“What guy?”
“The guy wearing the Yankees baseball cap that shot up a biker gang.”
“Not me. I hate the Yankees.”
Baldini made a noise that sounded like a growl. The other agents had their backs to them and were pretending not to be eavesdropping, only it was obvious they were hanging on every word. Had one of Daniels’s team told Baldini about him?
“I already don’t like you,” Baldini said.
“I’m an acquired taste,” Lancaster said.
“Jon is a retired detective who works for Team Adam,” Daniels said, jumping in. “He’s been incredibly helpful with this investigation, and I’d like you to treat him with respect.”
Baldini was having none of it and glared at Lancaster. “Would you mind stepping outside? I need to have a private conversation with Special Agent Daniels,” he said.
Lancaster knew when he wasn’t wanted, and moved to the door.
“I’ll be in the car if you need me,” he said.
The truth be known, he actually liked the Yankees. It hadn’t started out that way. Having been raised in the south, he’d grown up believing that the Yankees were nothing more than a team from the Northeast with an arrogant owner who was willing to buy his way to a championship. They were the team to root against, not for.
One day, he’d driven to Port Saint Lucie to watch a spring training game pitting the Mets against the Yankees. His reason for going was to see if Tim Tebow — the greatest college football player that Florida had ever produced — could play baseball. Tebow had signed a minor league contract with the Mets, and was scheduled to start.
Tebow’s outing that day had been regrettable, with three strikeouts and a fielding error. Worse, he’d gotten into a heated argument with the umpire over a called strike, and had to be pulled back to the dugout by his teammates. It was not Tim’s finest hour.
But the trip hadn’t been a waste. He’d gotten to see the Yankees play, and learn about their history. The Yankees had won more championships than any other team, and made their players adhere to a strict set of rules, including short haircuts, no beards, and uniforms that didn’t have the players’ names stitched across the back. The emphasis was on the team, and not the individual, and he’d liked that.
Daniels appeared and got into the car. He plumbed her face and saw sadness.
“Are you kicking me off the investigation?” he asked.
“Not me. Baldini.”
“Same difference.”
“I’m sorry, Jon.”
“Did one of your team tell that asshole I was a liability?”
“Actually, it was my boss. J. T. is supposed to be resting, but he won’t stop doing his job. He emailed Baldini, and told him all about you.”
He held up his cell phone and pointed at the purple dot. It was moving south, probably preparing to dock at the marina that it had disembarked from. “Did you explain to Baldini that if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have gotten a bead on Dexter?”
“I most certainly did.”
“What did he say?”
“Baldini asked me to thank you for your contribution to the investigation. He also told me to tell you that if he sees you snooping around, he’ll personally handcuff you, and take you down to the nearest police station. He wasn’t kidding, Jon.”
“He’s ex-military, isn’t he?”
“He was in the marines. Is it that easy to tell?”
He pulled up the Uber app on his phone and booked a ride back to the Holiday Inn in Oldsmar where he was staying. The app informed him that his ride would be arriving in five minutes. He hoped that was enough time for him to say what needed to be said.
“I want to give you some advice,” he said. “Under no circumstances should you let this idiot take over this case. He’s a bull in a china shop, and will only screw things up. Am I making myself clear, Beth?”
“Baldini is a veteran agent. He—”
“I don’t care if he’s the second coming of Christ,” he interrupted. “That guy has no emotional investment in the victims. That’s the only thing that’s important here — the victims. They are somewhere close by, and you need to bring them home. Those women, and their families, are counting on you.”
“Damn it, Jon, don’t you think I know that?”
“I’m sure you do. But Baldini doesn’t, or if he does, he doesn’t care. His first priority is busting Dexter and his gang, and claiming the scalp. Rescuing Dexter’s victims is his second priority.”
“How can you know that, meeting him just once?”
“If Baldini cared about the victims, he would have sat me down, and pulled every piece of information out of me that he could. Then he would have given me the boot. Instead, he called me an asshole, and had you fire me.”
Daniels processed his argument, and could not come up with a response.
“When I was in the military, my team’s missions were in hostile countries,” he said. “The kidnappers hated us, and would execute their hostages before letting them be saved. We took that into account on every mission.”
“You think Dexter will kill his victims to spite us?” she said.
“Absolutely. He’s a one percenter, and hates authority. If he thinks the FBI is going to bust him, he’ll give the order for the victims to be killed.”
“You need to come back inside, and tell Baldini this.”
“Fuck Baldini.”
“Jon, please. Do this, for me.”
“You heard me. You couldn’t have picked a worse person to help you.”
He got a call from the Uber driver. His ride was right around the corner, and he started to get out of the car. Daniels stopped him.
“God damn it, Jon. Why are you acting like this?”
“That little bastard threatened to handcuff me,” he said. “What if I walk in there, and he makes good on his promise? I’m not going to risk that, Beth.”
“Risk what?”
His driver’s ride was a silver Prius. A vehicle matching that description pulled into the parking lot. He gave her a look and opened his door.
“You’re going to continue working the case, aren’t you?” she said.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” he said.
Chapter 37
His room hadn’t been cleaned, and he hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign before going in. He’d never been kicked off an investigation before, and didn’t like the way it made him feel. He decided to take a hot shower and wash the feeling away.
He emptied his pockets while undressing. Today’s plunder was relatively light — some loose change, and the receipt from the ice delivery to Earl’s BBQ. He started to crumble it into a ball, but his eye caught something he hadn’t seen earlier. One Percent Solutions, the Outlaws’ shell company, was called OPS LLC on the receipt.
The shower could wait. He opened his laptop and did a search of OPS on a website called Manta, which compiled information about small businesses and charged a fee to download the reports.
He typed his credit card information into the checkout, and soon was reading the report on OPS. It had been formed as a limited liability corporation in 2010, and listed the Outlaws’ clubhouse in Saint Petersburg as its main address. It also did business under the names Rebel Soul, West Coast Renegades, and Hurry Sunrise.
He stared into space. Criminals often hid their financial activities through shell companies, and he guessed that was the case here. He’d been working off the assumption that the gang’s victims were being kept in a building the gang owned. If that was true, then there would be a record of the building’s purchase, perhaps under one of these company names.
The three companies needed to be checked out. If he could find the listing of a sale, it might lead him to where the victims were being held. If it did pan out, he’d go rescue them with the help of the local police, and keep the FBI out of the picture. It would piss Beth off, but at this point, he didn’t care.