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I BOOKED AN early Thursday morning JetBlue flight out of LaGuardia and tried to make use of my three-hour travel time to Fort Lauderdale. Flying out before the sun rose had been a little on the stressful side. But now I was safely tucked into a middle seat, between an older man in the window seat, who fell fast asleep as soon as the jet took off, and a woman on the aisle loaded down with bags of tchotchkes she’d clearly collected during a tourist trip to the Big Apple.

I discouraged any conversation by gluing my eyes to my iPad and reviewing the many files Walter Jackson had sent me. Most of the documents contained information I knew already. Some of them were just background. All of them revolved around Richard Deason.

Say what you want about Deason, he created an effective organization. I have always wondered what would happen if guys like him decided to work for the government instead. If it hadn’t been for the Land Sharks, Deason and his gang might’ve still been operating in the Bronx.

Reading the old narcotics reports was like stepping back in time. The Sharks had been in three different shoot-outs with Deason’s people. I remembered one of them at a Midtown bar. It was an undercover operation that had gone wrong. Two of Deason’s goons shot the place up in an effort to cover their escape. Celeste Cantor herself had been one of the cops to stand her ground and save a lot of lives.

There were also two instances in which witnesses against Deason and his people had been murdered. One of them was a US Customs case—one of Deason’s people had been caught trying to bring a kilo of heroin in through the port system. The guy agreed to cooperate and three days later was found dead in his cell from a knife wound. Another inmate was charged with the crime but never admitted to anything.

It turned out that the man who committed the murder in the federal holding cell had owed Deason a ton of money. The theory was that Deason forgave the debt and set up the man’s family for life while also sending a message to others who thought about cooperating with the government against Richard Deason.

Walter Jackson had also sent along everything he could find on Richard Deason’s son, Antonio. It wasn’t much. He’d found Antonio Deason’s signature on some kind of form from Con Edison, then traced it back to an apartment owned by a holding company. It looked like Antonio was living in SoHo. It also looked like he had made a mistake by signing the ConEd form. But that’s where Walter’s information ended.

Using some contacts, I was able to get ahold of a Florida Department of Law Enforcement special agent who was aware of the explosion that had killed Ralph Stein and Gary Halverson. FDLE generally didn’t get involved in cases like this. They were supposed to go after criminal organizations and public corruption. Luckily, I had reached someone willing not only to help but also to meet me at the airport.

It was midmorning when we landed. I hadn’t even had a chance to dig my phone out of my pocket after disembarking when a tall woman with short brown hair stepped in front of me and said, “Michael Bennett?”

I nodded.

She stuck out her hand and said, “I’m Carol Frederick. I’m with FDLE. I’ve got a lot to do today so let’s get a move on.” She turned and started walking quickly.

I liked her. A lot.