Fatal Decree

by H. Terrell Griffin

  The street was deserted, no one outside. The houses on one side of the street, the side I lived on, backed up to the bay, which could be seen through the gaps between the houses. What the hell were they up to? I stood and watched for a couple of beats and pulled out my cell phone. I called J.D. “There’re a couple of gangbangers parked just down from my house. Probably Guatemalans.”

  “Call Jock. It’s his case.”

  I cut her off, slamming the phone shut. I was about tired of her pissy moods. I knew she was stressed. People were trying to kill her and there was apparently a Guatemalan gang trying to take out citizens on her island and a government agency that was pulling strings and screwing up her investigations. But I was getting pretty damn tired of her sarcasm.

  I dialed 911 and identified myself. “There is a strange car with a couple of odd-looking people parked just down from my house. Can you send a police car to check on it?”

  “How do you mean ‘odd’?” she asked.

  “Like they don’t belong here. They’re not islanders.”

  “I’m dispatching now.”

  I thanked her and hung up. Nothing gets the Longboat Key authorities’ attention more quickly that a complaint about someone on the island who doesn’t belong. Somebody’s hackles rise, cops come, and IDs get checked. The uninvited and unwanted visitor gets the hint and leaves. It may seem a bit heavy-handed, but it makes us safer and the citizens never complain.

  My phone chirped out the first bars of The Girl from Ipanema, J.D.’s special ring. I ignored it. It occurred to me that I’d never done that before. It took less than three minutes for the cop car to turn onto my street. I waved him down and leaned in the window.

  “What’ve you got, Matt?” asked the officer, a man I’d known for several years.

  “Not sure, Dean. There’re a couple of guys in that lowrider parked up there who I think might be Guatemalan gangbangers. From the same bunch who tried to take J.D. and me out downtown last week. I didn’t want to walk into some kind of trap.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “No.”

  He looked at me, taking in my running shorts and T-shirt, chuckled and said, “Guess not.”

  “Dean,” I said, “if those guys are who I think they are, you’re going to need some backup out here.”

  He was punching data into the computer attached to his dashboard. In a moment, the screen filled with words. He looked for an instant and then said, “The car’s registered to somebody named Miguel Malindez in Tampa. Mean anything to you?”

  I shook my head as he keyed his microphone and called for another patrolman. He listened and said, “Rory’s on her way. She’ll come in from the other side and block the car.”

  Dean got out of the cruiser and stood talking to me, watching the lowrider. If the occupants saw us, they ignored us. In a couple of minutes, another cruiser turned the corner, coming from the opposite direction, and stopped, blocking the street.

  I heard a car rounding the corner behind us, turned, and saw J.D.’s Camry coming up the street. She stopped and got out, walked over to us. “Sorry, Matt,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “Beats me,” I said, shrugging.

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  “I heard you,” I said, my voice flat.

  Dean used the microphone in the cruiser to activate the loudspeaker. “Get out of the car, hands in the air,” he said, the sound reverberating about the neighborhood. I saw the curtains in a nearby house move, an anxious neighbor wondering what was going on. Nothing happened.

  Dean tried again, this time in Spanish. That worked. The doors on either side of the car opened, and two small men emerged, their hands in the air. “Do you speak English?” Dean asked.

  The two men shook their heads, looks of bewilderment on their faces. Dean looked at me. “I used all the Spanish I know getting them out of the car.”

  “What do you usually do if you can’t communicate?” I asked.

  “We take them to the station and put them in a holding cell until we can get a Spanish speaker to help out.”

  “I’d think that might raise some civil rights issues.”

  “We’ve never had a complaint,” Dean said, grinning.

  “What’s up?” Jock said. I jumped, startled by the voice behind me. I turned to see him standing at the rear bumper of the patrol car. None of us had heard him walk up.

  “You scared the shit out of me,” I said.

  He laughed. “Hey, J.D, Dean.”

  J.D. nodded.

  “Jock,” Dean said. “Matt thinks those guys might be Guatemalan gangbangers, but they don’t speak English, so I’ll have to take them in.”

  “Let me talk to them,” said Jock.

  “You speak Spanish?” asked Dean.

  “Some,” Jock said and walked toward the lowrider, speaking in rapid Spanish. Dean and I followed. I could see that the other cop had moved closer to the gangbangers, her pistol held casually down by her leg.

  As we caught up, Jock said, “They say they were just riding around. Went to Coquina Beach and decided to see what Longboat was all about.”

  “Ask them what they’re doing parked on this street,” I said.

  Jock spoke some more Spanish, then turned to me. “Says they were just enjoying the day and the view of the bay.”

  “Tell them I need to see some ID,” said Dean. Jock translated.

  They pulled out their wallets, extracted two laminated cards each, and handed them to Dean. “Driver’s licenses and green cards,” Dean said. “They may be fake, probably are, but I can’t hold them to find out. Got to let them go. No law against looking at the bay.”

  “I’ll bet dollars to donuts that there are weapons in that car,” I said.

  “I don’t have probable cause to search it,” said Dean.

  “You can if they agree to it,” I said.

  “Jock,” Dean said, “ask them if I can search their car.”

  Jock let go with the Spanish again. When he finished, the gangbangers just shook their heads. “Okay,” said Dean. “Jock, tell them they can go about their business.”

  Jock translated and the little dark-skinned men got back in the car, cranked up the music, and drove off, the deep bass sound hanging in the still air. The female cop in the other cruiser waved, got in her car, and pulled out.

  “Sorry, Matt,” said Dean, “but you know the law better than I do.”

  I nodded. “You did the right thing. We’ll have to keep our eyes open. I don’t think those guys just happened to pick this street to park on.”

  “I don’t either,” said Dean as he folded himself into his car. “Take it easy, guys.”

  Jock, J.D., and I stood on the sidewalk and watched one of the village peacocks amble down the street. He was serene and confident that no car would dare run over him. He strutted a little, his long tail feathers dragging the road. “We should’ve shot the little bastards,” Jock said.

  “You shoot one of those birds and the cops will drag your ass to the county jail quicker than you can say ‘peacock,’” I said.

  “I was talking about the gangbangers.”

  “That wouldn’t be nearly as serious. Probably treat it as an infraction or something.”

  “You going for a run?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Keep your head down. Those guys might be back.” He headed for my house, walking at a fast clip.

  “Matt,” said J.D, “say something.”

  “Okay. We have a lot to sort out, but your acting like a spoiled child isn’t helping. And it’s sure as hell not like you.”

  “You’re right. I’m not sure what the problem is. I’ve been out of sorts lately.”

  “Out of sorts? You’ve been mean as a snake.”

  “Okay. Mean, I guess. Can we just start the day over? Forget my acting crazy?”

  I smiled. “Sure.”

  “Are we okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll make this up to you.” />
  “How?”

  She gave me the big one, that smile that lights up the dark and turns her face into a vision of beauty that, like Marlowe’s Helen of Troy, could launch a thousand ships. “We’ll see,” she said.

  I nodded and headed for the beach, my heart pumping so fast it took my breath away.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  The day that had started so well had taken an ominous turn. The gangbangers in the lowrider had put a chill in my spine, an omen perhaps of a day that would get worse. The warmth of the Florida autumn should have made for a pleasant run on the beach, but I turned left at Gulf of Mexico Drive. Even in the best of weather the beaches of Longboat Key are sparsely populated. A few sun worshipers, walkers, joggers, surf fishermen, and the occasional cop on an all-terrain vehicle could usually be found, all enjoying the day in some fashion. But the beach was not a place for a man who felt hunted. It was relatively deserted.

  I kept to the sidewalk, jogging at a steady pace. The two-lane Gulf of Mexico Drive was the only road that ran the ten-mile length of the island. Traffic was fairly heavy, the snowbirds slipping back to the key and starting the winter season a little early. It was a time the locals looked forward to with a kind of welcoming trepidation, enjoying the energy infused into island life by our friends from the north, but dreading the consequences. The restaurants and bars would be crowded, the traffic impossible. By Easter, when most of them left, we were happy to ease back into the quiet life of summer on the barrier islands, when the roads were clear, the restaurants and bars empty, and the locals came out like bears emerging from hibernation.

  I didn’t think I was in any danger. The sidewalk was full of people enjoying the weather, walking, riding bikes, and jogging. The traffic alone would be enough to scare off the predators. The gangbangers were looking for Jock, so there was no reason for me to be concerned about them. Still, the flicker of cold dread would not leave my spine.

  I had run about a mile and was nearing the intersection of Gulf of Mexico Drive and Dream Island Road when I saw the lowrider out of the corner of my eye. It was driving slowly south, coming from behind me. The left blinker winked as the driver pulled out of traffic, turning left onto Dream Island Road. He stopped, blocking the sidewalk where it crossed Dream Island. The driver’s-side window slid down and I could see the dark-skinned man behind the wheel. He was staring at me. I had no place to go. An impenetrable eight-foot hedge of sea grape trees blocked me to my left. If I ran to my right, I’d be in traffic. My only recourse was to turn and run the other way. That wasn’t going to happen. Never let the bastards see fear. It only encourages them. Jock had taught me that lesson.

  I decided to keep running, right at the car. I’d swerve around its rear and continue. If they made any move to get out of the car, I’d run into the Cannons Marina property that took up the other side of the intersection. New boats were arrayed over the lot facing the main drag. I didn’t think they’d follow. Too many people and a lot of boats to hide behind. The owner, Dave Miller, probably wouldn’t like it if any of his new boats got shot up, but I figured he had insurance. And better his boats than my hide.

  The car was perhaps thirty yards from me. I picked up speed, running directly at it. The driver raised his hand and pointed a finger at me. He pantomimed the pull back on the hammer and then the pull on the trigger. I was getting close and I wondered if his next move would produce a real pistol. It didn’t matter. I was committed.

  I was more worried about the passenger. He could easily shoot me in the back as I passed them and ran toward the marina boat lot. The more I thought about that, the more real the possibility seemed. I was seriously considering changing course and darting into traffic. I’d rather be killed by an ancient Michigander in a Chrysler than some gangbanger in a low rider.

  As I was about to make my move, a car coming down Dream Island Road came to a stop at the intersection. The Mercedes SUV was between the gangbangers and me. The right side window of the Mercedes glided down and I saw the familiar face of Billy Gallagher grinning at me. Billy was from Vermont and I hadn’t seen him since he’d left the island in May. “Need a lift?” he asked. He was kidding. He always told me that my exercise regimen was using up heartbeats so fast that I would very soon make a healthy-looking corpse.

  I rushed his car, grabbed the door handle, swung the door open and jumped in. “Go,” I said. “Quick. Get us the hell out of here.”

  Billy didn’t quibble. He slammed down the accelerator and turned right onto Gulf of Mexico Drive. “What’s up?” he asked as we headed north.

  “I think those guys in that car next to you were trying to kill me.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing I can put my finger on. When did you get back?”

  “Yesterday. Why would somebody be trying to kill you?”

  “It’s probably nothing, Billy. Sometimes my imagination gets the better of me.”

  “You want me to drop you at your house?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah. Welcome back.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been here less than two days and I’ve had more excitement than I did all summer in Quechee. I hope you’re not going to keep this up all winter.”

  When I walked in the door of my cottage, I heard the shower running in Jock’s room. I grabbed a cold Miller Lite out of the refrigerator and sat on the patio enjoying the beer and the light breeze blowing from the north. I finished the beer and got another. I was puzzled by the events of the morning. We had all assumed that the gangbangers were after Jock, but if that were so, why were they stalking me? It didn’t make much sense, but then violence seldom does.

  Jock came out and took a seat. “You’re back early. Short run?”

  I told him about the gangbangers. “They seem to be after me. Today was some kind of warning, I guess, but why warn me if they’re trying to kill you? Why not just shoot me?”

  He chewed on that for a couple of beats. “They were trying to rattle you,” he said, “but I don’t see the connection. If the Guatemalans are involved in the leaks in my agency, why come after you? If they’re somehow involved with the whale tail bunch, why kill Gene?”

  “Maybe we’re still dealing with only one thing. The whale tail folks may want me because they think I killed Qualman. Maybe they ran out of people and hired the gangbangers to take me out.”

  “What about Gene?”

  “Could he have been a loose end somehow? We’re pretty sure that Nell was picked at random by Qualman, but maybe Gene knew something or they thought he did, and they decided to take him out.”

  “Could be,” said Jock. “But we still have the Guatemalan connection to the Mexican drug cartel that our people were trying to infiltrate.”

  “All you really have there is that one agent’s body was dropped off in Guatemala and that the cartel uses the Guatemalan gangbangers for some of their work.”

  “Don’t forget that Gene had come across something important enough for him to get the director to fly down to discuss it. And his laptop was taken by the murderer.”

  “That could be just a crime of opportunity,” I said. “The killer saw the laptop and figured he could make a few bucks off it.”

  “Maybe,” said Jock, “but my gut tells me there’s more to this. I think it’s about time to speak to the earless guy.”

  “How’re you going to get to him without blowing Suarez’s cover? If the gangbangers even suspect he or someone on his crew is talking, the whole crew will be killed.”

  “I’ve given that some thought,” he said. “I wonder if David Sims would help.”

  Sims was a Manatee County sheriff’s detective who was a friend of ours. “Probably,” I said. “What do you have in mind?”

  He outlined the plan. It sounded pretty good. Not great, but workable.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  J.D. called mid-afternoon. “We’re making progress on the Glades connections.”
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  “What did you find?” I asked.

  “Steve Carey has been working on it. He set up a computer program that will help put all the connections together.”

  “I didn’t know he could do that.”

  “Me neither. I thought he spent all his time off playing golf.”

  “What did he come up with?” I asked.

  “Maybe a lot. Maybe nothing. I’ve got a spreadsheet if you want to look at it.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll come over. Is now a good time?”

  The three of us, Jock, J.D., and I, were sitting at my dining room table, Steve’s spreadsheet in front of us. It wasn’t a spreadsheet that looked like anything I’d ever seen. It certainly wasn’t something dreamed up by Microsoft. There were little boxes with names printed in them and lines running from one box to another, some lines crisscrossing others. The box in the middle had a name printed in it. Jeff Worthington.

  J.D. pointed at Worthington’s box. “If we start here, we see a line intersecting with Pete Qualman, the man Jock killed in the Lazy Lobster parking lot. We can also see the people he shared cells with or was close to according to the warden down there. This line runs to Fred Bagby, the man who knifed me. Worthington is the only inmate named Jeff who was connected to Bagby and Qualman at Glades. These other people were friends or cellmates of one or all of the first three. The strange thing is that not one of these people seem to have been connected to the Miami whale tail killer. The timing doesn’t match. Either the men were too young at the time of the murders or they were already incarcerated.”

  “Did you arrest any of the men on the sheet?” asked Jock.

  “Three of them. But they’re all dead. Two were released and died while on parole and one died in prison. Only one of them was in for a violent crime.”

  “I’d think the fact that all three of them are dead would have some significance,” I said.

  J.D. nodded. “Normally, that would be true. But the two who died while on parole were both natural deaths. One died of cancer and the other of a gunshot to the head.”