“No.” Frankie pressed Stop and ejected the tape. “Who?”
Art looked over his shoulder at their prisoner. “I’ll have to tell you later. Give me the tape. I’ve got to get this to someone.”
“Art?”
“You give your statements. I’ll fill you in later.”
Her partner was on his way out the door, instructing Omar Espinosa to take charge until Lou got there. Frankie watched him jump into King Six — his own car, King Eight, had a flat from skidding to a stop over the curb — and pull out of the lot with haste. She saw the blue and red rear deck lights come on before he turned and disappeared from view and heard the Chevy’s underhood siren come to life just after that.
“Frankie,” Omar said. “We should start on your statements.”
“Yeah,” she answered, the wail of the siren fading with each second. Her partner was pushing it fast, real fast, which only made her wonder more just what was so important about who he had recognized on the tape. But wonder was all she could do for the moment. There were three bodies scattered across the $22.50 Motel, all brought down by her hand. And she would have to justify each and every shot. Killing within the law, unlike the handiwork done by the whimpering perp they had just busted, was not so easily set aside, professionally or personally. Special Agent Francine Aguirre would answer the questions, write the narrative, dot every i and cross every t, and then, at some time in the foreseeable future, she would go home to her little girl and try to explain why Mommy had to kill three people. If only that were as instantly easy as the six pulls on the trigger. “Let’s get this done.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
CONFERENCE CALL
There were five Bureau vehicles and six Miami PD cars in the convoy, which exited the Airport Expressway going south on Twelfth Avenue and slowed to a crawl just as it turned west on Twenty-third Street. Two of the marked police units had already dropped off, blocking Twenty-fourth and Twenty-fifth streets, and at this point the remaining Miami PD units moved quickly to the other four intersections that would effectively isolate Thirteenth Avenue between Twenty-fourth and Twenty-fifth. Number 2744, an older single-family house, was located almost in the middle of that block, on the east side of the street. That address also graced the warrant held in the lead Bureau Suburban.
The first Bureau car to approach the house was an older bronze Volvo, chosen for the task because it looked so un-law enforcement-like. The two agents looked casually toward the house as they passed. Nothing looked out of the ordinary in the last-minute reconnaissance. “It’s clear,” the driver reported over the handheld radio.
With that the service of the search and arrest warrants began. The Volvo swung left at the end of the block and sealed off Thirteenth from that side, a block closer in than the marked unit. The five other vehicles, including four Chevy Suburbans carrying the FBI equivalent of a SWAT team, accelerated to the house and came to quick stops, two in the empty driveway, one on the lawn, and one in the street. The follow-up car blocked the end of the street opposite the Volvo just as the whop-whop of a helicopter came from the east.
“Go!” the team leader shouted over his hands-free radio. Twenty helmeted agents, clad in indigo jumpsuits and body armor, streamed from the vehicles and moved to their appointed areas of responsibility. As half of the team surrounded and secured the exterior of the house, staying low and covering every opening, the entry team moved as a single entity toward the front door. Two agents in the lead held a black steel battering ram, which they brought back as they neared their target. Upon reaching it, they swung forward, aiming for the lock side, and punched the wood-paneled door in with hardly any effort.
“Federal agents! Search warrant! Get down! Search warrant!” The scream was continuous as the first three agents entered behind the partial cover of a view-ported shield. They moved through the house, toward the back, followed by their seven colleagues, who secured each room, hallway, or closet as the penetration progressed.
“Freeze!” the leader of the point group yelled at the sight behind the door just kicked. His reaction was instinctive, yet what he saw caused him just the slightest pause. They didn’t often come upon this in a warrant service, and they certainly hadn’t expected it here. “Keep your hands in the open.”
Avaro had heard them come through the front door but had no time to react. The gun under his right leg could do nothing now. His hands, clad in fingerless black gloves, came up slowly so there would be no doubt as to his intentions.
Two of the agents from the follow-up team put their guns on the suspect from the doorway as the rest of the house was checked and secured. The team leader then stepped gingerly into the room, his MP-5 trained on the man. Proper procedure dictated that the suspect be instructed to “go prone,” but that was obviously not an option in this case.
“Do you have any weapons?”
Avaro’s eyes fell on the yellow “FBI” stencil on the agent’s chest. The idiot had to call from his house! Fucking fool! “Under my leg.”
The agents’ fingers placed the barest amount of pressure on the triggers of their submachine guns at the admission. One stupid move was all it would take.
But that move would not happen. The team leader sidestepped to the man and reached under his right leg. The bone in the atrophied limb was easily felt through the thin cotton pants. He eased the 9mm pistol from between the leg and the cushioned seat of the wheelchair and laid it on a table to the side. “Anything else?”
The barrel was a few inches from his face, and he looked through the sights in reverse to see the blue eyes of the FBI agent staring down the right way at him. The stupid, fucking fool! “No.”
“Baker King, this is Baker Leader, we have house secured and unknown male in custody.”
“On our way.” Agents Christopher Testra and Frederico Sanz got to the back room just as the house’s only occupant was being cuffed and Mirandized. That he was in a wheelchair surprised them, but only momentarily. What the rest of the room held was infinitely more interesting.
“Nice setup,” Testra commented. The compliment had a purpose beyond the commentary.
“Thanks,” Avaro replied.
Thanks… The voice sounded identical. Testra got a nod from his partner. “You’re welcome.”
“So your guys page you, leave a number of a phone booth, you call them there, and…”—Sanz gestured to the sophisticated communications setup on the table— “What, you use this to keep in touch with your boss?”
Testra visually examined the multiline cellular system spread across the table. Two phones, indoor antennae, a coax cable going out the window — to a roof antenna, no doubt. And… Hmm. You are a serious player. “An encryption package?”
“Well,” Sanz said in a very teacher-like fashion. “We are a very smart fella. Now why don’t you be even smarter and tell us your name and who you work for.”
Avaro stared stoically at his inquisitors. He would say nothing, and there was no way they could make him talk.
“Mum’s the word, eh?” Testra picked up one of the cell phones and dialed a number from memory. “You were right to think we couldn’t tap your cell calls, at least not without a whole lot more trouble.” He bent forward and smiled at the defiant face. “But that don’t matter now… Hello, this is Special Agent Christopher Testra, Miami FBI. Blue Rainbow Sunset.” The confirmation of the code phrase came from the phone company supervisor without pause. “I have a federal wiretap warrant, and I need the name of the registered user of this number and a list of all calls made from it for yesterday and today. I’ll wait.”