois not showing up at the rendezvous, and now these football players being here. Wild cards; they were wild cards introduced into his deck, and just one had the potential to blow it all up. Why hadn’t he called it all off while there was still time? He knew himself well enough and was honest enough with himself to admit that a big part of it was that he needed this payoff. After all, most of his cash reserves were gone. Whoever had taken that money from the Flagler Beach house—and taken Salsa’s money, too—had put him on a seemingly irrevocable path that led straight to Ruby Island, come hell or high water.

  Sipping his club soda, he promised himself he wouldn’t let this situation escalate to three strikes. He’d pull the plug first, whether it was technically now “too late” or not.

  Harper ordered another round of drinks for Connie and himself—non-alcoholic, since they were working tonight—and then excused himself, leaving her at the bar for a minute, drifting over close to the doorway into the kitchen area. He waited there, taking his time to extract a cigarette, locate his lighter and light it, then casually smoke it. After a couple of minutes of this, the kitchen door opened and a big, pale guy wearing a diamond earring stepped out, carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres.