Mortal Dilemma

by H. Terrell Griffin

  “Then on Saturday night Matt has the run-in with Bates at Tiny’s. Any idea what caused him to come at you like that, Matt?”

  “None. Cracker mentioned to me on Thursday that a man had come into Mar Vista looking for me, and then Cracker pointed out Bates on Saturday as the one asking about me. When I introduced myself to him, he went ballistic.”

  “Have you seen him since?”

  “No. J.D. and I saw his boat at the Seafood Shack on Sunday, but we didn’t see him.”

  “He’s still here,” J.D. said. “Or at least he was yesterday. I called the Shack’s dockmaster before we left for Orlando, and he told me Bates was still hanging around.”

  “I think there may be more connections,” I said. “It seems very coincidental that a bunch of Arab terrorists are trying to kill J.D. and me and an organization with ties to jihadists is the recipient of funds from Fortson and of obvious interest to Gilbert.”

  “What terrorists?” Logan asked.

  “This is very sensitive stuff, Logan,” I said. “It has to do with one of Jock’s operations, and I can’t tell you much about it, I’m afraid. What I can tell you is that we have hard evidence that because of Jock’s last mission, some very bad actors from Syria, terrorists, are here trying to kill J.D. and me.”

  “Why?”

  “They know we’re Jock’s family and they want to hurt him as badly as possible. They think if they kill us, it will be devastating to Jock.”

  “They’re probably right. Is Jock dealing with it?”

  “No. Jock is pretty much incapacitated. He’s down in Key West with a mutual friend, hiding out. I think he’s getting better, but it’s kind of a roller coaster.”

  “How much can you tell me?”

  “That’s about it. The terrorists lured J.D. and me to Key West by putting Jock in the hospital with a minor gunshot wound. Six of them were down there and on Saturday I killed three of them. A fourth one is spending some quality time in isolation in the Monroe County jail.”

  Logan didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by my admission of killing three men. “And the other two?” he asked with no more emotion that if we had been talking about pencils, instead of people.

  “I don’t know. I suspect they’re here or on their way. If they find out that J.D. and I are back, I’m sure they’ll follow us. They won’t know where Jock is. He’s well hidden.”

  “Gilbert, the hinge,” Logan said. “Could he be running the Arabs?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “He might be giving them some logistical support through Ishmael’s Children, but that’s about all. The jihadists don’t trust anybody but their own people. I can’t imagine they’d let Gilbert get too involved or too close to them.”

  “I don’t understand why he would be involved at all,” J.D. said.

  “Neither do I, but if old D. Wesley is tied up with gamblers, or worse yet, organized crime, they might be linked in some way to the terrorist groups. Maybe they’re laundering money, or just supporting them because they’re being threatened. Who knows?”

  “Maybe the gamblers are the terrorists or vice versa,” Logan said.

  “Maybe the guy at the Franklin County sheriff’s office can enlighten us a bit,” J.D. said. “I’m going to call the sheriff up there and find out if they have been able to get anything out of him.” She went into her bedroom to make the call.

  “You don’t seem too concerned about the terrorists,” Logan said.

  “I’m very concerned. I carry a pistol with me at all times, and I’m very careful about my surroundings. I don’t know what else to do.”

  “What about getting some of Dave Kendall’s men down here?”

  “I’m not sure that’d do much good. I’ve got to kill the terrorists before they get us. That’s the only way I can start to relax a little and get back to my old life.”

  J.D. was back in a few minutes. “The sheriff’s civilian employee, the one whose thumbprint was on the locator beacon? He didn’t show up for his shift last night. They haven’t been able to find him. His wife says she hasn’t heard from him and the charter boat captain who was supposed to take him and his friends fishing said he never heard of the group. The sheriff says the boat never left its slip over the weekend and the captain was in Tallahassee at a Florida State football game.”

  “He’s dead,” I said.

  “I agree,” J.D. said.

  “Whoever is in charge isn’t likely to leave a guy like that alive,” Logan said. “Sooner or later, drunk or sober, he’d have to tell somebody. Brag a little.”

  “What would make somebody get in bed with those characters?” I asked. “Money?”

  “I think so,” J.D. said. “The sheriff said that when they searched his house this morning they found a valise behind a stack of dirty clothes in his closet. It was stuffed with one-hundred-dollar bills. Five grand worth.”

  “That seems to be the standard amount these guys pay,” I said. “Any prints on the valise?”

  “No. It’d been wiped clean, but there was a nice piece of evidence that somebody left in the bag.”

  “I’m all ears,” I said.

  “A bank receipt showing a withdrawal of five grand.”

  “What bank?”

  “Third National of Orlando.” She had a big grin plastered across her face.

  “I’m guessing there’s more,” I said.

  “The receipt had an account number. Guess who it belonged to?”

  “Peter Fortson.”

  “You’re half right. It was a joint account.”

  I raised my hands. “Okay. I give up.”

  “The joint holder of the account is D. Wesley Gilbert.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 4

  “WE’VE GOT TO bring Dave Kendall in on this,” I said. “He’ll be able to tell us a lot about Ishmael’s Children. I’d sure like to know why Peter wanted to give all his money to it, and I’ll bet you that a lot of those people Fortson was writing checks to are going to be associated with this so-called charity.”

  J.D. frowned. “I don’t know. This is really just an old-fashioned murder case, so far. Will Dave think we’re overstepping by asking him for information? Most of it is probably classified. I’ve already called Parrish. He’s going to contact the Franklin County sheriff, and if everything matches up, he’s going to see if he has enough to arrest Gilbert.”

  “I think he’s got some legwork to do,” I said. “Gilbert and Fortson were joint holders of the account. The deposit receipt would have a date on it, but we don’t know yet what that is.”

  J.D. slapped her head. “I’m getting dense. I didn’t even think to ask the sheriff about that.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It could have been either one of them. The locator beacon must have been put on your car no later than Wednesday. The money to pay for it was withdrawn from the Third National in Orlando, probably on Tuesday of last week. That would give them time to get the money to Franklin County and give it to the sheriff’s employee. Since Fortson was alive last Tuesday, it could have been either Gilbert or Fortson who withdrew the money.”

  “Maybe the bank teller will remember him,” Logan said. “Or maybe there’s a security tape.”

  “I’m betting on the tape,” I said. “Let’s see what Parrish comes up with.”

  “Do you still want to call Kendall?” J.D. asked.

  “I do. If Ishmael’s Children is on Homeland’s terrorist list, the intelligence agencies are most likely monitoring Peter Fortson,” I said. “He filed suit in the probate court to change the beneficiary of the trust. That makes for a very public paper trail. He may have been on a watch list before he filed that suit, but if not, he’ll be on it now. A lot of money with his name on it went flying around the country.”

  “I wonder if Peter was a jihadist,” Logan said.

  “Good question,” J.D. said. “The probable answer is that he was. Why else would he be trying to leave that much money to Ishmael’s Child
ren?”

  “Another good question.” I said. “He must have known that by filing the petition he was putting the whole issue in the public eye.”

  “The suit would certainly have put Peter on the security watch lists,” J.D. said.

  “I agree,” I said. “Have you gotten the autopsy report on Peter?”

  “Not yet. There was no hurry. We knew the cause of death, so the autopsy probably isn’t going to show us anything that will be useful. I didn’t see any reason to push Doc Hawkins. Why?”

  “I’d be interested in whether Peter may have had some kind terminal illness. Maybe that’s why he wanted to change the beneficiary of the trust.”

  “If that were the case,” J.D. said, “why would someone kill him? Why not just let him die?”

  “Peter’s death would terminate the possibility that he would appeal the probate court’s ruling,” I said. “Maybe somebody that had an interest in the proceeds at Peter’s death, like one of the charities his grandfather named, was afraid that the higher court might reverse the probate court and allow the change of beneficiaries if Peter was alive to pursue it.”

  “Then why not kill him when he filed in probate court?” J.D. asked.

  “You got me there,” I said.

  “This doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Logan said. “The charities named by the grandfather are all old, legitimate, and well respected. I don’t think they would turn into killers. We’re missing something. Maybe Peter’s death has nothing to do with the lawsuit or the beneficiaries.”

  “The timing of the two events, the appeal and the murder, might just be coincidental,” I said.

  “You sound skeptical,” J.D. said. “I know you don’t like coincidences, but sometimes they happen.”

  “Let’s check in with the ME’s office and see if they have anything,” I said.

  J.D. called, talked to the ME and hung up. “No disease,” she said. “Other than a slit throat, Peter Fortson was in perfect health.”

  “Let’s let Ken Brown spend more time with the documents,” I said. “Maybe he’ll ferret something out.”

  I stepped out onto the walkway that ran along the outside of J.D.’s building, and called Dave Kendall. I explained what we’d found out about the Ishmael’s Children’s link to Peter Fortson who was a murder victim on the key. I explained the possible connection with D. Wesley Gilbert and perhaps to some gamblers who had connections to the terrorist organizations. He said he’d have somebody who tracked the charities get back to me in about ten minutes. “Do you think this may have anything to do with Youssef and his thugs?” he asked.

  “I’m beginning to think it might have. If something turns up on that front, I’ll let you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a connection. Lots of crazies running around out there.”

  I stood for a while, looking out at the Gulf, visible across the tennis courts and the trees that lined Gulf of Mexico Drive between the condo property and the beach. It was getting late. My phone rang and I took the call, talked to a female analyst from Kendall’s office named Paulette Brown, who sounded both sexy and brilliant, hung up, and walked back inside. “Kendall’s office says one of the intelligence agencies has been on top of Ishmael’s Children and on Fortson,” I told J.D. and Logan. “The woman in charge will be emailing some stuff to J.D. in the next hour or so.”

  Logan spoke up. “I wonder about that lawyer in Orlando, D. Wesley Gilbert. He was emailing Fortson about Abe’s Kids, a charity that doesn’t exist, but which is probably code for Ishmael’s Children.”

  “Ishmael’s Children is not a charity,” I said. “It’s the name of an al-Qaeda-affiliated terrorist group that tries to act like a charity.”

  “You’re kidding,” J.D. said. “That changes the whole picture.”

  “It does,” I said. “Somehow, Peter Fortson’s death is connected to the attempts on us. Maybe only in the funding, but that’s still a connection.”

  “Hold that thought,” J.D. said. “I’m ready to call it a night. It’s been a long day and it didn’t start out too well. I’ll call Reuben and see if he can find any more connections between Gilbert and Delmer. Maybe he can find something in that stuff Kendall is sending.”

  “J.D.,” I said, “while you’re at it, ask Reuben to send it on to Ken Brown. He may be able to find a financial connection between Gilbert and Ishmael’s Children.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll leave it to you guys,” Logan said. “It’s happy hour at Tiny’s. Don’t want to miss that.”

  “You’ve been a big help, Logan,” J.D. said. “We’ll bring you up to date when we have a little more information.”

  Logan left and I asked J.D., “You want to go out to eat?”

  “Why don’t we stay here? It’s been a long day and I’m tired.”

  “You got anything here to cook?”

  “There’s breakfast stuff in the fridge. How about some bacon and eggs?”

  “Sounds fine,” I said. “I’ll cook.”

  We ate on the sunporch, enjoying the rays of the setting sun that were reflected on the white clouds hanging low over the mainland. As the sun made its way into the Gulf of Mexico on the other side of the island, the colorful display began to dissipate.

  “You staying here tonight?” she asked as the color disappeared from the horizon and night descended on the island.

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “You know you have an open invitation. Anytime.”

  “Then the answer is yes.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 5

  J.D. WAS IN the shower when Matt left her condo. He was on his way to Publix to pick up pastries for breakfast. She thought it was decadent, eating a delicious clump of sugar and fat for the first meal of the day. She was looking forward to it.

  Today was one of those days she dreaded. She had been subpoenaed to give a deposition in a burglary case she’d worked a few months back. It was set for a lawyer’s office in downtown Sarasota for eight thirty. She looked at the clock. It was almost seven. She’d have to leave home by seven forty-five to get there on time, giving her about thirty minutes to eat breakfast by the time Matt returned.

  She had way too much to do on the Fortson cases, but she’d have to waste part of the day sitting in a conference room, enduring the defense attorney’s grilling of her under oath about everything she did leading up to the arrest of his stumblebum client. The idiot always made his getaway on a bicycle he’d stolen from the home he’d just burglarized. The police officers who took the initial calls were of the opinion that the burglar picked his targets based on the type of bicycle that was on the property. Unfortunately for the thief, the value of the bike taken from one of the houses was enough to turn the case into a felony. A pocketful of crack cocaine at the time of his arrest pretty much ensured that he would do some prison time.

  J.D. dressed carefully in what she always thought of as her court attire: navy suit, white blouse, and low-heeled navy pumps. She laid her suit jacket over the back of the living room sofa and went to the kitchen to get the coffee started.

  She had filled the coffee maker and turned it on when there was a knock at the door. Three sharp raps. Matt forgot his key again, she thought as she walked to the door. She opened it to Charlie Bates. He was grinning broadly and holding a revolver, a thirty-eight-caliber Police Special, pointed at her. A miasma of body odor and old alcohol emanated from him like some kind of toxic cloud.

  J.D. reacted immediately and tried to slam the door. Bates put a foot out and stopped it from closing. He pushed his way into the condo and closed the door behind him. “What do you want, Charlie?” J.D. asked.

  He chuckled. “Didn’t take you long to figure out who I am.”

  “Easy. You’re in the system. Big time.”

  “Quite a resume, huh?”

  “Very impressive,” she said.

  He kept walking toward her, pushing her farther back into the condo as she tried to avo
id the stench radiating from his filthy body. Finally they were standing in the living room, J.D. with her back to the alcove that led to the master bedroom where her holstered service weapon was hanging over the back of a chair. If I can get to that, she thought, I could turn this thing around.

  “What do you want, Charlie?” she asked again.

  “You, babe.”

  “Not going to happen, Charlie.”

  “Oh, it’s going to happen. One way or another. Take your clothes off.”

  “That’s not going to happen, either.”

  He pulled a large knife from the scabbard attached to his belt. “If I have to cut them off, I will. Might get a little flesh in the bargain, though. My hand might not be too steady. You know, the juices flowing and all.”

  “Charlie, the only way you’re going to get my clothes off is to kill me.”

  “Huh. It wouldn’t be the first time I fucked a dead woman. But I’d rather have you alive. We’ll just have to see how it goes.”

  J.D. was trying to tamp down her rising panic. If she ran for her weapon, Bates would shoot her in the back. If she took off her clothes, it would only delay the inevitable. The Publix market was five miles down the island and it would take Matt fifteen minutes to get there and park, another ten minutes in the store and fifteen back. Forty minutes from the time he left the condo. He’d been gone for maybe twenty minutes, which meant he wouldn’t return for close to another half hour. By then, it would all be over and she’d be dead. Maybe she could talk Bates down, slow the process. “Matt will be here in a few minutes,” J.D. said.

  “Bullshit. I saw him leave. I’ve been sitting in your parking lot for an hour waiting for him to go. I recognized his car when I drove in. I’ll take care of that asshole later.”

  “He just ran down to the store.”

  “Right.”

  “Even if he doesn’t come back, he’ll know what you did and he’ll track you down like a wild hog and kill you. He’ll make your dying last a long time. And when you’re about done, when you know you’re about to draw your last breath, and you welcome it because the pain is so terrible, I want you to think about me and about this warning.”