Set in Stone

by David James Warren

  What is happening?

  “You know, the thing about conch—like most seafood—is it’s an aphrodisiac. And usually it makes you get, um, a little more personal, right? But we use it to focus on solving our cases.”

  Sure you do. I lean back and fold my arms, watching, my teeth grinding a little. Val’s so friendly with other people’s wives, he should have a dentist on retainer.

  Miami is a well-used town, the buildings showing wear, graffiti on the underpasses. I’m sure it has better areas, but I can’t see much out of the tiny triangle windows.

  My shirt is soaked through by the time we pull up to a little open air diner, grease so thick in the air I feel it land on my skin like salt. Pictures of conch and other seafood specialties hang above the counter like specials at a coffee shop. Patrons sit at the counter, eating out of foam containers.

  Val orders for us without asking—I let it go—and Eve takes me over to a row of counter stools affixed to the pavement, facing out to the street.

  Whatever.

  “Seems like he knows you pretty well,” I say.

  She’s sipping on a lemonade she got from a giant bubbler in front. “We worked together. He trusted me.”

  My mouth tightens, and she laughs. “Rem. Calm down. Val is nice. And a great detective.”

  At the moment I don’t care what kind of detective he is. Because what I wanted to hear was the standard “we just worked together,” defense.

  I didn’t hear that, did you?

  I try not to, but my gaze drifts back over to Val. He’s built, wide shoulders, and he’s laughing with the gals behind the counter. He sort of reminds me of Burke, a solid presence about him.

  Someone emerges from the kitchen with three containers and he carries them over to the bar and hands us each one. I open it up and the smell of cayenne pepper and garlic strips the skin off my nose. The conch is fried to a deep golden brown, and layered with lime slices, green peppers and dipping sauce.

  “Your eyes are going to roll back into your head,” Eve says and picks up one of the fritters, then dips it into the sauce.

  As if fate is trying to intervene, an old Chevy Impala drives by, sits at the light, blasts out Boston’s, “Peace of Mind.”

  “So, what’s the story on this Fitzgerald guy?” Val asks as he dips his conch, leaning over his tray so he doesn’t drip on his fancy, no-sweat-at-all white shirt.

  “He’s a serial killer,” I say, picking up my conch. “Been on the run for twenty some years.” I stare at my conch. “What is this?”

  “Seafood,” Eve says. She’s on her third fritter and isn’t shy about the dip. “You know those big shells that you can hear the ocean in?”

  “You can’t really hear the ocean,” Val the tour guide says.

  “Yeah, I know but….”

  She doesn’t finish, and I’m refraining from adding, but this idiot doesn’t.

  I know. Stop, Rem.

  “It’s good,” I say, and hate myself a little for admitting that. But I’m making nice for Eve.

  Val looks over at me, grinning. The smile seems genuine. Maybe he’s not a total jerk. Maybe.

  “Eve and I sometimes picked up conch before we headed out to Miami Beach, right?”

  Okay, that’s enough.

  Eve grins. “They had the best bands—we saw Journey there once.”

  I look at her. Really?

  “Val introduced me to all sorts of new music.”

  Did he now? I try another conch, but I’ve lost my appetite. I wipe my hands and sit back. “Leo Fitzgerald first started killing in 1997 although we recently found five more victims that predate that.” I don’t mention that it was in my—

  “They were in Rem’s backyard,” Eve says. “So, clearly, the killer is playing a game with him.”

  “Wow.” Val frowns. “Any idea why?”

  “I don’t—” I start, but Eve interrupts me.

  “Rem tracked him down in his early days, and tried to arrest him, but he got away.”

  When did Eve turn into Miss Chatty?

  “Whew, that’s rough,” Val says. “Twenty plus years playing his game. That’s gotta hurt.” Val finishes off his last conch. “Good thing he’s in our backyard, now. We’ll get him.” He’s wiping off his hands.

  I lean forward. “He strangles them. Chases them down after their shift—most of them are waitresses, or bartenders, although a few have been hookers—and after he’s done, he leaves a tip. A twenty-dollar bill.” I give Eve a look and her eyes widen. Because I’m fishing, but I don’t want to give anything away. “Have you had any crimes that fit that MO?”

  The thing is, if he says yes, then this case slips like sand through my fingers and becomes the property of the FBI.

  Leo is my fault. He’s my collar.

  Val shakes his head. “We’ve had a number of waitresses and bartenders killed on my watch, but…no, nothing like that.” He takes Eve’s empty tray and stacks it with his own. “Our last serial killer was Sam Little. Guy killed ninety women over the span of thirty years. Most of them here. So, I get ya.”

  I’m not sure he does, but I nod anyway.

  “You gonna finish that?”

  “Nope.” I throw my napkin on top of the basket. “I don’t need an aphrodisiac to help me catch this guy,” I say, no smile.

  Eve raises an eyebrow. The sun is low, hot and lethal on the horizon and I’m ready to go.

  Val follows me out to his car, and bleeps the door unlocked. I climb in the back, ignoring Eve’s protests.

  Val slides into the front seat. “I love a good stakeout.” He looks at Eve and winks.

  She laughs.

  Oh, this is going to be fun.

  13

  I’m having a blast. Best stakeout ever.

  The air is a washcloth on my skin as it filters in through the open window of the Charger.

  Although, admittedly not much air, here in the back seat. My shirt is soggy and we’re sitting near the entrance to the container yard of Seaboard Shipping, the outfit that employs Leo Fitzgerald.

  The guy is employed as Lee Fitzgerald, but the photo ID Eve pulled from his military records matches the record on file with the shipping company, and his recent check-in with dispatch said he’s on his way.

  It’s just a waiting game.

  So here we sit. I’m in a knot in the ever-so-expansive back seat of the Charger, listening to Val and Eve continue to talk old times. And continue.

  Homicides they investigated together. Gang killings in Little Havana. A mother shot in the elite area of Coconut Grove. A serial killer in the Pork and Beans district, wherever that is. They mention halfway houses, and strip clubs, college students missing on the beach, and the time they evacuated angry residents before one of the many hurricanes hit the area.

  So. Much. Fun.

  I feel like the proverbial third wheel on a date Val is having. With. My. Wife.

  Every once in a while, Val looks back at me and grins, clearly happy having me captive in the back seat. Eve can’t see me in the darkness, as I’m sitting right behind her.

  Probably a good thing.

  Seaboard Shipping has an entrance off the main road for their office, and another for receiving, where the big trucks come in. Val has us parked across the lot from the office, but the big crane to offload the trucks into the container yard is some hundred feet away.

  If he pulls up there first and sees us waiting, he might get spooked. And I’m jammed into the backseat.

  The odors of the shipyard—oil and grease, the brine of the sea, the scent of gasoline—filter in, adding to the souring fried conch in my gut.

  Maybe Val was right about the aphrodisiac helping him focus.

  I’m very, very focused. Mostly about wrapping my hands around Val’s neck and squeezing hard, but I’m pretty sure that’s not what he meant.

  Mariana Vega has called three times, by the way. Left two voicemails, which I haven’t listened to. My hope is she’ll stop harassing me whe
n I bring back the Jackson killer.

  But sitting in the back, trying to ignore their stories has given me time to think. And I think I’ve figured out Leo’s MO; why we haven’t found him.

  He’s been driving for Seaside Shipping for nearly fifteen years. Which makes sense—the killings slowed down for a gap of five years after Gretchen Anderson died. He probably fled, then found his way back to Minnesota while hauling freight across the country. Stopped in at diners, or bars, found his quick victim, and left the state the next morning.

  Sneaky.

  Not anymore.

  The night has settled around us, just a floodlight over the door of the building. “I’m getting out,” I say, interrupting a riveting memory of a celebrity chef murdered in one of the elite restaurants on the strip. “I need a better vantage point.”

  Eve stops talking and turns around. “Really? What if he sees you?”

  “He won’t see me. Please let me out.” I’m trying not to be short with her. After all, I’m sure Burke and I can bore her to death when we hash out old crimes. Still, maybe she senses my irritation because she gets out. Val puts his hand over the dome light, and I make it quick, pushing the seat forward and practically falling out of the back seat.

  I can’t feel my feet.

  “You stay inside, though,” I say to Eve, touching her arm. “This guy is dangerous, and I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

  The words remind me, suddenly, of the day she went to Midtown Ink in Minneapolis, hunting down Fitzgerald’s address from a tattoo artist. It so freaked me out—the idea of her getting close to Leo—that I pulled her into an alleyway and begged her not to get involved.

  But mostly, I remember kissing her.

  That was the day I decided I would never let anything happen to Eve. So maybe I was a bit overprotective, but can you blame me?

  Fitzgerald is dangerous.

  I meet her eyes now, in the dim glow of the dome light. “Please,” I add.

  She nods, her mouth a tight line. Then, suddenly, she grabs my soggy shirt, leans over and kisses me.

  It shocks me so much I barely have time to lean into it.

  It’s not a long kiss, but definitely purposeful, and I wonder if she knows I’ve been sitting in the back seat, stewing, (and not just metaphorically). Probably does. After all, it is Eve.

  The driver’s side door also opens now and Val gets out. “I think you’re right. Let’s go mobile and move closer to the entrance.”

  “Eve is staying here,” I say, just to remind him who is in charge.

  He nods, and Eve gets back in the car. “Call for backup if you think we need it.”

  She closes her door and the night goes dark again.

  Val walks over to a nearby container, across the road from the entrance, and slips into the shadows. I follow him and lean against the wall of the container. The heat soaks through my shirt and I step away.

  “Yeah, these things are frying pans after they’ve been cooking all day in the sun,” Val says. Except for his white shirt he’d be invisible in the darkness.

  Silence falls between us.

  Then, “I have to admit, Stone. You’re being a good sport about all of this. I half expected a repeat of our last meeting.”

  I fold my arms, not looking at him, because I might not remember, but I can probably guess what happened. “That was a long time ago.”

  “True. And I guess you won, in the end.”

  Won the fight? Or won the girl? Probably both. I say nothing.

  “Does Eve ever talk about it?”

  I look at him. “Talk about what?”

  He’s quiet, then, “The baby.”

  The—the what?

  I say nothing as I try to mentally scramble to my feet.

  “It wasn’t her fault, you know. She didn’t realize she was pregnant—neither of us did. Not until it was too late.”

  I can’t breathe, the night suddenly suffocating.

  “I just wanted you to know that I really loved her. And I would have married her if—well, if she wasn’t so hooked on you.”

  I glance at him, then.

  “We tried, or I tried, after you left, to piece us back together, but…maybe we were always destined to be just friends.”

  And I was destined to be her husband. I guess I can thank fate for that.

  “I’ll be honest though, I was worried about her.”

  I’m frowning now, and maybe he can see me, because, “You were every bit the hothead she’d described you as.”

  “I’m not—”

  “I’ll never forget that day her dad called. Told us about how you’d nearly died in some undercover gig near the border. She completely freaked out.” He pauses. “That’s when I knew it was over between us. You coming down here and making a scene just delayed the inevitable. But you should probably know, I didn’t like it.” His tone hardens. “Truth is, Stone, I’m still not sure you deserve Eve. Not sure you’re not going to do something stupid and get killed and break her heart.”

  His words sink into me as I try to process the new information. The silence between us stretches out to an uncomfortable length so I finally speak. “You’re probably right,” I say to him quietly. “I don’t deserve Eve. But, I do love her. And I’d give my life for her.”

  “I’m sure you would. But would you save your life—for her? Step away from danger, let it go if you had to?”

  Lights cutting into the shipyard silence my answer. If I had one that is, because I don’t know. Yes? Of course?

  Because I did that, once upon a time. Walked away from the job, left it all behind.

  But my regrets pulled me back in, and that says something.

  I’m a cop, right to my bones, like Eve said, and maybe it’s time I acknowledge that.

  I step back, away from the scrape of headlights, and watch as a truck pulls in. It’s a semi, with a container on the bed, and the driver leaves it running as he climbs out.

  The semi coughs, and I look at Val, motion with my head. “I need a closer look.”

  Val nods, I think, and I take off for the building.

  Leo has gone inside.

  I don’t want a struggle inside the office. Leo is dangerous, and someone might get hurt. So, I wait outside, ready to ambush him. And I mean catch him off guard, not hurt him, just to be clear. Because I have changed, Val, thank you very much.

  Leo Fitzgerald is a big man. He easily stands six feet three or four, a good two-sixty on his muscular frame, and he’s wearing a baseball cap, just like Meggie said. That, and jeans and a pullover.

  The dispatcher is talking with him. Leo signs papers, then probably getting told where to park his truck.

  I ease back, out of the light as he heads to the door.

  It opens, and I take a breath.

  He’s out into the parking lot, before I step out. “Leo Fitzgerald—”

  I don’t get halfway before Val is standing in front of the guy. “Stop right there. Fitzgerald, you’re under arrest for suspicion of murder.”

  Thanks, Val. And right after we had a moment.

  Leo doesn’t stop his gait, doesn’t hesitate, just advances on Val, two quick steps, and smacks the gun away with one hand. He puts a fist in Val’s face with the other.

  Val falls like an anvil. The gun goes spinning into the darkness.

  “Fitzgerald,” I say, stepping out of the darkness. I’ve pulled my gun, of course. “Stop!”

  He acts like he doesn’t hear me because he scoops up Val’s gun. Turns. And then he fires at me.

  What the—?

  I dive behind the truck, breathing hard. His feet pound against the pavement as he heads toward the entrance.

  Toward Eve.

  I scramble out from behind the truck, my brain set on panic.

  And then I spot Eve. She’s gotten out of the car, her own weapon pulled. Leo is running toward the gate.

  “Stop!” she shouts.

  My life stops as Fitzgerald points his gun at her and
shoots.

  “Eve!”

  She’s down, and I’m not sure if she’s hurt, but my voice has turned Fitzgerald on me. He shoots once, again, a third time, as I duck and move and scramble toward Eve.

  Oh God, no—

  He veers away from the gate, and Eve, and heads down into the container yard. Shoots again.

  I dive behind a parked car, still twenty feet away from her. “Eve!”

  I’m a freakin’ puddle of relief when she shouts, “I’m okay!”

  Yeah, well, I won’t believe her until I see her. Fitzgerald is still running, but he’s stopped shooting, so I find my feet and run.

  Eve is crouched on the far side of the Charger, holding her weapon, when I slide into her position. I holster my weapon and grab her shoulders. “Are you hit? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine!” She jabs a finger in the direction of Leo. “But he’s getting away!”

  I stand up, trying to find him, and spot a figure in the distance—wow, he can run—in the far end of the yard.

  “Stay here—!” I pull my gun again and take off.

  He might be fast, and I might not have my twenty-eight-year-old body, but I’m still in decent shape.

  And I had a conch fritter or two. I have adrenaline.

  I get about twenty feet from Leo when I hear her voice, a dim shout behind me. “Rem! Val’s been shot!”

  Stifling a word, I slow, watching Leo disappearing into the night and okay, I’ll admit I considered just…

  Give me a break. I’ve been looking for Leo for more than twenty years. Or two weeks. But it feels like over two decades.

  But I’m not that guy, and Val’s in my head with his challenge as I turn and sprint back to them. But would you save your life—for her? Step away from danger, let it go if you had to?

  She’s on the ground, her hand to his chest. Val is writhing, clearly still alive, wracked with pain. “Call 911!” she shrieks.

  The dispatcher has come out, too, and is on the phone. “Help is on the way!”

  “Hang in there, Val,” I say as I take off my shirt, then wad it up and use it to stanch the bleeding. “I got this, Eve.” She leans away, shaking as I press on his wound. “Stay with us, Val. We got ya.”

  He wraps his hand around my wrist, and his eyes meet mine. “Sorry.”