4. The Van
The Van
It was a cloudy morning as I drove to the station.
A trickle of rain here and there followed me all the way in.
I had spent most of the night going over the case files; learning more about the company and its activities.
Honestly, I didn’t understand most of it.
The only thing I could gather from the company website, dark web, and conspiracy laden forums is that the company had deep ties with intelligence agencies.
Real spy stuff, like in the movies. Big military contracts, custom tools, and advanced weapons research information riddled the documents, but I couldn’t figure out what might have been stolen.
Most of the stuff was blacked out. This left me with little option but to generalize and write in my notebook the major theme of the document.
I went through them all, and in the end, I still had no idea what the hell the company was working on.
It was quieter today in the office when I walked in.
No doubt due to the arrival of our special guests.
All morning long I had an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
They type you get when something feels off right before a bust. The captain seemed unusual, too.
He was unexpectedly quiet and well-dressed, whereas I had completely forgotten about it.
“Hernandez! What the hell, man?” Captain Smith said in a restrained voice. “The special task force will be here any minute and look at you!”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Look at those clothes! That jacket! Those shoes! You’re dressed for running errands,” Captain Smith said exasperatedly. “Not an important meeting with the government!”
He continued in a tirade as another detective brought over an old suit jacket he had stored in his locker for months. Slightly faded and emblazoned with cobwebs near the shoulder, it matched my old Docker khaki pants well.
“That’ll have to do.”
“I guess,” I replied as a flurry of people entered the main lobby.
Frank buzzed them in. Some were dressed in tacky black suits, with badges and guns peeking out from under the jackets.
The group followed one of the younger officers to the back, where the main conference hall had been prepped for them.
I counted about four of them. They all appeared to be agents, including the one woman who was eclipsed by them, save for an older gentleman who wore khakis like me with a simple beige vest. But something felt off about him.
He kept looking around as he walked, and his eyes were as wide as an owl’s.
He had a nervous tremor in his hands, and his nails were chipped.
“What’s he so anxious about?” I pondered as I followed Captain Smith inside.
It was cold in the room. The newly bought table smelled of pine and plaster.
It was a cheap table. The kind made of pressed wood chips and covered by a thin film of plastic.
And the chairs were just as bad, if not worse.
Plastic and dull black, with little back support.
If you pushed back far enough, the top end would bend over on itself.
No one liked them. As I stood near the entrance, I could see them shuffling in their seats, almost sliding off.
Quite amusing under different circumstances.
The young officer left and closed the door behind him as the captain began speaking.
“For starters, I’d like to introduce myself.
I’m Captain Smith, and I’m in charge of this precinct.
And that man there with cobwebs on his shoulder is my ace robbery detective, Alejandro Hernandez, or ‘Alex’ as we affectionately call him.
I would like to thank the FBI for reaching out to us and requesting our help with this case; I’ve been informed by the county mayor of the need to solve this quickly.
We here at the Miami Beach PD will gladly extend all the resources available to aid you in your investigation,” said Captain Smith, with a jolly, almost self-aggrandizing tone.
I could tell he’d been practicing his speech skills in his free time.
He wanted to be the mayor of Miami Beach after all.
And a major case like this could be his ticket to achieving it. “Who wants to go first?”
A man in a black suit stood up. He was older than the others. Streaks of white emblazoned his hair, like stripes on a racing car. His eyes, cold and black, matched his suit. He was darker than the captain. And taller too.
“Thank you, Captain Smith, for your hospitality. My name is Michael Jones, and I’m the agent in charge of the South districts which include Florida.
There’s a lot of stuff to go over and not much time to do it.
So, I’ll just stick to the main points,” Michael Jones said.
He grabbed a leather case and pulled out a stack of papers.
Then, he threw them onto the middle of the table.
I got closer, and that’s when I noticed they were pictures.
All of them. The same picture copied over at least a dozen times, from what looked like a security camera, showing a man with a mask on and a distinct tattoo on his right wrist. “There was a major heist at a facility not far from here, and this is the only lead we have to go on. Three men entered the warehouse through the loading bay, bypassing biometrics and other security controls with the help of a security guard on site. And escaped within minutes without setting off any alarms.”
I grabbed a photograph and took a glance at it.
The van. It looked just like the getaway vehicle used in the robberies I’d been investigating.
Same M.O. The men all had masks on and were dressed in common clothes.
Some gray or black. Neutral colors, but nothing that would stand out.
Nothing else stood out except for the tattoo on one man.
Odd lines and shapes extended from the wrist to the hand like a tribal tattoo.
“Do you see something in the photo?” asked Michael Jones.
“I—” I said, stopping myself when my eyes locked with hers.
Dressed in a black suit, she had been staring at me for a while.
Like a predator sizing up its prey, she had a devious look on her face.
Her golden-blonde hair, wrapped up tight in a bun, shone under the mellow light.
And her eyes, blue as the Caribbean waters I’d swim in as a youth.
Equally distracting was the jacket she had on.
With one button fastened, it was holding on for dear life with every breath.
“You were saying?” She said with a grin and a look as if I’d been found guilty.
Guilty of looking at her, wanting her, and she’d be right.
I’d never seen a more beautiful woman. She looked like one of those supermodels you’d see on a billboard, and yet here she was working as a federal agent. How the hell did that happen?
“The van. It looks familiar to the one used in a case I’m working on,” I replied, with a stutter.
“The Collins case? We think they may be connected, which is why we reached out to your captain. If we solve our case, it may help you with yours. Now, before we go into the details, I’d like to introduce the others who’ll be working with you to solve this case.
The young woman here is Special Agent Isabelle Sarfati; she was pulled from our DC field office for this case, so I’d appreciate it if you assist her with anything she needs.
Working with a local will make things easier for her.
She’s also the lead agent in this case, and you’ll be reporting to her.
The man to her left is Special Agent James Brown, like the singer, but no relation.
And please, do not ask him to sing; he can’t. ”
Special Agent James Brown shook his head and said, “it’s nice to meet you.”
An odd statement, given that the guy was pale white and had copper-red hair. I could tell he was sick of the joke, though.
“And last, but certainly not least, is Mr. David Levy. He’s the general counsel of APOLLO Technologies Inc. Questions about the robbery and the items stolen can be directed to him.”
The room fell silent again. David kept fidgeting in his chair. Even more so than when this meeting started. And now he’d gone back to biting his nails. The man was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and no one else seemed to notice.
“Well, I guess I’ll start. What was stolen?” I said to David. He looked at me for a second and then looked away. Then he stopped biting his nails and composed himself as best he could, took a deep breath, and turned to me.
“Everything,” said David, his voice echoing in the small conference room. “They took it all.”