by Scott Cook
“You mean he was over at the fun bag factory?” Bittle asked in confusion, “and hopped that wall to steal m’truck? Well I’ll be shoved in shit.”
This informative and charming discourse completed, I drove out of the trailer park and over to the aforementioned gentlemen’s entertainment center and gave the place the old hairy eyeball. Somebody had mounted a number of small but visible security cameras at the rear corners. They seemed to provide an adequate view of the parking as well as the building itself. The electrical box seemed to have been repaired as well.
I dialed my new buddy Pauli Franco.
“What’s up, Jahvis,” He said amiably when he picked up. I could tell by the muffled sounds in the background that he was at the club but in his office. “You comin’ over to get an eyeful?”
“Oh, God yeah, Paul,” I said. “Nothing I like better than being teased to exploding and paying for the privilege. You guys okay today? Any more excitement last night or this morning?”
He made a dismissive sound, “Other than Tommy and Joey getting into a wreck… nothin’.”
That confused me a little, “Paul… they were hit and rolled over on the way to the club… while following Marie. Did she see anything?”
“Nah… she didn’t even know they was followin’ her,” he stated. “And I’d rather keep it that way, y’know what I’m sayin’? All’s I heard today was that they flipped over. Nothin’ else. What do you know about it?”
I sighed and told him. He didn’t like it any more than I did.
“Okay… I like that you had your girlfriend on Marie, too,” Paul said in a less confident tone. “God f’bid this Shade… well, if you can keep her on that, I’d consider it a personal favor.”
“I’ll keep you posted,” I said and then remembered something. “Oh, Paul… You ever hear of a guy named Thomas P. Lissard?”
There was a long pause, “Hmm… not sure… why?”
I related the visit this morning and asked him to see if anybody in his network might know something. I found that odd. A guy in some kind of private protection game… maybe even a private investigator… would come to the attention of Paul Franco, I’d think.
Who the hell was this fat bastard anyway?
Nothing happened for the next few days. Lisa and I took turns following Marie Franco around as well as checking in with Pauli. There were no more incidents. On the other hand, there was no progress, either.
Both Juan and Sharon reported that they’d found absolutely nothing on this Lissard guy. He had no fingerprints on file and his image didn’t come up in any database. Odder still was the fact that not only didn’t he have a print record… his gun didn’t have a single print on it. Not even a partial. As far as the police and the FBI were concerned, he didn’t exist.
Further, it turned out that Tommy “Thumbs” Buccino was wanted as a person of interest and possible primary suspect on a second degree manslaughter case in New Jersey. Although both men survived the crash, Tommy Thumbs had a severe concussion and sprained neck. His passenger, Joe James had two cracked ribs and a broken arm.
On Friday afternoon, I was sitting behind my desk doing a bit of writing and waiting to hear from Lisa when the office line rang.
“Scott Jarvis, private investigator,” I announced.
“You read the paper today, TM?” Ed Bannon asked with only a fraction of his usual sarcastic good humor.
Ed was a college buddy who worked as an investigative reporter on The Stuart News, a paper based in Martin County on the Treasure Coast. He was perhaps even more of a smarty pants than me, if that’s remotely believable.
“You know I don’t read,” I said. “All them words make my tummy feel weird.”
Ed chuckled but there wasn’t much mirth behind it, “Scott… I think you should read this article. It was posted today in The Sentinel and we picked it up and reprinted it. I have it on good authority that several other papers around the state have too.”
“What’s in this article?” I asked, feeling a twinge of concern.
“I’ve emailed it to you,” Ed said. “I assume you know about Shade.”
I blew out my breath, “Yeah, I know. I’ve had a run in with him… sort of. How do you know about it, though?”
He chuffed, “its 2020, buddy. Nothing stays a secret for long. At first, I heard a rumor about that cop’s car getting bombed. I couldn’t print it because there was little or no substantiation. However… Shade himself has broken his own story. Read the article.”
“Jesus…” I groaned. “Okay, I’ll read it now. Anythigng you can tell me?”
He sighed, “Not really… not yet, anyway. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. You do the same for me, huh?”
I said I would, hung up and opened my email. Sure enough, there was a message from Ed with a link to the Sentinel’s website. The article was a letter to the editor. I clicked on it and began to read.
My fellow citizens,
This year has been a crazy one, hasn’t it? With all that’s passed just in the past few months, it promises to continue to be a landmark year in our history. And what can we draw from it? What have we learned?
Nothing!
That’s the truly frustrating part… our society is plunging headlong down the drain and nobody seems to be doing anything about it. There is no justice!
And no, you social justice warriors don’t count. You’re not looking for justice. You want coddling. You want to blame others for your plight, your decisions and your lack of effort. You want everyone else to be responsible for your personal feelings while you take responsibility for nothing.
Well, so sorry, kiddies… you don’t get a participation trophy from this citizen!
My name is Shade… obviously that’s a pseudonym. My real name is one that certain members of law enforcement and perhaps one or two others would give their right arm to learn.
And I, Shade, am here to announce that justice is not a dead concept. That it’s about time that the days of getting away with it are over. Since the police and the government don’t seem to be able to protect us… and since the courts seem more interested in public opinion and letting evil doers go free rather than upholding the laws that are supposed to rule our society… then I will do something about it.
Shade is taking responsibility. I will exact the penance that our so-called defenders either can’t or won’t.
This is a notice. A notice to all of those who think they can get away with it… watch your backs.
A police officer’s vehicle was bombed on Sunday last. That was me. I did not intend to kill him, but merely to send a message. I’ve sent a few others. Little hints that I’m sure will go unheeded.
Since that’s the case, I’m announcing now that I’m stepping up my game, as they say. I strongly suggest that law enforcement do the same.
So what’s the purpose of this letter?
It’s to create fear, naturally!
If you’re a hardworking citizen, a man or woman who is just trying to get by and raise your family, then you have nothing to fear from me. However… if you’re somebody that feels that you’re above the law… that you can do whatever you please and avoid facing any consequences… then I can assure you… you do have something to fear in me.
Oh, and one last thing…
There is someone out there who has given it the old college try. A man who isn’t bound by rules and regulations who does at least make an attempt to right a few wrongs. To this man I say that while I admire your effort… you haven’t gone far enough. You’ve left loose ends… but don’t’ worry, they won’t be loose for long.
It was signed Shade, of course.
I had the very strong feeling that the last paragraph was directed at me. He didn’t say as much, but Shade made that pretty clear. It could be anybody, really… yet taken with his acts thus far, it seemed too much of a coincidence.
Just for fun, I started browsing other papers online. Specifically, I looked at the Tampa Bay Times and the Ke
y West Citizen. I chose these because in addition to The Stuart news, they were papers located in areas in which I’d done some of my work. It was a hunch, of course, but it cost me little to play it.
It paid off, as well. There was a story published that morning in the Key West paper and it read:
MONROE COUNTY, FL - Firefighters responded to a 911 call late Thursday night. A home on Sugarloaf Key was burnt to its foundations. The resident, a local private investigator named Mark Pickett was rushed to the Lower Keys Medical Center for second degree burns and smoke inhalation. He’s said to be in stable but serious condition.
When asked if arson was suspected, Monroe County Sheriff Jeffrey Pelton replied that it was too early to tell. The investigation had yet to reveal anything substantial so he declined to speculate.
However, upon further digging, this reporter discovered that Mr. Pickett is currently serving a one year parole connected to as-yet unknown charges. Unconfirmed sources say that Pickett was involved in a corrupt police officer’s arrest as well as suspected ties to organized crime.
“What the Christ…” I muttered as I read.
That wasn’t my only find, either. The Tampa Bay paper also had a piece that caught my interest.
PINELLIS COUNTY, FL – Samuel Trent, a Largo-based private detective, was arrested Wednesday afternoon for possession of narcotics. Based on an anonymous tip, local police raided Mr. Trent’s office and found over two pounds of cocaine hidden there.
Mr. Trent denies any involvement and states that he believes this is a setup from a former client or someone who was jailed due to a previous investigation. Mr. Trent is to be arraigned next week and is currently out on a one-hundred thousand dollar bond. He’s expected to be charged under the RICO statutes.
Sam Trent was involved in the scheme to force Lionel Argus out of his gambling cruise business. Lionel had received multiple racial threats against himself and his family. During that case, Sam and his cronies had kidnapped Lisa in order to try and leverage me out of the investigation. It had turned out that they were being supported by a couple of crooked FBI agents as well as a Saint Petersburg business woman who was in competition with Lionel.
It was now fairly clear that the unknown individual he’d mentioned in his letter was me. It had to be. So far, Shade was going after people who I’d had run ins with in the past.
John Bryce was a hard-nosed cop who wanted things to be like in the old days. Where a cop could smack a suspect around and go to work on him with a rubber hose and get away with it. For some reason, from the moment we first met over a year and a half ago, Bryce had taken an active dislike to me.
Pickett was involved in the events I chronicled in Isle of Bones. He was working with Conklin in the convoluted power struggle between two rival mafia families.
“Yet Shade seems to be using some restraint,’ I observed to no one. Well, Ferny listened patiently as always, of course. “He’s hurting them in some kind of proportion to their crimes… who the hell is this guy?”
I arrived home at a little after five p.m. Wayne and Sheila were coming over for dinner that night and I had to get things ready. Sheila Clarence was Wayne’s long term love interest. She was a model-pretty Caribbean transplant who worked in a small local law firm. She was good-natured, kind and always good company.
I pulled out a gallon-sized Ziplock bag from the fridge and set it on the counter. Inside were six chicken breasts that I’d cutletted and were now marinating in my special homemade teriyaki mixture. A blend of garlic and onion powder, ground ginger, brown sugar and halved garlic cloves mixed into soy sauce, white wine, a little vinegar, olive oil and water.
Wayne and Sheila were bringing dessert and a side, but I couldn’t contain myself. I also peeled half a dozen potatoes, quartered them and put them into a pan of cold water that I’d bring to a boil once they arrived.
I let the dogs out and played with them for a few minutes before I went back inside to wash up. At around six, Lisa’s GLC pulled into the garage and Wayne’s white Mustang rag top pulled up next to my jeep.
Lisa came in first, kissed me and went to kiss the dogs. Wayne and Sheila followed.
“Sup, blue eyed devil!” Wayne quipped, holding up a key lime pie.
Sheila slapped him on the arm and hugged me and then stood on tip toe to kiss me, “Hey, sexy. What’s for dinner?”
I grinned, “You, ya’ keep kissing me like that! How was your trip?”
Sheila laughed and took a small cloth shopping bag from Wayne’s other hand, “Pretty good. I’ve got a couple of things for you, darlin’.”
She had a definite Jamaican accent, although refined and a bit subdued. She pulled out a foil baking pan and set it next to my stove. She then pulled out a handle of my favorite tequila… well, my favorite for making Margaritas, anyway.
“Where’s my kiss?” Wayne teased as he slid the pie into the fridge.
“She makes homemade… asparagus with… garlic, parmesan… and is that sofrito?” I asked as I pulled the foil off the baking pan Sheila had brought and sniffed. “and all you bring are insults, brother.”
“I love a man who cooks,” sheila said with a chuckle.
“Me too,” Lisa said, returning from the porch and washing her hands.
“So she makes a nice homemade side and you bring a store bought pie, and you expect some lovin’?” I needled Wayne.
“Hey, I brought a pretty girl and I brought me, brother! What else do you need?”
“You’re right,” I said, wrapping him in my arms and planting a big sloppy smacker on his cheek.
The women burst out laughing. Lisa suddenly looked around, “Hey, where are the tunes?”
“I humbly apologize,” I stated, picking up my phone and selecting Aquatopia: the official Scott Jarvis playlist on Spotify.
Paul Simon came over my stereo singing Diamonds on the Souls of Our Shoes, a great song and album enriched with soothing African rhythms and accompaniments.
“So what’re we havin’?” Wayne asked.
I started the potatoes boiling, “Grilled teriyaki chicken, my famous roasted potaters and Caribbean roasted asparagus it seems.”
“Sounds yummy,” Lisa said, going into the fridge and pulling out a plastic bottle that said Florida’s best Orange Juice on it. She went into one of the cupboards and brought out four glasses.
“Hey, I think your O.J has gone over,” Wayne joked. “It’s green.”
“I know, right?” It’s still plenty citrusy, though,” I replied.
Lisa poured the pre-mixed Margarita… my pre-mix, not that store bought horror… into the glasses and we all clinked.
“Oh, mon! Dat some good drinkun’!” Sheila emoted in an over the top accent.
“Oh, you bettuh believe dat, girl!” I added in an equally over-exaggerated Rasta tone. “Nuttin’ but da’ bes’ for you!”
“I can’t do that voice,” Wayne said regretfully.
“Me either,” Lisa said. “They think they’re cool.”
Sheila and I clinked again. I went over and stirred the taters and turned down the heat so they wouldn’t boil over.
“So did you see the paper today, Jax?” I asked Wayne.
His smile vanished and he got very serious. Wayne had a unique talent for switching between a street-wise thug mode of speech to that of a college professor, or at the very least, a professional law enforcement officer.
“Yeah, I did,” he said, “and maybe I’m wrong about this… but that last paragraph was about you.”
Lisa and Sheila looked on with worry playing on their lovely faces.
I sighed and tested the potatoes. They were partially done, so I removed them from the heat. I only wanted a half-boiled potato for what I had planned, “I can’t disagree. Especially in light of the other articles I found from the Key West and Tampa paper.”
“What articles?” Lisa asked
“I emailed you the links,” I said, placing a lid on the pan and draining the water. “Why don’t y
ou pull them up and read them to Wayne.”
Once the pot was empty of water, I held the lid on tight and shook it half a dozen times. Essentially, I was mashing the outside layer of the potatoes. I set the pan aside and set my oven to four hundred and fifty degrees.
Lisa began to read the two articles as I pulled out a nine by twelve inch cake pan and poured about half a cup of olive oil into the bottom. I then poured the semi-fluffed taters into it, stirred to coat them in oil and seasoned them.
“Pickett…?” Lisa asked in bewilderment. “Oh… and Sam Trent… is that the Sam who grabbed me to keep you from investigating Lionel’s case?”
I nodded, “Yep. When you combine those incidents with Bryce and Pauli and his boys… that certainly points a lot of fingers.”
Sheila narrowed her eyes, “So do you think this Shade guy has it in for you or something?”
I slid the pan into the hot oven, “I don’t know. It seems as if he’s sort of… well I won’t go so far as to say an admirer—“
“That’d be a huge stretch!” Wayne jeered.
“Why do you have to be mean, man?” I asked. “Why can’t you just love?”
“I’ve tried, Scott… I’ve tried.”
I flipped him off and we went and sat in the living room. It was still a bit hot on the back porch.
“You think maybe Shade likes what you do?” Lisa asked. “Somehow picking up any small pieces you’ve left on the table or something?”
I shrugged, “He’s certainly targeting anybody who’s ever crossed my hawse.”
“Oh, you’d better watch out, baby,” Sheila teased Wayne.
