Loitering With Intent

by Stuart Woods

“Okay, let’s say.”

  “So they’ve got him down at the police station, and they convince him that they’ve got him dead to rights, that they have all the evidence necessary to send him to prison for many years. But suddenly he says, ‘What if I could solve a bigger crime for you? A murder, maybe? Remember a guy named Barrington who was shot outside his house a few years back? I could give you the murderer, if you’ll give me immunity from prosecution.’”

  “Prosecution for what?”

  “For any crime he has committed.”

  “The police will do that?”

  “They do it all the time. They’ll say, okay, you’ve got immunity; who killed Barrington? ‘I did,’ he’ll say, ‘but Swenson hired me to do 13 4

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  it; I was only a tool.’ And they can’t prosecute him. They can prosecute you, though.”

  “They would do that?”

  “Of course. All over the world, in every society, the greatest taboo of all is murder. We place a very high value on human life—that’s why we devote so much of our police resources to solving murders. That’s why there’s no statute of limitations. Once you’ve murdered someone—or paid to have someone murdered—you’re never safe again. They can always come and get you when the evidence turns up.”

  “Well, that is very sobering,” Annika said. “Perhaps I won’t have you killed after all. What if I fuck you to death? Can they get me for that?”

  Stone laughed. “Only if they could prove you intended to kill me, that maybe I had a heart condition and you knew I couldn’t stand the strain.”

  “But not if I were just fucking you for several hours and you finally, ah, turned up your toes, I believe the expression is?”

  “Annika, I think you’ve found a way to commit the perfect murder.”

  “Well,” she said, taking off her wraparound apron and revealing herself to be naked from the waist down, “let’s get started now, and I can finish killing you after dinner, for dessert.”

  AND S H E NE AR LY D I D. Much later Stone was lying in the fetal position, trying not to whimper, when his cell phone vibrated on the bedside table. “Humpf,” he managed to say.

  “It’s Dino.”

  “Who else?” Stone responded weakly.

  “Take a couple of breaths and see if you can generate some adrenaline,” Dino said. 135

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  Stone did not take this advice. “I’m listening,” he said.

  “Tommy called. Evan Keating is in the hospital; he’s been shot.”

  Stone sat up on the side of the bed. “How bad?”

  “I don’t know. Pick me up at the hotel in ten minutes; we’ll go together.”

  “Right.” Stone closed the phone and looked at the sleeping Annika. It was just as well he got out before she woke up. 13 6

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  DI N O WA S ST A N D I N G out in front of the Marquesa when Stone drove up. Following Tommy’s directions, they drove up to Stock Island and found the hospital. A hint of dawn was in the eastern sky.

  Stone asked for Evan at the admitting desk.

  “Are you a relative?” she asked.

  “I’m his attorney,” Stone lied. “He asked for me.”

  Tommy came out of a room down the hall and waved them in.

  “Oh, go ahead,” the woman said.

  Stone and Dino walked down the hall and stopped outside the room. “How is he?”

  “He seems to be resting comfortably,” Tommy replied, “since the painkillers kicked in.”

  “How bad?”

  “He took it through the left shoulder. Somehow the angle allowed the slug to miss the heart and lung. He’s stable.”

  “What kind of weapon?”

  “Looks like a .223.”

  “Sniper?”

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  “He was sitting in the cockpit of his boat with the Gigi dame, anchored off Key West Bight, having a late drink. The shot probably came from the shore, near one of the big hotels.”

  “Telescopic sight?”

  “We found the weapon in some bushes: M16 assault rifl e, well used. The sort of thing you’d find at a gun show.”

  “Sounds like a pro. Anybody get a look at him?”

  “Nope. Gigi emptied a nine-millimeter magazine in the general direction, scaring the hell out of everybody. I’m sure the guy looks like every other tourist in Key West. I mean, he wasn’t dressed all in black or wearing camos.”

  “You think he’s still on the island?”

  “We’ve alerted the state cops and the locals along Route One North, but more than likely he flew in, rented a car or scooter, and he’ll leave tomorrow the same way, along with five hundred other visitors. If we had the manpower to interview every one of them, we might be able to narrow it to a dozen, but of course we don’t. He’ll walk.”

  “Or stay around for another shot?”

  “Who knows?”

  “People who hire hit men don’t pay for near misses,” Dino said.

  “If he feels safe, he’ll try again. He might be in this hospital right now.”

  “I’ll put a uniform on the door until they discharge him in the morning,” Tommy said. “Is there anybody to call?”

  “I’m sure the shooter has already called Evan’s father,” Stone said wryly. “I’ll see that his grandfather hears about it. Can I see him?”

  “It’s okay with me. Gigi’s with him, so watch your back.”

  “That’ll be Dino’s job.” Stone knocked on the door, got a response and walked in, with Dino following. Evan was sitting with the bed cranked up, and Gigi was holding his hand.

  “Good evening,” Evan said.

  “Morning,” Stone replied. “How are you feeling?”

  “Just swell,” Evan replied wanly. “Never better.”

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  “I hope you’ve reconsidered your position on relocating,” Stone said.

  “Yes, but not just yet. I have some business to conclude. When do you plan to return to New York?”

  “Soon. There’s nothing to keep me here now.”

  “I’d like to keep you here for a few days,” Evan said. “I want to retain you as my attorney.”

  “I’m not licensed in Florida,” Stone said.

  “It won’t require any courtroom appearances,” Evan said. “Or if it does, I’ll hire somebody else. I want you here for a negotiation. I’ll pay you thirty thousand dollars for three, four days of your time. If it runs beyond that, I’ll pay you another thirty.”

  Stone looked at Dino. “Can you hang around? I’ll pick up the hotel bill.”

  “Why not?” Dino said.

  “All right.”

  “Gigi,” Evan said.

  Gigi picked up a shoulder bag that had been lying on the fl oor beside the bed, rummaged in it and came up with a stack of notes and handed it to Stone. It was three bundles of hundreds, in South Beach Security wrappers.

  “Is this money clean?” Stone asked.

  “It is.”

  “I’ll have to fill out the relevant federal form when I deposit it in my bank.”

  “I understand.”

  “What do you want me to do now?” Stone asked.

  “I’ve got your cell number. I’ll call you when we need to talk.”

  “Have you spoken to your grandfather?”

  “Not yet.”

  “If you like, I’ll have someone notify him about this.”

  “No, it would just worry him. He’s better off not knowing. I’ll tell him about it when this is over.”

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  “And when will that be?”

  “Soon, I hope.”

  “All right,” Stone said, stuffing bundles of cash into his pockets. “I’m your lawyer. If the police ask you any more questions of any kind, refer them to me. Talk to you later.” He and Dino left the room.
>
  Tommy was standing outside talking to a uniformed offi cer. Stone took him aside. “Tommy, Evan has just retained me as his lawyer. I’m not entirely sure why, but in the meantime, please don’t ask him any more questions unless I’m present.”

  “What’s the problem?” Tommy asked. “He hasn’t done anything.”

  “I know, but in his condition I can’t go into all this with him. I assume you have both Evan’s and Gigi’s statements about the shooting?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’ll have to do you for the moment. I’ll know more when I’ve had a chance to sit down with him when his head is clear.”

  “Okay, Stone.”

  “Thanks for having a cop out here.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Stone and Dino left the hospital and went back to their car.

  “There’s an IHOP on our way back; you want to get some breakfast?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re buying,” Dino said.

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  ST O NE S A T THINK IN G , picking at his enormous breakfast. Dino, untroubled, was stuffing his down.

  “All right,” Dino said, pausing for a sip of coffee, “what’s on your mind?”

  “Doesn’t it bother you that it was real hard for us to find Evan in Key West, but an assassin found him from a standing start in less than twenty-four hours?”

  “It’s certainly interesting.”

  “I mean, you and I were pretty good cops, weren’t we?”

  “I still am. I’m not so sure about you.”

  “Tommy bothers me, too.”

  “Tommy?”

  “A cop like Tommy in a town this size ought to know everybody moving, but he had a hard time with Evan.”

  “Have you forgotten that Tommy put a finger on Evan fi ve seconds after you mentioned his name? At the Marquesa restaurant?”

  “Oh, yeah. I take it back.”

  “And he’s been nothing but helpful ever since.”

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  “You’re right; Tommy’s a great guy, and he’s been nothing but helpful. My mind’s a little fuzzy, that’s all. Lack of sleep.”

  “Too much sex,” Dino said. “It always wears you down.”

  “It does not,” Stone protested. “I thrive on it.”

  “You’ve been eating like a pig ever since we got here. Gained any weight?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’d say you’ve lost a couple of pounds,” Dino said. “It’s the Swede; she’s sapping your life force.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Otherwise, why would you let Evan Keating hire you in about a second?”

  “An excuse to stay here for a few days. The money’s good, too.”

  “It smells funny,” Dino said, and he took a big bite of an English muffi n.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “What could he possibly have for you to negotiate?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s buying a house or something.”

  “He’d hire Jack Spottswood if he were buying a house, or somebody else local who knows the market. You’d be useless.”

  “I can read a contract.”

  “But what’s to negotiate? And why the hell isn’t Evan getting his ass out of Key West? He didn’t go when you warned him, and now he’s been shot, nearly killed, and he’s still hanging around. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I guess he has some unfi nished business.”

  “The guy is in line for whatever a third of eight hundred million bucks is, and he’s got business in Key West? What does he need with business here?”

  “All right, it’s screwy. I’ll give you that.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “It’s also intriguing, and I want to see how it plays out.”

  “Well, while it’s playing out, I hope you don’t end up between 1 4 2

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  Evan and whoever took that shot. From what Tommy says, it was a damn fine shot, and if the guy left the rifle there, it only means that he’s got something else to shoot with.”

  “I like the private airplane thing,” Stone said.

  “It’s one way to travel.”

  “It’s an ideal way to travel, if you don’t want your luggage X-rayed or searched,” Stone pointed out. “After all, it’s how you and I got here armed.”

  Dino stuffed the last piece of sausage in his mouth. “Okay, you want to go to the airport, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then let’s do it; we’ll sleep later.”

  STON E A N D DIN O walked into Island City Flying Service, the fixed base operator for private aircraft at Key West International. Stone could see his own airplane through the window. They found Paul DePoo, who ran the place, and introduced themselves.

  “What can I do for you?” DePoo asked.

  “Can I see a list of all the private airplanes that’ve landed here in the past twenty-four hours?” Stone asked.

  DePoo handed him a clipboard that held two sheets of paper.

  “That’s yesterday’s landings,” he said. “We haven’t had anything today yet; it’s still early.”

  Stone looked through the list slowly, eliminating the jets and big twins.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “One guy in a light aircraft, probably a single, some luggage, maybe something like a shotgun case.”

  “Nobody comes to Key West to hunt,” DePoo said.

  “Then a shotgun or rifle case would make him stand out, wouldn’t it?”

  DePoo picked up a phone and punched in an extension. “You see 1 43

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  anybody come in here from an airplane yesterday carrying something like a rifle or shotgun case?” He laughed. “You’re kidding!

  What’s the tail number?” He jotted something down and hung up.

  “How about that? There was such a guy.” He ran a finger down the list on the clipboard. “There’s his tail number; he’s one Ted Larson, from Fort Lauderdale.”

  Stone looked at the clipboard. “Can you access the FAA list of registered aircraft from your computer?”

  “Sure,” DePoo said. He went to the website and typed in the tail number. “Cessna 182 RG, 1984 vintage, registered to a Frank G. Harmon, Sarasota.”

  “Can we take a look at it?” Stone asked.

  DePoo looked at the clipboard. “We hangared it for him, come on.” He got up and led Stone and Dino out of the building and across the tarmac to a big hangar containing half a dozen airplanes of different types.

  “That’s it,” Dino said, pointing to a red Cessna parked in a corner, behind two other airplanes. The three men approached the airplane.

  “Nice paint,” DePoo said. “Couldn’t be more than a year old.”

  Stone looked in the pilot’s window. “Nice interior, too—all leather. Hey, nice panel!”

  “Glass cockpit,” DePoo said. “You don’t see that on old Cessnas. This guy has spent a hundred and fifty grand on a twenty-fi ve-year old airplane.”

  “Yeah,” Stone said, “but even if he stripped it and replaced the engine and everything else, he probably only has two-fifty or three hundred in it, and a new one would cost, what, double that?”

  “About that,” DePoo said.

  “Does your clipboard say when he plans to leave?”

  “Ten o’clock this morning.”

  Dino was looking through the window into the rear seat. “Have a look at this,” he said.

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  Stone looked through the window and saw an aluminum briefcase on the rear floor. “He could get four guns in there.”

  “And a silencer or two as well,” Dino said.

  “Hey, you guys,” DePoo said, “are you cops?”

  “He is,” Stone said, jerking a thumb at Dino, “and I used to be, but we’re going to need some local tale
nt for this. Dino, will you call Tommy and tell him we think we’ve got a lock on his shooter.” Stone tried the airplane door, but it was locked. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a Cessna passkey?”

  DePoo shook his head. “No, and I’m not in the habit of breaking into customers’ airplanes.”

  “I understand,” Stone said. “Let’s wait for the local cops.”

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  THE Y HUN G AR O U ND the hangar looking at airplanes for the half hour it took Tommy to get there.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  Stone crooked a finger. “This way.” He led Tommy to the corner of the hangar and the bright red Cessna. “The guy who flew this in yesterday carried a shotgun or rifle case and gave a name different from the registered owner of the airplane. Also, if you’ll cast your eye toward the rear floor, there’s an aluminum case commonly used to carry handguns.”

  “Okay,” Tommy said, “now what?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought you might like to get a search warrant.”

  “On what evidence?” Tommy asked. “The guy hasn’t done anything illegal.”

  “Maybe he stole the airplane, since it isn’t registered in his name, which he gave as Ted Larson, of Fort Lauderdale. The registered owner is one Frank G. Harmon, of Sarasota.”

  “Maybe he borrowed it or rented it.”

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  “This airplane has had a ton of money spent on it; it’s not the kind of thing an owner would lend to a friend, let alone rent out.”

  “Come on, Stone, how many times have you stood in front of a judge and been told to take a hike? I don’t like to do that around here, because I get the same judge or two every time I go for a warrant, and I want to protect my reputation for having real evidence.”

  “Tommy, you’ve got an assassin in your town.”

  “Yeah, and if I arrest him, I want to get a conviction, not get the case thrown out for an illegal search.”

  “He’s scheduled to leave at ten this morning,” Stone said. “You want to stick around and see what he has to say for himself?”

  “Sure, I’ll do that.”

  “You fellows want some coffee?” Paul DePoo asked.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Tell you what,” Paul said, “I won’t pull his airplane out of the hangar; that’ll delay him for half an hour while we move the two others blocking him.”

  They all walked back into the air-conditioned building and got coffee.