Dangerous Friends (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 4)

by Dallas Gorham

  He relaxed. “One guy could pull this off. It’s not rocket science. Look at the Federal Building in Oklahoma City, the Boston Marathon bombs. One or two nuts is all it takes. We saw three on the security video.”

  “It looked on the television like the bomb was below the bridge. Did they use a boat?”

  “Yeah, but the current swept the debris into Seeti Bay. We’re collecting every scrap of floating crap we can skim off the bay.” He shrugged. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.” He picked up his cappuccino and leaned back.

  “Unless they rowed, there will be a motor on the river bottom. You can get serial numbers off it and trace the boat.”

  “We’ve had divers in the river since sunup.”

  “How did they set off the bomb?” I asked. “If I were doing it, I’d use remote detonation. A timer wouldn’t work if the train were late or early.”

  “One perp on the security tape held his hand up, like maybe he used a cellphone to do it.”

  “Yeah, that would do it. I’d buy a burner phone, wipe it clean, drop it in the river or in a shopping center dumpster a mile away. You’d never find it. But you could trace the cellphone pings off the tower. Any luck there?”

  Lopez shook his head. “There are several high-rise condos along the river and on the bay shore. There are hundreds of cellphones within a mile of the blast site—maybe thousands. We’re running the cellphone signals but it’s a needle in a haystack.”

  Chapter 16

  Snoop was sitting at my desk when I returned to the office, having dodged the wrath of Special Agent Eugenio Lopez. At least for now. But I figured if Lopez had a Christmas card list, I wasn’t on it. Snoop started to rise when I opened the door.

  “Stay there. I’ll sit over here. What’ve you got?”

  He settled back in the chair. “Ponder is James Kennedy Ponder, twenty-nine years old, graduate teaching assistant in environmental studies. Born in Macon, Georgia. Bachelor of Science in Chemistry and a Master’s in Public Policy from the University of Georgia.”

  “Where would he learn to build a bomb in a boat? Do they teach that at UGA?”

  Snoop smiled. “You know as well as I do that you can find anything on the internet. If nothing else, then on a jihadist website. And Whiskers has a BS in Chemistry. Maybe he learned enough to build a bomb. Even those two yahoos who did the Oklahoma City bomb had less education than that.”

  “Good point.”

  “He’s working on a PhD at UAC. President of a tree-hugger student club called Defenders of the Earth.” Snoop raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t that a cartoon show my kids used to watch when they were younger?”

  “Yeah, but no one on the TV show has complained about the name.”

  “I checked out their website—the tree-huggers, not the cartoon show—and they have their panties in a knot over various real and imagined threats to Mother Earth. The website has links to various ecoterrorism sites that teach things like how to disable logging or construction equipment, commit arson on housing developments, and other fun stuff like tree spiking.”

  “Tree spiking? That sounds familiar.”

  Snoop read from a notebook on my desk. “Tree spiking is done to discourage logging a forest. The tree spiker drives a six-inch nail, available at any hardware store, into the bottom of a tree to break the logger’s chainsaw blade. The logger can replace the blade in five minutes, so the spiker is supposed to use lots of nails in each tree.”

  “Can a broken chainsaw kill someone?”

  “Not any I’ve found. There have been a few minor injuries. Chainsaws have built-in safety features.” He flipped through the notebook. “One guy in a saw mill was injured by a spike driven farther up the tree. That breaks the blade in the saw mill when they cut it into lumber.”

  “Doesn’t spiking it hurt the tree?”

  “Not as much as being cut down.”

  “How do the tree-spikers expect people to build houses if they can’t use lumber?”

  Snoop shrugged. “Maybe they expect everyone to use bricks. Or maybe they care more for trees than they do for people.”

  I shook my head. “Go on.”

  He turned a page in the notebook. “One linked site claimed that nature was being despoiled—is that even a word? They blamed capitalism, patriarchal society, and the Judeo-Christian tradition.” Snoop looked up from his notes. “So they don’t like free enterprise, the traditional family, or most religions.”

  “Nice guys.”

  “The tree spiking site said to avoid imported spikes because they are cheaper construction and might bend as you hammer the spike into the tree. Then it said…” Snoop referred to his notes. “…Stick to the U.S.A. or Canadian brands (No, I’m not a patriot.)”

  I glanced at Snoop’s cup. “More coffee?”

  “Thanks.”

  I called Betty. “Would you please bring two more coffees?”

  I turned back to Snoop. “There’s no law against providing links to radical websites, Snoop. We need something criminal to stick these three with.”

  “Maybe I got that too. While Ponder was at UGA working on his master’s degree, he was arrested for arson and murder. He burned down a housing construction site where a night watchman was killed. Cops didn’t get a proper warrant before they searched his apartment and his car. The DA dropped the charges when the judge threw out the evidence, but there’s no doubt that he set the fire.” He looked up. “He got away with murder. Maybe we can resurrect that charge.”

  “Contact the detective in Georgia who had the case. Find out everything about the fire and about the evidence that was excluded. Maybe we can help out. Anything else on Ponder?”

  Snoop said, “He works for Wallace on the environmental studies grants.”

  “Who funds the grants?”

  “Who else? Uncle Sugar.”

  “So Ponder is on the public teat for global warming too? How much does Wallace pay him?”

  Snoop said, “Not shown. I think he’s like Wallace’s employee or sub-contractor. He’s mentioned as a contributor in several of Wallace’s grant reports.”

  “Okay. What you do you have on Shamanski?”

  There was a discreet tap on the door and Betty carried in a tray with two fresh coffees. “Hey, Snoop. I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t see you at church Sunday.”

  “Janet and I took the girls scuba diving in the Bahamas for a weekend.”

  “Good for you.” She pulled the door closed after her.

  Snoop set the notebook in his lap and tilted the desk chair back. “Katherine Shamanski, age twenty-three, senior working on a Bachelor’s degree in environmental studies. Vice-president of Defenders of the Earth. She’s chair of the Democratic Party precinct that includes the University. Active in various left-wing organizations and projects. Pro-choice, wants to legalize marijuana, supports LGBT causes—all the politically correct stuff. Worked for both Obama campaigns, though she was too young to vote for him the first time.”

  “My brother-in-law voted for Obama. So did a few million other people. Nothing wrong with that.”

  Snoop looked at me. “Both her parents are lawyers in Chicago. Her mother is a hot-shot personal injury lawyer, and her father is too, but with a different firm. They’re not partners. They both invest in several government-subsidized green energy companies—solar panels, battery technology, wind turbines, and such. All a matter of public record.”

  “Everything on the up-and-up?”

  “It smells funny, but I didn’t find any criminal indictments anywhere, so I guess it’s legit. I saved reports on the perps and everybody else on your hard drive in a folder called environment.” Snoop stood up. “I don’t feel comfortable on this side of your desk when you’re here. Let’s go to the conference room.” He grabbed the notebook in one hand and his coffee in the other. “Get the door, will you?”

  When we were seated in the conference room, I said. “Wallace and Ponder have their fingerprints on file because of prior arrests. What about
Shamanski?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Snoop. “Did they wear gloves on the boat?”

  “Let’s ask Michelle.”

  Chapter 17

  “Why are we meeting here instead of at Mango Island?” I asked.

  Michelle looked around to make sure no one in Java Jenny’s sat near us. I had picked the last outdoor table for that reason. Traffic noise masked our conversation.

  She shrugged. “I haven’t gone to the island yet. Don’t worry, I’m staying with Grandpa and Grandma like you said.”

  “That’s not what I told you to do. I said for you to stay at their place on Mango Island. When we finish here, Snoop will follow you until you’re safely on the ferry.”

  She crossed her arms. “What about my clothes?”

  “Michelle, what part of ‘your life is in danger’ isn’t clear to you? Your grandparents can take your clothes to you.”

  I saw the look on her face. “Michelle, if you don’t start doing what I say and taking this situation as life-and-death serious, I swear to God I’ll quit and leave you on your own.”

  “You don’t have to get mad.” She stuck out her lower lip.

  “Kid, this job is hard enough to pull off without you making me swim with weights on. Without your complete, sincere, one hundred percent cooperation, I can’t do it. You understand?”

  She stared into her cappuccino. “I understand.”

  “Okay. Did you four wear gloves on the boat?”

  She leaned close to my ear. “Katherine handed us each a pair of gloves before we got on the boat. I thought that was kinda strange. We never wore gloves before on our other protests. When I asked her why we had to wear gloves, she said, ‘you never know. Despite the best intentions, sometimes people get hurt.’ Now I know why.”

  “What kind of gloves were they?”

  “You know, rubber.”

  “Good. What type of rubber gloves?”

  “Like, hello-o-o, rubber gloves. What more you want me to say?”

  “Were they like the gloves you see on the hospital dramas on television, or the kind you wear to work the garden, or like the gloves you wear to clean an oven?” Snoop asked.

  She stared at Snoop as if he had asked a stupid question. “How should I know? I’ve never cleaned an oven.”

  “Were they thin or thick?”

  She bit her lower lip. “Thin-ish, I guess.”

  “Were they white or colored? Could you see your hands through them?”

  “It was nighttime. I didn’t notice.”

  “Close your eyes.”

  She stared at me. “Why?”

  “It’s a memory trick. We did this before, remember. Close your eyes.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, in your mind, look around the parking lot and see Katherine pass out the gloves… Watch yourself put them on… Examine your hands… Look at the gloves.”

  She opened her eyes. “I could sort of see my nail polish through the gloves. They must have been white-ish.”

  I searched for surgical gloves on the internet and turned the screen toward her. “Were they like any of these pictures?”

  “Yeah. That one, I suppose.”

  “Good, we’re making progress.” I gave her a lined pad and a pen. “Draw me a diagram of the boat.”

  She made no effort to pick up the pen. “It was just a boat.”

  “What kind of boat?”

  “A motor boat.”

  “Describe the motor.” It was like playing twenty questions, except it was fifty questions, maybe a hundred. I coaxed each fact out her, question after question, digging out information she didn’t know was buried in her mind.

  We used my laptop to look at various boating websites. We concluded that the boat was a Boston Whaler. It had twin outboard engines, so it was at least twenty-five feet long, but shorter than thirty-five based on her vague description. That meant it was a 280 or a 320 Outrage outboard boat.

  “Like that.” She pointed at the screen. “Or maybe that.” She pointed at another boat. “Oh… I don’t remember.”

  She began to look over my shoulder and her attention wandered. “Patience, Michelle. It takes as long as it takes. Would you like a cookie?”

  Snoop left to buy us a round of chocolate chip cookies.

  She frowned. “I don’t see why it’s so freakin’ important what kind of boat it was. Who cares? The boat’s in a zillion pieces. It was just a boat.” She looked as if she was about to cry, then realized where she was and glanced around, embarrassed.

  “Michelle, I don’t have the luxury of time for you to play drama queen. This is not a teenage game you and I are playing. You could serve a life sentence in a federal prison. So stop screwing around and second-guessing me. Your freedom is in my hands. If I can’t pull this off, the next person you’ll be asking for help is a criminal defense attorney. You got that?”

  Her lower lip began to quiver.

  “If I’m going to keep you out of prison, you have to help me. When I say ‘jump,’ you say ‘how high?’ Got it?”

  “All right, already.”

  Snoop set down a tray with a platter of cookies and three fresh drinks—coffees for Snoop and me and cappuccino for Michelle.

  “No more games,” I continued, “Draw me a diagram where each of the four of you sat in the boat.”

  She did, without complaint. A good sign.

  Chapter 18

  I plunked a box of pastelitos and a stack of napkins on Jorge’s desk. He raised his eyebrows. “What? No Krispy Kremes this time?”

  “I figured I’d keep you close to your Cuban heritage. If these are not up to your standards, I’ll just take the box with me when I go.” I pretended to reach for the flaky pastries.

  Jorge snatched the box. “No complaints. I just figured you for more of a pan dulce Viva Mexico kind of guy.” He grabbed a jelly-filled.

  “You’ve heard of pan-Asian cuisine; I’m a fan of pan-Hispanic pastry.” I pulled the box over and studied the pastries. One doesn’t rush decisions like that. “How’s the paperwork going? You know that stuff would go faster if you’d learn how to read.”

  “I started some lieutenant-style delegating. I assigned a few reports to the sergeants involved. I’m going out later and do some real detecting.” Jorge pulled the box back and selected another pastry. “I keep up this delegating stuff and they’re gonna make me a captain for sure.”

  “How do you like that guava-filled?” I asked. “It any good?”

  “The worst pastelito I ever had was still pretty good. These are keepers. Here, try one; you’ll like it.”

  Jorge was right; they were keepers.

  “So what brings you around here, friend? Did you meet with Kelly and Bigs?”

  “Bigs wasn’t there. Kelly said she and Bigs would meet Gene Lopez at the FBI this morning. She’ll keep me looped in.” I wiped my hands on a napkin. “I need another favor. Anybody report a Boston Whaler stolen in the last couple of weeks?”

  “This got anything to do with the bombing?”

  I shrugged. “Just a hunch.”

  Jorge grabbed a napkin. “Let me punch it up.” He wiped his fingers and tapped the keyboard. “Prime Marina. One of their customers keeps a 280 Outrage stored there. Reported it missing yesterday.”

  “Any idea when it was taken?”

  Jorge read the screen. “Reporting officer said the owner hadn’t used it in a few weeks. Came down yesterday and found it gone. It could have been stolen any time in the last two weeks.”

  “Where’s the marina?” I stepped around his desk.

  Jorge turned the monitor toward me. “Right there, three miles upriver from the bay.”

  It was two-and-a-half miles from the railroad bridge and closer than that to McKinley Park.

  Prime Marina was anything but. The phone number on the marina sign had the old area code for Port City that had changed ten years before as the city grew and its area code spun off from Fort Lauderdale. The parking lot was cr
acked and pot-holed. The stripes had worn off long ago. The rusted hurricane fence had gaps where the mounting wires were gone. Snoop shrugged. “I hope the security cameras work.”

  “And that they kept the footage,” I added.

  We headed toward the office. Inside it looked a little more modern. My hopes began to rise.

  “Come in, gentlemen. I’m Eddie Terrazo, the manager. Lieutenant Castellano from the Port City police called and said you were coming about our missing boat. Have you found it?”

  “Carlos McCrary. Everybody calls me Chuck.” I handed him a business card, one without a lightning bolt and Captain America shield. “And this is my associate Raymond Snopolski.”

  “Call me Snoop.”

  The manager shook hands with both of us. “You found our stolen boat?”

  “We’re private investigators, not cops. We have something else to ask you about.”

  Eddie shrugged. “Sure. How can I help?”

  “Maybe we can do something for you, Eddie. I’d like for Snoop here to review your security video for the last two weeks to see if we can get a handle on how and when the Boston Whaler was stolen. Maybe we’ll find something to keep your insurance premiums from going up.”

  “Knock yourself out. Use that desk and monitor over there.” He turned to a woman working at another desk. “Carla, this here’s Snoop. Help him out if he has any questions, will ya?”

  “Sure thing, Eddie.” She turned to Snoop. “You want coffee?”

  I asked Eddie, “Can I see where the boat was stored before it disappeared?”

  “It was in dry storage at the back of the rack. I’ll show you.” He led me out the back door of the office and down the courtesy dock. The dock surface was mildewed and uneven. Boards were warped and worn. Some were missing screws. A few of the supporting pilings had settled over the years and the dock surface looked wavy and uneven. A rusty island freighter chugged down the Seetiweekifenokee River past the dock. The freighter’s small wake made the dock creak and sway beneath our feet.