Deceived
by
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“Hey, Tony, you should pay me to eat this crap. People think cops eat in restaurants that serve tasty food. I come in this joint to help your business and this is what I get? Your patrons feel safer when I’m around.”
With no premonition that he would soon be drowning in his own blood, Captain Greg Strong stabbed his last bite of veal parmesan. He pushed the breaded morsel to the edge of his oval plate, scooping up the last of the marinara sauce with enthusiasm. Tony Vidalia smiled, turned his back to the offensive remark and continued to wipe the counter.
“It would make a difference if you ever wore a uniform. Except for that fake looking gun on your hip, no one would ever know you’re a lousy cop. And for that smartass remark, Mr. Predator, I’m giving you a bill for the meal.”
The other customers in the diner laughed at the verbal play between the two men.
Outside the diner and directly across Miami Beach’s busy Washington Avenue, a rusty 1957 Mercedes, driven by a milky faced man with black hair pulled into a pony tail, rolled to a stop at a loading zone and sat with the engine running. The only person to notice was Mitch Hammond, a car buff, who had parked his UPS truck just a few feet from the diner’s entrance. After a quick study of the car, he determined it was too far gone for restoration and continued to organize his roster of deliveries.
“Don’t call me Predator,” the captain growled at his friend. “I get enough of that downtown and I certainly don’t need it from my friends.”
“My, my, are we getting sensitive, big guy?” As promised, Tony slid a bill, face down, in front of the police captain. “And are we playing poker tonight, or what?”
The muscular policeman slid from his stool, picked up the bill and without looking at it, crumpled it and threw it at Tony, who caught it, a big grin on his face.
“Of course, my house, eight o’clock and don’t be late. Maggie is making some kind of special snack soaked in bourbon.”
Tony smiled, “I don’t drink.”
“Tony, it’s a snack, for crap’s sake. Don’t eat it, just be there by eight. We’re not waiting for you this time.” Greg walked toward the door of the diner. The driver in the Mercedes pushed his car door open partially and placed one foot to the pavement.
Tony raced around the counter to meet his friend at the door. “Wait, don’t leave yet, Captain. I almost forgot to ask. You know my brother-in-law. You met him last month at the church carnival.”
“Yeah, I remember, Andrew, or something like that, right?” The captain took his hand off the diner’s door and turned to face Tony. The occupant in the Mercedes slowly closed his car door.
Tony smiled, “That’s right, Andrew. Good memory. Well, he’s going to take up flying. I thought maybe Maggie could give him a few lessons, just to see if he likes it.”
“Maggie isn’t a certified instructor and can’t give him lessons,” Greg reminded him. “But each Tuesday, she takes a load of merchandise to Freeport. Simple stuff, like
Deceived Wooldridge
light bulbs. They cost a fortune over there and she has a couple of outlet stores paying her to make the runs. I guess he could sit in the right seat. Ask her about it tonight.”
“Perfect. If this works out, you won’t have to pay that bill you threw at me,” Tony joked.
Captain Strong laughed and pulled the door to the diner wide open. “See you at eight.”
The captain stood in front of the diner, fishing for a toothpick he knew was somewhere in his left pocket. Looking north up Washington Avenue he could see the time and temperature on top of the Financial Federal building. It flashed 94 degrees, 1:14 P.M, a typical humid August day for Miami Beach.
Mitch Hammond returned to the driver’s seat of his UPS truck in time to notice the occupant of the Mercedes had again opened his driver’s door, leaving it fully open into a lane of traffic on busy Washington Avenue.
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About the Book
After becoming permanently disabled from a horrific act of violence perpetrated by an amateur assassin, police Captain Greg Strong was forced into early retirement. The motive for the attempt on his life was never determined.
The captain, along with his wife, Maggie, moved from Miami Beach to the Blue Ridge Mountains where they hoped to live out the remainder of their lives in peace. But this was not to be. A strange set of disruptive circumstances sent them on a mission of deception and intrigue.
Not only is Deceived a graphic and gritty work of fiction, it is also riddled with the experiences of the author, Major Fred Wooldridge, who spent 28 years with the Miami Beach Police Department. Only a veteran police officer with so much street experience could write such a book and tell of such events.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Sit back, take a deep breath and prepare to be entertained and deceived.
Fred Wooldridge is also author of, I’m Moving Back to Mars.
About the Author
Major Fred Wooldridge, author of the book I’m Moving Back to Mars, was nicknamed “Mad Dog” by members of his police department because of his ruthless and unique ability to infolitrate the drug world on the streets of Miami Beach. After working four years as an undercover narcotics officer, Fred was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant where he ran the Strategic Investigation Unit that included the Vice, Intelligence and Narcotic Units.
Six years later, Fred returned to the uniformed patrol division. After, the terrorist attacks at the Munich Olympic Games, Fred was subsequently sent to a newly formed SWAT school. He was promoted to Captain and went on to become his department’s first SWAT Commander where he remained for the next six years.
When Fred was promoted to the rank of Major, he commanded his department’s Criminal Investigation Division that included homicide, crimes against persons and property units. He remained in command of CIU until his retirement.
After retirement, Fred and his wife, Maddy, moved to Highlands in the mountains of North Carolina where they started a seasonal rappelling school and taught cliff rappelling, entertaining visitors and tourists who came to this resort village looking for excitement.
Thirteen years later, they sold their rappelling school and Fred became a columnist for the Highlands Newspaper in North Carolina.