The Conway's Conspiracy Page 6

“You never used your education?” said Graham. “What happened?”

  “I could never find work in my field…” he replied as if he was bored to talk about it.

  “That what happens to some of us,” said Graham. “We thrive in many trades, except what we learned in school…”

  “That’s true,” he answered amiably.

  “Any personal references in Miami?” asked Graham.

  “I’ve no friends, sir...” he waved with an ambiguous smile.

  “How come?” inquired Graham.

  “The only thing I’ve time to do is working…” he said hesitantly.

  “No social life?” Graham gave him a quizzical stare.

  “No time for that, sir...” he answered cowardly.

  “Joe, Joe, Joe…” grumbled Graham. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Jonathan stayed wide-eyed. Graham looked at him and said in an intriguing tone, “Citizen Jonathan, you’re a strange fellow…”

  “Why do you say that, sir?” he asked nervously.

  “You’ve no friends, no social life…” Graham’s voice was forceful and prying.

  “That’s true…” he answered with a faint smile.

  “They say you’re a good employee,” said Graham.

  “That’s also true...” he replied submissively.

  “Will you go back to Atlanta?” inquired Graham.

  “I don’t know…” he nodded with poise. “May be… in a few years…”

  “Girlfriend…?” Graham looked at him.

  “No,” he replied moodily.

  “Joe, you really are a strange fellow…” the detective wrapped it up. “You should stop being a bear…”

  * * *

  Summer came and a burning heat haloed over Miami as an immense sheet of flames. A host of migrating birds circumvallated the landscape, covering the environment with a prolific parturition. In a vacant perimeter, south of Miami Beach, some hookers strolled around, displaying the spectacle of their sexual tribulations. Further down, under a tree, some tourists got a respite before facing the blazing impediment.

  At the FBI Headquarters, the team in charge of the Hauss & Caust investigation had assembled once more. In the unadorned décor of the conference room, they expressed their frustration and impatience. Standing alongside Galiss, Canamera addressed his companions.

  “At Jensen & Jensen, business goes on as usual…” he sounded tired and dejected. “The deal remains the same and nobody seems to remember Charles and Jackson. Amilcar is now the boss… He reacts madly to any allusion regarding the tragic event. The order is to put it behind.”

  “Little has changed since the hold-up,” the Puerto Rican continued with a smile. “Several employees had risen up against Amilcar… They’re offended by his arrogance.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Graham asked amusingly.

  “His cavalier attitude has upset some folks,” Canamera shook his head. “Maria Collins, Jackson’s wife, went to the firm with her boyfriend to claim money the company owed to her deceased husband. Amilcar threw them out. He doesn’t seem to pay much attention to people’s sensitivity.”

  “What about the seventeen thousand dollars?” asked Gal-

  iss. “Did they receive it?”

  “Oh no...” Canamera was suddenly in a better mood. “That was the cause of stormy discussions between Commercial State Bank, Hauss & Caust, and the Calva family. The security guards’ tragic death is their favorite reference, but they convinced nobody.”

  “We must regroup,” said Graham. “A month has already passed since the holdup and, still, no trace of the gangsters. A surprise might come from anywhere. Hey, Garibaldi, what did you find at the Commercial Bank?”

  “The peace of a cemetery…” the Italian man answered with a clever smile. “Martinez is now a man of considerable influence. They respect him and don’t give a damn about the past.”

  There was a silence; then, Galiss said, “I called to inform you that I’ve extended the investigation to several zones of marginal interest. The International Police are on alert and at our disposal. This peripheral undertaking is routine but I’ve reassessed some well-known areas of the inquiry. Among the most important targets, I’ve selected a few for a more comprehensive search… Miami International Airport is one of them. I’ve asked the people in charge to send us the manifests of all airlines serving Miami from April 17 to this day. We must examine them carefully.”

  He nodded, looked at his companions, and continued, “The weapons used to commit the crime are an important focus of the investigation. We’re going to point out some intricate areas... Our teams will dive under the bridges and in the swamps from SouthBeach to Fort-Lauderdale…”

  He stayed pensive for a moment. “Don’t be discouraged,” he said nicely. “It’s frustrating but success is at the end of the

  line... The most difficult tasks are also the most rewarding.”

  The investigation around the Hauss & Caust Bank was progressing. In a few days, the agents had accounted for all rented building apartments. It was a painful task because they had to count not only the buildings but the tenants as well. Galiss was obliged to add twelve people to the already high number of thirty. Federal resources became scarce in an investigation that seemed to lead nowhere.

  The FBI Field Office Director did not know what to do and had called Galiss numerous times. Governor, Attorney General, President, the entire country yearned for a valid resolution. The bandits had vanished as if by enchantment. After more than a month of relentless search, one of the most powerful police investigations in Florida’s history resulted to nothing. Not a single trail leading to the gangsters.

  William Arthur Bogatt supervised the perimeter indicated by Galiss. The troops’ reinforcement should help reach the goal in a reasonable length of time. The tenants were the objects of “the guardian’s” full attention. The detective agreed that the bandits had probably a meeting point close to the bank.

  With tenacity, he conducted the search, using all necessary investigative tools. He knew time was running out. A pipe in his mouth, he went back and forth, supervising the troops and personally interrogating the tenants.

  Following up with his suggestion, Galiss gave order to keep it a national secret. Bogatt had insisted that public knowledge of the inquiry around the bank could compromise their work. The bandits would not wait to be caught. It was crucial that complete discretion surrounded their endeavor. The agents received a stringent order: their wives and kids

  should ignore the fact.

  The owners of the buildings were contacted and they all cooperated diligently. After the sampling distribution, Bogatt went on with the new tenants’ statistical enumeration. An impressive amount of data quickly accumulated. In a single apartment they sometimes found ten people. The agents counted them and sent the lists to Aventura. A task force was created to deal with this part of the investigation.

  It was tiresome but Bogatt gave it all he had. Slowly, the data dwindled. A week of hard work cut the one hundred seventy-six units down to one hundred twenty-two. Another week reduced it to twenty-five. The tenants were numbered, sampled, and summarily investigated.

  At the beginning of the third week, the agents showed alarming signs of impatience. Some of them publicly claimed they were being abused. Those critics did not appear to affect “the guardian.” Whether they liked it or not, the work had to be done.

  It was when the investigation seemed to have hit a snag that Bogatt received an enthusiastic call from Galiss. At six o’clock, in the evening of June 12, 1977, “the guardian” was reviewing Marvin Johnson’s file when the telephone rang. Again, those guys from Aventura!

  “Hey, Bill...” said a joyful voice on the other end of the line.

  “Who is it?” asked Bogatt.

  “It’s me, Galiss...” replied the delegate. “Come here immediately…”

  “What happened?” inquired Bogatt.

  “Something dramatic … Come quickly!” G
aliss’ intonation sounded formidable.

  The police supervisor grabbed his jacket and ran away. In Aventura, he was received enthusiastically. Galiss hugged him and said with a piercing voice, “Good, dear Bogatt, we finally discovered the diamond… Here, take a look at this…”

  The delegate handed him a sheet of paper. Bogatt examined it and, suddenly, fidgeted. “But…” he mumbled eagerly; “this name...”

  “It’s what you see, my man…” Galiss jumped joyfully around the room. “That’s him…”

  “Karl Stefan?” said Bogatt. “Are you sure?”

  “It’s him…” Galiss was cheerful; “one of the tenants in a building, on Stavisky Street…”

  Bogatt waved and yelled wildly, “What an uplifting discovery… Did you arrest him?”

  “Not yet,” Galiss shook his head. “The building is under control and our agents are cleaning up the area.”

  “Who is in charge?” asked Bogatt.

  “Graham is over there,” replied Galiss with a friendly nod.

  Bogatt opened his arms, hugged the delegate, and made a wide about-face.

  “Where are you going?” Galiss stared at him.

  “To Stavisky Street,” he answered jubilantly. “The real war had just begun... I want to be on the front line…”

  * * *

  Jonathan drove slowly and seemed lost in his own thoughts. It had been a long, arduous day. Under the unshakable grip of iron Mark, the nickname of his supervisor at the Hauss & Caust, he was forced to carry, from the Bank’s basement to

  the third floor, ninety-five fifty-pound boxes.

  He felt terrible and wanted to quit; but, in an effort to thwart police suspicions, Jonass had said he should keep working for six full months. The bank being a central point of attraction, investigators would exert constant control.

  The baby was sick to being treated like a slave. Iron Mark did not touch a single box. Joe, the loader, had to do it all. And the days passed with incredible slowness… Jonathan wondered if he would ever have the satisfaction to see his brothers and to finally enjoy the fruits of a plot whose success had depended so much on his action.

  The thought they were living like millionaires while he was in a hole disheartened him. He was cogitating on the best manner to get away, when, emerging onto Stavisky Street, a couple of houses down from his destination, he saw some familiar silhouettes roaming around.

  “Oh, my God...” He quickly turned his face in the opposite direction and accelerated like a madman. As he passed in front of the building, at 3377, he saw Graham, the detective who had questioned him after the holdup.

  “Oh God…” he muttered alarmingly. “I’m in big trouble…”

  Jonathan was out of control. Driving fast, he went through a red light and almost hit a pedestrian. “You, pig…” yelled the man. “Go fuck your mama…”

  The baby slowed down and looked in the rearview mirror. Nobody was on his trail. He sighed, straightened up, and paid attention. Arrived in his neighborhood, he went to a store, got a pile of coins, and ran to a street telephone. After a feverish glance around him, he picked up the receiver and dialed a number. An operator answered, “How may I help you?”

  “I want to establish communication with Jamaica...” he was in a state of sheer emotion.

  “Where in Jamaica?” inquired the operator.

  “Montego Bay…” he mumbled nervously.

  “What’s the number?” asked the operator.

  “849-327-8890…” he replied with great trepidation.

  “Hold, please…” the operator’s tone was calm and pleasant.

  A moment later, Jonathan heard a voice on the other end of the line. “Hello…”

  “Ed?” he inquired vividly.

  “Who is this?” asked the voice.

  “It’s me, Joe… Is it you, Ed?” he could hardly contain his tremor.

  “Yes, it’s me…” said the voice. “What’s going on?”

  “They found the apartment…” he mumbled nervously.

  “What did you say?” asked the voice.

  “They went to the apartment…” Jonathan’s tone was startling.

  There was a short moment of silence. “Joe, what did you say?” the person insisted.

  “They went to the apartment, dammit...” he yelled stridently.

  “Wait a second…” said the voice.

  He heard a blunt noise and somebody else took the telephone. “Joe, it’s me, Jonass, what happened?”

  “They found the apartment…” he repeated alarmingly. “I saw them…”

  “Who…?” asked Jonass.

  “The dogs...” he rumbled with a dubious voice.

  “Ah…” Jonass sounded surprised and confused. “Are you

  sure, Joe?”

  “Yes,” he replied impulsively. “What should I do?”

  “Calm down...” said Jonas. “Did they see you?”

  “No,” he answered in a doubtful tone.

  “How many were they?” asked Jonass.

  “A few…” he replied nervously.

  “There is nothing in there, huh…” grumbled Jonass.

  “Pete left something ...” he muttered with a bit of fear in his voice.

  “Goddammit…” yelled Jonass. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get rid of it!”

  “I’m referring to the kicker… (gun)” he answered apprehensively. “I couldn’t find a way to get rid of it…”

  “What the hell did you do, Joe? You should’ve given it back to Girard…” Jonass sounded terrible on the other end of the line.

  “I didn’t think about it…” the baby answered timidly.

  “It’s a big mistake...” said Jonass. “Stupid …”

  There was a moment of silence; then, another voice resounded, “Hey, Joe... It’s me, Peter…”

  “Yeah…” he sounded extremely anxious.

  “You made a big mistake…” said Peter. “How could you?”

  “I’m sorry…” he muttered humbly. “I’m very sorry…”

  There was another moment of silence; then, Jonass took it back. “Hey, Joe…?”

  “Yeah,” he answered obediently.

  “Calm down, okay?” said Jonass. “We’ve got to deal with this…”

  “Okay…” he was completely submissive.

  “Did they notice you?” asked Jonass.

  “No,” he sounded sad and dejected.

  “They didn’t see you?” insisted Jonass.

  “No,” he repeated cautiously.

  “Where is the Corsica?” inquired Jonass.

  “I sold it…” he replied with a tottering voice.

  “Who bought it?” pressed Jonass.

  “I don’t know him,” he answered without confidence.

  “What about your job…?” asked Jonass.

  “Everything is fine. I’ll quit soon...” his voice was weak and doubtful.

  “Don’t forget what I told you…” said Jonass.

  “I’m worried...” he replied fearfully.

  “Don’t be a fool…” retorted Jonass. “You’re not in the loop…”

  “Okay…” he concurred while putting coins in the machine.

  “Joe, hey, Joe…” shouted Jonass. “Are you there?”

  “You don’t have to yell…” the baby replied annoyingly. “I’m listening.”

  “Don’t do anything foolish,” said Jonass.

  “Okay…” he answered sheepishly.

  “Go to the box...” mumbled Jonass. “You’ll find something…”

  “Yeah...” Jonathan’s voice was low and uncomfortable.

  “Any news from Gigi (Girard)?” inquired Jonass.

  “No,” he answered with a bit of hesitation.

  “Do you’ve the address?” asked Jonass.

  “Yes,” Jonathan sounded frightened and perplex.

  “Try to be informed… but no direct contact, okay?” said Jonass.

  “Okay,” he agreed falteringly.

  “Call us to
morrow,” growled Jonass. “We’ve got to follow this one step by step.”

  “Okay…” the baby was alarmingly hesitant.

  CHAPTER 5

  Girard Pozy

  The discovery of the apartment, on Stavisky Street, had been an important turning point. It boosted the agents’ morale and allowed them to garner critical information. Hard evidences were collected and they expected a quick follow-up. The prospect of a successful resolution galvanized them into action. The new development corroborated Galiss’ optimism. Motivated and confident, the delegate exposed the facts of the case.

  “The apartment, on Stavisky Street, was cleaned up,” he said calmly. “We collected several pieces of hard evidence. Karl Stefan, the man who used fake identifications to deceive the employees of Camilla Automotive, also rented the apartment. Karl whose profile was drawn by our experts is, officially, nonexistent. The prints should help identify him.”

  He nodded, looked at his colleagues, and continued, “A number of people had confirmed the tenant of apartment 303 was constantly in the company of three other individuals. We developed some prototypes. You’ll have them tomorrow… Witnesses also mentioned a white Chevrolet Corsica used by Karl. According to their descriptions, it should be a ‘73 or ‘74. The license plate serial number begins with the letters HO. I requested from the Department of Motor Vehicle the owners’ list of white Chevrolet Corsica from ’70 to ’77. They

  will be investigated...”

  He walked around the room and said with a biting voice, “Among the pieces found in the apartment is a .38 caliber handgun under registration 38-909987. That weapon is the property of Charles Madsen, a Fort-Lauderdale resident. His home was burglarized sometimes ago and, among other things, his pistol was stolen. Graham and I visited Madsen who identified and recognized the revolver.”

  He went back to his seat. “We ran the criminal record of Chalat Cassoti, the burglar, who is in the County Jail,” he continued forthrightly. “Chalat has spent most of his life in prison. Recently, he was released after three years behind bars for strong-arm robbery. Police got him back after only two months of freedom. He is not involved in the Hauss & Caust affair but detains crucial information. I’ll soon pay him a visit in the County Jail. The District Attorney is willing to let him go in exchange for unconditional cooperation.”