Beachside PD: The Gypsy Hunter

By Neil L. Yuzuk and David A. Yuzuk

Once again, this unique father and son writing team brings us back to the world of Beachside PD. With the ease of master story-tellers, they weave an intricate web of mystery and suspense. This time the drumbeats are faster and the plots, even more devious.

Meet Detective Lieutenant Robert M. Zaragossa—the Jawndari Romano (Gypsy Cop). For almost two decades he has threaded his way through the secret world of the Gypsies, solving crimes from simple fortune-telling scams to the uncovering of counterfeiters, to the hunt for the murderer of a heroic war veteran.

Danny Phillips, Beachside PD’s Reluctant Knight is back on the job along with his partner, Anna Perez. Follow them as they enter the world of the Seminole Nation hunting for a missing young woman; and their coming together as a family.

Follow Elysa Perez, a blossoming teenage girl seeking answers to life; Harry Buckley, a sportswriter covering the Super Bowl; Lolita, a saucy island waitress; Bull Belinsky, caught in bed next to his dead girlfriend; old friends like Jay Gardner, Aiden Fitzpatrick, Chief Chamberlain and Johnny Harjo are back. Also meet new friends, and new bad guys. And an old enemy returns, former BPD Captain, the malignant James Hagen.

As in Beachside PD: The Reluctant Knight, the crimes are real; so be prepared for the hot action of the hunt, as the bad guys are tracked down and brought to justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beachside PD Books
• Release date: Dec 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465856548

Neil L. Yuzuk

Neil L. Yuzuk was born in Brooklyn, New York. Now retired after twenty-two years, as a SPARK Substance Abuse Prevention Counselor, he wrote "Beachside PD: The Reluctant Knight," after collaborating with his police officer/actor/writer son, David, on a screenplay called "The Reluctant Knight."He's just completed the fourth book in the Beachside PD series, "Beachside PD: Undercover" and it is now available on Smashwords.Neil is available for book signings and other events in the Los Angeles/Southern California area and will travel as needed.

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FOREWORD

This foreword is meant to give you, the reader, a sense of the Gypsy world you are about to enter. Those, who we call Gypsy, refer to themselves as Rom and/or Roma and their spoken language as Romani. As there is no formal written Romani language, all spellings are the writer’s literations.

NOTA BENE: It would be a big mistake to say "All Rom are . . . just as it would be wrong to ascribe to any group, All are . . ." The Rom, in their diaspora from their homeland (in the sixth century C.E.), have travelled the world over and have adapted into various clans and trades. Their initial migration, brought people with dark skin and black hair. After integrating with Europeans and others, the Rom can be found with light skin and hair, as well as non-Asian features.

Gypsies, as a subculture, present a unique challenge to law enforcement as there is little or no understanding of their Romaniye (the standards by which they live) and they are usually considered Transient Offenders who are arcane, an anomaly in American society, and often a low priority. But the reality is far different.

Detective Lieutenant Michael Zaragossa (a pseudonym) is the Jawndari Romano (Gypsy Cop). He is not Rom, but he is fluent in Romani and his unique relationship with, and honest treatment of the Rom community has earned him the unique honorific of Baro Ri (Big Cop). However in bad times, they call him, The Gypsy Hunter.

Despite their transient nature, he knows that the Rom are not Cher's 'Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves.' As Zaragossa once shared with me, You are talking about organized crime with high amounts of money and highly paid attorneys. They’re not simply petty thieves and burglars; they are responsible for many major crimes.

Zaragossa's personal philosophy is All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing. Although his story is being presented as a novel, he is real, as are the cases presented herein.

Among the Rom, Americanized names are common and not to be confused with their Rom names.

All information about the Rom that is shared in The Gypsy Hunter, has been previously published, or is in the public domain. That which is secret, will remain secret, as the caravans roll on. A short glossary of Rom terms found in this novel, are on the next page.

GLOSSARY OF ROMANI TO ENGLISH

ROMANI | ENGLISH

Baro | Big – Honorific used for the head of a family

Baro Ri | Big Cop, (a rare) honorific for police officer

Bujo | A bag switch swindle or scam

Gaiji | Female non-Rom - Gaijé (pl.)

Gajikane | Non-Roma or foreign culture

Gajikanes | Doing non-Rom work - Working as a Gaiji

Gadjo’ or Gajo | Male non-Rom - Gadjé or Gajé (pl.)

Globa | Fine - Punishment by a Kris

Jawndari Romano | Gypsy Cop, non-Rom who knows/understands/respects Romaniye

Jindadi | Detective, non-Rom

Kris | Counsel to resolve disputes – (also called Romano Kris)

Kumpania | Group of Vitsi

Marimé | Unclean and/or Form of excommunication/banishment from the Rom

Pomana Sinia | Death Feast, 3 days after the funeral

Quom son? | Are you a [male] Rom?

Quom son tu? | Are you a [male] Rom as well?

Rom | Gypsy

Roma | The Rom people—It can also refer to the Romani language

Romani (Roma) | Rom Language

Romaniye | Standards by which the Rom live - Culture and Religion

Vitsa – Vitsi (pl.) | Extended Family

POLICE EXPRESSIONS

Cap | They spot/set up the mark—AKA Front or Sounder

Catch | The closer of the deal - They complete the actual crime —AKA Back or Convincer

Drag Team | Two (or more) people involved in a specific scam— usually a Cap and a Catch

Forthwith | Police Speak for, To report immediately, without delay.

Mac | Leader of the drag team

Mark | The crime victim—the one who is marked to be scammed.

TO THE READER:

Lieutenant Michael Zaragossa, was introduced in the first Beachside PD novel: The Reluctant Knight, as Lieutenant Robert Zaragossa. The first name has changed, but the character remains the same.

Since I completed Beachside PD: The Gypsy Hunter I have been studying screenplay writing. Of course, the screenplay has a different ending than this novel. You can find it on www.BeachsidePDBooks.com -- go to Beachside PD: The Gypsy Hunter page.

THE PRESENT AS PROLOGUE

IT WAS GOING ON NINE hours of hard driving, from Beachside to Raiford, through the tail end of Hurricane Jessie; overcast with occasional blinding sheets of rain, dodging wind-whipped debris and accidents. But the executioner would not be stopped by the weather—only a call from the governor could stop it, but it was highly unlikely he would grant a last minute reprieve, the crime was too heinous.

Beachside PD Detective Lieutenant Michael Zaragossa shifted in his seat as the high walls of Raiford State Prison came into view. The rain had stopped, but the ground was still wet; he drove slowly as he approached the main gate. The gate was surrounded by two large groups of protesters. Some held candles and chanted, while others shouted and marched carrying anti-death penalty signs. Several of the marchers, in yellow rain slickers, ran to his car waving their signs. They backed off when they saw him continuing past them.

Zaragossa stopped at a side gate and opened his window for the Corrections Officer who approached his car.

I need to see your I.D.

Zaragossa handed the C.O. his law enforcement credentials.

The C.O. checked his name against a list on his clipboard, nodded, and returned the credentials along with an ID tag.

Once you go through the gate, park in any empty space marked Law Enforcement, he said as he pressed a button to open the gate.

Zaragossa entered the parking lot and quickly found an open spot, parked the car, and got out, stretching to relieve his cramped posture. He heard strains of Amazing Grace coming from the distant front gate.

He is short, perhaps five foot seven, slightly rotund, with a light olive complexion, and dark, curly brown hair. Dressed in a dark blue suit and a white oxford button-down shirt, his navy blue tie is held in place with a silver handcuffs tie tack.

Zaragossa walked to an open door that was guarded by another officer. He checked Zaragossa's nametag against his list and waved him in. A third officer stood in an alcove, behind a table, next to a wall of small lockers.

I need your photo I.D. and your weapon.

Zaragossa handed him the I.D. wallet with badge inside. Removing his .45 caliber Glock 36, he released the magazine, took out the bullet in the chamber, put it in the magazine, and put the empty gun and magazine on the table next to the I.D. wallet.

The officer admired the weapon for a moment, put it into a cloth bag, and locked it along with the ID wallet in a small locker. He turned to Zaragossa holding a receipt.

Never saw you before, your first execution?

Yeah.

The officer laughed, Well try not to throw up in front of the witnesses, it makes us look bad.

I won't, Zaragossa replied coldly.

This’ll be the first Gypsy we've fried.

Fried? I thought he was getting a lethal injection?

He is, but he’s getting it strapped into Old Sparky. This here Gypsy a friend of yours?

No, I'm the cop who hunted him down. May I have my receipt?

He handed Zaragossa the receipt and pointed him to a corridor. Walk all the way down, it’s the last door on the right.

Although he is in his late thirties, Zaragossa has the look of a guileless fourteen year old boy, but it's only a facade; behind the mask is an intelligence driven by endless curiosity, and a desire to protect the weak and punish the criminals who would prey upon them. Only those who know Zaragossa are aware of how driven and dangerous he can be, as he combines the shrewdness of the fox with the grit and determination of a Pit Bull.

Entering the gathering room, he saw the Warden had put out a small collation of sandwiches and soft drinks for the witnesses—they are eating and talking. Zaragossa was not there to eat or drink, only to witness and to show that he was not afraid of the consequences of hunting down the doomed prisoner. He is, after all, the Jawndari Romano, the Gypsy Hunter.

The Grant family was there; the mother stared at him, moved her hands as if she was casting a magical spell, or more likely a curse, and ended it by spitting on the ground in his direction. The brother sneered and moved towards him in a menacing manner, but he was grabbed by the father who restrained and admonished him. If not for Zaragossa, it would've been this younger son who would have been waiting to die, mistaken identity, oops just another dead Gypsy.

A cousin, Miguel Johnson, stepped up to Zaragossa, took him by the arm and they were the first to enter the witness room. It looked like a bomb shelter with twenty-four folding chairs set up in four rows. The chairs faced a large glass window that was covered with interior curtains. The curtains rustled, hinting that something was going on behind them. At the windowless back wall, there is a small table set up with paper cups and large paper napkins alongside a water cooler.

The cousin was one of Zaragossa's Rom Confidential Informants, but today he played the role of peacekeeper. It was Miguel who asked for Zaragossa's help when his cousin James was arrested for a killing, done by his older brother, Jason; they switched identities in an effort to confuse the manhunt for Jason.

I never envisioned this day when I called you for help, said Miguel.

Really? Zaragossa replied. What happened to your psychic powers?

Miguel looked sharply at Zaragossa, as if he’d been slapped. We’ve worked together too long for you to say that to me.

Sorry, Miguel. Chalk it up to a long drive and a run-in I had with a Corrections Officer when I came in. He thought it was funny, the death penalty for a Gypsy.

The Nazis killed more than a million of us during the Holocaust, what should one more dead Gypsy matter?

Go back to your family, I’ll be okay here.

Having prevented a confrontation, Miguel returned to his family, while Zaragossa sat alone with his thoughts on an end chair in the first row. He was left alone by the several members of the press as they entered the room. They were talking quietly among themselves, subdued by the prospect of witnessing death and the uncertainty of how they will react at the moment of execution.

Zaragossa was restless and at the same time reflective. Left alone he closed his eyes and thought back to the telephone call that set today in motion.

FLASHBACK - WEDNESDAY:

THE HUNT BEGINS

DETECTIVE SERGEANT

MICHAEL ZARAGOSSA

IT WAS ALMOST DAWN AND the streets were in deep shadow as a convoy of two SWAT vans, a fire truck, and an ambulance moved down the avenue. I was in the first van along with the SWAT Lieutenant, Jamie McCallum, and a half dozen heavily armed officers in the back.

We were serving a warrant on a small-time illegal arms dealer. I had gotten a tip, from one of my Rom C.I.s that the dealer had just received a shipment of stolen military M9A1 pistols fitted with laser sights. Those guns were far too dangerous to be allowed to hit the streets. The house, in a quiet suburban neighborhood, was at the end of a cul-de-sac and the two vans coasted to a stop on either end of the house. The fire truck parked blocking the entrance to the street.

I was wearing a too-large bulletproof vest and holding a SWAT helmet. I looked out at the two story house, it was dark and quiet.

Ready? I asked Jamie.

Fuck yeah. Let's roll, he said and he clicked his radio three times—the signal to exit the vans and gather around him. The armored and heavily armed SWAT unit officers moved quietly, like shadows in the night. They gathered around Jamie. My two Undercover Unit officers, Andy Bello, and Valerie Gordon, wearing full armor and helmets, stepped to my side.

McCallum pointed to two of his officers and whispered Back. He pointed to four more and whispered Right side and Left side. The six officers moved off quietly. He pointed at three officers, one who was holding the battering ram, and whispered Front door. He pointed at the last two and whispered, Front lawn, backup.

I advanced slowly behind McCallum with Val and Andy behind me. As we moved onto the wooden porch it creaked and inside a loud buzzer went off. I could hear people shouting and an upstairs window opened.

GO! GO! GO! McCallum said in a rush and we followed the battered down door into the dark house. After that, it was chaos—flashes and sounds of gunfire, people shouting Police, explosions, and crying babies.

Inside I fired my Glock 36 at gun flashes that were aimed at me. Bello was alongside Valerie as a man charged her with a machete. He fired his AR-15 at the man who blew back into the dark.

As we entered the house, a hand grenade was thrown out of the upstairs window. The two backup officers dropped to the ground, as it exploded. One officer began spraying the upstairs windows with his AR-15, while the other officer remained motionless—unconscious or dead.

In the backyard, a MAN jumped from the second floor balcony. My leg, I broke my leg, he cried as the two officers handcuffed him. The back door opened—two women, carrying children, came out. One was holding a blanket with an infant. They were both shouting, Don't shoot. We have the children. The officers hesitated and the woman holding the blanketed baby pulled out a pistol and fired at the nearest officer. He was hit in the chest and went down hard, stunned by the bullet’s impact. The second officer raised his AR-15 and shot her dead. As she fell, the blanket opened and what looked like a blood-covered infant rolled out.

On either side of the house, the SWAT officers were taking fire from the upstairs windows. They were firing back, as wood and glass flew from their concentrated fire.

As I moved through the house shouts of Clear came from different parts of the first floor and lights were turned on. Officers were handcuffing people, both alive and dead, with plastic ties. I quickly reloaded my weapon with shaking hands. The carnage . . . it looked like the Hollywood set of a Buckets of Blood movie. I’d never been in real combat before.

You okay, Zee? Andy asked.

Once I stop shaking.

Gather around, McCallum shouted.

We gathered at the foot of the stairs. Ambulances, go call for ambulances. A lot of ambulances, McCallum ordered a SWAT officer.

I could hear gunfire coming from the upstairs. We need to clear out the second floor, I said.

I know. You, me, Bello, Gordon, Ochoa, and Gonzalez. Everyone check your ammo. Mike grab a rifle.

A wounded SWAT officer handed up his AR-15 to me. His leg was bleeding and someone had applied a tourniquet. He pointed to his belt and I reached down and took his extra clips. Hang in there, I said hoping to encourage him. I reloaded it with a full clip.

McCallum gave us the battle plan. Ochoa and Gordon follow me. We'll take the right. Mike, you take the left with Bello and Gonzalez. Be careful . . . and watch out for kids.

We moved slowly up the stairs. A door opened on my left and a man holding a hand grenade stepped out of a bedroom. I didn’t hesitate—I shot him as he pulled the pin. The grenade fell out of his hand as he dropped to the floor.

Down! Grenade! I shouted. The grenade exploded and I felt shrapnel bounce off my helmet and sting my exposed shoulders and arms. I felt like I was on fire . . . my body went slack, and I rolled down the stairs. I’m dead, I thought when I hit the bottom.

I gotcha, Zee, Andy said as he pulled me to a far wall.

You’re okay, just some scratches. I’ll be right back as soon as we clear that floor.

I watched as more doors opened and men charged out screaming and firing wildly. It was like a shooting gallery. The officers maintained disciplined fire and eventually the gunfire slowed and stopped. I heard more shouts of Clear from the upstairs rooms. With the all-clear, the firemen entered, putting out small fires and the EMTs started helping the wounded. And then it went all black.

When I came to I was in an ambulance sitting up on a portable stretcher. Valerie and Andy on either side. My arms were dripping blood and the left side of my face felt like it was on fire. Val was holding a pad against it. I pushed her hand away and the pad was soaked in blood.

Burns, Val, I said.

I know, but I gotta stop the bleeding. You’ll probably need a couple of stitches. It’s small but deep.

Cold-Pak.

Can’t, until it’s cleaned out.

My head felt twice its size. I closed my eyes and tried to let the pain fade.

I told ya to armor up, Zee, Andy said.

They didn't have my size. I started to stand. It's just a lot of little wounds. I'll wash 'em out at home.

Valerie pushed me back and I had no strength to resist her.

Oh no, you stay right here and have the doctors clean out the shrapnel. Then you can go home. I'll stay with you.

I closed my eyes and the world went away. When I reopened them an EMT was cleaning my wounds with Merthiolate.

How you doing, Mike? It was McCallum.

Hanging in there . . . what's the butcher's bill?

Good news and bad. For them, eight dead and three critically wounded.

And us? Andy asked.

McCallum paused and took a deep breath. One dead, two critical, and the others like you have minor wounds, bumps, and bruises.

Who bought it? Andy asked.

Jackson . . . Ochoa and Simpson are critical.

I’m sorry, he was one of the good guys, I said.

I know. McCallum sighed. I have to tell his wife.

Did you find the weapons?

"Got 'em all. They were in the garage out back. Three cases of the pistols and sights, and we found two cases of Chinese Uzis with enough ammo to blow up the block. Good thing they couldn't get to them.

We saved a lot of lives.

Yeah, but the cost was too fuckin' high. See ya.

Who's coming with us? The EMT asked.

I am. said Val. Andy, would you take my stuff?

Sure Val. She took off the armor, handed it to Bello, and sat down next to me.

I'll see you in the hospital, Andy said as he closed the ambulance’s door.

I was in bed painted a pinkish red with Merthiolate and Band-Aids pasted on various parts of me. Two stitches closed my face cut and a white bandage covered it all. Valerie and Andy were finally leaving. Their fussing over me made me angry. I hated the feeling of being not in control, but I had to stay overnight, in case I was concussed.

Get some rest, said Val.

Andy, Val. They stopped at the door. I’m glad you’re both okay. You did some real good work today. Now, get the paperwork started.

They both smiled. Okay, Zee, we’re on it. We'll see you tomorrow. They left.

I leaned back, closed my eyes, and fell asleep. I woke up with a start from a nightmare—reliving the gun battle. I was parched so I reached over and grabbed the water carafe. I drank from it. The IV drip was not keeping me hydrated. Outside the sun was going down, I’d slept the day away.

My cell phone vibrated—it was one of my Rom informants, Miguel Johnson. I once caught him working as a Mac running a Curse Removal Scam, along with his cousins Jaime and Jelisa Grant as the Drag Team. They had taken this old lady for upwards of seventy thousand dollars.

The bank called me in when they saw unusual activity in the woman's account. I had given them a four hour seminar on Gypsy financial frauds and scams two months earlier. That was after they had to pay out almost two million dollars in a lawsuit for allowing one of their account holders to be swindled out of their life savings.

Miguel was twenty-three years old and an experienced scammer, while Jaime and Jelisa were fifteen and sixteen respectively. When he said that he would return the old lady's money if I'd let the kids go, I made the deal. His uncle, Enrique Grant, brought a money order for the full amount.

With the payback concluded, Miguel stood to go. I reminded him that the deal was only for the kids, and not for him, he was looking at a five to ten year sentence. He begged and pleaded that as a Gypsy he would die in prison, and if he somehow survived and got out, that he would be declared marimé and ostracized from all Gypsy society.

Time to either put him away or recruit him as an informant, so I said to him in Romani, "Listen my son, we both know what you just told me about marimé is not true."

He sat back in his chair, looked at me hard and asked, "Quom Son?"

No, I answered in English, "I am not Rom, I'm a Gadjo’ Jindadi. I speak the language and I know about Romaniye. You might be able to fool the other Gadjé cops, not me."

"If you’re not Rom how do you speak the language and know our ways?"

"That, Miguel, is a story for another time or, probably never. Other Rom who have dealt with me call me, Baro Ri, because I deal only with respect. I do not take bribes or gifts, but I will sometimes make a deal for full restitution or information. You can walk out of here today as my C.I."

What is C.I.?

I want you to be my Confidential Informant and I expect information from you on a regular basis.

Do I have a choice?

"You always have a choice, prison or freedom. Just understand that if you work for me and I catch you in a crime, you will be going away for a long time, marimé or not."

That was almost two years ago and it paid off in small bits. He gave me several tips on low level drug deals and non-Rom scam artists. It was probably the same thing now.

Miguel, I answered.

Sergeant Zaragossa, you need to help us, please. He was panicked and speaking Romani —we usually spoke in English.

Miguel, I want you to calm down, and slow down, you are speaking too fast and my head hurts.

I am sorry, my cousin James Grant, you remember him? He didn't wait for an answer but went on talking. He's been arrested for murder and he didn't do it.

How do you know?

I was with him when it happened and we were nowhere near there. The murder was in West Palm Beach and we were eating dinner at Casa Guadalajara, in Beachside.

Miguel, why did they arrest James? They didn’t pick his name out of a hat.

His brother Jason and his girlfriend were running a distraction scam on this old guy and Jason killed the mark.

That surprised me, Rom violence is historically unusual, and a distraction scam is especially designed to avoid confrontations, while the crime is in progress.

Miguel, how did that happen?

"Jason was amped on snow . . . and when the old man caught him, Jason chopped him to pieces. They said there was blood and body parts scattered all