Solomon's Compass

by Carol Kilgore

  He didn’t drive far.

  Ahead on the right, a Bud sign called his name. His body was adjusting to the time change, and tomorrow he should be a hundred percent, but today it was halfway on Helsinki time. Which would put him around . . . Buenos Aires or Rio time. Perfect for a drink. He parked in the shade of a massive tree. Kelly should be in Houston waiting for her connecting flight. Since he hadn’t heard from her or his mom, his dad must be holding his own.

  Jake cut the engine. The frame building looked different from taverns in Brooklyn, and certainly different from those in Helsinki, but beer signs were the same the world over. And his dad had told him about Lulu’s.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Rankin’s place stood across two empty fields, and Taylor sat in a swing on the back porch, keeping it in motion with her foot. Jake walked into the roadhouse, his smile growing. He’d expected a minimum of two televisions mounted at each end of the bar and loud country music from a jukebox. Instead, one large flat screen stared out from above a pool table, and opera flowed from hidden speakers.

  Behind the bar, a mountain of a woman towered at least six feet. Her bright red Hawaiian muumuu didn’t camouflage much of her three hundred or so pounds. “Whatcha havin’, hon?” Her gravelly voice told of years of smoke, either first- or second-hand.

  “Bud’s fine. Bottle. I’ll open it.”

  She nodded and set the bottle atop a napkin on the polished bar. “You want a tab?”

  He handed her a ten. “No, but I’ll take another one in a few.”

  “Thanks.” She pressed a key on an antique cash register that sat on the back counter and placed the bill inside the drawer. A thick gray braid traveled the length of her spine.

  “Are you Lulu?” He twisted off the cap.

  She held out her arms. “Every last bit of me.” She laid his change on the counter in front of him.

  “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Jake.”

  “New York?”

  He nodded. “You a native here?”

  “Born and bred. Lotsa bread.” She laughed and patted her stomach.

  “I’ll bet you knew Randy Rankin.”

  Lulu crossed her arms, and they rested on her breasts. “Did you?”

  “We served in Nam together.”

  She pulled up a pair of glasses he hadn’t noticed hanging from a gold chain around her neck. After setting them on her nose, she focused on his face. This was do-or-die time. If he couldn’t sell the charade to Lulu, he’d have to fess up and toss his dad’s plan out the window.

  “You don’t look old enough to have been in Vietnam. Your hair’s silver as moonlight, but your face, eyes? No.”

  “I was seventeen.”

  “Oh, hell. You were a damn baby.” She removed the glasses.

  “Not after growing up on the streets of Brooklyn.” He held his breath.

  “Your eyes tell me you don’t take crap from anybody, but I wouldn’t peg you earlier than Desert Storm.”

  He slugged half the beer. He’d been at Annapolis in Desert Storm.

  “Except for the beer. I haven’t seen that in a long time. In the future, I’ll try to remember not to open them for you, but you’ve no worries here. I keep a safe bar.”

  His dad said the beer would cement the deal. Back then, water was bad, liquor was worse, and there was no way to tell what would be in a beer bottle if it came to you open. “Good to know. Randy told me he used to come over here every day for beer and nachos. Extra jalapeños and pico. Said yours were the best in town.”

  “Closest, anyway. He was a steady customer right up to the end.”

  “I know he had some trouble, but he didn’t say how bad. Said he could handle it.”

  Lulu lowered her head and moved it from side to side. “One day the same old Randy trotted through that door. The next, paranoia dragged him around by the short hairs. He thought somebody was out to kill him. I never saw anything like it.”

  “Told me much the same. Said it was a Charlie Foxtrot, and he couldn’t even trust the police. I guess he trusted you.”

  She shrugged. “We thought he’d floated ’round the bend—all he could talk about was somebody trying to kill him. And there’s no need to be politically correct on my account. If I’d never heard of a clusterfuck by now, it’s high time I did.”

  Jake downed a swig of beer. “The police ruled his death accidental.”

  Lulu rolled her eyes. “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

  “Randy talk about who he thought might want him dead?”

  Lulu shook her head. “He suspected everyone he knew and everyone he met. The sad part is we didn’t help him. I’ll always regret not helping him.” Pain glittered in her eyes.

  “He was a proud son of a bitch. He wouldn’t have let you help.”

  “You got that right.”

  “I like you, Lulu. You appreciate where I’m coming from. And where I’ve been.”

  “I like you, too. As long as you pay.”

  He held his beer in both hands. “Money always talks.”

  Taylor climbed the three steps to Randy’s back porch. No one ever used the front door, and now she’d never know why. Her hand shook as she inserted the key. “Okay, Randy. Ready or not, here I come.”

  She turned the key and pushed open the back door. A wave of heat washed over her, and sweat popped out on her forehead. She didn’t believe the sight before her. “Holy Mother of God.”

  From one side of the room to the other, the room was covered—on the kitchen table, on chairs, counters, floor—in junk. Rusty tools, a generator, life vests, a row of blenders. Non-marine items she couldn’t identify. She craned her neck to the left to peer down the hall. Everywhere. Piled high. Her heart sank. Ten days wasn’t enough time to get through the house, much less the shop. What had Randy been thinking? Had he been thinking?

  The air stunk. “It must be a hundred degrees in here.” She used a box to prop open the door.

  Randy had installed a central air system after a storm wrecked his window units. She dropped her tote by the door, followed a narrow trail to the hall, and pushed the thermostat to the bottom. Nothing happened.

  “Shit!”

  The electric company had assured her the power would be on. The breakers must be off. The box was in the kitchen. She’d gotten in trouble more than once for playing with the switches. Now a pyramid of rusty metal and plastic hid it from view.

  A couple of crew members would come in handy right about now, but wishing wouldn’t get the job done. She took a deep breath of stuffy air and slid a stack of life rings over the threshold to the porch. After ten minutes of moving items to the porch, she climbed over the remaining pile to reach the panel.

  “You better be wired up, you bastard.” She flipped every switch. The air conditioner came on, and from somewhere a radio played George Strait singing about his exes in Texas.

  Her phone rang. The Bixby people—her trash bin would arrive the following morning instead of this afternoon due to trouble with the truck. Wonderful. Just frigging wonderful. Her insides knotted up. What else could happen? She went to the porch, closing the door behind her to let the house cool, and plopped into the old swing. Please God, don’t let the wood be rotten.

  The movement of the swing and the breeze it created soothed her frazzled nerves. She leaned back and closed her eyes. With all the junk inside the house, she couldn’t finish the job this trip. One day wouldn’t make a difference. She’d fill up one bin and call it quits. Clean and paint empty rooms. Finish the house on her next leave. Tackle the first of the salvage shop on a later trip. Not her first choice, but it was the best she could do. Closure would have to wait.

  The creech of chain against the swing’s hinges continued to soothe her. A plan. A different plan from the one she’d arrived with, but a solid plan, nonetheless. Not one foot inside the shop on this trip. Otherwise she’d make herself sick over what she couldn’t accomplish.

  Her chin bounced against her chest, and sh
e jerked upright. Soothing nerves was good. Taking a nap was out of the question. Besides, she needed to find Randy’s belt and put it in her tote before it got mixed in with everything else. She jumped up and went inside.

  Another George Strait song came on—this time he wanted to dance with her. At least she had music.

  Jake left Lulu’s, confirmed Taylor’s car was still at Rankin’s, and returned to the hotel. In his room he grabbed cameras from his portable equipment locker and the key card Kelly had provided. Taylor’s room was located diagonally across the hall from his, and he was back in his room less than five minutes after leaving it. Her room was now equipped with the same camera setup as his own. He didn’t enjoy invading her privacy, but she was his mission. In this case, the end definitely justified the means.

  He settled in to reread the information Kelly had sent during the few weeks she’d been involved in the operation. In addition to background items and interviews, she’d provided every evaluation Taylor received during her seventeen-year Coast Guard career. He hadn’t asked how she managed those.

  Jake believed in preparation. Because anything could happen on an op, it was important to have as much raw intel as possible. The more he knew, the better he could do his job. Learning about the asset—in this case Taylor—was the best way to predict her reactions both to everyday and unexpected situations.

  As an ensign, Taylor had overstepped her bounds left and right, resulting in fitness reports lower than they would have been otherwise. His had been the same way. Over the next few years, she mellowed a little. It had taken him more than half his career to reach that point. With her second marking period after graduate school, she began to shine. He didn’t know what motivated her, but she would make captain and be a good one, despite her early aggressiveness. Her eyes said she hadn’t conquered all her demons yet. Most likely, she slayed a new one with each promotion. He could relate to that.

  His eyelids kept closing. He stretched and did a few sets of crunches. Anything to stay awake. No nap. Tonight he’d go to bed early and make the final push into Texas time.

  Next came his notes on the murders of his father’s friends. He scanned through details he’d previously highlighted. Almost twenty years earlier, the first Compass Point died—Ham Norberg hanged himself. Eight years later, the second—Kyle Easley—was murdered. His dad hadn’t been suspicious or connected their deaths. He’d just mourned the losses of the men, two of his Coast Guard friends from Vietnam.

  Five more years passed before the next murder—Ed Wharton. Ed’s murder tripped his dad’s alarm bells. He reviewed the details of the first two deaths and became convinced a killer was stalking the Compass Points. He’d warned Randy Rankin, but it hadn’t done any good. In his usual way, his dad tried to do everything himself, trusting no one and nothing except his gut. Three years after Ed Wharton was shot and killed, Randy Rankin was dead.

  His phone rang—Kelly. “You must be over the Mississippi about now.”

  “I don’t know. My so-called great flight out of Houston got canceled. I sprung for a private one.”

  “Good decision. You’ll get to the hospital quicker in the long run.”

  “Good chance. Anyway, I’ve been working.”

  “How are you secure at thirty thousand feet?”

  “You have zero faith. I’m hitching a ride on an über-secure Feddie satellite.”

  “Jesus H.” He bounded out of the chair. “Dad will have your ass and mine, too, if—”

  “Zero. Faith. Trust me, bro. I designed and wrote the code. I left myself a way in and a way out. You know why I love working with you?”

  “Because I’m your big brother, and I’m a laugh a minute.” He didn’t crack a smile.

  “Well, there is that. No, it’s because you’re not afraid to jump in. And no matter how insecure you are about my security precautions, you’re not afraid to let me jump in.”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  “Dad thinks all I can do is geeky computer work. Never mind how much my side of the business brings into the company in direct dollars, referrals, and goodwill.”

  “It’s growing. Last figure I saw was forty-one percent.” Jake sat back down.

  “Exactly. It’s not a side business any longer. He likes to forget I worked for the FBI out of college and can handle myself in the world. I think he calls your side of the business the boys just to piss me off.”

  “He doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I’ve never told him about clients who gave me bare bones information, and when I told them what they wanted might be dangerous, they didn’t care. The hell with my safety, just deliver.”

  “You were smart not to tell him.” Any company was foolish to try stunts like that, especially with Compass Points. Kelly was nervous. Otherwise she would never have told him this.

  “Hell, yeah. Anyway, that’s why I like working with you.”

  “I like working with you, too.” Or told him this. Not having their dad at the helm of the family ship was taking a toll on each of them. “Tell me what you found out.”

  “Right. Will Knox. Once upon a time a problem child of the first order.”

  “Christ.” Jake ran his fingers through his hair.

  “All is well. Detox, rehab, and a will of iron have kept him clean for better than a decade.”

  He relaxed by about half a point.

  “Divorced. One daughter. The women in the area use the phrase Will’s Drill. For what that’s worth.”

  “Fits with his license plate. Remember?

  “WILL U. Who could forget? He and Zia Grant Markham have a long-standing friends-with-benefits arrangement. Neither is looking for more.”

  “Must be nice.” He couldn’t imagine how she found that out. Probably somebody’s blog.

  “Back to Zia. Zia Markham is ZGM Properties. It used to be Markham Real Estate, run by Ross and Zia Markham. Husband and wife. Ross died almost eleven years ago. Their office was on the road your hotel is on.”

  “Zia took over?”

  “Took over. Changed the name. Expanded with the boom, and didn’t crash with the bust.”

  “Good business intuition.”

  “During the boom, she sold the former location and bought a block of land in town on the water. She tore down several old buildings and built new ones. Shops run along the ground floor, including the ZGM Properties office. Two condo units make up the upstairs space. She lives in the one over her offices and beyond. The other is unfinished space.”

  “The entire block?”

  “One side of the street, yes. It’s a short block, and the building isn’t as deep as some.”

  “We’re talking serious cash, though. Even for Podunk.”

  “Yes. Moving on. Trinh Le. Oops. Mom’s calling.”

  She hung up before he could say goodbye.

  Taylor still hadn’t returned. If she wasn’t back by seven, he would go to Rankin’s. So far the killer hadn’t struck in daylight, but that didn’t mean much. Each victim had been killed in a different way and in their hometowns. Taylor may or may not be a target, but Jake was here for her. He would honor his dad’s promise and keep her safe.

  Jake’s dad suspected the death of Kyle Easley’s daughter had also been a murder—the case remained active. He conveyed his concern to Rankin, and Rankin believed his niece would become a target after his death. The killer wasn’t Jake’s primary mission. But he planned to root the son of a bitch out whether or not he showed up for Taylor. The more he learned, the easier the sick bastard would be to find. Otherwise, his dad would become the next victim. If the cancer didn’t kill him first.

  It was bad enough for the killer to target men who had served together in war. Worse to set his sights on a woman. If the killer turned the crosshairs on Jake, the joke would be on him. Twenty years as a Navy SEAL had given Jake the tools he needed to stay alive. And to kill.

  Randy kept his Solomon’s Compass belt in a loose coil on the top of the chest of drawers in his bedroom.
He said seeing the belt twice a day and touching the embossed words kept him grounded. The summer Taylor was six, she saw the belt and touched the blue stone in the buckle. Randy saw how she admired it and told her about the men of Solomon’s Compass.

  Taylor squeezed through the path down the hallway and turned into Randy’s bedroom. No belt rested on the top of the chest—the chest could be the only surface in the entire house that was bare. He hadn’t been wearing a belt when he died; as far as she knew, he only wore the belt on special occasions. He must have moved it to a drawer or his closet.

  Once a month, he cleaned and conditioned the leather and polished the buckle. Randy said he used the time to remember the war and his friends. He talked about them so much, she felt as if she knew them, too.

  She opened the first drawer—paired socks on one side, folded tighty-whities on the other. The second drawer held folded tees with pockets on the left. White on one side, colors on the other. All in neat stacks.

  Taylor frowned at the tidy drawers. Randy must have organized them before his dementia took over. Maybe during his decline, he stopped using the dresser. The closet probably held a pile of mixed clean and dirty clothing. She opened the third drawer. Shorts—khaki and denim. Folded. Khaki on one side and denim on the other. Taylor shook her head. “Randy, I’m so sorry I didn’t get here in time to help you.” She might not have made any difference, but at least he would have had company.

  The bottom drawer squeaked. Two stacks of folded pullover cotton sweaters, all white, lay inside. No belt.

  Taylor leaned against the chest, having a hard time wrapping her mind around the items in the drawers. She looked around. Eight royal blue plastic bins were stacked along the walls. His neatly made bed was a military model. This was the only tidy room in his home.

  She looked under the bed, under the pillow, and between the mattress and spring. No belt.

  The scent of leather drifted out of the closet when Taylor opened the door. Several pairs of jeans and a few slacks hung next to mostly short-sleeve shirts with two long-sleeve dress shirts at the end of the row. On the other side of the jeans hung a few windbreakers, a winter jacket with a zip-out lining, and a full-length slicker. She ran her hands over each item. No belt. On the floor, two pairs of boots, a pair of dress shoes, and several flip-flops.