MASTERMIND OF HOLY RELIC’S THEFT SENTENCED
By Erin O’Brien
Special to The Plain Dealer

Cleveland - Timothy Mason was sentenced yesterday in federal court to ten years in prison for his role in the heist of a holy relic.  Mason put together the operation to steal the Chest of the Bones of St. Jakob of Danzig, on loan from the Archdiocese of Gdansk, Poland, to St. Jakob’s Shrine in Slavic Village.

Bishop Daniel Gallagher expressed relief after the sentencing.  “This has been a terrible episode for the Diocese of Cleveland and the Polish community.  While it is sad Mr. Mason’s life has been destroyed through his own actions, I’m gratified we can finally put this travesty behind us.”

Mason’s lawyer, Anthony Prezbor, still maintains his client’s innocence.  “Tim Mason is being made a scapegoat for the shortcomings of Walden Insurance and in the absence of the two co-conspirators.  One is dead, the other missing.  With the slanderous testimony of a third, my client’s life will be ruined.”

Mason told a bizarre tale of being carjacked in North Carolina during an attempt to return the Chest to Cleveland.  He claimed to have commandeered the vehicle used to smuggle it to Florida.  However, Mason could never sufficiently explain what he was doing some ninety miles south of where he took over the car, originally driven by one Stan Yarazelski of Guilford.

Mason was later severely injured struggling with a police officer over a weapon in Georgia.  Yarazelski was implicated at first.  However, his testimony clearing two of his companions, Myron Blake, formerly of Wadsworth, and Sharon Harrow, formerly of Parma Heights, along with his role in stopping notorious drug kingpin Julian Franco, prompted federal and state authorities to drop all charges.  Franco was killed in a shoot-out with police and federal agents in Savannah, Georgia.

Andre Koradovich, aka used car dealer Andre the Giant, skipped bail shortly after the Chest’s recovery and is still at large.  Except for Koradovich’s capture, the police consider the matter closed.

***

Estevez packed the last of his things in a cardboard box and handed the phone over to the telcom guy.  Someone knocked on the doorframe.  “Bob.”

Robert Jordan stepped inside.  “So you put in your papers.”

“Yep,” said Estevez.  “I made it.  Thirty years, no major wounds, stayed relatively clean.”

“Relatively,” said Jordan.  “Meaning?”

Estevez scoffed.  “You know the shit we have to do to stay afloat in this job.”

“Yeah, I do.  That’s why I’m not a cop anymore.”

Estevez smiled at his friend.  “And you’re a better man than I, Bob.”

“That’s open for debate.  So what are your plans?”

With a loud grunt, Estevez hoisted the final box into his arms.  “Spoil my grandkids rotten and shag the old lady raw.  Then I’m going fishing.”

“Sounds like my plan.”

“Really?  You calling it a day?”

“As soon as I hear from Sharon.  She’s got all that reward money.  The company’s hers if she wants to buy it.”

“She doesn’t?”

“She wanted time to think about it.  So she ran off with that white boy to the Bahamas.”

“Good place to think.”

“I’ll have to see for myself.  But if she doesn’t buy, I’m closing up shop.  Either way, I’m done.  Even on the private side, thirty years is enough for anyone.”

“True,” said Estevez.  “There comes a point in every cop’s career where he has to say…”

“’I'm getting too old for this shit.’”

“God, I hate that cliché.  But, yeah, I think we both got there a long time ago.”

Jordan followed Estevez out to his car.  Then he bought his former partner a beer.

***

“Yes,” said Terri Kennedy.  “I’m already looking, honey.  I won’t make any offers unless it’s contingent on us selling the house.”  She paced back and forth in her new office, small but with a decent view of the bay.  “Oh, the kids will love Florida.  Have you had any job offers yet?”

Agent Scalzi of the DEA stood in her doorway, leaning against the frame.  He came immaculately dressed today in chinos and a bright orange Hawaiian shirt.  Kennedy had already seen the office his agency set up for him.  Behind his desk for all the world to see was a sign that read “Thou shalt treat Homeland Security dress codes as a polite suggestion.”  Scalzi’s superiors hadn’t argued.

“Of course, honey.  It takes time.  I love you.  Bye-bye.”  Kennedy dropped the handset into the cradle.  “God, I hate doing this with every transfer.  What’s up?”

“Special Agent Vodrey is due to arrive on Thursday,” said Scalzi.  “Thus spake the Bureau’s Atlanta office.”

“I’m not waiting anymore.  Did you set up a meeting with the police chief?”

“I did better.  I set up a meeting with the assistant chief over field operations.”

“The assistant…  That’s only number three on the totem pole.”

“But he’s the one that does all the work.  This is Miami, Kennedy.  Here, the chief just smiles for the cameras, or scowls when things sour for the police department.  The assistant chiefs really run Miami PD.”

Just like Cleveland, she thought, and Baltimore and Los Angeles and every other place she’d been assigned by the bureau.  “Good work.  So how long do you think it’ll take to flush out the rest of Franco’s operation?”

Scalzi grinned.  “You’re buying a house, not leasing, right?  Good move.”

***

Stan Yarazelski grabbed the cordless as soon as it rang.  “Stan’s Charters.”  He looked out across the bow of the fishing boat his reward money had bought him, an old, but serviceable thirty-footer he rented out for weekend anglers and the odd contraband shipment.  No drugs, however.  He’d put the word out he’d scuttle the boat first.

“So how’s Miami, Stan?”

The voice sent a chill down Stan’s spine.  “Andre?”

“Yes, it’s Andre,” said Koradovich.  “Yes, I’ve found you.  Guess how long you have to live?”

Stan sipped his martini.  “Doctor says probably only twenty years.  I’ve really taken rotten care of myself, you know.”

“Tell me what I want to know, and he’ll be right.  Otherwise, I’d be looking over your shoulder if I were you.”

“What do you want?”

“Where’s Blake and Harrow?  Those fucks destroyed my life.  Give me them, and you live.”

“Nassau.  And no, I won’t take you there.  You’ll have to go yourself.”  He hung up.

Miguel came up from the hold lugging a case of beer.  “That who I think it was?”

“Yeah.”

“And did he ask?”  He set case on the deck and pulled out two bottles.

“After he threatened me.  I’m surprised he hasn’t come after me.”  Stan twisted open his beer and tossed the cap into the bay.

Miguel chuckled.  “Well, he did, actually.  Let’s just say he’s grown attached to his remaining good knee since he tried.”

***

Mike walked out from the bungalow, two drinks in hand.  Halfway to the blanket, he stopped to watch the waves crash into the beach.  His eyes moved down and right to admire the deep brown woman stretched out on the blanket.  Finally, he moved again and sat down next to her.

“One fuzzy navel,” he said, “just the way you like it.”

Sharon took the drink from him and sipped.

“I got a letter today from Deanna,” said Mike.  “She wants to get back together.”

She tried to get her drink down before laughter would make her spit it out.  “Why?  Because you still have the balls Timmy used to have?”

“And my dick.  Remember, he blew off part of his dick, too.”

Sharon set her drink down and turned on her side, propping her head up.  “So this is it, eh?”  She frowned.  “Well, we both knew this was temporary.”

“I wrote her back and said no.”

She sat up.  “No?  Why?  Not because of me?”

Mike turned to her and smiled.  “Yes and no.”

“Yes and no?”

“Yes, because I like where we are now.  Even if it ends tomorrow and we never see each other again, I want this to end when we end it.”

“What if it never ends?”

“We all have to die someday.”

“Why no, then?”

“Why would I take back someone who left me for a shallow, preening smooth-talker like Tim Mason?”

“Sounds like what you told your former boss when they tried to hire you back.”

“And I meant it then, too.”

She cuddled up to him and nuzzled his neck.  “Then I’ll stay here a little while longer.  But I’m going back to Cleveland.”

“Why?”

“Uncle Bob wants me to take over his agency.  I haven’t told him, but I want to say yes.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“I need to know if I can have a partner first.”

“Partner?”

“A silent partner, but one who knows the insurance business.  Someone who can help me get around all the bureaucratic roadblocks.”

“Did you have someone in mind?”

“Tim Mason.”

Mike sat up and recoiled, spilling his drink.  “What?”

Sharon sat up, too.  “Well, think about it.  He wouldn’t hit on me since there’s nothing he can do about it.  And he did claims.”

“Sharon!”

“True, I’ll have to wait at least six years for him to be paroled.”

Mike started to get up, and stopped when he heard her laugh.  “You…”  He pushed her back onto the blanket and started kissing her.  “You want me to be your partner, don’t you?”

“Of course, silly, and…  Hey.”  She reached down and pulled the bikini top back into place.  “If you’re going to do that, let’s go back inside.”

He scooped her up and carried her back to the house.  “Yes,” he said on the way in.  “I’ll do it.”

“Good.”

He slipped into the bungalow, turning so he could fit her through the door, and made his way to the bedroom.  When he opened the door…

“Who are you?” said Mike to the man sitting on their bed.

The man rose to his full six-foot-five and held a revolver on them.  His left knee wobbled inside its brace.  “You don’t know?” he said, a trace of Russian in his accent.  “Everyone’s credit is good at Andre the Giant’s.”  He cocked the gun once.  “Except yours.”

There was a loud bang, accompanied by breaking glass.

***

Luis hit Koradovich center mass.  The big man dropped where he stood.  Harrow, the black woman, screamed, which surprised Luis.  Then again, who expected to see someone shot in their hotel room?  How many of those expected it to be someone trying to kill them?  Luis stifled a laugh and walked slowly away from the bungalow, slipping his .45 under his jacket.

As he exited the compound, he could hear sirens approaching.  He took out his cell phone and speed dialed his superior.  “It’s Luis.  Mission accomplished.”

“Koradovich?  How?” asked the man who gave Luis his orders.

“Terminated.  Just as he was about to ambush Blake and Harrow.”

“Good.  So they’re safe?”

“I don’t think we need to worry about them.  The people who tried to steal the Chest are all either dead or in prison.”

“Excellent.  Ready to move on?”

“Absolutely, Your Eminence.”

“Great.  We have a priest in St. Louis who has certain…  appetites.”

Luis smiled.  Pedophile priests were his specialty.  “Perhaps an accident.  Maybe the poor fellow drowned in the Mississippi River?”

“However you see fit, Brother Luis.  The Church trusts your discretion in this matter.”

“Thank you, Archbishop.  I’ll call you in four days with my report.”  Luis hung up and strode casually down the center of the street, a carnival atmosphere surrounding him.  Several blocks away from the compound, he knelt as though to tie his shoe.  Never mind he wore loafers.  It gave him the perfect opportunity to slip the .45 into the sewer.

His job done, he decided to spend his last night in the Bahamas enjoying himself.  He’d done the Lord’s work.  He deserved a few indulgences before his next task.

But first, he had one more phone call to make.

As he pulled out his phone, a nearby boom box started blaring the Guns N’ Roses cover of “Sympathy for the Devil.”

***

The detective, whose name was Walker, had Mike and Sharon separated.  Mike went out to the police cruiser while Walker questioned Sharon in the room.

“And you’re sure you didn’t shoot this man?” asked Walker.

“Officer,” said Sharon, “for the last time, my boyfriend was carrying me through the front door when we saw him standing in our room, a gun in his hand.”

“And you shot in self-defense.”

Sharon jumped to her feet.  “Look, how many times do I have to tell you?  Mike’s hands were full holding me, and I didn’t have a gun.”  She held her arms up and did a little runway turn.  “Would you like to frisk me?  Again?  Where am I gonna hide a gun on me?”

A white-uniformed officer rushed in and whispered something in Walker’s ear.  Behind him, Mike stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets.  Walker nodded as the officer whispered.

“You don’t say,” said Walker.  “When did he call?”  After the officer whispered some more, Walker stood and smiled at Sharon.  “Ms. Harrow, on behalf of the Nassau Police Department, I’d like to apologize for the ordeal you and your boyfriend have had to endure because of this criminal.”  He gestured to the big blood stain where Koradovich had fallen.  “Rest assured, the city will find you new accomodations, the best available.  No charge.”  He handed her a card.  “If there’s anything the two of you need, call that number.  Anything at all.  And please, enjoy the rest of your stay here in Nassau.”

The uniform ushered Sharon outside, mumbling something about the crime scene techs.

***

“What was that all about?” asked Mike as they rode in the cab to their new hotel.  “Don’t know,” said Sharon.  “One minute, that Walker guy was ready to haul me into jail and look for an excuse to strip search me.  The next minute, he apologized all over himself.”

“I told his partner five times that was Koradovich who died in our room.  As soon as he answered his cell phone, he asked me if I meant ‘Andre Koradovich.’  After that, I was some sort of hero.”  Mike smiled as the cab pulled up in front of the Renaissance.  “Guess we have an angel watching out for us.”

“An angel?” asked Sharon, getting out of the cab when the valet opened her door for her.  “Would an angel carry a .45?”

“Maybe a fallen angel,” said Mike.

“Long as he’s on our side, I don’t care what he is.”

***

Bishop Gallagher admired the Chest as it sparkled in the subdued light of St. Jakob’s sanctuary.  It sat inside a glass case wired to an alarm monitored by a company of Gallagher’s choosing.  Robert Jordan had put together the system.  So far, only one attempt had been made to steal it, a couple of street kids looking for quick cash.

Father Czechinski stepped up beside him.  “Amazing the excitement we had bringing this thing here.  I don’t think anything like that has happened to this parish in my thirty-eight years as pastor.”

“Like nothing I’ve ever seen,” said Gallagher.  “Only confirms the wisdom the Holy Father showed when he made us leave the bones in Gdansk for safe keeping.”

THE END

The Ram lived up to its name, ramming Sharon’s rear bumper constantly.  Only the ruts in the road bouncing both trucks kept her from getting shot.  That and luck, she thought.

She rounded another corner and saw cops up ahead, but she’d never reach them in time.  The path took her close to the river.  She downshifted and gunned the motor to get a little distance, even if only for a few precious seconds.  When she outpaced the Ram enough, she braked hard and swung the back of the Tahoe toward the river.  The Ram came up on her as she backed up to the embankment.

Cruisers closed the distance on the Ram, but that didn’t stop the shooter from getting out of the truck.  He walked toward her, oblivious to the sirens blaring.

“Get out of the truck,” he screamed.  “Now!”

The driver of the Ram jumped out and ran toward the approaching police.

Sharon rolled down her window.  “Stop, or I back this thing into the river.”

The man, dark-haired and wild-eyed, kept coming, breathing hard, but the gun steady in his hand.  “Get out of that truck, or I’ll drill you where you sit.”

“I’m not kidding.  I’ll send this thing into the river.”

Three cruisers formed a perimeter around the Ram, blocking it off.  Cops from another cruiser already had the driver in cuffs and bent over the hood.  A Chatham County deputy shouted for the man to stop where he was.

“You’re bluffing, little girl,” he said.

“Your loss.”  Sharon knocked the shifter into reverse and hit the gas.  As the Tahoe rolled back, she flung the door open and leaped out onto the grass.

The Tahoe tumbled down the embankment to the river’s edge.  Landing on all fours, it rolled back into the Savannah River and started to drift.  As the water deepened, it sank.

Sharon sat on the grass holding her wrist.  She looked up at the wild man coming at her, gun pointed straight between the eyes.  A plain blue sedan skidded to a halt with the other cruisers.

“Franco,” a blonde woman from the sedan shouted as she came flying out of the car.  “Put the gun down slowly.  Now.”

“You fucking black whore,” said Franco, jacking a round into the chamber.  “I’m going to enjoy this.”

Sharon’s eyes narrowed as she stared at him.  “Then do it.”

He raised the gun.  Three shots echoed throughout the cemetary.

Three red holes opened up in his chest.  A fourth pop made Franco’s left eye explode.  Sharon rolled to her right as Franco pitched forward, the back of his head gone.  Sharon looked up and saw the blonde woman and Carlo Estevez standing beside a Savannah uniform, pistols raised.

She began to sob when she also saw Uncle Bob with his own gun raised.

Estevez rushed forward and knelt beside her.  “Are you all right, Sharon?”

“I’m fine,” she said.

“But the Chest.  You destroyed the Chest.  And the bones inside.”

She shook her head.  “We planned for this.”

“How?”

She didn’t hear him.  She got to her feet and ran to her uncle, where she collapsed in his arms, happy the ordeal was over.

***

“Mr. Blake,” the reporter shouted, “why did you steal the Chest of St. Jakob?”

Mike ignored her and shoved the cameraman out of the way.  “Your Eminence.”

Bishop Hewson watched him approach.  Two uniforms closed ranks in front of him.

He looked over at one of them.  His nametag read Keltner.  “Officer Keltner, I owe you a beer.”  He looked back at the bishop.  “Your Eminence, I have a surprise for you.”

“I think the surprise you had for me took off for the river,” said Hewson.

Mike smiled. “Just the shipping crate.”

“What do you mean?”

“We had a feeling the buyer was still lurking around,” he said.  “If you’ll follow me.  Bring a couple of police if you like.”  To Keltner, he said, “In fact, I insist.”

The reporter barged in and shoved a microphone in his face.  “Tell us why you hid the Chest for…”

“No reporters,” said Mike.  “And one camera only.  If he stays the hell back.”

“You can’t do this,” the reporter said. “What about my…”

Mike snatched the microphone from her and broke it over his knee.  “I’ll do an interview with you later.  Now, out of the way, blondie.”

Hewson surveyed the group surrounding him.  “Where to, lad?”

“Across the street.”

***

Miguel watched as Myron Blake led a group that included the bishop.  One WSVN cameraman tagged along some length back.

Miguel turned to Luis and said, “Let me check this out.”  He jogged over to the cameraman and fell in step with him.

The group made its way across the street.  Blake ducked down an alley behind an English pub called The Newcastle.  About halfway back, he stopped at a dumpster.

“You didn’t put it in there,” said the bishop, his voice wavering.  “Did you?”

Blake leaned in behind the dumpster and pulled out a tablecloth.  “Your Eminence, if you and one of the officers would step over here.”

Hewson came forward with Keltner, and knelt.  “The Chest!  Intact!”

The cameraman pushed his way forward to get a shot.  Neither Blake nor the bishop stopped him.

Miguel took out his cell phone and speed-dialed Gallagher.  “Your Eminence, it’s Miguel.  Hewson just took possession of the Chest.  It’s intact.”

Sharon found herself rapidly picking up cops and rapidly running out of road.  Traffic thinned out here, a dirt road up ahead.  If she went in, she’d be trapped.

Judging by the sirens, so would her pursuers.  She gunned the engine and entered some sort of park.  The Dodge held fast, closing the distance once more.  She looked up at the sign over the entrance.

“Bonaventure Cemetery?” she said out loud.  “Oh, shit!”

***

“Ram her bumper,” said Franco.  “Try to force her off the access road.”

“Jules, we got every damn cop in Georgia behind us,” said Felix.  “Give it up.”

Franco’s eyes went wide and his face blotched red.  He jammed the gun under Felix’s ear.  “Do it.”

“Dude, you shoot me, we both die.”

Franco pressed harder.

“Well, it’s a cemetery.  We won’t have far to go.”

He punched the gas and rammed the Tahoe.  The Tahoe took a sudden curve, and Felix hit the brakes.  The Ram skidded off the access road into a set of tombstones.  “Fuck!”

He backed out and started after the Tahoe once again.

Behind them, police cars burst into the cematery.  They would pursue both trucks or fan out and block the access roads.

“You know we’re trapped now,” said Felix.

“Just drive,” said Franco.

***

When Miguel got out of his car, Mason thought he’d wet himself for the second time in as many days.  He started squirming against his police captor.  “That man has a gun.  He’s trying to kill the bishop.”

They’d cuffed him in front.  He took the chance anyway and went for one of the Savannah cops’ guns.  The cop didn’t react fast enough.  They both struggled for the weapon.  Something roared between Mason’s legs.

At first, he went numb.  Then the pain set in, and he screamed.  The pain spread to his gut.  He screamed louder.

When the cop got off of him and took the gun away, Mason looked down to see a bloody gaping hole in his crotch.

The wail he let out would become a legend in a city already full of legends.

***

Mike came out of the alleyway to see several cops rushing around.  Someone called for an ambulance.  Tyson left him and ran over to the knot of police uniforms.

At first, he thought something had happened to the bishop.  He then saw the old priest standing off to the side, eyes closed as though he were trying to calm himself.

Mike jogged over to the fray and asked, “What happened?”

“Some dipshit went for Keltner’s gun,” said a uniform.  “He ended up shooting off his nuts.”

The crowd parted as an ambulance siren sounded, growing louder as it approached.  Mike looked down at the victim.

And laughed.  In fact, he doubled over.  How he would tell his ex-wife that her new husband had shot off his own balls, he didn’t know.

But he looked forward to finding out.

“911,” said the operator.  “What is your emergency?”

“I need the Savannah Police right now,” Sharon shouted into Mike’s cell phone.

“Where?”

“Savannah.  Georgia.”

“Ma’am, this is the Cuyahoga County dispatch in Cleveland, Ohio.  Who are you trying to call?”

Shit!  Mike’s cell phone was based in Cleveland, and the service probably didn’t care she was calling from a completely different area code.

The green Ram closed behind her and smashed into her bumper.

“I am in Savannah, Georgia,” said Sharon.  “I’m being chased by a pair of gun-wielding psychos with no way to shoot back.  Yikes!”  She swerved just in time to avoid taking out a tourist trolley coming off one of the squares.  “I need the Savannah Police right now!”

“Ma’am, I’m not sure what it is you want me to do.  We’re in Cleveland.  You say you’re in Savannah?  Why do I have a 330 area code?”

“Because I’m on a fucking cell phone!”

“Could you call the Savannah dispatch?”

“I’m being shot at.  I don’t have time to…  Shit!”  She swerved around a bus and clipped a small Korean sedan while trying to right the Tahoe.  “I can’t even stop to let traffic through!”

“One moment please.”

Years later, though probably less than thirty seconds in real time, someone else came on the line.  “911.  What is your emergency?”

“Do I have Savannah finally?”

“This is Chatham County.”

“Listen very carefully.  I’m one of the people you’re looking for in that theft.”  Before she could say any more, her rear window shattered.

***

The deputy pulled into the WSVN lot.  Ahead stood Bishop Hewson, two priests, a TV crew, and several deputies and Savannah cops surrounding two guys in handcuffs.

“What’s going on?” asked Stan as they skidded to a stop.

The deputy got out and opened the rear driver’s side door.  He took Stan by his good arm.  “Let’s go.”

Stan noticed the deputy now had a gun out.  “What gives?”

The deputy led him over to the other prisoners, then cuffed him to a nearby fence post.  “If this guy gives you too much trouble, shoot him.  Orders from the Sheriff himself.”

“Who is he?” said one of the Savannah cops.

“He’s the guy that drove that SUV off the Tallmadge Bridge earlier.”  The deputy jumped back in his car, fired up his siren and lights, and tore out of the lot.

Stan watched as the cameramen fell all over themselves trying to get a shot of it.

The blonde reporter stood smiling with her hands on her hips.  “I’m going to get a fucking Emmy.”

Stan didn’t bother to see what the bishop’s reaction was.

***

Mike and the Savannah cop, Officer Tyson, waited for traffic to clear before they crossed to the studio.  Mike offered to be cuffed, but Tyson didn’t seem to think he needed it.

As they were about to step into the alley leading back to the studio parking lot, a light blue Chevy blew into the lot, nearly clipping Mike.  Mike couldn’t see much, only that someone vaguely Hispanic in a suit had driven the car.

A short, stocky guy jumped out the driver’s side as another man popped out the passenger window and aimed a gun at him.

“Move away from that truck,” the other guy said.  “Now!”

Mike shoved the tailgate closed and dove behind the Tahoe.  “Sharon!  Go!”

The engine rolled over once, and the Tahoe burned rubber taking off into traffic.

The guy in the Ram fired twice, hitting only concrete and a pigeon.  The Ram took off.

Across the street at WSVN, two uniformed cops appeared.  Mike waved to them.  “Green Ram chasing a red Tahoe!  They’re after the Chest!”

One of the cops dashed across the street, halting traffic as he did so.  The other one ran back into the WSVN lot.

Moments later, three cruisers and the two fed cars appeared, tires squealing as they turned onto the street and went after the Chest.

Mike looked up at the uniform standing over him.  He reached up with his hand.  “I think you’re looking for me.  I’m Myron Blake.”

“The Tahoe?” asked Felix.

“I saw a black woman in that truck before,” said Franco.  “Now there’s a…  That’s Blake!  Pull over.”  He jacked a round in the chamber.

“Oh, believe me, I’ve thought long and hard about that,” said Bishop Hewson.

The reporter looked at Estevez.  “Were you or Agent Kennedy planning on making any arrests?”

“No comment,” said Estevez.

The reporter’s face flushed red as she pressed her lips thin.  “We have less than ten minutes.”

Sharon waited in the Tahoe for Mike.  When he returned from The Newcastle, she said, “Three Savannah cruisers, two from the sheriff, two of those ‘anonymous’ government cars, and a limo I can only assume is the bishop’s.”

He looked at his watch.  “Fifteen minutes.”  He checked the rearview.  “Here comes our help.”

The manager of The Newcastle came up behind the truck along with another employee, probably a waiter.  The waiter carried what looked like a tablecloth.

“What are you doing?” said Sharon.

“Taking precautions.”

She smiled at him.  “You’re smarter than you look, Blake.”

He winked at her.  “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m faking it.”

“Let’s get this thing in place.”

They rolled into the parking lot and came to a stop where the station had cleared an area.  Three remote cameras with lights had been set up, ringing the space.

Kennedy got out of the car and waited for the deputies to escort the cuffed Contreras and Mason over to them.  She pointed at Mason.  “You.  Keep your mouth shut until spoken to.  Got it?  You’re going to make sure it’s Myron Blake getting out of that car.”  To Luis, she said, “You’re going to tell your story to me, to Lieutenant Estevez, and to the Bishop Hewson himself.  And it’d better be a riveting tale.”

“It is, I assure you,” said Luis.

They watched as a black Town Car entered the lot.  When it stopped, a wizened old man in the white habit of a priest climbed out and walked over to them.

Kennedy bowed her head.  “Your Eminence…”

***

The sign called the place The Newcastle and billed it as an English pub.  Funny, Mike thought, but he didn’t hear a single English accent inside.  He pushed his way to the bar and asked to see either the owner or the manager.

A thick man with thick arms and a thick mustache came out from an office behind the bar.  “What can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure if you can help,” said Mike.  He reached into his wallet and pulled out five twenties.  “There’s a C note in it if you can, though.”

The thick man smiled and took the proffered bills.  “I’m sure we can work something out.  What’d you have in mind?”

***

The shoulder still throbbed, but Vicodin worked wonders for Stan.  The stitches in his cheek, however, itched.  He sat in the back of a sheriff’s car headed into town.  “So what are we doing again?”

“Apparently,” said the deputy, “the FBI wants all the players at the hand-off so they can question all of you on site.”

Stan frowned.  “Good luck getting Franco there.”

“We’ll dredge the river for him tomorrow,” said the deputy.

For the first time that day, Stan could laugh.  Why shouldn’t he?  His worst nightmare lay at the bottom of the Savannah River.

***

Nobody paid Julian Franco any mind as he slipped out a service entrance behind the Westin.  He wore a flannel shirt and jeans.  The limp might tag him, but there was nothing he could do about that.  Felix rolled up in a green Dodge Ram.

“Ready, chief?” he said, opening the door.

“Ready.”  Franco hopped into the truck.  “You know where this place is?”

“Yeah.”  Felix leaned over and opened the glove box.  A .45 Smith & Wesson lay inside.  Felix reached down beneath his seat and came up with two clips.  “You’ll need these.”

Franco took one clip and pocketed it.  The other he slid into the gun.  “Who we looking for again?”

Felix had it all.  From above the visor, he pulled down two photocopies and handed them to Franco.  “The one of the girl is a little dated, but Blake, from what I learned, hasn’t aged much.”

He smiled at the girl.  “I ought to ride her once or twice before I kill her.”  He looked at Blake’s picture and scowled.  “Let’s go.”

And she liked that.  Or maybe she liked that, when he got mad, he could trot out his backbone.  Or that he was a gentlemen this morning, apologizing for taking advantage of her drunken state.  Truth be told, she thought it was the other way around.

“What do you want to do when this is over?” she asked him.

Mike blew out his breath.  “Like I said before, go to Miami and start over.  Now, though, I’m thinking of taking my share of the reward and becoming a beach bum in the Bahamas.”

She smiled at that.  “Want some company?”

He did a double take.

“I’m just asking.  We don’t like it, we’ll each have enough money to walk away.”  She winked.  “Besides, I’d like to know what last night would have been like sober.”

“Our clothes would have stayed on,” he said.

“Maybe.”  She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.  “But you know you been wantin’ a little taste of Cinnamon since you met me,” she said in her sweet little drawl.

Mike laughed.  “I wasn’t that blatant about it, was I?”

“You were a gentleman, Mike.  That’s why I’m even considering this.”

He looked at his watch.  “It’s almost two now.  We’ve got half an hour.”

She turned the truck down one side street, then another, until they came up on the WSVN studios.  “You know whoever tried to buy this thing is still out there.”

“Maybe,” said Mike.

“We should take precautions.”

“We should.”  He spotted a restaurant with an ATM outside.  “Pull over there.”

“Why?”

“So I can take some precautions.”

She did as he asked and watched him run into the restaurant.