Shooter passed in front of camera three and placed her purse in a booth next to Wells, leaving her phone strategically near the edge of the table. The pool tables were empty, and she grabbed a stick. Racked some balls.
“All right,” I said.
But as I glanced at the four screens, something caught my eye. The camera that showed the parking lot. A black Escalade had pulled up outside the bar. A second identical SUV pulled in behind it.
And that’s when I saw him. For the first time outside of a digital photo. The man at the heart of our investigation.
J. P. Sandoval was tall and athletic with wavy brown hair and a model’s face. He was mid-forties but moved like a man ten years younger.
I pulled out my cell and called Cassie, but she didn’t answer.
“Turn on that speaker, Vincent,” I said. “That’s our whale.”
My eyes followed Sandoval and three burly men toward the front door of the Rotten Coconut. Then on to monitors number one and two.
Vincent tapped at the third screen, where Shooter stood, chalking a cue. “You’re pulling them out, right?” He motioned, his voice rising an octave. “You guys aren’t an undercover group.”
“The speaker,” I said.
Vincent switched on a button and adjusted the volume. The sound of Wells and Horne talking at the table came in clear, the din of rock music behind them.
But the men went quiet almost immediately, and we saw why. Sandoval was standing beside their table, his men flanking him.
“Gentlemen,” he announced, sounding as casual as a man bumping into an old friend.
A female voice chirped, “Can I get you fellas something?”
Sandoval turned to a waitress, who stood between their booth and the one where Jo had placed her phone.
“Pack of smokes for me, darlin’,” he said. “Marlboro Lights if you have ’em.”
“And you three?” she asked Sandoval’s men.
The trio shook their heads, and the waitress left. As she did, I caught a glimpse of Cassie and Shooter, taking in everything while warming up at the pool table.
I studied Sandoval. Not only was he in charge of the militia, he was profiting off it. He was the one exchanging the cash for guns, his weapons and ammunition businesses flourishing.
“Trav,” Sandoval said. “You mind taking a break for a few minutes? I need to have a conversation with Daniel.”
Travis Wells shot up, and we watched him move across monitor two. He saddled up to the bar on monitor one and waved his hand at the bartender, who set a shot in front of him.
Sandoval took Travis’s place, his back against the booth where Shooter’s phone sat. “How you doin’, Daniel?” he asked, his accent Southern, but neutral.
“I’m okay,” Horne said, the pattern of his speech slow and thick. “How are you, JP?”
“Me? I amnotokay, Daniel,” Sandoval said. “See, I lost some inventory recently. Not sure you heard?”
“Yeah,” Horne said.
“One of my best men, too,” Sandoval continued, his voice intense. “Then this morning, I get a call from my attorney telling meyougot arrested. I start thinking—maybe I need to spend more time in South Florida.”
Daniel Horne visibly swallowed.
“Am I to understand that you left a gun on the dash of your truck?” Sandoval asked. “At a Twistee Treat?”
Horne didn’t answer the question. On the screen, we could see a three-quarter angle on Sandoval’s face, but only a slice of Horne beyond him.
“My daughterlovesthe shakes at Twistee Treat,” Sandoval said, his words almost a chuckle. “You like their shakes, Daniel?”
