The Guardians(64)
Eventually we drag ourselves upstairs and I yield my sofa. I go to the motel, shower, and fall asleep.
Mosby, meet Frankie Tatum. The rendezvous takes place in a honky-tonk on the outskirts of Deltona, far away from Mosby’s world. He says he once frequented the place in his youth but is sure no one will recognize him now. As always, Frankie scopes it out before they meet. It’s almost midnight on a Thursday and the place is deserted and quiet. It takes a couple of beers for them to relax with each other.
Give Frankie two beers with a brother in friendly surroundings and he can be trusted.
“I need six thousand cash,” Mosby says. They’re at a table in the rear, near an empty pool table. The two guys at the bar cannot hear a word.
“We can do that,” Frankie says. “What do we get for the money?”
“I have a piece of paper with three names. The first two are convicted killers pulling hard time, parole is way down the road, if ever. They did the number on Quincy. The third name is the guard who was close by and didn’t see a thing. Probably the lookout. There’s no video. They picked a spot that is unmonitored. Don’t know why Quincy was in the vicinity because most inmates know better. A guy got raped there two months ago. Maybe Quincy figured he was too tough to mess with and just got careless. You’ll have to ask him if you get the chance.”
“How much do you know about the two thugs?”
“Both are white, tough dudes in a tough gang, the Aryan Deacons. The first name is a guy I used to see every day when I worked his unit. From Dade County, nothing but trouble. The second name is unknown to me. There are two thousand prisoners at Garvin and thankfully I don’t know them all.”
“Any chance it was a gang matter?”
“I doubt it. The gangs are always at war, but Quincy stayed away from them, from what I’m told.”
Frankie takes a sip from his bottle and pulls a white envelope from a coat pocket. He places it on the table and says, “Here’s five thousand.”
“I said six,” Mosby says without reaching for the money.
From another pocket, Frankie pulls out a roll of bills and keeps it below the table. He counts quickly and hands over ten $100 bills. “That’s six.”
Mosby gives him the scrap of paper with one hand while taking the cash and the envelope with the other. Frankie unfolds the paper and looks at the three names.
Mosby says, “There’s something else. Quincy didn’t go down easy. He landed some punches while he was able. The first name there survived with a crushed nose. He was treated at the infirmary this afternoon, said he got in a fight. Happens all the time and few questions are asked. His face will be messed up for a few days so I’d move fast. A little confirmation.”
“Thanks. Anything else?”
“Yeah, I won’t be going back to the hospital. They’re alternating guards now and we’re always shorthanded. Tell Mr. Post I appreciate the business.”
“Will do. And we appreciate it too.”
I give Mazy the first name, Vicki the second, while I pursue all three. Fifteen minutes after Frankie said goodbye to Mosby, our three computers are raging through the Internet.
Robert Earl Lane was convicted of first-degree murder for the killing of his girlfriend seventeen years ago in Dade County. Prior to that, he served three years for assaulting a police officer. Jon Drummik killed his grandmother for $60 in cash, money he needed to buy crack. He pled guilty in Sarasota in 1998 and avoided a capital trial. Both have been at Garvin Correctional Institute for about ten years, and since their prison files are confidential we can’t find much. Mazy can usually hack into almost anything, but we decide to avoid breaking the law. Likewise, prison gangs such as the Aryan Deacons are not known to keep much in the way of records, so there is no way to verify their membership.
The guard is Adam Stone, white male, thirty-four years old, resident of a little hick town half an hour from the prison. At 2:15 a.m., Frankie finds Stone’s home and calls in the license plate numbers of his car and pickup truck. At 3:00 a.m., the team at Guardian has a conference call and all info is exchanged. We put together a plan to dig deep into the backgrounds of Lane and Drummik and learn as much as possible about the Aryan Deacons in Florida.
Our theory is that the hit on Quincy was ordered, and paid for, by someone on the outside. Lane and Drummik had nothing to do with the Russo murder. They’re just a couple of hard-timers doing the job for a few bucks. The fact that their victim was black made the attack more enjoyable.
At 5:00 a.m. I return to the hospital and find the visitors’ lounge empty. I’m stopped at the ICU desk by a nurse, so at least someone is awake. I ask about Marvis Miller, and she nods toward Quincy’s room. Marvis is asleep on a rollaway cot, protecting his brother. There are no other guards or cops around. The nurse explains that last night around midnight Marvis became upset at the lack of vigilance and demanded the cot. Her boss agreed and they rolled one into Quincy’s room. I thank her and ask, “How’s the patient?”
She shrugs and says, “Hanging on.”
An hour later, Marvis stumbles forth, rubbing his eyes and happy to see me. We find some stale coffee and sit in folding chairs in the hallway, watching the parade of nurses and doctors doing their early rounds. One group motions for us to join them at Quincy’s door, and we are informed that his vitals continue to show slight improvement. They plan to keep him in a coma for several more days.