Found

by H. Terrell Griffin

“You might be interested in our conversation.”

  “Oh?”

  “I called my director last night to see if the agency had anything on this Bonino ghost.”

  “Why would your agency be interested in a bunch of Mafia thugs?”

  “We keep tabs on all kind of career criminals. They have a tendency sometimes to get tied up with terrorists. Usually in the drug trade. It’s a way for the jihadists to make a lot of money and move it around.”

  “Was there anything on Bonino?”

  “No. But the director called me this morning and said an agent from Tampa was coming to Sarasota to meet with me. He had some information he wanted to pass on.”

  “Not about Bonino.”

  “Not directly,” Jock said. “The agent I met with spends a lot of time looking into organized crime in this part of Florida. He’s the agency’s resident expert, I guess. He told me that he’d heard about Bonino, but he wasn’t sure he really existed.”

  A waitress came out of the covered deck area and called my name. Jock and I followed her to a table overlooking the pass. She took our drink orders, left us menus, and walked off, promising to return quickly.

  The wind had picked up a little, and I could see small waves breaking on the shoal that lay outside the inlet and just north of the channel markers. Boats were making their way through the chop and into the calmer waters of the pass. Several had anchored on the sandbar just seaward of the bridge and a few hardier souls were standing in waist-deep water drinking beer.

  “Did the agent have anything useful?” I asked.

  “He did. He has a mole in the group that runs most of the rackets in the entire state of Florida. The mole’s a trusted member of the inner circle and he’s been a part of the mob for a long time. About five years ago, this mole was in love with a woman who was feeding information to a Tampa police detective. Nobody knew that our mole was in a relationship with the woman. The big boss found out that the woman was talking to the cops and he put a hit on her. He later bragged to the mole that he’d personally overseen her murder.”

  “So,” I said, “the mole becomes the mole.”

  “Yeah, in a roundabout way. See, and this is the good part, the mole’s sister is married to the big boss.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “The mole is the big boss’s brother-in-law?”

  “Yep. And he’s also the second in command of the operation.”

  “Wow. Talk about an insider.”

  “The mole plays things very close. He only gives us information that he wants us to have. There’s a lot we don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you squeeze the guy?”

  “We’ve come to an agreement. We won’t disrupt his organization as long as he keeps us apprised of what’s going on in the other groups he deals with.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” I said.

  “We made a deal with the devil. The mole didn’t know his girlfriend was dealing with the Tampa detective until after she was killed. It seems that the detective was on the organization’s payroll and he was the one who fingered the woman to the big boss.”

  The waitress returned and I ordered the Old Salty Dog, a beer-battered deep-fried foot-long wiener on a bun with cheese and bacon. I only allowed myself one of those per month. Jock grinned and ordered a salad and looked smug.

  “What happened to the detective?”

  “That’s where things got interesting. The mole figured that if the boss was telling him about having the woman killed, the boss didn’t know about the mole’s relationship with her. If the boss didn’t know, then he was pretty sure the cop didn’t know. But the mole knew the cop from some past dealings, so the mole invited the cop on a fishing trip. Told the cop the boss would be along and that the cop shouldn’t say anything to anybody about where he was going.”

  “I take it the detective never made it back from the trip.”

  “Right. The mole had a big sportfisherman at a marina in Clearwater. When the cop showed up, the mole told him the boss was below in the cabin nursing a hangover and didn’t want to be bothered. They went out about fifty miles into the Gulf and the mole pulled a pistol and told the detective about his relationship to the woman. Then he tied him up, attached an anchor to him and threw him overboard.”

  “The big boss wasn’t involved.”

  “No.”

  “How did your agency get the mole?”

  “He wanted to get back at his brother-in-law without completely ruining his operation. He didn’t trust the cops and didn’t like the FBI, so he went to the CIA.”

  “How does one go to the CIA?”

  “He walked into the CIA headquarters in Virginia and told a security guard he had some very sensitive information that he was sure the CIA would like to have. The guard sent him up the line until some guy met with him. When he realized the information was about Mafia activities in the U.S., he called us in. The CIA takes itself very seriously and doesn’t like to step outside its charter and operate inside the U.S. The mole’s been working with our guy in Tampa ever since and thinks he’s dealing with the CIA. He doesn’t know that we’re working with the FBI.”

  “So what’s your deal?”

  “We’re squeezing his organization. Revenues are down and some of the underlings are getting restless. The mole thinks it’s just a matter of time before somebody stages a palace coup. He figures his brother-in-law is a real short-timer in this world. When the boss is dead, the mole will take his sister and disappear into the witness protection program and the FBI will dismantle the organization.”

  “Why wait? Why not just take the whole organization down?”

  “The FBI is stockpiling evidence that will put the whole gang in jail. In the meantime, we’re also learning a lot about the inner workings of some of the other groups, and we’re taking them down one at a time.”

  The waitress came back with our meals, and I dug in. That dog probably wasn’t doing my arteries any good, but my taste buds were in heaven.

  “What about Bonino?”

  “Apparently, Bonino doesn’t have anything to do with the Mafia. He’s a relatively small-time operator, and since he’s not infringing on the real organization’s territory, they leave him alone. They’re aware of him, but don’t know who he is. They’re not even sure he’s real.”

  I was disappointed. “So we didn’t really learn anything,” I said.

  “Maybe we did. The Mafia crowd used a lawyer in Sarasota from time to time to represent one of their people who got arrested. He was killed about a year ago. The word the mole hears is that he was killed by Bonino because he got too greedy.”

  “Fredrickson?”

  “Yes. The mole’s group has kept pretty close tabs on Bonino’s people to make sure they don’t start encroaching into Mafia business. They’re pretty sure that Fredrickson and Bonino were in business together. They’d stopped using Fredrickson as a lawyer because of that connection.”

  “I’ll be damned,” I said. “That changes a lot of things.”

  “Yep. If Fredrickson was in bed with Bonino, we have to think that maybe Bonino had him killed.”

  “Why would Bonino do that?” I asked.

  “Maybe Fredrickson got greedy or had a change of heart and was going to expose the operation. Who knows? The criminal mind works in mysterious ways.”

  “Did the mole know anything about Katie?”

  “No. He assumes she’s dead.”

  “Well, your morning was a lot more productive than mine. I went to see Wayne Evans.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. He’s obviously been to the Avon Park house, but he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  “How do you know he was at the house?”

  “I implied that I had pictures that were taken there of him naked. He was pretty worried about that.”

  Jock laughed. “Where do we go from here?”

  “I don’t know. I think Evans may be the key to finding out who killed Fredrickson and is looking
for Katie. I almost kidnapped him today, but common sense got the better of me.”

  “Maybe,” said Jock, “I ought to have a go at him. I’m pretty much under the radar.”

  “I don’t know, Jock. Evans may be a snake, but he’s a prominent lawyer in this town and you can’t just go after him like you would some lowlife.”

  “Why not?”

  He had me there. “No reason, I guess, except that he’ll put up a huge squawk about it. I’m thinking I might hear something about my meeting with him this morning.”

  “That’s not likely, if he’s engaged in something illegal. You’re pretty sure he’s dirty, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Suppose I arrange a little meeting with him tonight.”

  “Okay, but stay out of trouble with the law.”

  Jock looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. I laughed. “Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to insult you.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  It was almost noon and J.D. was on her fifth cup of coffee. She’d been going back over the file on Goodlow’s murder, trying to find some tidbit she’d overlooked, some tiny fact that might send her in another direction. It was a frustrating exercise and one that wasn’t bearing any fruit. The phone on her desk rang. Bert Hawkins, the medical examiner for the three-county Twelfth Judicial Circuit.

  “J.D.,” the deep voice rumbled. “It’s Bert Hawkins.”

  “Good morning, Bert.”

  “I’ve got some disturbing news for you, I’m afraid.”

  “Bert, my day’s already so lousy that a little more bad news isn’t going to make much difference.”

  “A couple of hunters found some human remains over in DeSoto County a couple of weeks ago.”

  “That’s in your jurisdiction, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. There wasn’t much left of the body. Scavengers had gotten to it and only a few bones and the skull were left. There was a bullet hole in the skull, which is probably the cause of death. There wasn’t enough of the body left to find any other cause, but there was enough to tell that the body was female. We were able to extract some DNA for comparison purposes in hopes of identifying the body. I just got the DNA results back from the state crime lab in Tampa.”

  “We don’t have any missing persons out here on the key,” J.D. said.

  “A femur was among the bones recovered. That told us that the woman stood about five feet three inches tall.”

  “Okay,” said J.D. She was confused. Why would Bert call her about this?

  “Katie was a good four inches taller than this woman,” said Bert.

  “Yes. That means it isn’t Katie.”

  “It does. But here’s the disturbing thing. The DNA matches Katie’s, or at least it matches the blood we thought was Katie’s.”

  “Wow,” said J.D. “That kind of changes things. Have you talked to McAllister about this?”

  “No. I wanted you to know first. I’ll call Doug when we hang up.”

  “Bert, is there any way that lab report could get lost for a couple of days?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’d like you to hold off on passing this information on to Sarasota P.D.”

  “What’s going on?” Bert asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I’d like a couple of days to dig into this thing a little further.”

  “I need more than that, J.D.”

  “Okay. I know Katie’s alive. I can’t tell you how I know that, but I can tell you that I just confirmed it yesterday.”

  “Then what’s the problem with passing this on to McAllister?”

  “Bert, do you ever have one of those feelings about a case? A hunch, intuition, educated guess, whatever you want to call it, and when it’s all said and done, you were exactly right? But at the time you made the leap there were absolutely no facts to base it on.”

  Hawkins was quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve been there. Can you tell me how you know that Katie is alive?”

  “If you’ll agree to hold the DNA results for a couple of days and swear that what I tell you about Katie won’t go any further. That it’s our little secret.”

  “Suppose I agree to hold the lab report for forty-eight hours. Can you do what you need to do in that time frame?”

  “Yes, I think so. But if I can’t, I still need to protect Katie. You’ll have to agree not to tell anybody about Katie until I say it’s okay. And I may not ever be able to say that.”

  “Agreed. I trust you to do the right thing.”

  “Thanks, Bert. She contacted me last week. I wasn’t sure it was her until Matt met with her yesterday.”

  “Did she tell Matt why she disappeared or what she knows about her husband’s murder?”

  “No. She said she wasn’t sure she could trust me. I have to wait for her to contact me again. In the meantime, now that we know the blood wasn’t Katie’s, we have another murder to solve, and this one is surely tied to Jim Fredrickson’s death.”

  “I agree. You’ve got forty-eight hours. I’ll touch base with you before I call McAllister.”

  “Thanks, Bert. I’ll keep you posted.”

  J.D. went back to the Goodlow file, bored but hopeful. Ten minutes later she spotted it in her typed notes. She didn’t think much of it at the time, but now that things were coming into a little better focus, it might have some importance. Barb at Moore’s had told Matt that she’d walked into Annie’s one afternoon and found Goodlow and Jamison at the little bar. Before they noticed she had come in, she heard Goodlow tell Jamison, “They’ll kill us all if you don’t give them what they want.” She remembered writing the quote exactly as Matt had told her.

  But, what did they, whoever they were, want from two old men? Barb had overheard the conversation after the two men who were the coffee regulars at the café had died. Could Goodlow have been talking about their deaths? Were the four of them, Jamison and Goodlow and the other two old men, involved in something that was getting them killed? If so, that would be a reason for Jamison to disappear. He was the last one.

  The Goodlow file didn’t contain the report she’d requested from IBIS, the Integrated Bullet Identification System, maintained by ATF, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. She looked at her watch. The lunch hour. Well, maybe somebody in Washington was eating at his desk. She pulled up her computer’s Rolodex and found the number she was looking for and dialed it.

  “AFT IBIS lab,” a feminine voice said. “This is Agent Weathering-ton.”

  “This is Detective J. D. Duncan in Longboat Key, Florida. I sent you a request for a possible match on a bullet last week. I was wondering if you had anything on it.”

  “Let me see, Detective.”

  J.D. heard the tapping of fingers on a keyboard and then quiet. Weatherington sighed. “I’m sorry, Detective. I have it and it should have been e-mailed to you on Friday. We’re a little backed up on paperwork here. Give me your e-mail address, and you’ll have it in a couple of minutes.”

  “Thank you, Agent Weatherington.” J.D. gave her the e-mail address and sat back and waited for the report. The e-mail popped up on her screen within minutes and J.D. downloaded the attachment. There was one hit. A man named Rodney Vernon had been killed by the same gun two weeks before in Toms River, New Jersey.

  The victim’s name rang a vague bell in J.D.’s mind. She started thumbing back through the file. She was pretty sure it had come up in an interview with Jamison. She reread his statements and there it was. Rodney Vernon was the man in one of the old pictures of the picnic taken shortly after the war. The one who had moved to New Jersey in the early fifties and who Jamison said he hadn’t heard from since he left Cortez. Jamison said he didn’t know if Vernon was dead or alive.

  J.D. remembered that conversation. There had been something in Jamison’s demeanor that made her suspect he was lying. She remembered asking Jamison about that, telling him she had a vague feeling that he knew more about Goodlow’s murder than he was telling her.
Jamison denied it.

  J.D. went to her computer and pulled up the website for the Toms River Police Department. She called the number listed for the Criminal Investigation Bureau and dialed it. She identified herself and asked to speak to Captain Leonard Garner, the man who commanded the unit. He was out of the office, but the detective who answered asked if he could have the captain call her.

  “Yes,” J.D. said. “Tell him I’m calling about the murder of Rodney Vernon. We have a murder here on Longboat Key that apparently was committed by someone using the same gun that killed Vernon.”

  The detective said he’d get in touch with Captain Garner and have him call her immediately. No more than five minutes later, J.D.’s phone rang. “Thanks for calling me back, Captain,” J.D. said. “We had a murder here on Longboat Key a week ago. I just got the IBIS report. It seems that the same gun that killed my victim killed Mr. Vernon. I wonder if you could fill me in on what happened up there.”

  “Did you get your shooter?” Garner asked.

  “Yes. He drove off a bridge while fleeing the scene. He’s dead.”

  “Who was he?”

  “We don’t know. His prints aren’t in the system, and he didn’t carry any identification. The car he was driving was stolen a couple of days before the shooting.”

  “Dead end. What can I tell you about our shooting up here?” asked Garner.

  “First, was Mr. Vernon an elderly man?”

  “Yes. Late eighties, I think. I don’t have the file in front of me.”

  “What can you tell me about the murder?”

  “That was very strange. One of his neighbors called us after she hadn’t seen him for a couple of days. We found his body tied to a chair in his dining room. It looks as if he’d been tortured before he was shot in the forehead.”

  “How bad was the torture?”

  “That’s one of the odd things about this case. It looks like the bad guys didn’t get too far with Vernon before he died of a heart attack. I guess the bullet to the head was just to make sure he was dead.”

  “Do you have any thoughts on a motive?”

  “No. The old man had been retired for more than twenty years. He puttered around in his garden and hung out some at the American Legion post. He didn’t seem to have much of a life but, according to everybody we talked to, he was happy.”