by James Swain
I had driven this stretch of highway enough times to know its landmarks. One of the most significant was the service center eight miles south of Vero. Reaching it, I left the dead zone I'd been traveling in since Kissimmee, and my cell phone came to life.
A minute later my phone's message bell chimed. I dialed up voice mail and found two messages waiting for me.
The first message was from Rose. It had come in shortly after I hit the road. My wife was lying in bed, and called to say how much she loved me. I'd forgotten the powerful effect those three words had on me, and I listened to the message several times before erasing it.
The second message was from Jessie, and it came in right after my wife's. I could tell from the exuberance in my daughter's voice that she'd spoken to Rose and heard the news about our reconciliation. When Jessie was happy, she talked a mile a minute, and the voice mail cut her off in midsentence. I listened to her message a second time, then erased it as well.
As I neared the Stuart exit fifty minutes later I weighed calling my wife and daughter back. Both were early risers, and I couldn't think of anything I would have enjoyed more than hearing their cheerful voices to begin my day.
I decided against it. If I called them, my wife and daughter would hear the apprehension in my voice and know something was wrong. To be honest, I didn't want to hear it myself, for I just might realize how afraid I was of what lay ahead.
So I played Tom Petty amp; the Heartbreakers Damn the Torpedoeson my tape player. Normally, Petty's sardonic lyrics and hard-driving music cheered me up, and I would join the chorus while tapping my fingers on the wheel. But their magic was lost on me this time, and I stared at the rain-soaked highway and watched the miles clock by.
A few minutes after five I pulled into Tugboat Louie's. A beer delivery truck was parked by the front entrance, and I parked beside it. Kumar had once told me that he trusted his employees with everything but money and alcohol, which was a nice way of saying that he didn't trust them at all. I found him in the bar counting cases of beer.
“Good morning, Jack! How are you? Not used to seeing you up so early in the morning,” Kumar said. “How about a fresh cup of coffee?”
“That would be great,” I said.
“Can I interest you in something to eat?”
I shook my head. “I just came to pick something up.”
“Well, you have a good day.”
I went upstairs to my office. Taking out my keys, I unlocked the center drawer of my desk and opened it. The drawer contained my detective's badge, which the department had never asked me to return; a box of.380 copper-jacketed bullets; a pocket holster; and my favorite gun, a Colt 1908 Pocket Hammerless, the best concealment weapon in the world.
I took the gun out of the drawer and cleaned it. The Colt 1908 carried seven rounds and was magazine fed, with a European-style release at the back bottom corner of the grip. It sat easily in my right pants pocket without making a bulge. The gun had gone wherever I had for sixteen years. At times it had been the only thing standing between me and a killer. Not once had it let me down.
I fitted the Colt into the pocket holster, then slipped both into my right pants pocket. The holster had been handmade by an exLAPD detective named Robert Mika and was constructed of a moisture-resistant material that kept its interior bone-dry. As a result, the Colt never got stuck because of perspiration, allowing me to draw it in the blink of an eye.
I picked up the box of bullets. Buster was curled at my feet and had not moved a muscle. He'd never liked firearms and would have made a lousy hunting dog.
“Want to go outside?” I asked.
Buster didn't move. I got the hint and left without him.
I walked down the dock that ran alongside the bar. The sky was lightening, and a flock of seagulls circled lazily overhead. My destination was a hangarlike building where people paid to dry-dock their boats. The building was a hundred yards from the bar. The Colt felt good in my pocket, and I tried to remember why I'd stopped carrying it. Perhaps leaving the force had something to do with it. Or maybe I was afraid I'd use it unwisely, and permanently mess up my life.
Behind the dry-dock building was a clearing where Kumar's employees came during breaks to smoke cigarettes and talk. In the center of the clearing was a rusted garbage can filled with trash. Rummaging through the trash, I found an empty milk carton, tore off its top, and tossed a few rocks into it.
Printed on the milk carton's side was a photograph of a missing boy. His name was Mitchell Thompson, and he had dimples and a wonderfully engaging smile. He had last been seen in Boise, Idaho, over two years before.
On the other side of the milk carton was a picture of his abductor. I looked at the abductor's name to see if they were related. The abductor wasn't identified. He was just another nameless face who had stolen a child.
I put the carton on a tree stump and positioned it so the abductor's photo faced me. Just looking at him made my blood boil. I took ten giant steps back.
For several minutes I practiced drawing the Colt from its holster. The clearing was filled with buzzing mosquitoes, and I was constantly having to swat them away. They were a necessary distraction-there was never a perfect time or place to use a gun. It was all about adjusting.
Then I loaded my weapon and practiced shooting the carton. People think shooting a handgun is easy, but in reality there's nothing easy about it. I held the Colt with both hands in front of me and my knees slightly bent. It was called the Weaver position, considered the most efficient way to shoot a handgun. I pulled the trigger until my weapon was empty.
My aim was lousy. I'd never been a great shot, and time had only worsened my skills. For every bullet that hit the carton, two missed it completely.
I kept shooting until I was hitting the carton every other time.
Hearing a sharp rustling of leaves, I lowered my weapon so the barrel was aimed at the ground, then looked over my shoulder. Kumar entered the clearing.
“Jack, how can you breathe in here?” he asked.
The air was dense with gunpowder. I picked up the empty casings scattered on the ground and tossed them into the can. Only a handful of bullets remained in the box. I dropped them into my pocket and left the clearing with Kumar by my side. We walked down the dock toward the bar.
“What is wrong, Jack?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“A man does not practice shooting a gun unless something is wrong,” Kumar said. “Tell me what the problem is, and I will try to help you.”
The sun had popped over the horizon, and the new day had begun. I considered bringing Kumar into my confidence, then decided against it. The things I knew would only depress him. And there was nothing he could do to make them better.
“Who said I was practicing?” I said.
“Please don't play games with me,” Kumar said. “I went to my office to do some paperwork. I opened the window, and heard you firing your weapon. I counted over eighty shots. A man does not shoot a weapon that many times unless he's preparing for a gunfight. Are you planning to shoot someone?”
Kumar's words had a powerful effect on me, and I realized he'd hit the nail on the head. Paul Coffen, Neil Bash, and Jonny Perez were more than just murderers. They were my mortal enemies, and I would kill them if I had to, just as I suspected they'd kill me if the opportunity presented itself. And as any cop would tell you, the first rule of a gunfight was to bring a gun.
“Yes,” I said.
“Is this person a criminal?”
I nodded.
“Are you scared?” Kumar asked.
“I'd be lying if I said I wasn't,” I said.
We had reached the bar. I put my hand on the door, then turned to look into my friend's face. His eyes were open wide. In them, I saw my own fear. Fear was a gift if you listened to it, and I touched the warm gun resting in my pocket.
“I'll be okay,” I said.
“What if you are shot? Or killed?” Kumar asked.
&nb
sp; “Better not to think that way,” I said.
“But what if you are?”
I hadn't weighed that option. Yet, it was an easy one to consider. I had nothing of value to pass on. If I died, all my earthly possessions would probably end up in a Dumpster. Except one.
“If something happens to me, I'd like you to take care of Buster,” I said.
“You would?”
“Yes. He likes you.”
Kumar acted as if he was going to cry. Instead, he threw his arms around me and held me tightly against his body.
“May almighty God watch over you,” he whispered in my ear.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Las Olas Boulevard was Fort Lauderdale's answer to Rodeo Drive. The three-mile-long, tree-lined street was filled with pricey clothing boutiques and epicurean restaurants. A handful of watering holes were within my price range, but mostly it was stuff I only dreamed about.
Trojan Communications was located one block south of Las Olas in a dramatic two-story building made of chrome and tinted glass. The company's logo-a crooked T made from shiny aluminum-sat by the front entrance in the grass.
At eight-thirty, I pulled in front of the building and called Linderman. He was waiting for my call, and I gave him the address and told him that our suspect worked for the company. I didn't give him Paul Coffen's name, and he didn't ask for it. He agreed to meet me in thirty minutes and said he'd call if traffic was bad.
I then drove east to the beach and walked my dog. The tide was up and the waves were big and loud, and I drank up all the sights and smells, my conversation with Kumar still fresh in my mind.
At eight-fifty I drove back to Trojan Communications and entered the company parking lot. A cream-colored Mercedes 500 SL was parked in a space marked Reserved P. Coffen, President amp; CEO. I parked beside the Mercedes and waited.
At eight fifty-five, Linderman arrived and parked beside me. Sitting beside him was a sandy-haired man with a purple scar on his cheek shaped like a question mark. He wore Ray-Bans and a dark suit, as did Linderman. The three of us got out of our cars. Linderman introduced the second man as Special Agent Richard Theis.
“The suspect is named Paul Coffen,” I said. “He owns the company and appears to be here. I think we should enter the building separately, in case he happens to be watching the front door on a surveillance camera. I'll go first, then you and Theis follow.”
Both men nodded. Theis said, “What's the deal once we're inside?”
“I spoke with one of Coffen's phone operators earlier,” I said. “I'm going to use her name with the receptionist, and tell Coffen I'm interested in hiring his company to process calls from a group of Checkers restaurants I own in Tampa.”
“What's our role?” Theis asked.
“You're my business partners.”
“Works for me,” Linderman said.
Theis simply nodded.
I checked my watch. Nine o'clock on the nose. Without another word, I crossed the lot and entered Trojan Communications. I walked with my head bowed, my eyes peeled to the ground. Thirty seconds later, Linderman and Theis followed me.
When I was a cop, I was good at putting myself in the shoes of criminals I dealt with. It allowed me to anticipate how they were going to react when I confronted them. Most cops are good at this, but I was particularly good at it.
I entered the reception area assuming that Coffen had taken precautionary measures to avoid being arrested. Like bugging his reception area or having a surveillance camera trained on the door. I scanned the reception area and, not seeing any cameras, approached the receptionist, a purple-haired young woman in a miniskirt sitting at a Lucite desk.
“Can I help you?” she asked, snapping her gum.
I was still wearing yesterday's clothes and hadn't shaved. It wasn't my best side, but it would have to do.
“I'm here to see Paul Coffen,” I said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Sorry, Mr. Coffen is busy.”
“I spoke with an operator named Sherry Collins about hiring your company to handle orders for several fast-food restaurants that I own in Tampa,” I said.
Her eyes touched briefly on Linderman and Theis, who flanked me.
“Are these gentlemen with you?”
“Yes, they're my business partners.”
“Let me see if Mr. Coffen is available. Can I have your name?”
I nearly said my real name, then caught myself.
“Ken Linderman,” I said.
Linderman laughed under his breath. The receptionist pressed a button on the intercom sitting beside the phone. It came alive with a man's voice.
“I'm busy, Heidi.”
“I have three gentlemen who are interested in hiring our company to service their restaurants.”
“Then I'm not busy,” the voice said with good humor. “Would you mind asking them to wait? I'm on a conference call.”
The receptionist looked up into our faces expectantly. “Would you gentlemen mind waiting until Mr. Coffen is free?”
“How long do you expect him to be?” I asked.
She asked Coffen how long he was going to be.
“I don't know,” Coffen said. “Just ask them to have a seat. I'll be out when I'm done with this call.”
No smart businessman made potential customers wait, and I sensed that Coffen was stalling. I looked around the reception area again, then at the desk. The receptionist acted embarrassed and crossed her legs. A tiny button on the intercom caught my eye. It was a miniature camera. Coffen was looking right at us.
“He's onto us,” I said.
Behind the desk was a black door marked Private. I started to walk around the desk, and the receptionist rose from her chair.
“You can't go in there,” she said.
Linderman pulled out his wallet and showed his badge.
“FBI. Sit down and don't move,” he said.
She dropped into her chair.
“Jesus,” she said.
The black door was locked. Lifting my leg, I kicked three inches above the knob. Both hinges broke at the same time, and the door came crashing down.
I pulled the door out of the way and entered a windowless hallway that ran the length of the building. Through its walls I could hear female phone operators processing fast-food orders from around the state. Their voices seemed to be coming out of nowhere.
Theis and Linderman were right behind me. Theis went left and started checking doors. I headed in the opposite direction with Linderman breathing down my neck.
“Are you armed?” Linderman asked.
“Yes,” I said. “How about you?”
“You're a funny guy, Jack.”
The hallway's carpet muted our footsteps. I assumed that like most CEOs, Coffen occupied the corner office. At the hallway's end I found his name printed on a plaque nailed to a door. The door was locked and I took it down with my foot. We rushed in.
“FBI,” Linderman announced.
The office was light and airy. One wall was nothing but windows; the other three were decorated with paintings of naked girls in provocative poses. Coffen sat at a cherry-and-walnut desk wearing a black designer T-shirt and an array of gold necklaces, his chubby fingers banging the keyboard to his computer. His face was crimson and reminded me of someone having a heart attack. As I came around the desk, I saw why.
His computer had frozen. Imprisoned on the screen was a photograph of Julie and Carmella Lopez sitting inside a car at a McDonald's drive-through. Coffen was trying to erase the image, only the computer wouldn't let him.
“Stop what you're doing,” Linderman said.
“Whatever you say,” Coffen said.
Coffen pulled open the desk's middle drawer and reached for the automatic pistol resting inside. I threw my hip against the drawer, closing it on his hand. The automatic went off, and a bullet ripped through the desk. Linderman collapsed on the floor.
I punched Coffen in the
face. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he passed out.
I retrieved the smoking automatic and placed the barrel under Coffen's nose. The fumes instantly revived him.
“Touch the computer again and I'll kill you,” I said.
He gripped the arms of his chair and shook away the cobwebs.
“Whatever you say,” he mumbled.
I went around the desk and knelt down beside Linderman. The bullet had clipped him, and he lay on the floor clutching his side.
“I think I cracked a rib,” Linderman said.
“You wearing a bulletproof vest?” I asked.
“Yes. We both are.”
“Thanks for offering me one.”
Linderman didn't know what to say. Rising, I told Coffen to stand up. He slowly came out of his chair. He was flexing his right hand, which was turning an ugly purple.
“Tell me where Melinda Peters is being held,” I said.
“Never heard of her,” Coffen said.
I glanced at the frozen picture of the Lopez sisters on his computer. Then I looked at Linderman lying on the floor. His presence was only complicating things, and I found myself wishing I'd never asked for his help.
The automatic felt awkward in my hand. I lay it on the desk and drew my Colt. I aimed the Colt at Coffen's belly.
“If you don't tell me where Melinda is, I'm going to kill you,” I said.
Coffen's expression was defiant. Like all predators, he was used to dominating the people around him. Nothing was ever going to change that. Not a lifetime in prison, nor endless psychiatric counseling. It was simply who he was.
“Last chance,” I said.
Blood was pouring out of his mouth, and Coffen raised his hand and wiped it away. Then he stared at the blood. He looked at me and began to tremble.
“All right,” he said.
I looked at the blood as well. I knew that it was a precursor of his new life, for in prison he would be beaten by fellow inmates who felt the need to remind themselves that he was a worse breed than they were. His career as a successful businessman was over, while his role as a pariah was about to begin.
