We scrambled behind a tree. “Pick your shots,” Brad said, meaning that he didn’t want his car trashed. I took aim just when a figure with a shovel came up behind Earless and hit him over the head. Earless staggered to his knees and crawled a few paces before he scrambled up and ran off. The other man dropped the shovel and took off in the opposite direction, disappearing into a section of thick trees that separated the estate homes.
“I’ve got Earless,” Brad shouted, and took off running.
I went after the benevolent gardener, who looked more like an elderly bum than someone who should be digging holes. An elderly African American bum. I had a pretty good idea who he was.
Even running in strappy flats, I caught up with him four houses away, on somebody’s pool deck. I threw my weight—all 130 pounds of me—against his back, sending us both tumbling into a padded lounge chair.
“You hit like a damn linebacker, for Pete’s sake,” he grumbled, rolling out from under me. “What are you—one of those girly bodybuilders or something?”
When we were both standing and had brushed ourselves off, I got a close-up look at his face. It was bearded and scraggly—not the same clean-shaven, smiling one I’d seen in the picture on Morgan’s wall. But it held the same features and the same bushy eyebrows. Just thinner. And tired.
“Garland?” I stuck out my hand. “I’m Jersey Barnes. And I wouldn’t have had to tackle you if you hadn’t run.”
He didn’t shake my hand. “I’ve seen you hanging around my son. Who are you?”
I told him that his daughter, the judge, had enlisted my help.
“Does she know I’m alive?”
“Nope,” I said. “Where have you been living?”
He decided to shake my hand. “Nowhere. Everywhere.”
“Why aren’t you in protective custody?”
He showed me a grin that, despite the circumstances, was full of mischief and rebellion. “I sprung myself, for Pete’s sake.”
I stared at the man who could have been my father’s brother, except for his skin color. “I think you and Spud are going to get along fabulously.”
I told Garland about the private stairwell that ran from the street directly to Spud’s apartment above the Block. Back when the old building had been a brothel, the stairwell was a necessity. It was no longer used, but it was still there, the worn wooden steps solid.
“There’s a sign that says, NO ENTRY. I’ll see that the door is unlocked. And I’ll tell my father to be expecting you,” I said. “Now get out of here before the DEA agent sees you. We’ll talk when you get to the Block.”
Grumbling about a bruised shoulder, Morgan’s dead father loped through a patch of pink oleanders and disappeared. Watching him go, I suspected that Brad was behind the faked death. What I didn’t yet know was why. Once again, it occurred to me that my new DEA friend wanted every ounce of information I had to offer regarding Argo’s. Yet he sure wasn’t sharing his intel with me, including the fact that Garland was still among the living.
When I got back to Garland’s estate, Brad had a phone to his ear, his expression livid. He gave a description of Earless and slammed the phone shut.
“I lost him,” he told me.
Fresh grass stains dotted the knees of Brad’s jeans. He caught me looking.
“I tripped over a Big Wheel, dammit.”
I almost kept a straight face. “I lost my guy, too. He vanished. Maybe he lives around here and disappeared into a house.”
Brad eyed me.
I shrugged. Until I knew more, I wasn’t sharing anything else with Brad.
“What was Earless doing here?” Brad rubbed his knee and bent it a few times, checking for damage. “He recognized you, right before he started firing. But he was surprised. He didn’t expect to find anyone in the house.”
“He was here for the same reason we were,” I reasoned. “To look for the cocaine. He suspected it was here, but he didn’t know where. And he probably assumed that enough time had passed—that everyone who was going to had finished trudging through the house for the time being.”
We went back inside Garland’s home to survey the damage. DEA agents would arrive shortly. I felt sure that a neighbor had reported gunshots, so the local PD was probably on their way to the party, too. I called Dirk, just to give him a heads-up. Neighborhood shootings in Wilmington are not common. There would be a lot of hoopla, even though there wasn’t a body.
“I just saw you a few hours ago at the Block,” Dirk’s voice came through the phone. “How do you manage to stir up so much trouble in so little time?”
“Long-handled spoon,” I told him, and hung up.
Brad came out of the wine room, where reds and whites mingled into potent-smelling puddles on the tiled floor. “We’ve got a bloody print,” he said. “Looks like a clean print, too. And a few drops of blood.”
I didn’t think either one of us had grazed Earless. I knew we hadn’t made a direct hit. “He must’ve gotten cut by flying glass.”
“Thank goodness for that, because if he’s in the system, now we’ll have a name.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
I surveyed Argo’s. A nice crowd had come. Most important, the Divine Image Group—all three of them—were in place at their customary table. Morgan had hired a courier to deliver the invitations for Argo’s customer appreciation luncheon. Between the “valued patrons” and their guests, more than one hundred hungry people had shown up to claim their free lunch. The plan would cost Morgan some money, but in his words, he’d pay anything to get a normal life back. The servers were happy to work an extra shift, too, since they knew that free food usually equated with generous tips.
I walked through the back of the house to find Morgan in his office, fiddling with the earbud. Soup had thoroughly swept Morgan’s computer to eliminate all traces of the saved audio files. He’d also set it up so that Morgan could record a GT conversation directly to a memory stick.
“You still listening for recreational purposes?” I asked.
He met my look. “Not much.”
“Once we get the doctors’ conversation today, you need to dismantle the hidden microphone.”
“I know.”
“By the way,” I said, “you should know that your main phone line is hot.”
“Pardon?”
“There’s a wiretap on Argo’s main phone line.”
His dark skin paled. “DEA?”
“Of course DEA.”
“Can they do that?”
“Morgan, they have done it.”
He asked if I thought his home phone line was tapped, too. I told him that it likely was.
The vertigo hit him and he swayed.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I asked.
“No,” he said. His reaction indicated otherwise.
“Look. I’m putting my ass on the line—not even getting paid to do so—and you’re holding out on me. Who have you been talking to?”
“Penelope.”
“Who’s Penelope?”
“She’s at a 900 number. Sort of a mix between a physic hotline and a sex line.”
“Good grief, Morgan. You need to get a life.”
His fists balled up. “I can’t believe the bastards are listening to my phone conversations!”
I glared at him until something clicked inside his socially screwed-up head. He shut his eyes. Now he knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end.
An acoustic jazz duo had set up in one corner and was strumming out background music when I returned to the front of the house. Happy chatter filled the dining room. Servers delivered plates of cold lobster salad and baskets of hot rolls. I glanced at the small overhead bubble cam, knowing that Morgan watched, earbud in place, memory stick already capturing the doctors’ conversation.
“Hello, gentlemen.” I stepped up to the Green Table alcove and saw that the Divine Group had already been served. “Enjoying your lunch?”
“Sure are. We haven’t s
een you before, darling,” said the doctor named Leo. “You must be new. Would you mind bringing a few extra lemon wedges when you get a chance?”
“I always get extra lemon for seafood, too.” I slid into a seat next to him. “Or sometimes an orange slice. Really, any type of citrus works well.”
“Do we know you?” Michael asked.
I helped myself to a piece of bread and dipped it in their herb-infused oil. “No, you don’t know me, although I know you and what you’ve been up to lately. The three of you have been very, very bad boys.”
Leo dropped his fork to speak with his hands. “What the hell are you talking about?”
A waiter stopped by with a plate of lobster salad for me. I asked for a beer. Jonathan pointed at his empty lowball glass. With a nod, the server left.
“I’m talking about prescribing drugs for patients who don’t exist. For starters.” I pulled their office appointment book from my handbag and slid it to Leo. I’d checked the names, and they’d all turned out to be real people with real Wilmington-area addresses. I hadn’t seen anything suspicious. Which meant they were writing bogus scrips only for names Denny gave them. Not actual patients. “By the way, I believe this belongs to you. Found it on the sidewalk the other day.”
Michael’s voice went flat. “Who are you?”
“A person who could destroy everything you’ve worked for.” I threw out interesting factoids about their financials, just for show. My beer and Jonathan’s drink arrived. His looked like pure liquor, on the rocks. The waiter started to replenish our bread basket, but Leo waved him away.
“Fortunately for you”—I took a miniature bite of lobster, chewed leisurely, and swallowed—“we want the bigger fish, so to speak. If you tell us who the ringleader is, you’ll probably come out of this without seeing jail time. I’m not so sure about keeping your medical licenses active, but we’ll see.”
Jonathan withered. “I knew it. I knew we were headed for trouble. And it’s all my fault. All of it.”
“Shut up!” Leo snapped under his breath. “We don’t even know who she is. Or if she’s wired, or whatever.”
“My name is Jersey Barnes, and I own a specialized security agency. I’m not a cop, but I have lots of cop friends. I’ve been retained by Morgan’s family to get to the bottom of the illegal activity that has been taking place in his restaurant.” I unbuttoned my blouse all the way down to my navel and held it open to reveal a black, lace-trimmed Camille plunge bra. I aimed my size D’s at Leo. “And as you can clearly see, I am not wired.”
Accustomed to examining breasts, Leo showed little reaction. A couple across the restaurant, however, caught my act and were staring openly. I rebuttoned my blouse and smiled at them until they went back to minding their own business.
“Your options are these, Drs. Haines, Pratt, and Rosch. You can cooperate by leading me to the top dog. If you do that, your collective reputations may remain intact and you’ll stay out of jail.” I held up my other hand. “Or, you can tell me to get lost. I make a phone call. Drug enforcement agents will be waiting outside the restaurant to arrest you. Probably a few local cops, too. In broad daylight, in the parking lot, in front of everyone else who happens to be a valued Argo’s patron.” I ate more lobster. “Your choice.”
The doctors had stopped eating, but the lobster salad was scrumptious and I thoroughly enjoyed mine. That, and the imported Moretti Italian beer, which the waiter had recommended. It was a good recommendation.
“How do we know you’re legit?” Michael watched me eat for a time. “I mean, he could have sent you. Like this is a test or something.”
Shrugging, I flipped open my cell phone and started dialing.
Leo reached over to shut it. “What do you want to know?”
A smile warmed my insides, exactly like it used to when I worked undercover. They’d bought my act and my story. I always got a rush when that happened. “Start by telling me why three prominent medical professionals would suddenly forget their code of ethics and hook up with the network.”
Jonathan shrunk into himself and seemed to tune everything out by staring at Bradley Creek. Michael looked at Leo. Leo nodded his consent. Michael started talking.
“We found some money back when we were in med school,” he said. “We made a pact to be smart about it. We kept quiet, finished school, paid off our loans, and put the rest in an investment account. We scrounged like all the other young doctors—no new cars or parties or expensive clothes—and left the money alone to grow. Then we opened our own practice. Everything went according to plan. The more established we became, the more we did for charity, you know, to give back. To pass along some of our good fortune. Life was good.”
“Until he showed up, out of the blue. Said we took something that belonged to him when we were students at Duke. He wanted it back. With interest,” Leo said. “We told him to go to hell. That he couldn’t prove anything.”
Michael ran a hand through his hair. “That’s when he killed my dog. Slit her throat. Inside my house. At nighttime, no less, while I slept. The alarm system on.”
Leo loosened his tie. “He said that our families would be next.”
“So you agreed to give him the money?”
Leo joined Jonathan in staring out the windows. Michael nodded. “Problem was, we didn’t have that kind of dough lying around. Our money is in our medical equipment and our building and homes and such. We sold investments and scraped together almost half a million. Gave him that. And set up a payment plan of sorts, where we give him a cash payment out of our general fund each month. Bookkeeper enters it as a consulting fee.”
“How much does he want?”
“One and a half million.”
“And none of you thought to negotiate or get outside help?”
“He said he’d kill our families,” Jonathan said. He was paying attention, but he was also getting drunk. His speech came out slurred.
“We agreed to keep paying him off,” Michael said. “Then he wanted more. He wanted drugs. Told us if we’d supply prescriptions, the ‘loan’ would get paid off much quicker.”
Appetite gone, I pushed back my plate. “And ‘he’ is … ?”
Leo sighed, short and sharp. “We don’t know. We’ve never seen him. He goes by the name D-man. He runs the network. He’s the one you want.”
“How do the transfers take place?”
“Always in cash. He sends somebody.”
He used a runner, then, like he’d been doing with the drugs. “Always the same person?” I asked.
“A woman,” Michael said. “She wears hats and sunglasses, but I think it’s always the same person. He makes us do the drops in a way that we can’t ever get too close to her. And we never know where to go until the last minute.”
“Was it his money that you stole?” I asked.
“I told you,” Michael said, “we found the money. In a car. The men driving the car were both dead, and no, we didn’t kill them.”
People had begun finishing their free lunches, and I spotted Morgan going from table to table, shaking hands, nodding, smiling. I knew he continued to record every word at the GT, even though he’d left his office. He approached our table with a formal smile.
“Jersey, how nice to see you. I didn’t realize that you were friends with the most popular drug dealers in the house.”
Michael put his fingertips to his forehead, as though in prayer. Jonathan gulped his drink. And Leo remained speechless for a beat while his mind processed what he’d just heard.
“Yes, I know all about the network, too. I know a lot about all of you.” Morgan stared directly at Jonathan. “After all, you were such good friends with my mother.”
I took a swig of beer and shot Morgan a look over the tall glass. If he let his emotions take over, he might expose the Green Table’s secret. As it was, the doctors had no idea how they’d been found out.
“Well, feel free to stay and talk to Jersey as long as you’d like,” Morgan said ple
asantly. “The wait staff will be resetting for dinner, but you won’t be in anyone’s way.”
“Thanks, Morgan,” I said. “I believe we’ll take you up on that offer.”
The four of us remained at the Green Table long after the restaurant had cleared out. The Divine Group told me how they’d stumbled upon the money to begin with. How they’d justified keeping it. How so many years had passed without any mention of their appropriated fortune. How Rosemary had inadvertently gotten involved. And how Garland never knew that she’d become close friends with Jonathan and was helping the Divine Group pay off the D-man by delivering drugs to restaurant patrons.
I was digesting the information when I spotted Brad strolling through the empty dining room. There was nothing to do except offer introductions.
I did, leaving out the part about him being a drug enforcement agent.
Brad’s eyes shot invisible daggers at me, but he decided to play along. “Looks like I missed the party.”
“You are late for lunch,” I told him. “The good news is that Drs. Haines, Pratt, and Rosch have agreed to cooperate in helping us find their blackmailer. Fellow who goes by the name of D-man. Runs the network.”
Brad had to be suitably impressed with my investigation skills, even though he wasn’t happy about being left out. I raised an eyebrow at him. He almost smiled.
“We’ll do what we need to do to help you find him,” Leo said, sliding out of his seat, ready to go. The other doctors followed suit. “But if you involve the law, we’re as good as dead. Even if he finds out that we’ve spoken to you, it won’t be pretty. He is a scary man. And as I already said, we don’t know who he is, where he lives, or what he looks like.”
“Then I suppose we’ll need to set up a meeting, won’t we?” Brad crossed his arms. “Besides, I’ve got a pretty good idea who he is. Fingerprint from Garland’s wine room came back as a match. Ray Donnell Castello. Did time in the state prison system.”
The Divine Image Group exchanged looks.
“Anything else you’d like to tell us?” I asked them.
“We know that name. We saw it in the newspaper, back when we were students,” Michael said. “They were going to arrest him for murder. Another article said that there were several charges pending against him for other crimes. And he’d escaped from a New Jersey jail. So he was definitely going to jail, with or without the murder charges.”
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril Page 21
