by Jon Mills
A fellow office poked her head into his office.
“Lieutenant, Bo Peterson is here to see you.”
“Right. Send him in.”
“Do you want him in the interview room?”
He shook his head. “No, this isn’t official.”
Garcia sat behind his desk and texted his wife to let her know that he was probably going to be running late again. She would give him heck for it but she didn’t pay the mortgage.
The door pushed open and Bo stepped into the room. The guy was larger than life, loud and at times obnoxious. Garcia could never really tell what side of the law he was on. He acted as though he wanted a quiet life and yet he continued to allow the likes of the Mitchell brothers and known dealers to frequent his bar.
“Bo.” He pursed his lips. “Thanks for coming.”
“Traffic out there is bloody murder. Some guy nearly plowed into me turning onto Tamiami Trail. I swear this county is gone to the shitters. Half of these assholes shouldn’t be driving. I mean who the hell approves their license?”
He rose from his seat and went and closed the door. He pulled the blinds down to avoid the prying eyes of other officers. “Take a seat.”
Bo pulled up a chair and slumped down. His boots were untied, and his clothes seemed one size too big for him. His dark hair was matted back with some form of gel giving it a greasy appearance.
“Can I smoke in here?”
“Um. No.”
He grumbled and folded his arms.
“So I wanted you to take a look at a photo of Jamal Whethers.” He came around his desk and rifled through the paperwork. “Ah, there it is,” he pulled it out and slid it over in front of him.
Bo leaned forward and squinted. “No, I don’t believe I have seen him before but then again they all look the same, right?”
“They?” Garcia caught a tinge of a racial slur there. “Bo, they are no different than us.”
“Oh yeah, I know that. I was meaning…” he trailed off realizing what he’d said.
Yep, racism was still alive in Florida; just people were good at covering it up.
“So you’ve never seen him in your bar?”
He screwed up his face, shook his head and leaned back. “Can’t say I have. Anyway, any luck on identifying who shot up my premises?”
“Not exactly. We are kind of reaching for straws at the moment.”
“That’s comforting. Surely with all the resources of this department they can clamp down on who’s behind this?”
Garcia leaned back in his seat biting the end of a pencil. He stared at Bo. “That depends on a lot of factors, some of which rely on people being forthright and unfortunately we have a lot of folks who know stuff but are scared of speaking out.”
“Scared?” He reeled back as if immediately trying to distance himself from being pigeonholed.
“Scared of losing their business. Scared of their families getting hurt. Scared of being shot in their sleep.”
His brow knit together. “Maybe those folks are doing the best they can under the conditions. It’s not like the police are going to offer twenty-four seven protection. You guys barely can get to an incident on time. Am I right?”
Garcia smirked. He wasn’t that far wrong. The fact was the government had made a number of cutbacks. The amount of people hired didn’t match the need. Those that did come on board either quit out of fear or didn’t rush to a crime scene. He’d heard the boys’ conversations in the locker rooms. They didn’t pay them enough to deal with it. They were right, but still, they signed up for it. They wanted the glory but without the danger.
“But what if protection could be provided?”
Bo sniffed hard and closed up. He wasn’t going to get anything out of him. Garcia decided to switch directions. He may have been reluctant to discuss locals but outsiders — that was another kettle of fish.
“Jack Redford and his wife. You talk to them?”
Bo’s eyes flitted up and Garcia thought he caught something in the way he responded. Of course he couldn’t be sure. It was easy to mistake the way a person responded but after years of sitting across from all types of folk, he had gained good instincts for when someone was holding back.
“I know them. Not well but yeah. Good folk.”
Garcia didn’t know if it was true but he was going to throw it out there and see if Bo took a bite. “I heard he’s come to some agreement with the Mitchell brothers. Is that right?”
Over the years he’d watched various businesses come and go in Chokoloskee, some thrived, others didn’t. The ones that had were connected in some way to the Mitchells. Of course they said their partnerships were mutually beneficial and only related to fishing but he knew there was more to it. It was just he couldn’t pin anything on them, and he was nervous to rush in without just cause. Buddies of his in other jurisdictions had done that and suffered from crazy civil lawsuits. No, he had to be smart, gather as much intel as he could, and then he could slap the cuffs on them.
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Bo, stop jerking me off here. Do you want us to tie your place up for several weeks over this investigation?”
“I’d like to see you try it.” He got red in the face and looked like he was getting worked up. They weren’t getting anywhere here. He was scared of what would happen to him if he spoke. Others had gone missing on the island days before they were about to meet with officers and discuss the string of murders, and narcotics. He figured that whoever was behind it all, they must have had their eyes on them.
Garcia pulled out a packet of cigarettes. They weren’t supposed to smoke in there but hell, if it meant getting the big guy to relax and open up to him, he was willing to try it. He got up and went over to the door and locked it, returned to the window, cracked it open and extended the pack to Bo. “Come, I’ll show you how I get away with having one.”
Garcia pushed out a cigarette, teasing him to take it.
His hardened features softened and within seconds Bo was up and had one in his mouth. Garcia lit it and he blew the gray smoke out the window. Down below they could see several cruisers parked. A lady walked out holding a young child, and an officer dragged in some guy in his late teens. It was like a non-stop circus.
“You know, Bo, they say it takes a village to raise a child. But no one ever discusses what it takes to keep them alive. I have a theory. It takes one person to speak out to keep a child alive. That’s all. Not an entire village. It begins with one person.”
“And who keeps alive the person who speaks out?”
Garcia snorted. “The village.”
“And what if the entire village is in on it, huh?”
Garcia knew full well what he was referring to. The danger wasn’t from a group like the Mitchell brothers or a man at the top, it was from those they controlled. Bo understood the chain of command. He’d seen it in operation. Hell, he had the scars to prove it. Garcia got the call the day Bo went into the hospital. He told them he fell on broken beer bottles but that was bullshit.
“What is Jack’s association with the Mitchells?”
Bo breathed in deeply and blew smoke out the corner of his mouth. He squinted and his jaw clenched.
“Come on, Bo. If these are good people you need to toss me a bone here. I can help them out.”
“Look, all I know is that they invited him out to discuss some deal. I don’t know what that deal is. All I know is that if he finds out that I have said anything to you, I’m as good as dead.”
“And did Jimmie return fire on the vehicle?”
Bo closed his eyes. An inner struggle was going on, one that he’d no doubt dealt with countless times.
“Bo!”
“Yes. Yes he did.”
Garcia nodded feeling satisfied. All it took to break a case was for one person to speak out, act as a witness and provide them with a connection.
“Bo, how many years have you worked at Atomic Charley’s without a vacation?”
&
nbsp; “More than I can count.”
“I think now would be a good time to take that vacation, don’t you?”
He shot Garcia a sideways glance.
After the sun had set and darkness shrouded the island, Jack returned back home in preparation for the party that night. He sure as hell didn’t want to go but Jimmie said Ray wouldn’t take too kindly to a no-show. His ribs ached and his face was cut from Chris’s brutal beat-down but at least he’d managed to get the last shot.
He killed the engine and pushed out of his vehicle gripping his side. Breathing was labored and he was already dealing with withdrawal. The first thing he noticed as he made his way up to the mobile home was the lights were out. He cast a glance around and saw that Carson and Moore’s RV lights were on. Before going in, he strolled over and banged on the door. It opened and music seeped out. Moore had a cigar in his mouth and several cards in his hand. The sound of girls laughing came from inside.
“Jack.”
“Isabel in there?”
“No, she left earlier this afternoon, not long after you headed out.”
“And you didn’t think to follow her?”
He chuckled. “We had matters to tend to, you know, a conference with Thorpe to provide an update.”
Jack tried to look past him and see the women he could hear laughing.
“And did you update him on the whores you’re banging?”
Moore let out a laugh. “Seriously, you need to relax. Isabel will be back later. She’s probably chewing someone out or taking a long walk on the beach. Or are you two still having a lovers’ tiff?”
“Fuck you, Moore.”
Carson strolled up with a glass of bourbon in hand. “Shit. You look like crap. What happened to you?”
“I was working. Something you two assholes wouldn’t know anything about.”
Jack turned and strolled back to the house. He heard Carson mutter something about him being too tense and needing to relax. The door closed behind him as they returned to their crazy shenanigans. Paid to watch over Jack and Isabel, and they weren’t doing shit. Of course, why would they? No one was watching them. All they had to do was report back that things were going smoothly and Thorpe would be happy. They figured Jack and Isabel were taking it slow. Just getting acquainted with the locals. They had no idea that he was nose deep in hell’s fire and just about to walk into a shit storm.
Jack flung the door open and entered the house. First things first, he tried phoning Isabel but it just went to her voicemail. Leave a message. He left two. In the second one he apologized for their argument earlier that day. He slipped out of his clothes. Every moment was painful. He was getting too old for this shit. He lifted his arm and took in the sight of a bruise in his lower left ribs. Jack cursed under his breath as he turned the shower on and let it steam up the room.
As the hot water rushed over him easing the tension, he chewed over what was required of him. He stared down at the mark on his inner arm and pressed his fist against the wall. No, you don’t need that shit. Leave it be, he told himself. He’d never felt such strong cravings.
Outside, a short distance from Jack’s mobile home, a vehicle idled. Its headlights were turned off. The windows were tinted and under the cover of darkness the outline of the truck was barely visible.
“What do you think?” Chris asked.
“They’re DEA or feds.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I can’t. But I sent Anna-Belle and a girl named Holly over to check them out. She’s going to text me.”
They gazed at the window and watched the silhouettes of the two men entangled in the arms of the two girls. They waited there for close to twenty minutes before the text came in. Willie ground his teeth upon receiving the confirmation.
“And what about Jack?”
Willie Mitchell leaned forward in his seat and took a hard pull on his cigarette. His eyes darted across the road to the mobile home. Steam drifted out of a vent near the bathroom and they watched for a few minutes.
“If he’s one of them we’ll deal with him like we always do.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Isabel stood back from the mirror and gazed at the little black dress. In one hand she held a champagne glass, in the other her bag. The dress she’d received earlier that day — courtesy of Ray Edmonds. The party was to take place at the Howey Mansion in Howey-in-the-Hills, Florida. And Ray had requested her attendance a few hours earlier. Initially she was going to contact Jack but after being left out of the loop on what he was doing, she decided to give him a dose of his own medicine.
She came out of the bathroom, and made her way down the marble staircase. The place was stunning, unlike any mansion she had ever been in. The huge Mediterranean-style home had style but lacked a female touch. She’d heard of the Howey Mansion but was under the impression that it was owned by the state. Ray was waiting in the foyer in a dark suit as she came down the steps.
“There she is. As beautiful as ever. Jack is a lucky man.”
That he was. She thought about the numerous times he had skirted death and escaped justice. He had a knack for staying one step ahead, though eventually she assumed it would catch up with him. It always did.
“You own this property?”
“Own? I don’t like to think of it like that, more… rescued. Come, I’ll give you a tour of the place.” She joined him at his side and he placed his hand on the lower part of her back to guide her forward.
“It’s a big place.”
Ray breathed in deeply.
“Yes, it’s over seven thousand square feet, and was once the home of a wealthy mogul by the name of William J. Howey. At least it was until he died in 1938. His loyal wife, Mary, took it over and it remained in the family until the early ’80s at which point it was added to the U.S. National Register of Historic Places. Since then numerous investors and developers have bought the place and attempted to restore it to its former self but have run out of money, and well… they ended up having to sell it off. Pity really but I’d always had my eye on the place. I was just waiting for it to fall into the right price range.
“Anyway, I ended up hearing through the grapevine that they were considering tearing it down and building a new place. Of course, I couldn’t have that.”
“So you snapped it up. Must have cost you a lot?”
“Details, Isabel. Money comes and goes but history, well this place will be here long after I am gone and I intend to make sure that it’s well taken care of.”
“So that’s what you spend all your money on? I had you as a man who preferred exotic vacations, oversized yachts and fast cars.”
“And you would be right but those will always be there.”
“Always?”
He stopped and tossed her a smirk. “You aren’t buying into the nonsense spewed from the mouth of that little store owner by the water, are you?”
“I just think that a man who says he appreciates history and restores a place like this would have a heart for those who have dedicated their life to maintaining Ted’s Smallwood Store.”
He nodded before taking a sip of champagne. He was about to speak when one of his men came into the room and pulled him aside. Isabel diverted her gaze. His employee whispered something then disappeared out of the room.
“Right, where were we?”
“History.”
“Yes. In 1984 this place was purchased for a mere $400,000, can you imagine that? I mean what a steal. By the year 2001 the current owner was providing public tours of the place. Unfortunately they didn’t realize how expensive it would be to maintain and keep up the place. So, the owner tried selling it off to the county but they saw it as nothing more than a money pit. It seems they thought that it could cost close to two million to restore it. No one wanted to touch it. That’s when I stepped in. You see, it’s all about timing, Isabel.”
“Is it?”
“Very much so. Take the business that I have created in Chokoloskee. Some
folks might think I was mad to create a condo on a small patch of island that was missing so many local amenities and fine dining, especially when all of it can be found in Miami — but I saw an opportunity. I like to think that I see what others don’t and in turn eventually I will reap what others won’t. Any amateur developer can swoop in and build in a busy area but it takes balls to go where others won’t.”
Willie Mitchell waited until Jack left for the evening before he and Chris moved in on the RV. They tucked into the small of their backs Beretta M9A3’s with suppressors on. Darkness shrouded the quaint park as they strolled up to the RV. They were getting ready to knock on the door when a police cruiser came around and parked in front of Jack’s place.
They retreated into the shadows and watched from a distance as Lieutenant Garcia entered the gated-off abode and made his way up to the door.
“Now what’s he doing here?” Chris asked.
“Like I said. The guy is either an undercover cop or a fed.”
“Try convincing Jimmie of that.”
“Jimmie is going to get all of us killed if he continues with this asinine deal.”
“2.3 million, Willie. We could retire nicely on that and be done with all of this crap.”
