Found

by H. Terrell Griffin

  “She said that after I left, she read the morning newspaper and saw that Porter King had been murdered the day before. She knew him, and under the circumstances, she didn’t feel safe having anyone know where she was. She would be moving so there was no reason for us to look for her at the house she’d been living in. She said she’d be in touch.”

  “That’s a shocker. She knew King. I wonder what that connection is.”

  “I don’t know, but his murder spooked her. Maybe King was connected to her disappearance somehow.”

  “We know he was connected to the attempt on old Mr. Jamison,” she said, “and that was probably Jamison’s reason for disappearing.”

  “Either that, or he’s dead.”

  “That might be the case if somebody else was after him, but King sent Caster, so he would have thought that Jamison was alive. I think the old man somehow figured out that people were after him and went into hiding.”

  “Maybe he heard about the murder in New Jersey.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “That’s a possibility. But how would he have known? Jamison said they hadn’t been in contact in years.”

  “Yes, but you thought Jamison was lying,” I said.

  “Suppose he was in touch with Vernon in New Jersey. Vernon was killed two weeks ago. Why would Jamison just now be running?”

  “Maybe he just found out about the murder.”

  “I guess that’s possible. Still, I’d like to know what connection Katie had to Porter King. And is she connected to Jamison in some way?”

  “Lots of good questions.”

  “Did Katie say anything else in the letter?”

  “She said she loved you and asked that you trust her. She’ll get back to you. Soon.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Just that she thought you were lucky to have a stud like me.”

  “She didn’t say that.”

  “No, but I think it was implied.”

  “And what led you to that conclusion?”

  “Truth will out.”

  “Geez,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  I went back to the patio and sat and sipped beer and thought some more. Was the murder of Ken Goodlow connected in some way to Jim Fredrickson’s murder and Katie’s disappearance? The murders happened more than a year apart. And then there was the torture and murder of Rodney Vernon in New Jersey. There was a definite connection between Goodlow and Vernon. They had known each other a lot of years ago, and they were killed recently by the same gun. But why would somebody be killing harmless old men? And who was after Bud Jamison? Probably the same people who’d caused the murders of Goodlow and Vernon. How did Porter King fit into that? And why?

  I decided it was time to jog the beach. See if a little oxygen would clear the mental cobwebs. I changed into shorts, a sweatshirt, and running shoes and began to jog toward the North Shore Road beach access. I was on Broadway, less than a block from its intersection with Gulf of Mexico Drive when I saw J.D.’s car turn the corner. She pulled up beside me and said, “Get in.”

  “I just got started on my jog.”

  “We’ve got to talk. Get in.”

  I got in. Never argue with a woman when she wants to “talk.” It’s been my experience that nothing good ever comes from the “talk.” “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Wait until we get home.”

  “Am I in trouble?” I asked.

  She glanced at me. “Have you done anything to cause you to be in trouble?”

  “Not lately.”

  “Hmmm. We’ll explore that later, but I want to discuss a phone call I got from Harry Robson a few minutes ago.”

  “The Sarasota detective?”

  “Yes,” she said as she pulled to a stop in front of my house. “He gave me some very disturbing news.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s go inside.”

  We went into the living room, and she plopped down in an armchair. “I’m scared to death for Katie.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “When she said she was afraid somebody was trying to kill her, she wasn’t just being paranoid.”

  “What did Robson have to say?”

  She sat back in the chair, her face a mask of concern. She was holding back on me, but I knew she’d get to it eventually. Sometimes, you just have to let J.D. talk it out. “After you called about the letter, I tried to figure out how Katie would know Porter King. I didn’t come up with anything, and I went back through her file on the off chance I’d missed a reference to King. There wasn’t any.”

  She stopped talking and sat quietly, her head resting on the back of the chair, eyes closed. A minute passed, two. Her eyes opened and she took a deep breath. “Harry Robson is old school. He’s honest, never takes shortcuts and almost always gets a conviction or a guilty plea out of his arrests. He’s worked in the shadow of Doug McAllister for a long time. He never complains, just does his job. If McAllister goes off the tracks occasionally, Harry just takes it in stride.” She was quiet again.

  “I didn’t think you knew Robson that well,” I said.

  “I didn’t. Don’t. But after I met him last year, I ran into him a couple of times on a case. I checked him out with a friend of mine in Miami who worked for Sarasota P.D. for a number of years. He moved to Miami and joined Miami-Dade P.D. about two years before I left and came here. He knew Harry well during his years up here and had nothing but good things to say about him.” She sat quietly again. Something was really bothering her.

  “Okay,” I said, gently. “He told you something that’s got you upset. Talk to me. Maybe I can help.”

  She looked at me for a moment and then said, “Harry called to tell me that when they ran the ballistics from the gun that killed Porter King and his girlfriend, Josie Tyler, through IBIS, they got a hit.”

  “I don’t see the problem.”

  “McAllister had already sent me over the IBIS report. It was in the stack of mail I got this morning. The report said the gun was clean. There was nothing in the IBIS database that indicated it had ever been used in a crime.”

  “An error somewhere in the paperwork?” I asked.

  “No. Harry called to tell me that the report from McAllister was a fake. Harry had gotten in to work early this morning and saw the fax from the ATF’s IBIS lab. He didn’t think anything about it and put it in McAllister’s in-box. It was Doug’s case and Harry figured he’d take care of it.”

  “What happened?”

  “McAllister showed the bogus report to Harry after lunch. He said he’d sent a copy to me the day before and asked Harry to file it. When Harry looked at the report, he realized it was a fake. The real report had been faxed in during the night, not the day before. Therefore, McAllister could not have sent it to me yesterday. Harry figured that maybe the captain had had a phone conversation with the lab the day before and made up the report so I could get it as soon as possible.”

  “But that’s not what happened,” I said.

  “No. When Harry read the report I’d been sent, he realized that I had a bogus report. He stewed on it for an hour and called me. He told me that IBIS had gotten a hit and that he was concerned about his boss sending me a fake report and, even worse, putting the fake one into the official investigation file.”

  “Why in the hell would McAllister do that? Could Robson be wrong?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What other crime was the gun used in?”

  She sat stock still for a beat, staring intently at me. “It’s the same gun that killed Katie Fredrickson’s husband.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  I sat back in my chair, stunned. I hadn’t seen that one coming. “To state the obvious,” I said, “that ties Jim Fredrickson to Porter King. What the hell were they into and why is Captain McAllister lying to you?”

  “I wonder if it has anything to do with the ten million bucks that Fredrickson had in the bank. That’s a lot of money and that lawyer Evans is in contr
ol of it right now.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “If Fredrickson got that money illegally, it doesn’t make much sense that he would have deposited it in his checking account or any other account with his name on it. I’d sure like to know when he deposited that money.”

  “What difference would that make?”

  “What if Jim didn’t put that money in the bank, but somebody deposited it just before he was killed? If Evans is dirty, it might be a way for him to get control of money that he couldn’t have gotten any other way without alerting law enforcement. Suppose this whole estate thing is an elaborate money laundering setup.”

  “But wouldn’t the deposit of the money by Fredrickson have alerted the authorities as well?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But what if the money had been wired into the account for the purchase of real estate? Think about it. Suppose Jim sold the land in Avon Park for ten million bucks and the purchaser wired the money to his account. That happens every day. Money is wired from one account to another to pay for real estate transactions. I don’t think that would get the Treasury Department or whoever worries about these things in an uproar.”

  “That property in Avon Park surely isn’t worth ten million dollars.”

  “It doesn’t have to be. We’re not talking about having the property appraised by a bank. Even if somebody were to check back there’d probably be fake appraisals and all kinds of documents to back up the purchase price.”

  “But that wouldn’t work if Jim were alive.”

  “No. It wouldn’t.”

  “So, maybe somebody killed him to help in a money-laundering operation.”

  “Not that far-fetched. People will do a lot for ten mil.”

  “We need to get the bank records. It’ll take me a couple of days to get a warrant, and by then McAllister will be involved. Can Jock help?”

  I called Jock’s cell and explained what we were thinking. “Can your people get those records? Like today?”

  “No sweat. I’ll get the ball rolling. They’ll be e-mailed to you.”

  “When?”

  “Within the hour.”

  “Thanks. Where are you?” I asked.

  “Sarasota. I’ve got a meeting in a little while. I’ll be home late.”

  I hung up and said to J.D. “We’ll have them in about an hour.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Now, what if we find something weird? How do we follow up?”

  “I’d like to find out what we can about the man who supposedly bought the property. That developer in Orlando, Robert Hammond. His website didn’t have a lot of information and I never followed up on it.”

  “Call Katie’s dad. He might know Hammond.”

  “J.D., I’m about to say something that might make you mad. Will you let me explain?”

  “What?”

  “I’m a little concerned about George Bass. There’s something that just doesn’t ring true with him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure. I think he knows McAllister better than he lets on. And if they’re buddies, I’d just as soon not let George know our thinking.”

  “I think you’re wrong, Matt, but there are other ways to find out about Hammond. Let me get the department’s geek onto this.”

  She called the station and talked to the police department’s computer whiz, giving him Hammond’s name and website address. She told him this was important and she needed the information as soon as possible. He told her he’d stay late if necessary and call her as soon as he found out anything.

  I looked at my watch. Five o’clock. “We can’t do anymore until we get the records from Jock and hear back from your geek. Want to take a nap?”

  She laughed. “I’m onto your naps. Somehow we never get much sleep.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but I’ve never heard you complain. Besides, Jock will be here tonight.” I tried to wiggle my eyebrows. It’s harder to do than you might think.

  “Well,” she said, “it might refresh us. You know, give us enough energy to review the bank records and such.”

  I agreed and we made our way to the bedroom.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  It was a little after five o’clock and twilight was creeping over the small city of Sarasota. It would be dark before long and that suited Jock Algren. He preferred darkness when he was working and this evening would be what passed for a workday in his world.

  He was sitting in his rental car, engine idling, parked in the shadows cast by the large live oaks that draped a quiet residential street just south of downtown. The big houses that lined the street were older and had a comfortable look that you don’t find in the newer, more pretentious neighborhoods. It was not a place where cars were parked at the curb. They were all tucked away in garages behind the homes. It was a neighborhood for physicians and lawyers and successful businessmen. The third house down from where Jock was parked was the home of the very successful, and probably dirty, lawyer, Wayne Evans.

  Jock had been sitting for five minutes. He knew he couldn’t stay long. A strange car would be noticed and police would be called and he would have to explain his presence. He’d give it five more minutes and then leave, drive around the block, and pick another parking spot on a different part of the street.

  He realized that wouldn’t be necessary when he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw Wayne Evans’s car driving slowly up the street. As the car closed on Jock, he dropped the transmission into drive, pulled in front of Evans, and stopped, partially blocking the street. The lawyer slammed on his brakes but wasn’t able to stop before the front of his Mercedes crunched into the rear quarter panel of Jock’s rental.

  Jock punched the button that opened his trunk and got out of his car. Moving quickly, he got to the Mercedes before Evans had time to get completely out of his car. Jock pulled the partially opened door all the way out and stuck his pistol into the left side of Evans’s neck. “Get out,” he said.

  Evans’s face went instantly from annoyance to fear. “What’s the meaning of this?” he said, his voice quavering.

  “Get out or I pull the trigger,” Jock said.

  Evans climbed out of his car, hands up. Jock motioned to him to the open trunk of the rental. “Get in,” he said.

  Evans didn’t argue. He climbed into the trunk, and Jock slammed the lid shut, got into the rental, and drove out of the neighborhood just as the neighbors started coming out of their houses. If anyone got a tag number, it wouldn’t matter. He’d stolen it earlier from a car parked in a downtown parking garage.

  He drove to an abandoned service station on nearby Tamiami Trail and replaced the stolen tag with the one that belonged to the rental. He tossed the stolen tag into the grass and drove south to Clark Road. An hour later, in full darkness, he pulled up to the gate that blocked the road to the old house in the grove near Avon Park.

  The chain holding the lock had not been replaced. He opened the gate and drove through and closed the gate, replacing the chain. He pulled a small device from the canvas bag on the front seat of the rental and used duct tape to affix it to a tree at waist height. He flicked a small switch on the device and got back into his car. He parked near the front of the house, picked the lock, and went inside. He switched on the lights and saw no evidence that anybody had been there since he and Matt had discovered the place. He searched each of the rooms. The weapons were still in the closet in the laundry room, and the safe was in the kitchen cabinet.

  Jock went back outside and walked the property, looking for signs that anybody was nearby or had been there recently. Nothing. He went back to the house and stood on the porch, listening. It was quiet. He checked the small plastic receiver that was clipped to his belt. If a car came down the road, the laser device he’d attached to the tree would let him know.

  He went to the car and beat on the top of the trunk. “You ready to get out, Evans?”

  “Yes.”

  Jock inserted the key and opened the trunk and
helped Evans out.

  “Where are we?” Evans asked.

  “Shut up,” Jock said. “Put your hands behind you.” He used a flex tie to bind the lawyer’s arms and led him toward the house and into the living room and told him to sit on the sofa. Jock pulled a chair close and used another flex tie to bind Evans’s ankles. “Know where you are now?” Jock asked.

  Evans looked around and nodded. “Who are you?”

  “That doesn’t matter. You and I are going to have a little conversation, and then I’m going to take you back home.”

  “Conversation about what?”

  “Let’s start with what happened to Jim and Katie Fredrickson.”

  “I don’t have any idea.”

  Jock’s hand shot out quicker than a blink and slapped Evans in the face, opened-handed. He watched as shock and fear twisted Evans’s facial features. “Wrong answer.”

  “What do you want?” Evans asked.

  “I want to know about Jim and Katie Fredrickson.”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  Jock slapped him again. “Look,” he said, “I didn’t drive all the way out here just to shoot you, but I will. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll leave your body here to rot. When your buddies come back and find you, I suspect you’ll end up in an unmarked grave out in the grove.”

  “Ask me something else,” said Evans. “If I know the answer, I’ll tell you.”

  “Why are all those weapons stockpiled in the laundry room?”

  “For the war.”

  “Which war?”

  “The one that’s coming.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Evans?”

  Evans breathed out a deep sigh. “Look, we’ve gotten ourselves involved in some things that could get us killed.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Some friends and me.”

  “What’ve you gotten involved in?”

  “Drugs.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ve stepped on some toes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “We apparently encroached into the territory of some very bad people who are planning to kill us.”

  “What people?”