Tanzi's Heat (Vince Tanzi Book 1)

by C I Dennis

  The blue dot was pulsing, but not moving. According to the tracker she was out of town by the Indian River Mall, across 20th Street. There was a Home Depot near there. I took the bridge back to the mainland and hurried west, keeping the laptop open in case she moved.

  Fifteen minutes later I was turning into the Home Depot lot when I saw the minivan coming in the other direction with a sheet of plywood tied to the roof rack. I honked loudly, but Barbara didn’t notice. I would have to turn into the lot and do a fast U-turn. Just before I made the turn I saw another car leaving, a few cars behind Barbara. It was a white Ford Transit van.

  I swung the BMW around in an arc as fast as I could, but they were already well ahead and out of sight. I watched the blue dot flash on the tracker as Barbara turned back onto 20th Street toward town. The traffic was thick and narrowed to one lane at points where clean-up crews tackled the downed trees and debris. A flagman stopped me in front of the First Christian Church, and I watched the blue dot get even farther ahead. I needed to catch up.

  They were now in the old part of downtown Vero, going east. They could be heading back to her house, and I hoped the tree men were still on the site; that might give her some protection. The blinking dot slowed before the intersection with Indian River Drive, and the van turned left by the Publix. The dot stopped moving. I had a feeling I knew where she was—the bakery cafe—the same place she’d come out of when she’d taken a shot in the purse. I was ten blocks behind, and I swerved around cars like a crazy person to get to the lot. I almost hit a pedestrian and some people honked at me, but I had to get there fast, so I pushed the BMW to the limit. I screeched to a stop in the lot a minute later. Barbara’s van was parked out front, and the Transit van was at the opposite end. I could see “Le’s Vending” stenciled on the door, and there was someone in the driver’s seat—Philip. Was he waiting for Barbara to come outside? No—the passenger-side door was open. Someone had gotten out in too much of a hurry to close it, and I knew who that was.

  I patted my back for the Glock and remembered—I had brought both of the handguns into my house when I’d arrived from the hotel. Goddamn it. I usually have a sense about when I should be carrying, and this was definitely one of those times. I had the Lupo in the trunk, but that would scare the shit out of everybody in the place. So what, I decided, and I grabbed it and slid two shells into the chambers as I ran for the front door of the cafe.

  The tables were busy with people sipping coffee and peering into their computers. The first ones to see the shotgun were two women waiting in line at the register, and their high shrieks sliced through the crowd noise. The whole restaurant turned to look, and the patrons ducked for cover under their tables, leaving a forest of open laptops above them. Barbara and Le were nowhere in sight, and it was now silent except for the hissing of the espresso machine. A white-faced clerk looked at me from behind the pastry counter and tentatively raised both hands above her head.

  “Asian woman?” I yelled. “Just came in?”

  “Bathroom,” she stammered.

  I ran to the far corner where the bathrooms were, clutching the shotgun. The ladies room door was locked from the inside. I could hear Le’s shrill voice inside, screaming.

  “Open the door!” I yelled.

  “She has a gun!” I heard Barbara yell, from inside.

  I took a fork from one of the tables, bent the tines and jammed it into the lock, but it was way too thick. I knew exactly what tools I needed, but they were in the trunk of my BMW, and there wasn’t any time. The door was solid; there would be no kicking it in. I ran back to the counter. “Bathroom key!” I yelled. “There’s a woman in there with a gun. I’m an ex-cop.”

  The clerk got a key out of the register, and I snatched it from her trembling hand. I ran back and swung open the door as Le aimed a .22 Derringer and shot Barbara, who collapsed on the hard tile floor. Le swung the gun around as I raised the Lupo, and we fired. Her slug hit me in the shoulder and knocked me back. My shot hit her torso and left a hole so big you could almost see through it. Le’s small body crumpled backward against a metal trash can and slid down onto the cold tile. I felt someone come up behind me; it was Philip, and when he saw his mother, he screamed and ran to hold her, then turned and ran for the door, his hands covered in her blood. I took a tentative step toward Barbara, but my legs gave out from under me, and the last thing I remember was the smell of gunpowder and freshly-baked croissants.

  FRIDAY

  D.B. told me to just stay in sight of the coast and enjoy the view, but I wasn’t enjoying anything. The attorney had said the police were looking for me, and I didn’t know what they knew or didn’t know. We were passing the tip of Sanibel Island, heading for the bridge under the causeway to Punta Rassa. I’d never operated the boat, but D.B. said not to worry, I would know what to do. Philip was below decks in the air conditioning, playing video games. He hadn’t come up since we’d left Tampa Bay. He had been crying on and off ever since he’d driven home yesterday and I decided to leave him alone with his grief. I had no time for such things.

  I was going to clean up everything and leave no tracks. The lab was gone. The vending business could be sold—the lawyers could handle that. It would go to a competitor, albeit at half the price that it would if Le was alive. Le’s people, the drivers and couriers, could be paid to be quiet. The only one who worried me was Barbara’s person, and I would have to deal with him.

  D.B. pointed out the shore birds and threw pieces of bread off the stern at two pelicans that were following us. If he was feeling anything about his wife, he didn’t show it. This was like a pleasure cruise for him. He showed me the charts that pointed the way into the Caloosahatchee River to Fort Myers and the canal that led to Lake Okeechobee, and then out the St. Lucie Canal to Stuart on the east coast. We could cross Florida in a day.

  We refueled at a marina in Cape Coral. D.B. was right; I had no problem maneuvering the boat alongside the dock where we tied up. He sat behind me in one of the white vinyl fighting chairs that he used when he fished. “I have to leave now,” he said.

  “I know,” I said.

  The boat could hold two hundred and fifty gallons of fuel, and I paid in cash. I opened the cabin door to check on Philip, but he didn’t even look up, he was so absorbed in his game.

  When I got back above, D.B. was gone.

  *

  The only good thing about being shot is that they don’t immediately make you fill out any insurance forms. They have to fix you up first, because it completely screws up the system if you croak in the middle of the paperwork. I’d been in the emergency room and then the O.R. for an entire afternoon and evening, and no one had waved a single signature page in my face. I figured they’d make up for it later, and I was right. My morning-shift nurse, Clara, had to help me hold a pen to sign, since my shoulder was bandaged and I couldn’t move my arm.

  “This is fucking ridiculous,” I said, and I regretted the profanity when she flinched. Most nurses are pretty battle-hardened, but she’d said this was her second month out of nursing school, and she hadn’t yet had to deal with many grouchy old men like me.

  “You can just make an X,” she said. She looked about sixteen, angel-faced and on the cherubic side.

  Clara checked all my machines and pronounced me alive. She refilled my water glass, and I took a left-handed sip. They must have had something good in the IV bag, because I couldn’t feel any pain and I was groggy as hell. Clara left and a doctor came in, a woman who I remembered, sort of, from the surgical table.

  “I’m Dr. Campion,” she said. “I operated on you last night.”

  “Did you take care of Barbara Butler also?”

  “No, that was Dr. Humphrey.”

  “Is she out of surgery? The nurses won’t tell me a goddamn thing.”

  “She’s in critical care. We can’t really say much, because we’re still waiting for her family.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “She’ll recover
,” she said. “But it was close.”

  “Who do you mean by family?”

  “We couldn’t reach her husband,” the doctor said. “Her sister is on the way from Jacksonville.”

  “Is there a cop in there?”

  “You mean security?”

  “No, I mean is there a cop assigned to her? I need to talk to them,” I said.

  “You need to rest. It was a small caliber bullet, but it made a mess of your shoulder,” she said. “And you have a concussion.”

  “I need to talk to the cops, right now,” I said. “It’s important.”

  “You can’t, I’m sorry. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Pass me the phone,” I said, pissed off now.

  “You really need to rest, Mr. Tanzi,” she said, “There’s—”

  I shushed her and sat up in the bed. The blood rushed to my head, and I was woozy as I swung my legs off the side of the bed and reached for a telephone on a side table. I called the Sheriff’s while Dr. Campion loudly protested. I got Myra, at the dispatch desk.

  “It’s Vince.”

  “Man, you got a nose for trouble,” she said.

  “Myra, can you get a deputy down to the hospital, like right now? There’s a patient here who is at risk. Her name is Barbara Butler, and she’s in critical care.”

  “She the lady who got shot? You OK, Vince? I heard you both got shot.”

  “I’m fine. She’s not. Is Bobby Bove around?”

  “I’ll put you through.”

  I got to Bobby and told him the situation. C.J. and the boy could still be at large, and that could be trouble for Barbara—and for me. I asked him to call Doc Edwards in Tampa and fill him in. The sooner the two of them were located, the sooner I’d be able to rest, like the doctor wanted. She had overheard me giving the details to Bobby Bove.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have listened to you. I’m a little out of my depth.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Just do me a favor and don’t let anyone in to see her until the cops get here. Especially not anyone who says he’s her husband, OK?”

  “OK. By the way, your blood work showed a pretty high level of opiates when you came in,” she said. “What’s that all about?”

  I explained that it was the second time I’d been shot in a week. And I’d totaled my car and broken two ribs. Aside from that, I was fine. She frowned, and left. I’d worn myself out talking. I leaned back on the bed and went back to sleep.

  *

  At lunch a new nurse woke me and delivered the tray. She was accompanied by Bobby Bove and Bill Thornton, the assistant D.A. who had debriefed me the night that Frank Velutto shot himself.

  “Did you get someone to cover the woman?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” Thornton said. “Let’s talk about it.”

  “What’s the matter with you guys?” I said. Whatever drug they were feeding me it wasn’t doing anything for my temper. “Get a deputy up there, now. Then we talk.”

  Thornton scowled, but Bobby Bove took his radio off his belt and spoke into it. “Done,” he said, turning back to me. “Now tell Bill what you told me.”

  I filled him in, starting at the beginning. Bobby said he’d talked to Doc Edwards and his contact at the DEA, and they had an all-points bulletin out for C.J. and Philip. I wondered if they were on his boat, halfway to Cuba.

  Bill Thornton was a cool customer, the kind of guy who never smiled. If he had a sense of humor he didn’t show it when he was working. “So, what are you leaving out?” he asked.

  I wasn’t going to say anything about Roberto; he didn’t need to be involved. Nor did I mention that I’d broken into the Johannsen house and bugged it. My tracks were covered, thanks to Doc Edwards. I didn’t say anything about the money, C.J.’s dirty millions, because that might also lead back to Roberto’s hacking capabilities. I had also left out the fact that I’d fallen ass-over-tin-cups in love with my client.

  “That’s everything,” I said.

  “So how did it go down in the ladies’ room?” Thornton said. “Who shot whom?”

  “Le shot Barbara when I opened the door. Then she aimed at me, and we shot each other at the same time.”

  “A .22 isn’t much of a match for a sawed-off, is it?” Thornton said.

  “What do you mean by that? She was shooting to kill, and I shot back.”

  “Maybe you can tell me why the EMTs found a bag of OxyContin in your pocket?”

  “Yes, I can explain,” I said.

  “I just find it a little strange that a cop kills himself in your house and two days later you gun somebody down in a bathroom.”

  “Hey, Thornton,” I said, my blood pressure making the machines go ballistic, “are you fucking listening? Have you talked to the DEA? That woman was running the biggest meth lab in Florida. She fucking shot my client, and shot me, and I shot her back, OK?”

  “Hey, cool down, Vince,” Bobby interjected.

  “No, you guys get the fuck out of here before I shoot you too,” I said. “Assholes.”

  They rose and Thornton said, “We’ll come back later.”

  “Assholes,” I said, as they shut the door.

  *

  I slept again until four in the afternoon when another nurse checked my vitals and helped me to the bathroom. Le’s bullet had hit my right shoulder, and my cracked ribs were on the left side, so it hurt to move either arm regardless of the painkillers they were feeding me. The nurse left me to pee alone, and then helped me back to the bed.

  “You should be out of here tomorrow,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “The insurance companies won’t pay for more than a day if they can help it,” she said.

  “Can you do me a favor?” I said. “Can you take me out for a wheelchair ride? I want to visit another patient.”

  “You should stay in bed,” she said.

  “Please?”

  “My shift ends at seven,” she said. “I’ll take you then.”

  *

  A bored-looking deputy sat in the lounge of the Critical Care Unit. He showed no interest when we wheeled past. If this guy was watching out for Barbara’s safety, I might as well not have bothered.

  The shades were drawn in her room, but I could see her in the bed, hooked up to a console of machines. A woman sat in a visitor’s chair thumbing through a fashion magazine. She didn’t acknowledge me. She wore a pink T-shirt that was a size too small, and a tangle of blue and green tattoos extended out of her sleeves and up her neck like jungle vines. The bottom of each earlobe was stretched around a wooden insert the size of a napkin holder and the top was perforated with rows of little silver rings, like a spiral notebook. I could still see the resemblance, despite all the paraphernalia.

  “You must be Barbara’s sister.”

  “I’m Vicki,” she said. “Y’all are not supposed to be here.”

  “I’m Vince,” I said.

  “I guessed that,” she said. “She doesn’t want to see you.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She’s going to live, if that’s what you mean. The bullet went into her lung, but missed her heart. And now you have to git.”

  “What do you mean that she doesn’t want to see me?”

  “She’s married, for starters,” she said. “And you were supposed to be her bodyguard, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, look at her,” she said. “Don’t bother sending no bill.” She dismissed me with a wave of her hand and went back to her magazine.

  “Vicki—”

  “You git or I’m calling that deputy outside.”

  I signaled for my nurse to wheel me out. Barbara had apparently been awarded the charm in her family, not her sister. On the other hand, the woman was correct. I had been hired to protect Barbara, and there she was in a hospital bed with a hole in her chest.

  *

  I lay awake listening to the beeps and pulses of the monitoring equipment in my room, too groggy to watch te
levision. I replayed the events of the last week and realized I’d failed. So what if I’d uncovered a drug operation. Le’s death had come too late. I still didn’t know where C.J. and his son were. In the morning I would check on that, assuming that I was good for anything. There was too much going on and too much blood had been splattered on the walls, and I just wanted to shut it all out and lie on a warm beach with Barbara until we both healed. According to her sister, that wasn’t going to happen. And Bill Thornton might just put me back in jail. I wished for the dark release of sleep, but it didn’t come.

  SATURDAY

  Gustavo and Roberto helped me into my house and onto the couch. Lilian was already there, making a soup in the kitchen; the hearty Cuban kind that would stink up the house for days. Gustavo said they were going to adopt me for a while, and I should just relax and accept it.

  I dutifully ate some of the soup and listened to Lilian’s instruction about what to eat to speed my recovery. She said she’d be bringing over meals with special ingredients passed down through the generations that were sure to help me, and I should stay off the drugs. The hospital had given me Tylenol with codeine. I’d taken some a few hours ago, but it was having little effect. If the pain was going to keep up at its current level it would require something stronger. Maybe Sonny made deliveries.

  When they left I called Doc Edwards on his cell. I had to use the speaker on my phone, as I couldn’t hold it up to my ear.

  “Any sign of them yet?” I asked.

  “We’re not looking for them anymore,” he said. “They called it off.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The hard drive you gave us had a nasty little feature that wiped out all the data. The techs got around it the first time, but when they were trying to copy it, it got wiped. We fucked up. No data, no collar.”