Road Rules Online

Epilogue

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