The Guardians(79)

“It’s chump change to your boys.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Across the track and next to the paddocks, a crew in the back of a delivery van films every movement as the bug captures every word.

Pfitzner takes long walks with his second wife, fishes with a buddy in a sleek thirty-two-foot Grady-White, and plays golf every Monday and Wednesday in the same foursome. From all indications—dress, home, cars, nice restaurants, clubs—he is quite affluent. They watch him but they do not go into his house—too many security cameras. He has an iPhone that he uses for normal conversations, and he has at least one burner for the more sensitive calls. For eleven days he ventures no farther than the golf course or the marina.

On the twelfth day, he leaves Marathon, driving north along Highway 1. By the time he reaches Key Colony Beach the plan is activated. It is ramped up when Mercado leaves Coral Gables, headed his way. He arrives in Key Largo first and parks in the lot outside Snook’s Bayside Restaurant. Two agents in shorts and floral-print shirts ease in and take a table near the water, thirty feet from Mercado’s table. Ten minutes later, Pfitzner arrives in his Volvo and goes inside without his gym bag, one of several mistakes.

As Mercado and Pfitzner dine on seafood salads, the bag is removed from the Volvo. Inside are five stacks of $100 bills wrapped tightly with rubber bands. Not fresh new banknotes, but bills that have been stashed for some time. A total of $50,000. Two stacks are removed and replaced with newer bills whose serial numbers have been recorded. The gym bag is returned to the rear floorboard of the Volvo. Two more agents arrive, rounding out the team of ten.

When lunch is over, Pfitzner pays the bill with an American Express card. He and Mercado exit and step into the sun. They hesitate by the Volvo as Pfitzner unlocks the door, opens it, grabs the gym bag, and, without unzipping it and looking inside, hands it to Mercado, who takes it so nonchalantly it’s clear he’s done it before. Before Mercado can take one step, a loud voice yells, “Freeze! FBI!”

Bradley Pfitzner faints and falls hard into the car next to his Volvo. He crumples to the asphalt as the agents swarm Mercado, take the bag, and slap on cuffs. When Bradley stands, he’s dazed and there is a cut above his left ear. An agent wipes it roughly with a paper towel as the two suspects are loaded up for the ride to Miami.





Chapter 39



The following day, Agent Nolton calls with the news that Skip DiLuca is on a plane headed to Mars with a new identity and the chance for a new life. His girlfriend plans to join him later. Agnes passes along the latest with Pfitzner and Mercado, but nothing has changed. Not surprisingly, Nash Cooley’s law firm is representing both, so the prosecution will soon grind to a halt while the lawyers gum up the system. Both defendants are trying to get out on bond but the federal magistrate won’t budge.

Her voice is more relaxed, and she ends the conversation with “Why haven’t you asked me to dinner?”

Any pause would show weakness so I immediately say, “How about dinner?” In my usual state of cluelessness around the opposite sex, I had not bothered to notice if she wears a wedding band. I would guess her age at forty-two. I seem to remember photos of children in her office.

“You’re on,” she says. “Where shall we meet?”

“It’s your city,” I say, on my heels. The only food I’ve eaten in Orlando has been in the basement cafeteria of Mercy Hospital. It’s dreadful, but cheap. I desperately try to remember the balance on my last credit card statement. Can I afford to take her to a nice restaurant?

“Where are you staying?” she asks.

“At the hospital. It doesn’t matter. I have a car.” I’m staying in a cheap motel in a sketchy part of town, a place I would never mention. And my car? It’s really a little Ford SUV with bald tires and a million miles on the odometer. It hits me that Agnes knows this. I’m sure the FBI has checked me out. One look at my wheels and she’ll prefer to “meet” at the restaurant rather than go through the formality of me picking her up. I like the way she thinks.

“There’s a place called Christner’s on Lee Road. Let’s meet there. And Dutch treat.”

I like her even more. I may even fall in love with her. “If you insist.”

With a law degree and eighteen years of seniority, her salary is around $120,000, or more than mine, Vicki’s, and Mazy’s combined. In fact, Vicki and I really don’t consider ourselves on salary. We each extract $2,000 a month to survive, and give ourselves a bonus at Christmas if there’s anything left in the bank.

I’m sure Agnes realizes that I live in poverty.

I dress in my only clean shirt and well-used khakis. She breezes in from the office and, as always, is well put-together. We have a glass of wine at the bar then retire to our table. After we order another glass of wine, she says, “No shoptalk. Let’s talk about your divorce.”

I chuckle at her abruptness, though I’ve come to expect it. “How’d you know?”

“Just guessing. You go first and talk about yours, then I’ll talk about mine, and in doing so we’ll avoid talking about work.”

Well, I say, it was a long time ago, and I launch into my past. Law school, courting Brooke, marriage, the career as a public defender, my nervous breakdown that led to seminary and a new career, the calling to help the innocent.