T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril

by T. Lynn Ocean

  Brad drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “If we set up roadblocks along the main feeder roads, it will scare Denny off and we may never find him. Not to mention that there are too many ways in and out of here by water. And multiple stakeouts won’t work. We don’t know exactly what to stake out.”

  “You don’t want to let Denny know we’re on to his home location,” I said.

  “Exactly. We know he’ll be on the move soon, if he’s not gone already.” Brad’s fingers tapped the wheel. “My guess is that he’s still here, wrapping things up. I don’t want to spook him before we have a chance to snag him.”

  We drove the streets surrounding the market but didn’t spot Denny, a sporty white car, or anything resembling a clue. We were deciding what to do next when my cell rang. A frantic Leo breathed fast on the other end.

  “We just got a text message from John.” His words rushed together. “Me and Mike. Well, not really a message. A batch of photos.”

  “Of what?”

  “The beach. Some houses. A shrimp boat. A car.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “A white Mazda convertible,” Leo said. “We don’t recognize any of it. They’re random photos, but John wouldn’t have sent them if they didn’t mean something.”

  “Forward them to my phone right now, okay? I’ll get back to you.”

  We found a spot of shade and pulled off the road to wait for the digital pictures. About two minutes later, my phone beeped. Heads together, Brad and I studied the small screen while we tabbed through the photos.

  “It looks like they might have been taken around here,” Brad said.

  I agreed but played devil’s advocate. “Or they could have been taken at most any small beach town on the lower North Carolina coast.”

  “We can keep driving until we recognize something.”

  I shook my head. “We don’t have time. We need an exact location.”

  “It could take a day or more for my people to identify an exact location from the fuzzy cell phone photos,” Brad said.

  “Remember Soup?” I asked, dialing the number. “It won’t take him that long.”

  After going through the favor-for-no-pay thing with Soup, I forwarded the photos to him. Brad pointed the Murano toward Soup’s place. When we arrived, Soup had already downloaded the photo files to a computer and enhanced the images.

  “I’ve got an exact make on the car for you. Mazda MX-5 Miata. A 2008, I think. Can’t see the tag number, but”—he pressed keys, and an image appeared on one of his flat-screen monitors—“check this out. There’s an air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. It’s the shape of a pine tree. How tacky is that?”

  “Got anything else yet?” Brad said, leaning over to look at Soup’s computer screen.

  “Nope, and quit breathing down my neck. I’ve used a 3-D program to transform the rows of houses into an aerial view. Then I’ll compare them to everything along the coast from Wilmington to Little River, South Carolina, using a satellite imaging program and a GPS coordinates grid. Once that’s done, I’ll try to identify the single house. He took three pictures of the same house.”

  I recited the street address of Akel’s Seafood Market. “We think they were taken near there. Probably within ten or fifteen miles. Maybe closer.”

  Soup let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, why didn’t you say so to begin with?” His fingers tapped out keyboard music. “That narrows the search area and saves a lot of time.”

  “What about the boat?” Brad rested his hands on the back of Soup’s chair.

  Bad idea.

  Soup whipped around. “Back off, would you? I hate people looking over my shoulder.”

  Brad moved to a sofa and obediently sat. “What about the boat?” he repeated.

  “From the angle of the picture, I don’t have a good baseline of the marina layout. I might be able to enhance the boat’s hull. Shrimp boats have to be registered. If I can get a number or the name of the boat—even a partial—I can find out who owns her and where she’s moored when she’s not at sea.” Soup spun back around, and his fingers automatically found their place at a keyboard. “On the other hand, if we identify the area around your seafood market by the houses, we may not need to worry about an ID on the boat.”

  Brad paced. “How long before—”

  “Get out of here,” Soup cut him off. “The two of you are distracting me. I’ll call you when I have something solid.”

  Brad started to try to pin him down on a time frame, but I held up a hand. Soup worked much faster when people left him alone. We let ourselves out, and I drove while Brad made important-sounding phone calls from the passenger seat. Not knowing where else to go, I figured the Block would be as good a place to wait as any. I’d just have to make sure that Brad didn’t go wandering through the kitchen. Or that Garland didn’t come wandering through the dining area.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  After leaving Soup’s place, we drove straight to the Block to wait for some news on the whereabouts of the unidentified house in the photograph. Knowing Soup, I figured it wouldn’t be too long a wait. Which was what I told Brad when he asked to used my bathroom. My personal residence guest bath. The same guest bath that connected to the guest bedroom that Garland happened to be occupying. Since Brad wouldn’t think it to be mere southern hospitality if he learned that I’d opened my doors to a DEA fugitive, I knew it would be in my best interest to keep hiding the man. I suggested that Brad use the downstairs public restroom, the one for the Block’s customers.

  “But I could really use a hot shower,” he argued.

  “Seriously?”

  He nodded. “Helps me think. And calm down when I’m stressed. Believe it or not, I’m stressing. More than a year of investigation is now riding on finding Ray Castello, which is riding on Soup’s ability to identify a generic beach house photo.”

  “Uh, it’s broken,” I said.

  “Your shower is broken?”

  “My guest shower is broken. Feel free to go jump in the river. That’s what Cracker does when he needs to cool off.”

  Brad eyed the stairs that led to my residence. “Whatever.”

  “You want some food?” I said, to change the subject. It always worked with the dog.

  “I guess. Sure. I’ll be on the patio.”

  I put in an order for a couple of Swiss-cheese burgers and headed upstairs to check on Spud and Garland. My cell phone rang, and caller ID told me it was Dirk.

  “Think we’ve found your doctor friend,” he said. “Body just washed up in the surf below Topsail Beach. Wallet intact, which is why they notified us, because it has a Wilmington address. North Carolina driver’s license identifies him as Jonathan Rosch.”

  “Positive ID yet?”

  “No, but the photo and description appear to be a match. Looks like he got beat up and dumped somewhere offshore.”

  “Crap.” Jonathan had gone after Denny on his own. And somebody—most likely Ray Donnell Castello—had killed him. The only good news about the tragedy was that Jonathan had found Denny. It reinforced our theory about the photos sent from his cell phone. “Where do you think the body was dumped?”

  “No way to be sure, but probably somewhere below where he came ashore. With the Gulf Stream currents and the layout of the coastline, I’d guess he got tossed from a boat offshore,” Dirk said. “South of Wilmington.”

  Which fit perfectly into our target search zone. “Thanks for the call, Dirk.”

  “No problem,” he said. “You really should think about going back to work. Your retirement is wearing me out.”

  I asked Ruby to serve the cheeseburgers to the patio if the order came up before I got back, climbed the stairs, and beeped my way in. A tall black woman with big hair and a floppy hat stood in my kitchen. Huge lips pursed in concentration, Fran was tying an apron around the woman. Spud busied himself reviewing a printed list.

  “The rules say all the cooking has to be done at the cook-off. You can bring
stuff already peeled and cut up, but nothing that’s already cooked. That’s a dumb rule, for crying out loud,” my father said. “It would be a lot easier to make a big pot of the fish stew here and carry it over to the site.”

  “That’s okay, sweetie.” Fran shoved a pair of sunglasses on the woman. “I’ve already got the cooler packed. And Bobby’s on his way with the van. And Hal and Trip, too. So, you’ve got a team of five cooks, the maximum allowed. And I’ll be there to cheer you on.”

  “Where is this cook-off? Where is Garland? And who are you?” I asked the woman.

  When she laughed, a man’s voice came out.

  I took a closer look. “Garland? What have they done to you?” His boobs were lumpy beneath a baggy granny dress, and his feet were stuffed into white socks and a pair of Keds. Makeup coated his face. Lots of makeup that didn’t quite mesh with his skin tone.

  “We had to disguise him.” Spud’s mustache went from side to side. “We need him to win the cook-off.”

  I snatched the sheet of paper from Spud. It was a set of rules for the annual Downtown Chowder & Stew Cook-Off at Riverfront Park. The contest was open to all area restaurants. Chefs could make any type of soup, chowder, or stew that utilized locally caught seafood. The shindig began in five minutes.

  “You registered under the Block?”

  Fran squeezed and pushed on Garland’s boobs, trying to shape them. “Of course, sweetie. With Garland cooking we can’t lose! The grand prize is five hundred dollars. Plus, it will be fantastic PR for your pub.”

  “Then you’d better go,” I said, too preoccupied to scold them. “You’re about to be late.”

  Spud pointed outside with his walking cane. “Soon as Bobby shows up with the van, we’re out of here.”

  “What are you making?” I asked the drag queen.

  “Bouillabaisse.”

  “The Block doesn’t serve bouillabaisse,” I said.

  Garland smiled through cherry red, glossy lips. “We did the other night.”

  Somebody banged on the kitchen door. The small security monitor displayed Spud’s poker buddies. They wore aprons and tall white paper chef’s hats.

  “Good grief,” I said, and went out at the same time I let them in.

  Downstairs, my cheeseburger order came up. I grabbed a bottle of ketchup and carried two plates to the Block’s patio. Brad talked on the phone, his free hand waving in the air. Cracker stretched out at his feet, tail wagging at the sight of food. I dropped the plates and went back for two Cokes. Brad was off the phone when I came back, looking miserable. And stressed. Maybe he really did need a shower.

  “Jonathan is dead.” I fed Cracker a French fry. “His body washed up on the shore, north of Wilmington.”

  “Son of a bitch. He did go after Denny.” Brad put down his cheeseburger without taking a bite. “How do you find out about this stuff before I do? You’re a private citizen! And you’re retired at that!”

  Over Brad’s shoulder, I saw the four stooges and their drag queen load up Bobby’s van with coolers and equipment. I bit into my burger. Perfectly cooked, a hint of pink in the center. “My guest shower is fixed,” I said.

  “What?”

  “You said that when you’re stressed, a shower calms you down.” I ate another bite. “My shower is fixed.” Now that Garland was out of my place. “Feel free.”

  “I don’t want a damn shower anymore. I’m hungry. And I want to find Denny. Have you heard from Soup?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “But while we’re waiting, there’s a cook-off going on. It’s right down the road. We can walk. Might do you good to get your mind off things for a bit.”

  Brad’s phone rang. He answered and listened, a grimace tightening his face. “I know they just found Rosch’s body, dammit.” He flipped the phone shut.

  “Come on,” I said. “Eat your burger. We’ll take a walk. Soup will probably have that address for us before the night is out. You’ve got your team on standby, right?”

  Brad nodded.

  “So tell them to gear up and be ready to roll out. Meanwhile, let’s finish eating and go check out the cook-off. The Block is one of the competitors.”

  He picked up his cheeseburger and took a quarter of it in two bites, as though eating for sustenance instead of pleasure. “Were you always this calm on your assignments?” he asked. “Even when a bust was about to go down?”

  “It’s one of the things my handler loved about me,” I said. “I’ll get excited over a great lingerie sale. But I have a tendency to go in the opposite direction when lives are on the line.”

  “Until you see a dead person.”

  I nodded. “Until then.”

  “Well, let’s hope we don’t encounter any dead people tonight.”

  “ ’Long as Spud’s not cooking, we should be fine at the Chowder and Stew Cook-Off,” I said.

  As we approached Riverfront Park, a cluster of aromas melded into one tantalizing breeze and my appetite revved up, even though I had a full belly. The cook-off drew a sizable crowd of spectators and about fifteen competing restaurants. Each eatery had a poster announcing the restaurant’s name and the menu item being prepared. Whoever printed the posters had taken Spud’s application at face value. The Block’s poster read: “Spud’s Booey-Base” and, below that, “(Fish Stew).”

  Soon after Brad and I arrived, judges with clipboards were strolling from table to table, tasting samples and making notes. Resembling a cross-dressing prostitute with bad fashion taste and too much makeup, Garland stood back and let my father do all the talking to the judges.

  “Who’s she?” Brad asked, eyeing Garland.

  “One of the regulars at the Block. She, uh, fills in as cook for us on occasion. Great lady.”

  After the judges got their tasting samples, the crowd stood in lines for samples of everyone’s stew and chowder. All they had to do was show a wristband, which the organizers sold for five dollars apiece. As soon as the Channel 6 news team showed, television camera rolling, one of the organizers stood on a small stage to announce the winners. Third place went to a blue crab chowder. Second place went to an oyster stew. And first place went to … the Block for Spud’s Booey-Base Fish Stew.

  The assembled crowd and television camera crew followed as the head judge and her cohorts made their way to the Block’s table, toting a blue ribbon and a giant cardboard check. In his element, my father preened, chef’s hat standing straight up, a clean apron tied around his waist, and the verbal bullshit flowing.

  Brad and I stood to the side of the flock, close enough to hear what Spud said to the television reporter.

  “Our fish stew at the Block”—he rattled off the street address and aimed a blinding, lasered-white smile at the camera—“is an old, cherished family recipe. We use different types of fresh fish, of course, but our secret ammunition is the spices we use.”

  Adjusting his stuffed bra, Garland whispered something to Fran, who relayed the message to Spud. “And we always praise our fish before it goes into the pot.”

  Fran whispered something into Spud’s other ear.

  “Braise,” he clarified into the camera lens. “We braise the fish fillets on a grill before they go into the pot.”

  One of the judges beside Spud started jumping up and down, making wild gestures with his hands. The videographer kept the camera trained on Spud.

  “Oh, I’m excited, too,” Spud said, his walking cane up, pointed at the animated judge. “It’s a big day for all of us at the Block.”

  Fran whispered into Spud’s ear again.

  “He’s choking?” Spud said. “Oh, for crying out loud.”

  Before anyone else—including Brad and me—could get to the choking man, Spud turned, tripped on a tree root, and lurched forward. The rubberized foot of his cane hit the judge square in the solar plexus. A piece of hard candy shot out of the man’s mouth, straight at the camera. The man coughed a few times and, with watery eyes, proceeded to thank my father for saving his life.

/>   We didn’t stick around to watch the rest because Soup called. He’d isolated the single home in the photo. He had a street address and a GPS location.

  “You’re a civilian,” Brad reminded me as we jogged the short distance back to the Block. “You need to stay out of this.”

  I eyed him sideways. “Give me a break. I’m going.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Then vest up.”

  His gear was in the Murano, and a few short minutes after we arrived back at my pub, I’d changed into what Ox always dubbed my combat duds: black hiking boots, stretch jeans with a bunch of pockets, including one that held my backup piece, and a custom-designed bullet-resistant vest that molded nicely around my size D’s. I covered the vest with a plain T-shirt. A lightweight jacket concealed the Ruger attached to my waistband, slightly behind the hipbone. Beneath it all, I wore a black satiny Victoria’s Secret sports bra and hipster panties with a wide lace trim. It’s just something I do.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Brad punched the street address into his GPS and we pulled out at the same time he deployed his team. On the way, he made phone calls to notify the local cops of a possible apprehension in their jurisdiction.

  We took his SUV, with him at the wheel, looking like his old calm and capable self.

  “Did you manage to squeeze in a shower?” I teased. “You’re calm again.”

  “Impending action always calms me,” he said. “It’s the waiting that makes me nuts.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  We passed Akel’s Seafood Market. The small store was dark except for security lighting. The sun had disappeared into the horizon, and the autumn evening was coated with a postdusk bluish tint. Brad’s navigation system said we were a mere four minutes from our destination, and we looked at each other across the console, realizing how nearby we’d been earlier in the day.

  When we were within two blocks of the target home, Brad killed the lights and pulled into a vacant rental home drive. Fingers tapping the steering wheel, he spoke into a small radio, confirming that his team was in place. Fourteen minutes later, they were. We drove to the house, headlights off, and surveyed the property. Television flickering in the front room. White Miata parked in the drive beside the single-story home, pine tree cutout air freshener hanging from the rearview. Blinds closed in all the windows. We compared an enlarged photo sent by Jonathan with the actual home. The roofline, window placement, and a dead palm in the front yard confirmed that it was the same place. An agent with an infrared detection device came over the radio to inform Brad that, best they could determine, one individual was inside. No animals. No heat-generating appliances, such as an oven, in operation.