“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 themup 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 ofviolence, 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 theMiami Heralddid. 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.
TheHeraldalso 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 beforehad 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.
Campbell, as it turned out, was behind the wheel of his RV, headed south from Pennsylvania to Florida’s west coast, where he planned to spend the winter. They introduced themselves, and asked him what he remembered about Gentry.
“You can probably get the files, but the whole thing was an evidentiary mess,” Campbell said, the growl of the RV’s engine a steady background to his voice. “We knew they were bringing it in, but we couldn’t catch them red-handed. We finally got tired of chasing them around and got them indicted on the basis of testimony from people who worked for them. Boat unloaders, a wholesaler, like that,” Campbell said.
“Didn’t fly?” Bob asked.
“Never had a chance. We’d put witnesses up there and thedefense attorneys would drag them through every single crime they’d committed since fifth grade,” Campbell said. “They’d ask the jury, how can you trust any of them? They were all asked why they were testifying against their supposed bosses and they all admitted they were getting deals. What the defense called bribes. Besides, the Blue Tunas never brought in the heavy stuff—only marijuana. Half the goddamn jury arrived stoned in the morning—there was no way they were going to convict on the basis of marijuana. Not in the nineties.”
“So they walked.”
“Yeah. I kept telling the U.S. attorney that they really needed to investigate these guys based on their lifestyles—they all had nice houses and cars. Not real flashy, but good. I asked, where’s the money coming from? I said, let’s look at their income taxes. That’s what I said. I bored everyone. That was just too big a pain in the ass for pot dealers. If they’d been living in beach mansions and driving Mercedes-Benzes, then maybe. But they weren’t. They were living in Coral Springs and driving Pontiacs.”
“I don’t know where Coral Springs is,” Bob said.
“Way out by the Everglades,” Campbell said. “Nice, but not the beach.”
“Maybe they weren’t making that much, then,” Lucas suggested.
“Oh, they were making it,” Campbell said. “They were smart. I was told that they agreed before they started smuggling that they’d do it for five years, and then get out. They put the money in some companies in the British Virgin Islands and you know what the BVI will tell you about that? Not a single fuckin’ thing. Their defense attorneys claimed that they took the Blue Tuna cases probono. Out of the goodness of their evil little legal hearts. Bullshit. They were paid in cash, under the table.”
“Pretty smart for dopers,” Lucas said.
“About as smart as they came, at the time. Like I said, not flashy, kept their heads down, spent a lot of time down in the Islands, moving around, so we really didn’t have access to them. They’d been operating for four years when we jumped them—and in that four years, I bet they hadn’t brought in more than eight to twelve loads... only one every four to six months. Very good stuff, though. High-quality Colombian. And when they moved, they brought in a lot. Five tons at a time. More.”
