CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"What time is it?" was the first thing I asked Morrell when he stuck his head around the open door.

He checked his watch. "A quarter past ten."

"Did you get anything out of Black?"

He didn't answer. He pulled up a seat and sat down beside my bed.

"Did Black give you anything?"

"No. He's sticking with the story that you attacked him. The pain from your injured knee deranged you and for some reason you thought he was trying to stab you. It's easy to believe him when you see the mess you made of his face."

"Didn't they find the shank?"

"The prints were smudged. They're no use to anyone."

I leaned back against the pillows and groaned. The way my luck was running I'd probably end up being charged with assault.

"It's time you were out of here," Morrell said.

"I should never have been here in the first place. What's this evidence you claim can spring me?"

"I can't be absolutely certain that it will. There's still the matter of the gun the police found in your apartment."

"It's not mine. I took it off a wise-guy punk."

'Why hold unto it?"

"In case he came back with another. Now cut the waffle and tell me how you're going to persuade a judge to change his mind."

Morrell's face turned hard. "First, I need an assurance that you won't institute a law suit against the Treasury Department."

"If I'm not out of here by midday tomorrow, I'll sue you."

"Nobody would believe you."

"I'll tell my story to Nicole Cantrell. The hole in the side of my chest will look a lot bigger by the time she's through filming it."

Morrell's face blanched. "Okay. You already know that we were searching your car on a regular basis; that's how we got hold of the Boca Raton photographs."

"Yeah. What about it?"

"We also checked the trunk. The electrical flex and the bubble-pack of batteries − with two missing − were in the trunk the first time we opened it. I have photographs and depositions to prove it. Wherever the batteries came from to trigger the fire¬-bomb, they didn't come from that pack."

"Will that be enough?" I said, remembering the columns my lawyer had drawn up.

"It might be, provided I can speak to the DA's office first. But I need to have something to tell them."

"It's all mixed up. I'm not sure if any of it makes sense."

"Try me."

"I want immunity for Floyd and myself against federal counterfeiting charges."

Morrell pulled a face. "I can't charge you without evidence.'

"I want your guarantee."

"You've got it," he said firmly.

"How long do you have?"

Morrell sat back in his chair. "As long as it takes."

It took two hours. I told Morrell of our attempt to counterfeit one hundred dollar bills and of how Andy's body had lain undiscovered for three years. He listened to my account of the Kove family and how Shapiro had investigated Norman Kove's accident. And what prompted me to follow him to the Hialeah racetrack. From the lack of questions he asked, it appeared that Morrell knew a lot of it already, though if he had anything on top he wasn't volunteering it.

Which left me feeling justified in holding back a little. I hadn't discovered the whole truth, and maybe I never would, but I knew who had killed Andy and was a whole lot closer to finding out the rest than I was twenty-four hours before.

Morrell suggested that he fetch us both a cup of coffee after my story had been told. "I could do with stretching my legs," he said. "We'll talk about what it all means when I get back."

I tested my head on the pillow and yawned. The prison doctor had already popped his head round the door a couple of times to scold Morrell for keeping me talking. And, to tell the truth, it had taken a lot out of me. I shut my eyes, knowing that I would sleep.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Morrell's talk with the District Attorney's office proved successful and I was awakened a little before ten the next morning and informed that I was being released into Secret Service custody. My knee was still too painful to bear any weight, but after Doctor Anderson had subjected me to a final examination, he fixed me up with a pair of elbow crutches.

I was happy to ambulatory again, though my knee still felt as though the jaws of a vise were being closed on it. My street clothes were at the police labs, so Anderson brought me a pair of jeans, a denim shirt and sneakers. According to the doctor, their previous owner would not need them again.

I dressed and practiced walking along the length of the prison hospital corridor as I waited for Morrell to appear. I peered through the observation window of a locked door and saw Black, his face heavily bandaged.

He raised a middle finger to me.

Morrell wasn't with the agents who arrived to escort me to the Miami Field office. He sent word with them that he was attending to another matter and would see me later. The taller of the two was fair-haired and had dark bushy eyebrows. His companion was an inch shorter and swarthy. Neither of them gave me their names and I didn't recognize their faces from the morning in Boca Raton. The agents insisted that they'd take me to their car in a wheelchair.

For the first time in days I found something to smile about. It appeared that the Secret Service hadn't finished pushing me about just yet.

I wasn't destined for the field office as the agents had made a point of announcing in the prison hospital. Morrell, treating my assertion over Angelo's source seriously, had taken over a room at the Best Western overlooking the Marina. The escorting agents took up positions on either side of me, their eyes flicking from side to side, as I slowly made my way through the foyer. You could see in their faces the regret that they hadn't thought of borrowing the jail's wheelchair.

For my part, I tried not to think about the Kennedys or Ronald Reagan, or even the man who had created the Secret Service, Abraham Lincoln.

Morrell, his tie pulled loose and the top buttons of his shirt undone, was on the phone when we reached the room. The bed had been removed and a conference table and chairs substituted. He held two fingers up to let me know he would be through soon. I sat down and rested the crutches against the wall. My chest was tight, and my knee was throbbing and felt as though it had swelled to twice its size. The prison doctor had slipped me a bottle of powerful painkillers with instructions to swallow a couple anytime the pain became unbearable. I thought about it, but figured I could go a while longer.

The agents stayed in the room.

Morrell came off the phone. "Sorry about that. Glad you could join us."

"Not half as much as I am."

"Meet agents Eddie Bosen and John Lofgren."

I shook hands with them. Bosen was the taller one.

Morrell carried on talking. "They're from our Atlanta office. Neither of them has ever worked in Miami, and only the four of us know that they are here."

I asked, "Did you have much trouble persuading the DA's office to withdraw the charge?"

"Not once I showed him the photographs we had taken of your car's trunk." Morrell pulled a black and white Polaroid print from a folder on the table and passed it to me. Standard operating procedure any time we conduct a search. We like to put things back the way they were."

I took a quick glance a. the photograph. The flex and the batteries were clearly visible. There was also a rusty tin of brake fluid and some oily rags. "I guess I should be grateful you had these."

"I wouldn't put it quite like that," Morrell said. "It looks as if somebody in our field office told Angelo about the batteries and he made sure that the same brand was used to trigger the fire bomb."

"We didn't finish our talk last night. I'm not convinced that Angelo had anything to do with it."

Morrell was skeptical. "It has to be him. By his own admission, he was to have been the fence for the counterfeit currency, and you pissed him off big-time by ignoring his threats. He wouldn't balk at killing Ryder and he would have plenty of influence inside city jail."

"I hear what you're saying, but don't be so quick to eliminate Shapiro. Like Angelo, he has influence inside the city jail − plenty of inmates willing to do a favor for a parole officer. Black and Masterson have probably done time before. Have you checked if either of them ever had Shapiro as their P0 had?"

Morrell confessed that he hadn't and issued instructions for Bosen to get working on it.

"While you're at it," I called out, stalling Bosen before he could leave the room. "Check the parole officer for a Lake Butler parolee called Switch Deacon."

Bosen glanced towards Morrell for approval. He was given it.

"How would Shapiro have known about the batteries?" Morrell pointed after Bosen had gone. "You can't seriously believe that he has a source within my office as well."

"The batteries might be nothing more than a coincidence." I picked up the Polaroid print. "They're the standard flashlight type and can be bought just about anywhere."

"Why would Shapiro want you killed?" It was the first time Lofgren had spoken.

"This is pure conjecture," I forewarned them. "I haven't a shred of proof, but I think he wanted Ryder and me both out of the picture. The firebomb was his way of doing it."

Morrell looked at me as though I had sprouted another head. "Run that one past me again."

"Shapiro is operating a scam similar to Ryder's, only on a much grander scale. He persuades or coerces − I'm not sure which − paroled prisoners to commit crime for their mutual benefit. He has car thieves hoisting cars, he has burglars stealing, he may even go as far as lining up soft targets − an ex-cop would have some knowledge of alarms and security. He had Andy Kove set up a counterfeiting operation. Shapiro selects his gang of felons very carefully. He handles a caseload twice the size of other POs, to make---"

"You can't charge a guy for being a workaholic."

"---sure he has only the cream. Having their P0 as a partner would have certain attractions for the ex-cons; they would he told when and where to hit, no hassles over parole violations, and in the unlikely event of their arrest, they could expect the judge to receive a favorable report from the parole officer."

The expression of incredulity on Morrell's face hadn't diminished one iota. "You're trying to tell me that Shapiro is some sort of modern-day Fagin. A quantum leap like that isn't something that came to you in a dream; you must have some reason for it."

I nodded. "The vault was in a building the federal authorities had seized."

Morrell rolled his eyes upwards. "Don't remind me."

"It's reasonable to assume that Shapiro heard about the vault's existence from a law-enforcement officer."

"Angelo could have learnt of it the same way."

I tried another approach. "Angelo had his goons pick me up early on Wednesday evening so he could warn me off. Yet, just over twelve hours later, I collect the photographs from the Herald which triggered off a carefully laid trap. There's no way Angelo would have set that up so soon after putting the frighteners on me."

"Maybe he's a belt and suspenders sort of guy."

I had one more try left in me. "Who would know that I had smacked Ryder around after he had fired me?"

"Shapiro," Morrell said, finally coming round to my way of thinking.

"Yes."

"But why would he want to kill Ryder? An arson attack at the gas station would have been more than enough to land you back in jail."

"Probably because Ryder was running his own scam. He wasn't as shrewd as Shapiro; he was shaking down the ex-cons, not putting money in their pocket. Inevitably it would have gone wrong and somebody would have dimed the cops. Shapiro couldn't risk his scam being compromised, so he arranged to have Ryder killed, knowing I would almost certainly be charged with his murder. My money's on Switch Deacon for the firebomber."

"Did Shapiro plan the Boca Raton debacle?"

"Almost certainly. He anticipated correctly that the Secret Service would find the photographs, or maybe he has had another lure set up if that failed. He could have had some of his ex-cons monitoring your radio communications so he would know exactly when to send in Cantrell."

"But for what reason?"

"Having initiated the counterfeiting operation, he didn't want the Secret Service snooping around anymore than Angelo. He knew if you were discredited, the Treasury would rein you in. They don't like their agents making spectacles of themselves on network tv."

"You could say that," Lofgren agreed. Morrell shot him a dirty look.

"Tell me. Did you pull any strings with the governor's office to have me drug-tested?"

"No way," Morrell insisted. "The last thing I wanted was you back inside on some lightweight violation."

The door opened and Bosen returned. He wasn't about to say anything in front of me.

"It's okay," Morrell told him.

Bosen didn't appear too delighted, but he spilled what he had unearthed. "Masterson has never been a parolee. He's a perpetual trouble-maker in jail and has always served out his full sentence."

That doesn't come as any surprise, I thought.

"Black was paroled from Raiford in ninety-eight under Shapiro. I haven't made any headway on Deacon yet. The warden at Lake Butler has promised to get back to me as soon as possible."

"Doesn't look good for Shapiro," Morrell said dryly. "But it's hardly conclusive. You aren't holding anything back?"

"If I'm on the right lines, there's one guy who might be willing to confirm it."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

No amount of griping on my behalf would convince Morrell that I shouldn't wear a wire when I went to see Luke Cross. He had already stuck his head in a noose by allowing me first crack at Cross and wasn't about to pull it tight. He had listened to me when I said that Cross was not the sort of man to be intimidated by the Secret Service. There was a better chance of him incriminating Shapiro if he thought the parole officer had something to do with Andy's death.

I stripped off my shirt and let Lofgren tape a Nagra unit to the small of my back. The thick denim of the shirt would prevent the outline of the microphone wire from being seen.

We took two cars to South Kendall. Morrell and myself in one, and the Atlanta agents in another. It was agreed that Lofgren would stay in the car to monitor the recording, while Morrell and Bosen provided backup for me should the need arise. I didn't think Cross was predisposed to violence, but I was in no state to put up resistance if I was wrong.

I swallowed a couple of Anderson's painkillers before we left the hotel. They had kicked in by the time we arrived at Cross's garden duplex.

"I didn't think I'd be seeing you again," he said, surprise showing on his face as he opened the door. "I thought you'd been arrested for fire-bombing a gas station."

"They got the wrong man. I have a couple of things to tell you about Andy."

"You'd best come in."

We talked in the kitchen as before.

"You've been keeping the press busy," Cross said. "First that stunt with the Secret Service in Boca Raton, then the fire. What's with the crutches?"

"Somebody doesn't appreciate me asking questions about Andy."

"No luck finding him?"

"Yeah, I found him. I found him dead."

The blood drained from Cross's face. "What happened? Was it an accident."

"Murder. He had his throat slit." My words reminded me of the time I'd broken the news to Floyd.

Cross said nothing as the impact of what I had told him sank in. He seemed to drift away inside his mind for a few moments, then had to make a conscious effort to haul himself back to real time. "Do you know who killed him?" he asked quietly. There was genuine sorrow in his voice.

For the tape's benefit I said, "No, though I'm pretty sure I know why he was killed."

I could see that Cross was on the edge of tears. I wondered if any of Andy's family would react the same way when they were finally told what had become of him. "His parole officer, Dave Shapiro, talked him into setting up a counterfeiting operation. Andy planned to double cross him by printing the wrong serial numbers on the bills."

I knew at once that I was right about Shapiro's scam. Cross dropped his eyes and turned around, deliberately taking his time as he lifted a bottle of Scotch from a cupboard and poured a couple of drinks.

His hands were trembling as he handed one to me. He lifted his own to his mouth and drank greedily. A second mouthful and his glass was drained.

"How come you know all this?"

"I've just come from identifying his body. Not an easy job after three years in a chest freezer," I told him, conscious that my lies would render the tape useless as evidence. But that wasn't my concern. All I was after was confirmation. "They've charged some guy with concealing a body and he's claiming that Shapiro had him do it. The police have pulled in Shapiro for questioning. With any luck they'll put him away for twenty years."

Cross was made of sterner stuff than I had thought. He was too wily ever to incriminate himself. He had no reason to suspect me, but still he kept faith in that which no doubt had saved him from other trips to the penitentiary; the Right to Silence.

Another twenty minutes of talking proved fruitless and I decided to call it a day. I slipped my arms into the crutches and left.

Back at the Best Western, Morrell listened to the tape a couple of times and agreed that Cross would be a tough nut to crack. "Now he's had a visit from you, he'll be forewarned. His type never talks unless they're going down and there's a deal on the table."

"Can't you go ahead and arrest Shapiro?"

"For what? We've don't have Kove's body, and no evidence that Shapiro is doing a damned thing. Besides, we have to locate him first. He didn't show up for work today."

"He's probably searching for me. He'll know that I've been released from jail."

Morrell nodded unhappily. "Yeah, but don't worry, you'll he safe here."

"I want to go back to my own place. I've to start looking for a job."

"Tough shit. You've been released into my custody and while I agree that your story has some merit, you're not leaving my sight until I know for certain who killed Kove and Ryder."

"Deacon probably planted the firebomb."

"I'll be sure to ask him that whenever I see him. Shapiro probably has him in Canada by now."

"Put me in a room with Shapiro and I'll make him talk."

"You can just about stand up. He would stomp you into the ground."

"Let me worry about that. He lives alone. Drive me to his house and let me be there when he arrives home. I'll do any breaking-in that needs to be done if you want to keep your hands clean."

Morrell gave it a few moments' thought. "Might not be such a bad idea at that. You could search his house while you were waiting for him. I don't have enough for a warrant so if we were to do it, any evidence we found would be inadmissible."

I knew he was an inch off going for it. "But if you arrested me for breaking and entering and I happened to have something on me... What have you got to lose?"

"You for one thing. It's too dangerous."