The agent with all the certifications said, “The Coast Guardsman who shot the guy off the dock. Didn’t he say six cans were off-loaded from that Mako?”
Lucas said, “Yeah, six, but he’s not absolutely sure of that.”
“If the diver brought up six cans, we think that’d be a hundred and thirty pounds of dope, plus the weight of the cans—maybe a hundred and fifty pounds altogether. She probably had to manage at least three small lift bags or two bigger ones, which means she was probably down there for quite a while, finding the cans, loading them, managing the bags, then resurfacing. I doubt she’d be down two hundred feet. She’d have too much decompression time, hanging out halfway to surface and trying to manage those bags and the cargo bags, all at the same time. I’d bet she wasn’t down much more than a hundred and thirty or so.”
“That’s all wonderful, but is it relevant?” Weaver asked.
“Kind of suggests where you don’t need to look,” the diving agent said. “If we’re really going to look.”
“Okay.” Weaver dipped into his briefcase and came up with a stack of paper. “Now, you all know about our reward program. I want some volunteers to take the reward posters around to the dive shops and boating and fishing shops.”
He patted the stack of paper and said, “If I don’t get volunteers, I’ll make appointments. Volunteers are allowed to wear shorts and shirts, if you wish, even though it’s a little chilly out there now. If you’re willing to do this, see me when we break up.”
* * *
Lucas reported on the meeting with the local narcs, the arrest of Foot-Long and the aborted arrest of Axel Morris, and the chats with the other dealers. He left out Magnus Elliot, the name Morris had given up. He did mention the possibility that Morris believed the Mafia was involved and that they might be staying at the Angelus Hotel, which raised some eyebrows and even the level of enthusiasm.
“That could be something,” Weaver said. “We could plug one of our Mafia specialists into the hotel, see who shows up.”
“Four hundred dollars a night,” Bob said. “I looked it up.”
Weaver winced, but said, “Won’t come out of our budget. Washington will have to pay for it. I’ll make some calls.”
He asked Lucas, “What’s up next?”
“We got more names from Weeks and we plan to work them. Morris said that if we push the cops in Miami-Dade, word is going to get out and some of the targets could disappear. We do want word to get out that we’re making offers, but we want to hit our targets, too. We need to look through FBI online files without tipping anyone off . . . if we can do that.”
One of the agents leaned into the discussion: “You said that Weeks and Morris put you onto people who got their drugs from Mexico. Where’s it gonna get us to keep hitting on the Mexico guys if the dope is really from Colombia and going to New York or New Jersey?”
“Don’t know,” Lucas said. “But that’s what we’ve got. Morris thought that maybe the higher-up guys on the Mexican side might have cut a deal with the Mafia people not to interfere with their action down here. Maybe even give them a little rent money, to keep things peaceful. If we can get a solid name, one of the Mafia’s, we can leave it to you to squeeze him. What we’re basically trying to do here is stir things up. Get some people worried.”
The agent leaned back with a skeptical, “Huh,” and Weaver jabbed a finger at him: “It’s more than we did.”
“If you guys could get a lead on that diver . . .” Bob said. “The diver could take us to everybody.”
* * *
After the meeting, Weaver asked Lucas when they wanted to look at the FBI files.
“Soon as we can. If we could get online and look at some names,” Lucas suggested. “That’d be a big help.”
“I’ll hook you up to God’s own VPN network,” Weaver said. “If we’ve got it in our routine files, you can see it—and that includes most routine reports from local police departments.”
“What wouldn’t be routine?” Bob asked.
“You know . . . spy stuff. Terrorism stuff. What you want, criminal records, probation reports, that kind of thing, that’s all routine.”
“That’s what we need,” Lucas said. “When can we get in?”
Weaver looked at his watch: “Maybe five minutes?”
* * *
Weaver hooked them up to the FBI database and after a few minutes’ instruction, left them alone to work the records. Weeks had given them a half dozen possible targets in addition to Morris, and they checked them all, looking at mug shots, histories of violence, and taking down relevant location information. Finally, they pulled up Magnus Elliot’s file. Lucas had assumed he’d be black or Hispanic, because of the way Morris had talked about him. Elliot looked like he’d just gotten off the boat from Sweden.
“Won’t be hard to pick out,” Lucas said. “Looks like the lead singer in one of those hair bands back in olden times.”
“Twisted Sister,” Bob said. “My brother still has their albums.”
That done, they looked up the Blue Tuna Gang. The FBI had nothing under that name, but the Miami Herald did. One of the defendants was named John Gentry. They found a John Gentry in Miami with a Florida driver’s license and a boat registration. The address, when they looked it up, was in the Coconut Grove neighborhood of Miami, so Axel Morris had gotten it right.
The Herald also referred several times to a DEA agent named Mac Campbell, who’d led the investigation into Gentry. The FBI files kicked out a recent cell phone number for Campbell, with a note that he’d recently retired from government service.
“We can call him on the way down to the Coconut place,” Bob said. “Maybe get lucky.”
“You ready to do it?” Lucas asked.
“Sure. On the edge of impatient,” Bob said. “We’re running hot.”
They put all the names, addresses, and mug shots on Bob’s iPad. They’d go after Gentry first, because he apparently knew something specific: that the diver was female. Magnus Elliot they’d pick up later.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
The day before had been hot, but a cool front had come through, driving the temperatures into the low sixties, and the natives were wearing coats. On the way down I-95 to Miami, Bob synced his phone with the truck so Lucas could participate in the call, and punched in the number for Campbell, the DEA agent who’d led the investigation into the Blue Tunas.