“I have to go,” Jock said to Logan. “I’ll be back at your place before too late.”
Logan gave him a knowing look. “Be careful, Jock.”
Jock nodded, turned, and walked out the door. He drove to Blake Hospital and took the elevator to the third floor. He walked down the corridor to a deputy sheriff sitting in a folding chair next to a door.
“Afternoon, Deputy,” Jock said, as he walked up. “My name is Jeff Washington. I think you probably got a phone call about me from Detective Sims.”
The deputy stood. “I did, Mr. Washington. Go on in.”
Jock walked into a typical hospital room. DeLuca was in the bed, both legs in some kind of contraption with ropes and pulleys that held them off the bed. Monitors were hooked up and beeping, IV lines running to his left arm, cuffs around both wrists and attached to the bedrails. He looked up as Jock walked in.
“Are you the new doctor?” DeLuca asked.
“I’m Dr. Washington,” said Jock. “I just need to check your vitals.” He walked toward the bed and gently pulled a pillow from under DeLuca’s head, looked at him for a moment, and then forcibly pushed the pillow into DeLuca’s face, holding it down tightly, depriving the man of air.
DeLuca tried to scream, but the pillow muffled the noise so that it couldn’t be heard outside the room. He jerked around in the bed, but his arms were locked down by the handcuffs and the contraption holding his legs in place allowed for almost no movement. Jock kept the pressure on DeLuca’s face until the struggles subsided some and then leaned in close. “Listen to me,” he said. “I’m going to remove the pillow, but if you try to scream it goes back on your face and it’ll stay there until you’re dead.” He let up the pressure and could hear DeLuca gasping for breath. “Nod if we have a deal.”
DeLuca nodded and Jock removed the pillow. DeLuca looked up at Jock, fear contorting his face. “Who are you?” he asked.
Jock was still holding the pillow near DeLuca’s head. One quick move and it’d cover his face again. “I’ll ask the questions. If I don’t like the answer, you’ll die right here, right now. Understand?”
DeLuca nodded.
“Where is Bonino?”
“I don’t know.”
Jock gave him a cold stare and began to move the pillow back into position. “Okay,” he said. “Sorry we couldn’t have communicated better.”
“No,” DeLuca said, his voice trembling in fear. “Honestly, I don’t know where he is, but I think I know who he is.”
“That’s better. Give me a name.”
“Dwight Peters.”
“Who’s that?”
“He’s the man I reported to. I think he might be Bonino.”
“Tell me about him,” Jock said.
“I don’t know where he lives. I always met him in a restaurant in downtown Sarasota or talked to him on the phone.”
“How often did you meet with him?”
“Not a lot. Maybe three or four times. Everything else was on the phone.”
“Why haven’t you told the cops about this?”
“Peters will have me killed if I rat him out.”
“You just did.”
“Yeah, but you were going to kill me if I didn’t. Cops don’t do that.”
“Did he tell you why he wanted you to beat up Matt Royal?”
“I never talked to him about that little job.”
“Little job? It just about got you killed.”
“Nobody told me Royal was that tough.”
“If you didn’t talk to Peters, who gave you your marching orders?”
“A guy named Norwood. Cal Norwood. He’s Peters’s right-hand man.”
“Did he usually give you your orders?”
“No. They usually came straight from the boss.”
“Why not this time?”
“Mr. Peters fired me a couple of months ago.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It may have had to do with his wife.”
“Peters’ wife?”
“Yeah.”
“How so?”
“She was with him when we met one time and she is hot. I might have mentioned that to Mr. Peters the last time I saw him. He fired me on the spot.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”
“Yeah. I thought about that.”
“Why do you think Peters is Bonino?” Jock asked.
“Bonino runs things, but nobody’s ever met him or even seen him. Peters seems to be in charge, and sometimes I think he might really be Bonino.”
“How many people work for him?”
“I don’t know. Norwood’s the only one I’ve ever met. He’s usually with Mr. Peters. I think he’s some kind of bodyguard or something.”
“How many people have you killed, DeLuca?”
“I’ve never killed anybody. I just beat people up sometimes. I think Norwood and some other guys he works with do the killing.”
“So you know about the killings?”
“Not really. I just know there have been some.”
“How did you find out about them?”
“Just gossip. I go to some of the car dealerships sometimes and hear people there talking about somebody who disappeared right after Norwood came around asking about them.”
“Why did you go to the dealerships?”
“Sometimes Mr. Peters needs me to tap on some of the guys a little.”
“Tap on them? You mean beat the shit out of them.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know. Mr. Peters never told me why.”
“Are you smart enough to know that you’ll probably be killed the first night you’re in the jail’s general population?”
“Why would that happen?”
“Because you know more than you should about Peters’s operation.”
“Yeah, but I ain’t talking.”
“You just did.”
“That’s different. Are you going to tell Peters I’ve been talking to you?”
“No. But if anything you told me isn’t true, I’ll come back and kill you myself. If I ever hear that you’ve told anybody about our little discussion today, I’ll take you out.”
“How did you get by the guard at the door?”
“Think about it. I can get to you anywhere. If you’re willing to tell Detective Sims what you’ve told me, I may be able to get you into the federal witness protection program where you’ll be safe.”
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
No hesitation, thought Jock. The bad guys could always make quick decisions when it involved their well-being.
Jock sat in his car in the hospital parking lot and called David Sims. “Did you learn anything?” Sims asked.
“A lot, and DeLuca is willing to testify if you can get him into witness protection.”
“I’ll work on that. Do you need anything else?”
“Yeah. I need all you can get me on a man named Cal Norwood. I’d also like to know about any known associates.”
“Norwood has been around for several years. He’s been arrested a few times, but we’ve never been able to make anything stick. I think our organized-crime unit will have some stuff on him. I’ll get right back to you. Five minutes at the most.”
Jock sat quietly, listening to a smooth jazz station, letting his mind empty. It was a form of relaxation he’d learned long ago. His phone rang. Sims. “I’ve got an address and phone number if you need it for Norwood and I’m texting you a picture of him. I’ll send some more information on his buddies within the next half hour. The organized-crime unit is digging it up for me.”
Norwood lived in a subdivision off University Parkway near its intersection with 1-75. Jock looked at his watch. He had about an hour and a half of daylight left. It’d have to do. He drove east on Cortez Road, south on Tamiami Trail to the airport, and then east on University Parkway. He pulled into the subdivision and found the address Sims had given him for Norwood. He parked two doors dow
n.
Norwood’s house was ranch style, probably built in the ‘60s. The yard was neat and recently mowed. There was a single-car garage, no toys in the yard. Jock knew from the information sent by Sims that Norwood was single and had no family. The house seemed to confirm this.
Jock picked up his phone and called the number Sims had given him for Norwood. It was answered on the second ring by a gruff voice. “Yeah?”
“Mr. Norwood, you don’t know me, but I’m going to kill you tonight. First, I’ll take out Peters. Then I’ll come for you. Before daylight. If you need to say good-bye to anyone, now’s the time.”
“You some kind of comedian? Who the fuck are you?”
“You’ll never see me coming. Neither will Peters.” Jock closed the phone and waited.
Five minutes later, Norwood’s garage door opened and a black Lincoln Town Car backed out, Norwood at the wheel. Jock let him get around the nearest corner and then fell in behind. Norwood turned east on University Parkway and drove to Lakewood Ranch. He turned into an upscale neighborhood where the houses backed up to a golf course and parked in front of one of them. He got out of the car and walked to the front door, went inside.
A few minutes later, Norwood came out and got into his car and sat, waiting. The garage door at Peters’s house glided up and a red Corvette backed out, turned into the street, and left the neighborhood. Norwood followed close behind. Jock followed the Town Car and the Corvette to the little shopping village a half mile away and watched as Norwood parked directly in front of the restaurant. The Corvette pulled into a nearby parking slot, and the man Jock assumed to be Peters joined Norwood. They disappeared inside.
Jock checked in the bag he kept in the trunk of the rental and retrieved a digital camera with a long telephoto lens. He put on a navy blue blazer that sported an American flag in the lapel. A wire ran from the flag pin, behind the lapel, and through the jacket and down the coat sleeve to Jock’s hand. He drove back to Peters’s neighborhood.
Jock used the long lens to take a couple of pictures of Peters’s house. He put the camera in his car and walked up the sidewalk and knocked on Peters’s door. A pretty blonde woman in her mid-thirties opened it.
“Mrs. Jackman?” Jock asked and squeezed the trigger mechanism for the lapel camera.
“No, I’m Mrs. Peters. You must have the wrong house.”
Jock looked at a piece of paper he was holding. “This is the address I was given. Do you know where the Jackmans live?”
“I don’t think I know them,” she said.
Jock could hear children laughing and squealing somewhere in the house. “Sounds like you’ve got a houseful,” he said. “I guess they gave me the wrong address. I’m sorry to bother you.”
The woman smiled. “Not a problem,” she said. “I hope you find the Jackmans.”
Jock walked back to his car and sat and uploaded the pictures from the digital cameras to his phone. Then, he sat some more.
An hour later, Jock walked into the Polo Grill in the little shopping village in Lakewood Ranch. He was wearing jeans, a white golf shirt, a navy blazer, and a baseball cap with the logo of the Tampa Bay Rays. He had a mustache glued to his upper lip and a small goatee on his chin. He told the hostess he was expected by Mr. Peters. “I can find my way,” he said and stepped into the dining room. He saw Norwood sitting at a table in the far corner, his back to the wall, talking to a middle-aged man.
Jock walked to the table and pulled out a chair and sat. Norwood and the other man watched him in stunned silence for a moment. “This table’s taken,” Norwood said.
Jock looked at the towheaded man and said, “Mr. Peters, we need to talk.”
“I’m afraid you have the advantage, sir. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Tell your thug to back off, Peters, and we’ll talk. I want to show you some pictures.”
Peters grinned. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Look at the pictures and then you can ask him to leave us alone.” Jock said.
“Dirty pictures? Naked women?” Peters asked, and he and Norwood laughed.
“Pictures of your family,” Jock said.
Peters suddenly sobered. “Let me see.”
Jock showed him the pictures on his phone. One was of Peters’s house, another, a close-up of a pretty woman standing in the doorway of the house, smiling.
Peters stared at them. “What the hell is this?”
“Tell your thug to go play with himself in the men’s room,” Jock said. “I’ve already talked to him today, and I really don’t have anything else to say to him.”
“I’ll tear your fucking head off,” said Norwood.
Jock looked at him, staring into his eyes. “No, Mr. Norwood, you won’t,” he said in a quiet voice.
Surprise spread across Norwood’s face. “You know my name?”
“You’re a button man for Peters here. You’ve killed a lot of people, but you’re no match for me. You’ll die here on the floor of this pretty restaurant and ruin dinner for a lot of nice people. Then Mr. Peters here will do what I say, or I’ll kill all the people in that big house of his.”
“Mr. Peters, this is the man who called me earlier and threatened to kill both of us.”
“Go,” said Peters. “Wait for me outside.”
Norwood didn’t like that, but neither did he like the murderous stare he was getting from the strange man sitting at his table. He said, “You’re sure, Mr. Peters?”
“Yes. I’ll be all right.”
As Norwood was leaving, Peters turned to Jock and said, “What’s the meaning of this?”
“Mr. Peters,” Jock said, “or do you prefer Bonino?”
Peters paled, sat back in his chair. “Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter. I know who you are and I know what you do. I also know that you have kids in that house. If you want them to stay safe, you’re going to do exactly as I say.”
“I’m a businessman. That’s what I do.”
“Let’s not waste my time, Peters. I know you control a lot of the drug business around here and use other legitimate businesses to launder money. That’ll be coming to an end real soon.”
“Right,” Peters said, disdainfully. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with.”
“Indeed I do, but the real question is whether you know who you’re fucking with.”
“I don’t know who you are or who sent you. But my guess is that you’re just some pussy who thought he could bully me. You won’t get out of this building alive. My man who just left will meet you outside with some of our friends. Now get the fuck out of my face. I’m hungry.”
Jock stood. “Mr. Peters,” he said in a quiet voice laden with steel, “I’m going to kill your friends and then I’m coming back to get you. Sit tight and enjoy your meal.” He turned and left the dining room.
Jock didn’t go out the front door. He went into the bar and through a door that led to the kitchen. He passed the food preparers without speaking and left through the back door. He stood for a minute in the shadow of the big Dumpster, thinking. He pulled his pistol from its holster at the small of his back and attached the silencer he carried in the pocket of his blazer. He walked to the corner of the building, and in the glare of the security lights he spotted three men standing nonchalantly near cars parked about thirty yards away. The welcoming committee. They were wearing suits, and Jock could tell from the slight bulges in their jackets that they were carrying pistols in shoulder holsters.
Norwood was standing next to the Lincoln Town Car parked about ten feet away, near the front of the restaurant, his back to Jock. “Norwood,” Jock said, “I’ve got a gun pointed at your back. I want you to turn around slowly, keeping your hands where I can see them.”
Norwood turned, facing Jock. “I’ve got men watching me,” he said. “One wrong move and you’re dead.”
“Give me your cell phone,” Jock said.
“What?”
“Cell phon
e. Reach into your pocket and pull it out. If I see anything other than a phone, I’ll shoot you.”
Norwood did as he was told. Jock saw one of the men in the parking lot start to walk toward them. “Put the phone on the pavement,” he said.
Norwood placed the phone at his feet. “You’re a dead man,” he said. He pointed. “My men are just over there. You shoot me, and they’ll kill you before you can move.”
Jock shot Norwood in the forehead, the gun making no more sound than an air rifle. He stepped back around the corner and waited for a reaction from the three men in the parking lot. Jock recognized them from the pictures Sims had texted him. All were known shooters for Bonino.
Nothing happened for a couple of seconds. Then the one who’d started walking toward Norwood began to run toward the Town Car, a pistol in his hand. As he ran, he shouted something to the other two men in the parking lot, and they followed at a run, pulling pistols from the shoulder holsters concealed by their suit coats. Jock shot the running man in the chest and then turned and shot both of the other men who were fast approaching the Town Car. They were dead before they hit the pavement.
Jock moved out of the shadows and picked up Norwood’s phone. He quickly darted back behind the building, unscrewed the silencer from the muzzle of the pistol and returned it to his jacket pocket. He replaced the pistol in its holster and walked to the restaurant’s back door, let himself in, and returned through the bar and to Peters’s table.
Peters looked up from his steak. He laughed. “I guess you saw my friends outside. You want to tell me who sent you?”
“Your friends are dead,” said Jock.
Peters laughed again, took a sip of his wine. “Right,” he said.
“I’ll be at your house, Mr. Peters,” Jock said. “When you get finished with dinner, come on by, and we’ll talk.”
Peters laughed some more. He was in a jolly mood. “I don’t think you’ll make it to my house.”
“Mr. Peters,” Jock said, “In about five minutes somebody is going to find Norwood and three other bodies in the parking lot and they’re going to raise a stink. You might want to keep our little conversation to yourself. See you in a bit.”
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