“Oh, man, that’s rough. You have to back your data up. My whole life’s on mine.”
“Ditto. Got the lab working on it, but who knows? No usable evidence at the scene, but here’s the good part. The hard drive was sent back.”
“If they read your hard drive they’ve got information that could hurt you. Probably things they can use to implicate me as well.”
“Yeah, they’ll know about everyone I know. Comforting.”
“Suspects?”
“The Russians, the Germans, the U. S. government, people I haven’t even encountered yet. Shit, Maltese terrorists, disgruntled pygmies, who knows?”
“Power has its allure.”
“But this is merely the possibility of power,” Frank said. “No one knows for sure it works. I sure as hell don’t.”
“A lot of people sure as hell think it may. And they think you know how it works.”
“To make it even more fun, Dellarue thinks I should pay him what my old man owed him.”
“Think he’s the one who bugged your house?”
“Maybe, but if he did, the bug was there to monitor Joe, not me. Keep tabs on his gambling.”
“What’s the plan?”
“First, I want to get Elm Terrace in salable condition. Get some contractors to pretty-up the grounds, paint the exterior and clean the inside ceilings to floors.”
“I’ll get you the best people I know.”
“You’ve got keys to everything. Call me with estimates and I’ll send you the money. I received Joe’s insurance money last week. William bought him a policy and a half. Joe may not have been able to pay his bookies when he was alive, but someone sure insured his dead body for plenty.”
“Sounds like William was protecting his grandson,” Alasdair said.
“Or his legacy.”
“By the way, I’m coming down Saturday to right up the road from you. Going to maybe shoot some video and make a bit of money.”
“Who’s getting married?”
“No one. The folks at Cape Canaveral want to discuss making a documentary, and I’m going to be shooting on an ancient Spanish shipwreck off Vero Beach.”
“Like underwater?” Frank said.
“A whole lot like underwater and I’d love for you to go with me.”
“Underwater?”
“That’s where they keep old sunken Spanish galleons. Arghh. Ya hardly ever find ‘em up on the beach, laddie. I’ve got plenty of equipment and the wreck site is only about 80 feet down.”
“When did you take up this crap?” Frank said.
“A year or two ago. I’ll have you know I’m a U. S. certified scuba diver.”
“You’re a U. S. certified lunatic.”
“When I was on sub tenders in the navy I got the bug to get into more than fixing bent rudders.”
“I jumped in the water a couple of times in the marines. Demolition experts get wet too.”
“So you’ll go, then?”
“Let me put some new colors in your paint box, Allie. Indiana Jones hates snakes, and I hate close, tight places and deep water. What you propose has all those scary things, plus hungry sharks thrown in for laughs.”
“That would be a no, then?”
“That would be a no, no, oh, hell no,” Frank said. “I’m a terra firma, sea level kinda guy. Nothing too high or too deep.
“At least come up to Vero and watch me feed the makos.”
“Email me the details and I’ll try to work it in between robberies, assaults, and government subpoenas.”
“Let me know if you change your mind about diving.”
“There’s only one kind of diving I do.”
“That can be dangerous too, you know. You should open your vistas a wee bit and test the water.”
“When I grow gills. Later, brother.”
Frank ended the call and downed the remainder of the scotch. He smiled at the thought of Alasdair going all Jacques Cousteau with a garish, DayGlo yellow wetsuit and enormous flappy fins. He also thought about the offer to go wreck diving and shuddered. Deep diving was merely delayed drowning to him. The closest he was going to get to 80 feet of ocean water was on a cruise ship to the Bahamas.
Chapter 31
The air conditioning had Frank’s small house at a chilling level when he woke from a long doze on the sofa. The drawn curtains in the house kept it cooler in the early morning sun, but a lot darker as he fumbled for the lamp on the end table. The light popped on at the same moment his cell rang.
“Dugan,” Frank answered.
“We’re going to need you down at the station, Frank,” the familiar morning growl of Roland’s voice said.
“I’m on nights this week.”
“Carl Rumbaugh is missing.”
“Did anyone check the swing sets at the elementary school?” Frank said.
“Damn it, Frank, something for real’s happened to the stupid sonofabitch. He never misses his shift, and there’s no answer on his cell or his radio.”
“All right, be there in two shakes. This isn’t my week to work mornings, you know.”
“Extend yourself. And bring a gallon of real coffee and a buttload of pastries on your way. Could be a long day.”
Frank ended the call then plodded into the bathroom to throw water on his face. He checked his repair on the jalousie window and tightened the slats extra snug with the hand crank.
Rumbaugh is missing? Coffee and baked goods, my ass. Rumbaugh’s gone? Shouldn’t we be breaking out the Dom Perignon?
* * * * *
Frank nursed the last drop from his Dunkin’ Donuts cup and strode into the small conference room where Corporal Greg Martinez, Sheriff Roland Brand and Janis Geller, the unit’s administrative assistant, were assembled. The group looked intense, their faces somber.
Frank liked Greg and saw the young man as a potential detective. Roland also had seen promise in his young officer and often brought him into meetings like this to build his experience. Frank knew Janis was an efficient worker and regarded the slim, forty-something woman as a police secretary who carried herself like a runway model. Roland did little without her involvement.
“Where was Rumbaugh the last time we were in contact?” Frank asked, moving to a large map covering almost one entire wall of the room.
“I saw him last night when he finished his shift at 4 P. M.,” Greg said. “And he checked in by phone a few minutes later. Said he was on a pull-over on 5th Street. He should’ve checked in by seven this morning and been here for his shift by eight.”
“It’s not like Carl to miss checking in,” Janis said.
“Got anything more precise on his 20 when he called in last night?” Frank asked Greg.
“On 5th Street, off Colorado Avenue. Said he was a block from Confusion Corner,” Greg said.
Confusion Corner was a well-known location to residents of Stuart where the confluence of six streets and a set of railroad tracks existed near the center of the town’s business district. It was a location where accidents happened with the regularity of the tide.
“From there he could’ve headed anywhere,” Frank said.
“I called the state boys to help out,” Roland said. “They gave me that ‘wait 24-hours’ crap because right now he’s technically not missing. If I have to, I’ll call in the damn state militia.”
The main line lit up on the phone in the center of the table, and Janis Geller picked up the receiver. A long moment passed while she listened and everyone in the room watched her in silence. She reached for the speaker button on the phone, then withdrew her hand without activating it. Janis scribbled something on a piece of notepaper, her writing hand unsteady.
“I’ll tell him,” Janis said and hung up the phone.
Everyone stared at Janis.
“They have Rumbaugh,” she said, her voice quavering. “Sounded like a Russian talking. Carl’s their hostage. They said they nabbed the wrong detective. They want Frank and want to make a trade.”
“Carl’s not just missing anymore,” Greg said.
“Anything else?” Roland said.
“He gave me a cell number to negotiate the trade, then hung up,” Janis said and pushed the paper over to Roland. “I was going to put the call on speaker, but he told me not to.”
“Trade Frank for Rumbaugh?” Roland said. “Dugan’s worth at least fifty Rumbaughs, plus two draft picks.”
“He sounded serious,” Janis said.
Everyone scrambled from their seats and looked at Roland.
“I’m not trading shit with any goddamn Ruskies,” Roland said. “Greg, see if you can get a location on that call and set up a perimeter. Janis, call the state police and tell them we’ve upgraded our missing person to a kidnapping. I’ll get a SWAT team ready to get in the air as soon as we know where to send ‘em. I want these jokers hemmed in now.”
“Put out an APB for Carl’s car,” Frank said to Greg. “And get the guys to warm up the chopper.”
“Wonder where they have him,” Janis said.
“Could be in Cuba by now, for all we know,” Roland said.
Chapter 32
The triangulation method used in cell tower communications to determine where a cell call originated placed the kidnapper’s phone somewhere on the west side of U. S. 1, a route known by locals as Dixie Highway, and a few miles out on the old Indiantown Road. Frank knew the sparsely populated area well.
“Greg,” Frank said into his radio mike, “call the kidnappers with the cell number they gave you and ask them where they want to meet to make the hostage swap. Then get a new fix on their location and radio me back.”
“Roger that,” Greg said and clicked off.
The baking heat on the road ahead rippled the air and looked like wide puddles of water lying in the path of Frank’s cruiser. He passed several roadside vendors selling everything from chenille blankets to carved coconut heads, but as he approached an upcoming fruit stand he noticed something out of place. A tall man wearing a sweatshirt was picking out oranges and mangos. It was strange enough he was wearing a long-sleeve sweatshirt in 90-degree heat, but there was something else that had Frank’s curiosity piqued. On the sweatshirt was a faint printed image. It was a faded logo of the long-gone Brooklyn Dodgers.
* * * * *
The sweatshirt man paid for his fruit and lumbered for a car parked a few yards away from the vendor’s stand. Frank watched him from across the road as the man stopped to answer his cell phone.
“Greg, are you in contact now with the kidnappers?” Frank radioed.
“Roger, that,” Greg Martinez whispered. “Can’t talk right now.”
“Don’t talk. Listen. Have the guy you’re talking to look up and ask him if he sees a helicopter.”
A moment later the sweatshirt man gazed up and panned the sky, shielding his eyes from the sun with his bag of fruit.
“Got him,” Frank said and hung up the mike.
Sweatshirt climbed into his car and drove west with Frank on his trail, but well behind. The road was fairly straight and the visibility was excellent, so Frank slowed to allow a car to pass him and pull in between Sweatshirt’s vehicle and his unmarked car. He decided a little extra cover couldn’t hurt.
Two miles later, Sweatshirt steered onto a dirt road, which disappeared into a copse of thick cabbage palms, brush, and banyan trees. Frank turned onto the road and slowed, unsure as to how far to push his luck. He pulled to the side and parked. He slid out, stepped to the front of the car, and raised the hood. He fiddled with the engine’s wiring as he gazed down the road where Sweatshirt had driven from sight. Frank knew it was a dicey move, and he should call for backup, but that could take time and he was not about to let up on his pursuit of this likely kidnapper. Problem was, he had no idea of the size of the opposing force. Only an idiot would charge blindly into opposition which might be overwhelming. He decided to play it smart and called for backup and gave the station his position.
The walk to the thick flora was about twenty yards, but after that, he hadn’t a clue to what awaited him. He pulled out his Browning and crept slowly through the shaded tunnel of trees until he spotted a clearing up ahead. From the cover of the brush, he surveyed a long-abandoned farmhouse and cattle barn with barely any paint left on their scorched exteriors. He studied the weather-worn doors and windows for any signs of life or movement. Nothing stirred.
But then voices carried from the farmhouse.
“What do you expect? I’ve told you a hundred times, I know nothing about any bombs.”
Frank recognized the strained voice of Carl Rumbaugh.
“Quiet. Don’t make me want shoot you,” a heavily-accented voice said.
Frank believed the voice might be Russian.
“Let me out of─”
The up-pitched voice of Carl Rumbaugh instantly went silent.
Frank needed to determine how many Russians, terrorists, or whatever they claimed to be, were in the house, and pinpoint any other accomplices within range. He calculated he could safely make it to the nearby barn and set up surveillance. It was thirty yards to the left of the house and about the same distance from where he was hiding. He certainly wasn’t going to wait until the cover of night, hours away.
The far left side of the thick brush would provide Frank with concealment from the farmhouse and, from there, he could come in from the back side of the barn. He plowed through the foliage toward the decrepit building. The bootjack spikes on the trunks of the sabal palmettos scratched and cut his face and hands as he waded low through the dense undergrowth, but he eventually made it to an open area facing the barn’s back wall, now only fifteen open yards away. Frank gave one last look around and bolted for the barn.
He came to within ten feet of the building when the sandy soil violently erupted around his feet and spewed hot grit onto his pants, stinging his calves.
He was taking automatic gunfire.
* * * * *
In spite of the bullets striking around him, Frank made it to the rear of the barn and dove inside through an opening between the dry-rotted boards. He took cover behind an ancient tractor, a mass of rusted cast iron with giant, cracked and rotted rubber tires. Once there, he caught his breath and checked himself for wounds. His legs smartied, but nothing was bleeding.
Frank heard a voice speaking a foreign language outside the front of the barn.
“He says not to shoot him,” a different voice said with authority.
There were two, maybe three, of them approaching the main doorway from the side of the building, which was open wide enough to allow a hay wagon to pass easily in and out. It was also large enough to accommodate the men moving closer with weapons; weapons Frank could hear being loaded, their breech slides activated with unmistakable metallic clinks, as they neared the opening.
Frank took aim at the doorway and felt for the two extra magazines hanging under his shoulder holster. He had 45 shots available to dissuade the converging squad, but he could only lay down fire one round at a time. If his adversaries wielded automatic weapons, they could spray bullets like water from a fire hose.
“We have Detective Rumballs with us, and he says you could be man we want to talk to. Are you Detective Frank Duggon?” the foreign voice asked.
That dumb shit “Rumballs” gave me up without a moment’s hesitation.
Frank stayed silent and kept his aim on the doorway. He looked around to locate other access points his adversaries might use, and for escape holes when the time came.
“Detective Duggon, we only want to talk. Please make dis easy. No problems for all of us. Afterward, we go our own ways,” said the accented voice.
Then Frank heard more excited, foreign jabber he loosely interpreted to mean: “Go in there and pull this Amerikanski pig out here.”
Two men peeked around either side of the barn doorway. Frank waited until he could glimpse a little more enemy flesh before he squeezed the trigger of the Browning. He had been an expert marksman in the marines, bu
t at better than fifteen yards in a combat situation he opted for patience, and waited for the biggest possible target.
A short, heavy man, wearing military battle gear, tiptoed into the barn with his AK-47 assault rifle pointed near where Frank was concealed. In a blink, a volley of 7.62mm rounds would be rocketing his way at over 2,300 feet per second.
Frank’s took the offensive. A single bullet from his 9mm hit the intruder an inch above the bridge of his nose. The overweight man tilted backward and sprawled out onto the barn floor. If his enemy was wearing body armor, Frank’s head shot made certain it was unable to save him.
The talkative one outside jerked his head away from the open door, then yelled and carried on in his native tongue. But Frank understood that cursing in almost any language came out the same.
“You are moddafucker!” Mr. Heavy Accent screamed. “My cousin only come in dere to talk to you. Think, detective. What good are you dead to us when we need you for information?”
A sensible point, but Frank didn’t trust a word he said. He knew he’d revealed his position in the barn. It was time to find new cover. Hell, if these turkeys wanted me dead, all they’d have to do is set a match to this bone-dry tinderbox. It’d burn to the ground in minutes. But Frank knew revealing his position put him at a tactical disadvantage. Never a good thing.
He looked around for options and spied something that gave him a lift. The dumb ass outside is moving back and forth near the door and revealing his position through the open gaps between the boards. Frank took careful aim and squeezed off a single round. A board at the front of the barn moved and the silhouette behind it crumpled. Frank was two for two. Now it was probably time to pull Carl from the farmhouse and get him a Valium.
That would have been the plan had it not been for the annoying cold steel pressing against the nape of his neck.
Chapter 33
Frank dropped his Browning on the hay-strewn floor and raised his hands.
The Omega Formula: Power to Die For (Detective Frank Dugan) Page 15
