by Billy Kring
Ariel smiled at them and started to trot to the group when Denson grabbed her arm. “We have to go,” he said, trying to act natural.
Ariel slipped her arm out of his and smiled at him, “Denson, go wait on the ship, I want to visit with my fans.” She turned to the group of young people and said, “You handsome people going to wait so Rihanna can say hello?”
She smiled at them and trotted into the group, then walked with them down the rows of ships.
Marc said, “Get her.”
Denson and the other man started after her, but one of the young men, the large, muscular one, said, “Rihanna’s with us, we’ll take care of her and bring her back, no worries, brah.”
A growing crowd of young people began to gather around Ariel, who played up the Rihanna act for all she was worth. She asked, “Are all of you going on a boat?”
One of the young women said, “On two.” She pointed at two others in the group, a woman and man, “They each have one. We’re going out on Biscayne Bay. You should join us.”
The tall, muscular young man, who the others called Terry, said, “I’m going too, but I’m on a jet ski.” He grinned at Ariel, “It can hold two, if you’re interested.” Ariel smiled and said, “Sounds like a great idea.”
Denson was in a quandary. Marc started toward the group, but stopped when he saw two young police officers step near Ariel, who hugged their necks and posed for photos.
She glanced at Marc and Denson, then said to the officers, “You should go with us.”
The blond officer said, “Oh, I wish. We would, but we’re still working.”
“Are you sure?” She turned on the charm.
“They both shook their heads and said, “Duty first, but we do appreciate it.”
“Some other time,” she said, then put her hand on Terry’s nineteen-inch bicep, “The jet ski?”
Terry pointed at a new Kawasaki jet ski nearby and said, “Let’s get on the water.” They trotted to it as the other young people milled around, blocking Marc’s view. When they parted a bit, he saw Ariel and Terry sitting on the Kawasaki.
“Stop!” Marc yelled, and he and Denson hurried forward. As they came through the crowd, Marc heard the Kawasaki motor roar to life, and Terry steered away from the dock as Marc and Denson stopped five feet from the edge.
A young woman in the group said, “Don’t worry, mister, Terry’s good on that thing. He’ll bring Rihanna back safe and sound.”
Marc turned and walked down the dock when Ringo Bazin started the Bertram and waved them over. As they stepped on the boat, Marc said, “Go.” Ringo steered the Bertram out of the marina and spotted the jet ski.
It was going south, paralleling Dodge Island. He shoved the controls forward and threw Denson off balance to land on the deck. Several shouts came from other boaters for Ringo to slow down, but he ignored them.
Ariel held tight to Terry’s waist as she glanced over her shoulder and saw the Bertram coming. She recognized Marc, and felt a shiver go down her spine. She leaned forward and said in Terry’s ear, “I’d like to play a joke on my managers, if you will help me.”
Terry slowed, turned his head and asked, “Sure, Rihanna, whatever you want.”
Ariel said, “They are behind us in a boat,” Terry looked over his shoulder and saw them, and she continued, “I’m staying at the Four Seasons, and think it would be funny if you could give them the slip and drop me off so I could go to my room and wait for them there.”
“You don’t want to go out on Biscayne Bay with us?” She felt his disappointment.
She pulled his face back and kissed his cheek, “I’ll come back and make it up to all of you.”
Terry said, “Okay, let’s lose these guys.” He sped up, then steered in a long, sweeping curve toward the mainland.
Ringo cut across the curve to shorten the distance between them, putting a strain on the Bertram’s hull. Marc thought he heard a groan in the motor. Ringo clenched his teeth, leaving his face in a grimace. He wanted Baimby, wanted her throat in his hands.
Terry saw what Ringo planned, and he said, “Hold on.” Spinning the jet ski in a tight one-eighty, Terry pointed them toward the north end of Brickell Key and pushed the Kawasaki to top speed. Ariel felt them skim across the water’s surface, almost as if they were about to fly away.
Ringo worked the larger boat to follow them, but had to cut back on speed to gain control. Denson said, “Damn her!” Ringo looked at him as if he was an insect. Denson averted his eyes and concentrated on the jet ski. Ringo accelerated again and saw they were gaining, and fast. He saw the young man look over his shoulder, and Ringo imagined what the young man’s face would look like when Bazin ran over the jet ski and the Bertram’s propellers ripped into him.
Ariel gripped Terry’s waist and said, they are very close.”
Terry said, “We’ll be all right. I may have to turn fast, so hold on tight.” He rounded the northeast corner of Brickell Key and steered toward the mouth of the Miami River, which had boat traffic coming out of it. A large white Hatteras equipped and rigged for deep sea fishing sailed from the river’s mouth as Terry nudged the jet ski slightly right to pass very close on the boat’s starboard side.
Bazin saw the move and nudged the Bertram left, staying on the jet ski’s tail. He was ten feet behind them. Soon he would put the bow of his boat right on top of them.
The Hatteras blew its horn and people tried to wave the approaching vessels away, but both came on at high speed.
Terry slid by the Hatteras so closely that the jet ski leaped into the air when hitting the small bow wave of the slow moving vessel. They landed twenty feet later, and Terry fought to keep control. Ariel’s heart beat so fast she could hear it in her ears, and the large boat beside them was close enough for her to touch.
Just as they passed the stern, Terry worked the jet ski into an abrupt left turn that threw an arc of water twenty feet high as they shot across the Hatteras’ wake, narrowly avoiding entering the mouth of the Miami River and a smaller boat immediately behind the Hatteras. Terry glanced behind them, then patted Ariel’s leg and steered the Kawasaki south, paralleling the Florida shoreline on the right and Brickell Key on the left.
Terry’s acrobatic move surprised Bazin and he missed the chance to cut behind the Hatteras to give chase, especially because of the smaller boat right behind it. He was in the Miami River now, so he cut his speed and let the Bertram settle in the water. He glanced at Marc, who said, “Don’t stop. Get them.”
Turning in a slow circle, he took the Bertram out of the river mouth and steered in the direction he last saw Ariel going.
Marc called on his phone, “Get to Brickell Key Drive and watch for a jet ski going under it heading south.” Someone said something back to him and he replied, “Don’t lose sight of them. We’re coming.” He said to Bazin, “Did you get the registration number?”
“Yes. I will take care of things.”
Terry steered the Kawasaki under the Brickell Key Drive road and continued south, hugging the shore. He asked Ariel, “Those guys weren’t your managers. They were mad.”
“It’s complicated baby, but you were magnificent. If you will put me ashore just beyond Point View where it curves into shore, it’s an easy walk to the Four Seasons.”
Terry nodded and slowed the Kawasaki. He turned to look at her and grinned, “Kinda exciting, wasn’t it?”
Ariel said, “It was every bit of that, my bae.”
Terry followed the curve around Point View to where Brickell Bay Drive ended at Southeast Fifteenth Road, and eased the jet ski sideways to a small dock. Ariel stepped to it, then leaned down and kissed Terry on the lips, holding it for a good fifteen seconds. When she raised, Ariel said, “I will make it up to you.”
Terry said, “You just did, Rihanna. Wait until I tell everybody!” He gave her a short wave, turned the Kawasaki away from the dock and accelerated steadily, going south across the clear green water of Biscayne Bay.
Ariel
walked to Brickell Bay Road and crossed at the crosswalk, going through the parking area of the Costa Bella condos where the pavement radiated the sun’s heat like a blast furnace through her shoes. She angled across it toward the tall beauty of the Four Seasons skyscraper.
As she started across Fourteenth, Ariel stopped on the curb. A man driving by thought she looked troubled and deep in thought, but he didn’t stop to offer help, he was late for a vodka martini at The Edge, the Four Seasons bar.
Ariel looked around, but there was no traffic or pedestrians in sight. The feeling she had was like an ocean swimmer glimpsing a large, dark shadow in the water and watching it turn and come their way. She ran. They were close, she could feel them. Dessaline was coming, and Bazin. She ran up fourteenth, then went left to race across fifteenth, dodging traffic as she heard a car engine suddenly surge in power and come her way. An opening to the left appeared and she sprinted through it, glancing back to see Dessaline in the Mercedes, coming fast.
An opening across Brickell Avenue appeared to her right, so she took it, crossing the Avenue and cutting into shrubbery and trees on the west side, snaking through yards and alleys among small apartment complexes and working her way further away from the ocean. She worked her way through a grove of trees and emerged by a street sign that read: South Miami Ave.
Across the street was Simpson Park, famed as the last tiny vestige of native hardwood hammock in the Miami area. It was thick with trees of all sizes, she knew. Ariel glanced left and right on the street, then crossed into the deep shade of the tall trees. Glancing behind while hiding behind a tree trunk, she watched the Mercedes cruise slowly by, with Dessaline driving.
Bazin was not in the car.
Ariel’s breath caught in her throat. Ringo Bazin was crossing the street and coming toward Simpson Park. A walking path was ahead, with a sign that read: ATTENTION!! Beware of trip hazards. She took it at a fast walk, checking behind frequently for Bazin. The trail meandered under the trees and came near the road at another parking area in the midst of thick undergrowth and tall shade trees. There were no cars in the lot. As a sedan drove by, Ariel recognized the Miami Detectives Hale and Coda, and she waved them to her, glancing around for any sign of her pursuer.
Jason Hale was driving, and he pulled into the small lot, then opened the driver’s door and stepped out as Ariel hurried to them. She went to the passenger side to open the rear door behind Jesse Coda. Both detectives had their attention on Ariel.
Bazin materialized out of the brush and hit the open driver’s side door, pinning the detective and crushing him against the car frame. Bazin touched a silencer-equipped .22 pistol to Jason’s head and worked the trigger twice, producing two almost simultaneous coughing sounds. Jason’s body dropped and Ringo dropped with it to a half-squat, shooting through the open driver’s window into Jesse Coda in the passenger’s seat. The first shot hit him in the left cheek while Jesse was drawing his pistol, and the second and third shots put two small, red holes above the detective’s right eyebrow.
It happened so fast that Ariel froze, and then it was too late to run. Bazin had the pistol pointed at her as he came around the car to grab her bicep in a grip so strong it cut off the blood supply to her arm. She felt her hand rapidly going numb.
Bazin put the pistol in his belt, then called on his phone and told Dessaline where they were. The Mercedes appeared in less than a minute and slid into the parking space beside the sedan.
Ariel fought as Bazin pushed her into the back seat of the Mercedes. As she started to scream, Dessaline punched her in the temple and she slid to the floorboard, unconscious. He then turned to Ringo and said, “Who?”
Bazin said, “They are detectives.”
“Quick and Ishtee?”
“No, from Miami.”
“Are they dead?”
“Hale is. Coda will be in a minute or two. He’s fighting it.”
Dessaline reached under the dash of the Mercedes and pushed a small button. A hidden compartment popped open and he pulled out a small baggie containing an ounce of cocaine. He handed it to Bazin.
Ringo took the baggie, looked around for any people in the park or nearby, saw no one, and walked to Jesse Coda. He spotted a small paper trash sack in the rear of the detective’s sedan and opened it. Empty hamburger wrappers and two small paper cups with lids and straws were also inside. Ringo took one of the straws.
He reached in and tilted Jesse’s head back, then opened the baggie, put the straw inside and tapped in a small amount of cocaine in one end. Putting that end of the straw in Jesse’s nose, Ringo puffed on the other end, sending the cocaine into Jesse’s sinus cavities.
He did the same to the other nostril, then opened Jesse’s mouth and rubbed a final small amount on the dying man’s gums. Then he took Jesse’s finger and touched it to the white powder, then his mouth to leave a trace of cocaine on the man’s finger.
With Jason Hale already dead, Ringo put a small amount on his gums, and on his finger, then the baggie in his pocket. The cocaine might dissolve enough to show up on a pathology test even with no blood circulation, he thought. If not, the baggie in Hale’s pocket would be enough to show a drug deal gone badly, with the detectives as the dealers. Shaw’s pathology test would show cocaine in his system, because the man hadn’t died yet.
Ringo glanced at the older detective and saw he’d stopped breathing. It had been enough time, he thought. Shaw had taken enough breaths for it to show.
He got into the Mercedes. Dessaline backed out and left. The entire incident had taken four minutes.
As they drove on South Miami Avenue, Ringo said, “I need to take care of one last thing.”
“The muscular one?”
“Yes, he degraded me with his actions.”
“Make certain you are not seen.”
“No one will see me.”
Marc said, “When you’re through, call and I will send someone for you.” Ringo nodded, and Marc dropped him off near the marina.
Marc continued north, merged onto US One and passed through the suburbs of Miami all the way to Pembroke Pines and Jean Claude Villard’s home.
Villard had the garage door open when Marc arrived, and he drove the Mercedes inside. Jean Claude closed the door, then helped Marc remove Ariel’s limp body from the back seat. Jean Claude asked, “Where is Bazin?”
“On the water.”
Biscayne Bay was the color of lime jello and smooth as glass. Ringo Bazin idled the Bertram and used his Zeiss binoculars to scan the many boats at play on the water. A large group of them clustered together in one spot, and he took his time identifying each one while searching for the person who rescued Ariel from under his nose.
Several of the women were drunk, or perhaps stoned. They cavorted on several of the decks, dancing and stumbling around. One took off her bikini top, a nice looking brunette, Ringo thought, but no more than fifteen or sixteen. Several other women took off their tops, and they were older. A few were exceptionally endowed.
He found the one he searched for just south of Point West on Key Biscayne, not far from the topless women at the party.
Three hours later, he was in Pembroke Pines, walking into the home of Jean Claude Villard.
Chapter 9
Ariel sat in a wooden chair in the living room. One arm was zip-tied to an armrest as Marc and the others talked at the kitchen table. Denson left her the channel changer, and she put it on the local news to see if any witnesses saw Ringo shooting the detectives, but instead, a reporter standing by the ocean pointed at something, and the camera panned to show a mangled jet ski. Ariel’s heart caught in her throat.
The reporter said, “Terry Groen, star sophomore linebacker for the University of Miami football team was killed in a nautical accident while riding his jet ski on Biscayne Bay. There were no witnesses, although several friends had noticed Mr. Groen was missing, and later found his body. Initial reports indicate a boat struck him and Mr. Groen went into the propellers.”
“Turn it off,” Ringo said. Ariel wiped her eyes with the one free hand, and then muted it, watching and hoping. “Turn it off,” Ringo said again. Ariel did, but not before she glimpsed the start of the next story: an image of the Miami Detectives’ sedan, circled by yellow crime scene tape, sitting in Simpson Park.
~*~
Hunter put the last bite of lobster in her mouth when her phone rang. She chewed fast, looked at the caller ID and answered, still chewing, “What’s up Andre?”
“Turn on the news, right now.”
She pantomimed to Randall to turn on the TV. He reached for the channel changer. Then she said, “What is it?”
“Jason Hale and Jesse Coda were murdered.”
“What?”
“Down in Simpson Park in Miami. Call me back after you watch it.” He hung up just as the television picture appeared. She, John, and Randall watched the screen, seeing the yellow tape, the sedan, and a reporter standing at the rear of the sedan talking. When she finished with, “We will have more on this evolving story in our ten o’clock news.”
Randall muted the sound but left on the television, and flipped through the other local channels to catch their take on the story, but all the stations had moved to the next topic. He said, “They were good guys.”
The vein on John’s temple pulsed, and Hunter knew he was angry, and not just a little bit. John said, “I’m gonna make a call, see if anybody in Miami will fill us in on what they’re not showing on the news.” He left the table and walked outside as he dialed.
Randall and Hunter watched him through the glass. John wore an old Dolphins tee shirt and frayed shorts. Randall said, “Known him all my life, but when he gets like this...”
Hunter said, “How long did you two know them?”
“We’ve been good friends with Jesse for ten years. Not real long with Jason, because he was new on the force, maybe a couple years. He was all right, too.”
Hunter glanced through the window at John, “I’ll bet his blood pressure could blow the bulb out of a thermometer right now.”
