To Honor We Call You: A Florida Action Adventure Novel (Scott Jarvis Private Investigator Book 9)

by Scott Cook

  “Likely to smuggle dope?” I asked.

  Jeff shrugged, “Hard to say. Commercial fishermen are a tight-knit group. Then that group breaks down into its sub-groups… guides, hook and liners and of course, shrimpers. Especially shrimpers. They tend to be a bit… clannish. I haven’t been able to get much out of anybody. Nobody wants to tattle to the damned Sheriff about their friends or even competitors, frankly.”

  I grinned at that, “Yeah, I get that… I don’t suppose you know where these Morris boys live, do you, Jeff?”

  He cocked an eyebrow at me and treated me to a crooked smile, “And if I do? You gonna go over there and shake them down? Beat a confession out of them?”

  “Of course not!” I said, aghast. I batted my eyes and grinned. “I’m just a weak little girl, Mr. Sheriff, sir.”

  He laughed, “Yeah, I’ll bet. Well, I happen to know that they both live in a trailer park just up the road from Robbie’s. I’ll tell you what, lets us both go talk to them.”

  I frowned, “They might say more to me, Jeff. I’m not as threatening… and they might even open up to a woman.”

  He snorted, “No offense, Lisa… but these two fellas don’t have a good reputation when it comes to the ladies. Let’s try it my way first and see what happens.”

  I sighed. I suppose I should’ve just found out where they lived on my own. If I’d gone to this Robbie’s Marina and spoken to the dock master or maybe even Ray’s crew, I might’ve found out. Now I was going over with the damned Sheriff. If the two men were around, they’d just give the same answers they gave him before.

  Having no choice, though, I went along with him. We drove over to Stock Island and made our way onto 5th Avenue, which Jeff said also connected to Old Shrimp Road, where Robbie’s Marina was located and where the shrimp boats were moored.

  The trailer park was fairly small, with units pretty close together. There wasn’t much activity, as it was just before noon and everybody was probably at work or watching their stories or whatever folks did in a mobile home community.

  We pulled up in front of a single wide that looked to be older than I was and got out. A Ford Ranger pickup that looked a little long in the tooth sat on the parking pad next to the trailer. A rusting charcoal grill stood like a sentinel next to the three wooden steps that led up to the front… side… door.

  “Quiet around here,” Jeff commented as he led the way up the steps.

  I stood below on the concrete parking pad. There wasn’t enough room for the two of us, “Yeah… too quiet… looks like I picked the wrong week to stop sniffin’ glue.”

  He turned back to me and grinned, “Airplane! I love it… Okay, let’s see if Tom is home…”

  He knocked and rang the doorbell. We waited for ten or fifteen-seconds and he knocked again. Still nothing.

  “Hey, Morris!” Jeff called out loudly. “You home?”

  “Try the door,” I suggested.

  Jeff frowned and shrugged, “His truck is in the driveway… at least I think that’s his truck. He’s not married or anything… hmm… okay, what the hell.”

  He turned the knob and pulled the door open. I swear the entire world went silent and then there was a thunderous boom and a whoosh as Jeff’s body was propelled backward and into me and then the world really did go silent… and dark.

  13

  From the Files of the World’s Greatest Detective

  Lisa’s journal entry 2

  I don’t know how long I was knocked out. I didn’t think it was very long, but since I wasn’t wearing a watch and until I looked at my phone… which I hoped was still working… I couldn’t be sure.

  At first the only light was a vague pinkish glow. It took me a few seconds to realize that I was seeing the sunshine through my eyelids. At the same time, my apparently rattled brain began to register a pain in the back of my head and on the backs of my arms and back. I gritted my teeth and opened my eyes. The sun was still high overhead, which meant I couldn’t have been out for a long time… although it was long enough for me to have to wonder why the hell I was lying on the driveway on my back.

  I blinked a few times and sat up. I was facing the trailer. All the windows I could see had been blown out and the front door stood wide open. A set of weird smells floated around me. It was like a mixture of burnt plastic, wood and… and something cooking on a grill.

  Weird…

  Then I remembered that I hadn’t come alone. Where was the Sheriff?

  I got shakily to my feet and began to take stock of my ouchies. I guess I’d been knocked back and had scraped the backs of my arms. The back of my head hurt and I reached back and felt a wet stickiness in my hair. Not too much, though, so I didn’t freak out. Must’ve fallen and hit my head, though…

  I turned around and saw Jeff lying on the ground next to the bumper of Morris’ pickup truck. He lay on his left side and wasn’t moving. That’s when the memory of what happened came back to me.

  Jeff had knocked on the door and then he’d opened it. As soon as he did, there was this whooshing sound and… and a flash… he went flying backward and knocked into me and then everything went dark. Was it a bomb?

  That didn’t make sense, though. The trailer was fine, except for the windows…

  I rushed over and bent down to see if Jeff was all right. The back of his head was covered in blood, too. A lot more than mine. I gingerly touched his skull and it felt okay… not mushy in other words. Not sure what I should do, I ran over to the police car and started digging around. I got the trunk opened and found some supplies there, including a first aid kit and a couple of towels.

  I brought the stuff over and made a pillow of one of the towels and rolled Jeff onto his back so his bloody head rested on it. Then I pressed my index finger to his throat. He had a steady pulse and it seemed like he was breathing normally. I shook him gently.

  “Jeff… Sheriff… come on, wake up…”

  He mumbled something and groaned but his eyes didn’t open. I kept coaxing for another minute or two before his eyes fluttered open and he squinted against the sun.

  “Wha… where…”

  “We’re at Tom Morris’ trailer,” I explained. “We got knocked on our asses and knocked out. Not sure what happened.”

  “Lisa?” He asked groggily.

  “Yeah… how do you feel?”

  “Like I got hit by a truck. Back and head hurts… thirsty.”

  I got an arm under his neck and lifted him a bit. I put the open spout of my water bottle to his lips and tipped it. He took a few sips and then nodded. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself into a sitting position.

  “Here, you should take a couple of these,” I said, holding out a packet of Tylenol I’d gotten from the small first aid kit. I also pulled out a packet of medicated wipes. “This might hurt a bit…”

  He winced and took in a sharp breath when I pressed one of the cloths to his head. I tried to be as gentle as I could, wiping away the blood. There was a lot and a lot on the towel, too. I used another wipe and it wasn’t quite so red this time. I thought that was a good sign.

  “A bomb went off,” he said and then frowned. “No, not a bomb… but something blew me off that stoop. Let’s go check it out inside.”

  I helped him to his feet. He was a tall man, maybe even an inch or so taller than Scott. Thankfully not as bulky, though. We got him on his feet and it took him a few moments to steady himself.

  “Do you think you’re up to it?” I asked.

  He nodded, “I’m okay… mostly. I’m starting to have an idea of what happened. Vision’s a little blurry, though… so we’ll need your eyes. How are you doing?”

  “Okay. Don’t think I got it as bad. You must’ve flown back ten feet.”

  Once again, he led the way up the steps and into the trailer. The mix of burning smells was stronger inside. There was also a sort of… undertone… of rotten eggs. Then I saw where the grilling smell was coming from and I was almost sick.

  Lying half pr
opped up on the living room sofa were two men… or what had been two men. Most of their hair had been singed off along with most of their shirts and jeans. The exposed skin was reddened, as if they’d been badly sunburned… or partially cooked.

  “Oh, Jesus…” I said, trying not to breathe through my nose.

  “Check the door frame,” Jeff said in a flat voice. “See if there’s anything weird about it.”

  I was happy to be near the open door and the fresh air. I was even happier not to have to look at the two men, who were obviously dead. They weren’t’ badly burned, not like they’d been in a fire. They were just… singed.

  I bent down and looked closely at the frame. Sure enough, there was what looked like a piece of a sharpening stone taped to it. I pulled the door closer and saw that there was a sliver of metal taped to the edge of the door too. I closed the door and opened it again. The sliver of metal scraped on the stone and made a pretty decent sized spark.

  “Found something?” Jeff asked from the kitchen.

  “Yeah… there’s a flint and a metal striker,” I said in bewilderment. “Or at least that’s what it seems like. Like a big zippo lighter type thing.”

  “Makes sense,” Jeff said, pointing at the stove. “This trailer uses propane. All the burners and the oven were turned on high.”

  “Oh my God…” I said softly. “You mean…”

  He nodded, “Somebody filled the trailer with gas and rigged the front door. When it was pushed open, what you found would create a spark and ignite the gas. A flashover with a pressure wave but that would go out almost instantly. Or at least that’s what happened. My guess is that this was done some time ago and some of the gas leaked out. So when I opened the door, there was enough accelerant to ignite but not enough to really do full damage… thank Christ…”

  “That’s some sick ass shit,” I growled. “Who the hell would do that?”

  Jeff went over and looked more closely at the men, “Whoever killed these two. The ME will tell us more, but my thinking is that they were knocked out and then the gas killed them. Maybe they were shot, I don’t know. I’m not going to move them to find out. Okay… let’s get the hell out of here. Smells like barbequed pork in here and I don’t want to make that association any longer than I have to.”

  “Yeah…” I muttered and cringed.

  We hurried out of the trailer and made our way to his cruiser where the air was free of the horrific and disturbing mixture of scents. Jeff called in to his office and made a report and asked for Key West’s CSI team and an ambulance.

  “Let’s go take a quick peek at Earl’s place before they arrive,” He said, pointing to another mobile home a few lots down.

  We walked over and found this one closed up as well. Jeff carefully inspected the doorframe before asking me to stand back. He stood on the outside of the small railing that led up the steps to the door and slowly pulled the door open. Nothing happened.

  “Okay, follow me in but step carefully,” He said. “There could be a booby trap in here, too.”

  There wasn’t, or we didn’t find one. What we did find was a mess. It looked like a tornado had gone through the place. Every drawer from the kitchen to the bathroom to the dresser and nightstand drawers had been yanked out and spilled.

  “Somebody was looking for something,” Jeff observed. “And either they found it and were pissed off that Earl had it…”

  “Or they didn’t find it and were even more pissed off,” I said.

  I felt a cold shiver run up my spine. The scene in the trailer reminded me of what Scott and I had found in Darren West’s trailer a few months back. A whack job calling himself Shade had committed several murders and attacks in Orlando, Tampa and even in Key West. One of his victims was a guy he’d hired to deliver a message to Scott.

  Scott was editing the story and would be releasing it under the title That Way Lies Madness shortly. The similarity was unnerving but it couldn’t be Shade’s doing. That we knew for sure.

  “Whatever happened to Mark Pickett?” I asked, his name popping into my head suddenly.

  Jeff led us back outside, “After his house burned down and he got out of the hospital I think he left the Keys. His parole was up in October. I think he’d had enough of the Keys for a while. Think he’s got family in California or something. Why?”

  I shrugged, “This just… reminds me of something. That whole Shade deal.”

  The ambulance arrived and before the techs went into Tom Morris’ trailer, they gave Jeff and me a quick examination. They felt that I was okay but didn’t like the Sheriff’s pupil reactions. The lead tech thought he might have a concussion. At first he tried to wave it off but I could tell he was still a bit unsteady.

  One of the deputies drove me back to the station and I drove my rented car back toward the trailer park. I passed it by though, turning onto Shrimp Road and making my way to Robbie’s Full-Service Marina.

  After walking around and asking somebody, I found where the Rebecca D. was tied up. There was an empty slip next to her, and I figured that was probably the other shrimp boat. It must be out fishing. That was kind of weird… but then maybe not. The only reason the Rebecca D. wasn’t out was that they had no captain or first mate.

  There were four guys on deck in different stages of scruffiness. Two young black guys were painting the A-frame that supported the shrimp nets. A middle-aged white guy was standing in the open door to the pilot house smoking a cigarette. The last man, a short and wiry Hispanic looking man was doing something to the huge net that was partially sprawled on the handling deck. Probably repairing tears or something.

  “Help ya’, honey?” The dude smoking asked.

  “Yeah, I’m your new skipper,” I said just to see what they’d all do.

  The smoker threw back his head and roared with laughter. It sounded very cynical and disrespectful to me but maybe I was projecting. The two black guys looked at each other, up at the white guy and then back at me and grinned. The Hispanic man, probably Cuban only smiled at me and gave me a thumbs up.

  “That right?” the elevated man, maybe a deck boss or something, asked. “Wanna sign aboard and spend a couple of days at sea with a bunch of stinky, foul mouthed fisherman, huh? Well, from the looks of ya’, I’m sure we can find plenty for you to do!”

  That amused him even further. To their credit, the other three men didn’t join in the mirth. Not all men are pigs, thankfully.

  “I’m just yanking you’re little chain,” I replied calmly. “I work for Ray Tavares. Permission to come aboard?”

  The man, his balding head gleaming in the sunlight took a long drag from his almost burned down cig and shrugged, “Sure, just watch your step. I’m Brad Winston, deck manager. The two painters there are Eddie and Carl and the guy working on the net is Miguel.”

  I strode up the short and narrow gangplank and onto the partially rusted metal deck. The Rebecca D. was a pretty large boat. I’m not sure what the average size of a shrimp boat is, but this one was about sixty feet long. The large open after deck made up about half of her length with the big A-frame rising twenty feet over my head. To either side were large flat tables. Near the stern was a big well that was raised a little above the deck. Just below the A-frame was another well in which most of the net Miguel was working on was stored. Then there were two closed hatches forward of this. I figured that must be where the shrimp went. The work deck was maybe six feet above the waterline. A short ladder led up to the raised pilot house that overlooked the raised bow, the top of the bow bulwark maybe nine feet over the water. I guessed that the forward section below the pilothouse was the galley and sleeping quarters.

  I thought I saw a slight smile from Miguel as I strode up the gangplank and stepped over the lip of the deck without even touching the rope handrail. I headed forward and made my way up the ladder to join Brad.

  He was about five foot nine or so, strong-looking in a beefy undefined sort of way. He wore boots, jeans and a white polo shirt with the
boat’s name on it. He nodded to me as he stuck another butt in his face and torched it.

  “Name’s Lisa,” I said, sticking out a fist to be bumped.

  “Well, you’re certainly prettyin’ up my deck, Lisa,” Brad said casually. “What can I do ya’ for?”

  I tried to ignore his macho bullshit and said: “Ray Tavares hired my boyfriend and me to scope the scene in regards to what’s going on with this boat and other things.”

  Winston blew a cloud of noxious smoke through his nostrils, “You mean where he sends the Sheriff out here to search this boat for blow? How our own boss thinks we’re a bunch of smug drugglers?”

  I chuffed, “If he thought that you wouldn’t still be working, would you? I mean… the Morris brothers jumped ship but Ray is keeping you guys paid while you’re in port until he can arrange a new skipper. Doesn’t sound like he has a problem with you guys.”

  Winston shrugged, “Still, it don’t sit well. It didn’t sit well with Tom and Earl. I ain’t heard hide nor hair from them in a week now.”

  “Mr. Tavares has good reasons for his suspicions, Brad,” I said. “And after today… even more.”

  “So what’re you and your beaux? Couple of private eyes or some shit?”

  “Or some shit.”

  Winston chuckled scornfully, “Ain’t that cute. Hot little Chiquita runnin’ around the keys fighting crimes! So where’s your boyfriend, Lisa? Workin’ on his tan?”

  I glared at him, meeting his eyes and staring him down, “No, but don’t be surprised if he comes around. And I guarantee that you speak to him in the same disrespectful way you’re speaking to me and you’ll go ass over tit into the drink, wise ass. Scott Jarvis doesn’t take shit from anybody… and neither do I.”

  Winston chuckled again, “yeah, I’m shakin’ in my sea boots, darlin’.”

  “Jarvis?” I heard one of the men below mutter.