Stuart Woods Holly Barker Collection

by Stuart Woods

  “Why don’t you order for me?” Holly said, handing back the menu.

  The man beamed. “Of course. How hungry are you?”

  “Very.”

  “In that case I will start you with our famous antipasti and continue with our specialty, the osso buco.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “May I introduce myself? I’m Pio Pellegrino.”

  “I’m Helen Benson,” she said. “You’re the owner, then?”

  “It’s a family business,” he replied. “My father, over there, is still the owner, but we run it together.” He nodded at an elderly man sitting near the kitchen door, eating pasta. “He likes to sit there because it’s near the waiters’ station, and he wants to be sure they don’t steal the cutlery.”

  Holly laughed. “A smart businessman.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Excuse me, I’ll order your dinner.”

  Holly sipped her bourbon and looked around the place. It was handsomely designed, fairly large, and filling up fast—obviously a popular place.

  Her antipasti arrived, and she had a bit of everything. Delicious. Then came the osso buco, and Pio, with half a bottle of red.

  “I hope you’ll drink some wine,” he said. “With my personal compliments.”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  He poured the wine, a very good Chianti Classico, and she made appreciative noises. He left to seat other customers.

  Holly loved the osso buco, and when Pio returned, she had finished it. “Thank you so much for ordering for me, and for the wine,” she said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Not in my own restaurant,” he said, “but I’d be delighted to have one with you.” He spoke to the bartender in Italian, and two glasses of a golden liquid appeared.

  “What is it?”

  He settled on a stool next to her. “Strega, an Italian apperitif.”

  She liked it and told him so.

  “So, are you from Miami?”

  “No, from out of town.”

  “How did you choose my restaurant?”

  “Pure luck; I was driving past and saw the sign, and I was in the mood for Italian.”

  His smile turned into a leer, but he didn’t rise to the line. “Where are you staying?”

  “Over on South Beach.” She looked at her watch. “In fact, I’d better be going. I’m meeting my boyfriend at our hotel, and I’m late.”

  His face fell. “I hope you’ll come back again,” he said. “And alone. I enjoy your company.”

  “That’s very kind of you; I’ll keep it in mind. I’m here for a few more days. May I have a check?”

  “There is no check,” he said grandly.

  “My goodness,” Holly said, batting her eyes. “You’re even kinder than I thought.” She shook his hand, and he held on for a little too long, then she left and went back to the car, feeling that she had only just escaped his further intentions.

  At the Delano, Holly checked in, with only a shopping bag for luggage, settled into her room, then called her office and told them where she was. “Don’t give out that information, though,” she said. “Just take a message.”

  Then she called Ham. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “I’m in Miami for a couple of nights on business,” she said. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Me, worry? You don’t need my permission for a dirty weekend.”

  “It’s not a weekend, and it’s not dirty,” she replied. “It’s just a couple of days’ work on a case.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Oh, shut up, Ham. I’ll see you later in the week.” She hung up.

  Daisy hopped onto the bed and put her head in Holly’s lap.

  “Your grandfather has a dirty mind,” she said. She thought about Grant and wished it was a dirty weekend.

  29

  Holly slept late and had a good breakfast. She dressed in her new clothes, the first she had bought since Jackson’s death, and took Daisy for a walk, then got into her car. She had nothing to do until evening, so she decided to have another go at Pedro Alvarez.

  When she got to his shop, he was with a customer, and she waited, looking carefully at the displays of locks and burglar alarms. She was not surprised that two of the examples on display were identical to the equipment in her house.

  Pedro said goodbye to the customer, then approached Holly. "What do you want now?” he asked, his tone unfriendly.

  “I want to see Carlos’s guns,” she said.

  “Do you have a warrant?” he asked.

  “Oh, I can get a warrant, and very quickly,” she replied. “But let me tell you what happens if I get a warrant. I’ll bring a team in here, and we will dismantle this shop and take anything we like away with us, including all the guns we find. Then, if any of them has been used in a crime, or if we find any other violation of the law, I’ll have your locksmith’s license yanked. Now, how do you want to do this?”

  “I’ll show you the gun,” he said.

  “There’s more than one, Pedro.”

  “Carlos had two, a nine-millimeter and a forty-caliber. One of them is missing.” He led her to a large safe in the back room and began opening it.

  So Carlos had been carrying, and he might well have been shot with his own gun.

  “Here is Carlos’s nine-millimeter,” he said, handing her a Beretta.

  It was loaded. She popped out the magazine and ejected one from the breech. “Do you have a paper bag?” she asked.

  “I didn’t say you could take it with you.”

  “So you want me to get the warrant? I can phone it in, and we can wait together for the team to arrive.”

  “All right, all right,” he said. He handed her a sheepskin-lined leather pouch, and she zipped the gun inside it, putting the cartridges in a pocket inside. She wrote a receipt on the back of her card and handed it to him.

  “When will you return it?” he asked.

  “When I’ve finished processing it. If it turns out to have been used in a crime, you won’t get it back.”

  Pedro nodded.

  “You must have been aware that Carlos was into something he shouldn’t have been.”

  Pedro shook his head.

  “Come on, Pedro. If you want us to find out who killed your cousin, you’re going to have to help us. Now we know that Carlos suddenly came into money. Where was he getting it?”

  Pedro shook his head again. “I don’t know. When I asked Carlos about it, he told me that it was none of my affair, that, in fact, it would help our business.”

  “Help your business how?”

  “He said he was developing new contacts for alarm-system installations.”

  “Business or residential?”

  “There were going to be a number of new houses, he said.”

  “In what town?”

  “I don’t know. Not in our immediate area, though; he was talking about opening another shop.”

  “Where?”

  “He said he couldn’t tell me yet.”

  “Did he indicate to you that his new work might be dangerous?”

  “Just the reverse; he said it was a piece of cake.”

  “Did Carlos mention any names to you?”

  “No.”

  “A nickname, maybe?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “What else did he tell you, Pedro?”

  “I swear, that’s all he told me.”

  “Did you tell this to the FBI agents who came to see you?”

  “No, I didn’t tell them anything.”

  “Did Carlos own a rifle?”

  “No, but . . .” Pedro was staring into the middle distance, as if he remembered something. “Once I saw a leather rifle case in the van he borrowed.”

  “What was his explanation?”

  “I didn’t ask him about it; he had already told me that his outside work was none of my business.”

  “How big a case? How long?”

  “Just a standard
zipper case, like one that would hold a hunting rifle or a shotgun.”

  “How long ago?”

  “I’m not sure; two or three weeks, maybe. I thought maybe he was taking it to the range, since it was his regular day to go.”

  “Miami Bullseye?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Yes. He fired there every week.”

  Holly nodded. “I’ll see you again, Pedro.” She left the shop and stowed the weapon in the lockable bin that held the spare tire in her SUV. Then she went back to the mall and went shopping again. It was lovely to be doing something so normal again, she thought as she shopped for shoes.

  At her third stop in the mall, she became aware of a woman she had seen the morning before. She was thirtyish, dressed in a business suit, with fairly short brown hair. Holly felt she was beginning to see too much of her. As she continued through the mall, she kept seeing the woman, and when she came out of the Ralph Lauren store, her tail was sitting on a bench in the middle of the mall, pretending to read a magazine.

  Holly went and sat down next to her. “Good morning,” she said.

  The woman glanced at her, nodded, and went back to her magazine.

  “How’s Harry Crisp these days?”

  The woman looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “How’s old Harry? Your boss?”

  “I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else,” the woman said.

  “I’m afraid you have me confused with someone who can’t spot a tail,” Holly replied.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I wouldn’t go as far as that, but you’re not very good. You were outside the church at the Alvarez funeral, weren’t you? You followed Pedro home after the burial.”

  The woman was becoming flustered now. “I would appreciate it if you would leave me alone,” she said.

  “Sure, I will,” Holly replied, “and I’ll give you a choice. You can vanish, then call Harry and tell him you lost me, or I’ll call him myself and tell him what a lousy job you’re doing.”

  “Goodbye,” the woman said, getting up. She walked quickly away, toward an exit to the parking lot.

  Holly resumed her shopping, but she kept an eye out for the woman’s partner, if she had one.

  30

  Holly, unable to think of anything else to do, took in a movie at the mall, then after getting the address from the telephone information operator, drove to North Miami and Miami Bullseye. She figured Carlos’s shooting group would arrive early evening, after work and supper, so she had a burger at a fast-food joint across the street. When she felt the time was right, she retrieved Carlos’s Beretta from her car, shouldered her handbag, and walked into the shooting range.

  It was pretty much what she had expected—a long, low building made of concrete blocks, divided into narrow alleys and shooting booths. She stopped at a window and told the woman behind the glass that she’d like to fire for an hour. The woman took her money and signed her in. “Can I buy some cartridges?” she asked.

  “What do you need?”

  “A box each of nine-millimeter and seven sixty-fives.”

  The woman went to a steel cabinet behind her, unlocked it, took out two boxes, relocked the cabinet, and returned to the window. Holly paid her, and she took down the serial numbers of both weapons.

  “Take position ten,” the woman said, pointing.

  There were twenty positions, putting Holly right in the middle. She set down her bag, unzipped the pistol pouch, and removed the Beretta. Then she had a thought and returned to the window. “Do you have a tank?” she asked. “I’d like to get a sample.”

  “Just a minute.” The woman picked up a telephone, dialed a three-digit extension, and spoke into the phone. A moment later a man entered the booth and motioned Holly toward a door next to it. He met her and let her in.

  “Hi, I’m Jimmy,” he said. “This is my place.”

  “Hi, I’m Helen.” They shook hands.

  “You want to fire it yourself, or you want me to do it?”

  “I’ll fire.”

  Jimmy led her across what appeared to be a storeroom and pointed at the tank, a container a few feet long filled with water.

  Holly shoved the magazine into the Beretta, worked the action, flipped off the safety, and fired two rounds into the tank.

  “Just a minute,” Jimmy said. He went to the other end, opened a flap and, using a flashlight and a pair of tongs, retrieved the two slugs. “Here you go,” he said, handing them to her.

  “Thanks,” she said, dropping them into her purse.

  He nodded and let her out of the room.

  She went back to her station and flipped a switch that moved her target back to fifty feet. She put on ear protectors, took up a combat stance—knees bent, pistol held out before her with two hands—and emptied the magazine into the target. Then she removed her Walther from her handbag and emptied another magazine into the target. She flipped the switch and brought the target back to her.

  “Nice grouping,” a voice said from behind her.

  She turned to find Jimmy standing there. “Thanks.”

  “That’s a really good grouping with the Walther.”

  She examined the target. The 9mm shots formed a tight group at the bull’s-eye, while the .765 shots were a little more dispersed. “I haven’t shot for a while,” she said. “At that range, I ought to be able to fire just as tight with the Walther as with the Beretta.”

  He put another target up for her, and she moved it to 100 feet and fired both pistols. When the target came back, the groupings were looser, but still good.

  “Where’d you learn to shoot?” Jimmy asked.

  “My father taught me when I was a kid—he’s a lot better shot than I am—then I was in the military. I did the twenty.”

  “Me too,” he said.

  “Nice little business you’ve got here.”

  “Thanks.” He put another target up for her, and she moved it to 150 feet. The groupings were wider, but the man-shaped target had taken all the slugs in the chest.

  “I’m impressed,” Jimmy said.

  “Think I’ll take a break, then see if I can improve my groupings,” she said. “Can I buy you a beer?”

  “We don’t sell it here, but I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.” He indicated for her to follow him. A moment later, she was seated in his office and he was pouring her a cup of coffee.

  “Thanks,” she said, accepting the cup.

  “You live around here?”

  “No, up the coast.”

  “What brings you to my place?”

  Holly decided to play it straight with him; she figured she had a chance of learning more. “I’m chief of police in a little town called Orchid Beach,” she said, laying her ID on his desk.

  He picked it up and examined it. “Holly, not Helen.”

  “Sorry, I was being too careful.”

  He tossed back her wallet. “So, like I said, what brings you to my place?”

  “A customer of yours took one in the back of the head up in my jurisdiction.”

  “That would be Carlos Alvarez, unless I’ve lost another customer I don’t know about.”

  “That would be Carlos. I’m working the murder.”

  “There’s a guy named Barker up there. Know him?”

  “Ham? That would be my old man.”

  Jimmy smiled. “I was at Bragg with him a few years back. I didn’t know him, really, but I saw him shoot a couple of times. It was really boring, looking at those targets; he’d blow out the middle every time.”

  “He still does.”

  “I’d say tell him hello, but he wouldn’t know the name. Tell him a fan said hello.”

  “I’ll do that; it’ll please him.”

  “So, Holly, how can I help you?”

  “Carlos shot in here once a week.”

  “Yeah, he did. He was a good shot, too; not as good as your old man, but good.”

  “Who did he shoot with?”

  “Bunch o
f Cuban guys.”

  “You think they’d talk to me?”

  Jimmy laughed. “An Anglo female cop? Yeah, sure. That would violate four or five different kinds of macho.”

  “That’s what I figured, but maybe you can tell me what I need to know.”

  “If I can.”

  “What did Carlos fire when he came?”

  “He usually brought a forty millimeter and a Beretta.”

  “I’m firing the Beretta tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. The forty is missing; I think it might have been used to kill him.”

  “A shame about that. He had a really pretty girlfriend he brought in here once.”

  “Yeah. Did Carlos ever fire a rifle here?”

  “Sometimes he’d swap pieces with somebody. Once, he brought a twenty-two Winchester with a scope in here.”

  “How long ago?”

  “I don’t know, three, four weeks, I guess.”

  “How’d he shoot with it?”

  “Sweet, just like with everything else.”

  “Jimmy, let me ask you something entirely off the record.”

  Jimmy’s expression didn’t change, and he said nothing.

  “If Carlos wanted a silencer made for the rifle, who would he go to?”

  Jimmy didn’t move, didn’t say a word.

  31

  Holly waited him out. Jimmy stared at her for the longest moment, before he spoke.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because there are a lot of pieces to this puzzle, and if I’m going to put them all together, I’ve got to know everything. The silencer is an important piece.”

  “I might be able to arrange a brief meeting,” he said. “But no names, and when it’s over, it never happened.”

  “That’s good with me.”

  “Pour yourself another cup of coffee,” Jimmy said, getting up from his desk. “I’ll be back.” He left the office and closed the door behind him.

  Holly got up and walked around the room. There was a display of army stuff on the walls—Jimmy’s shooting qualification certificates, awards for winning competitions.

  The door opened and a man followed Jimmy into the room. Small, rat-like, nervous, he took a chair, as did Jimmy.