Suffer Not Evil: A Florida Action Adventure Novel

by Scott Cook

  “That was already supposed to be the case, Lieutenant,” Veronica said acidly. “I’m sorry… but if this man wasn’t here, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

  Alex sighed and wiped his brow with a handkerchief, “I understand, Mrs. Bradford. I’m not happy about it, either. Believe me, such a miscommunication won’t happen again.”

  “Oh, that makes me feel so much better,” Veronica chided. “Good thing for SPPD I wasn’t murdered, right? Might have been a little embarrassing to explain why.”

  Alex looked pained.

  “The truth is probably that one of these men would’ve snuck up on the cop and plugged him or her anyway,” I allowed.

  Alex frowned, “All this doesn’t make us sound very competent, Scott.”

  “Alex, I’m not castigating your entire department” I said more softly, “And I know you guys can’t do my job for me… that’s why Lisa and I are here. And that’s why I’ve got… a squad of men on the way. They’ll be with Mrs. Bradford twenty-four-seven until this is resolved. They will be armed as well. I’d appreciate it if you could pass that word around. So that some patrolman who doesn’t know the score won’t brace them and cause a problem.”

  “Where’d you get the talent?” Alex asked.

  I shrugged, “Old friend up north.”

  “It’s not Vinnie Morris, is it?” Alex asked with a wink.

  “Sadly no,” I said. “But maybe closer than we think.”

  Chapter 11

  I had a lot of investigating to do. Too much was happening in this case and far too fast. I could hardly catch my breath from one bad situation when another reared up.

  Gregorio’s men arrived just after sunrise the next morning at Veronica’s house. They were an interesting bunch. There were two medium-sized Italian brothers named Sonny and Jimmy. Both were in their mid-thirties and wore serious expressions. They were the shooters, apparently. Then there was a six-foot, four-inch black man who was built like a pro-wrestler. If he was anything less than two-fifty, I’d be surprised. He introduced himself as Luther but wanted to be called T for some reason. The last man, evidently the leader, was around forty. He was about six feet tall, broad in the shoulders and had a bit of scarring around his eyes. His nose looked like it might have been broken a couple of times and the knuckles on his large square hands were thick. A fighter for certain. His name was, to no one’s surprise… Joey Knuckles.

  We got the men squared away and enjoyed a relaxing Sunday afternoon in late April. Swam in the pool, went to the beach and had lunch at the Island Grill restaurant located at the Tierra Verde Marina. We then swam in the pool some more, made burgers on the grill and dined outside. It was a rather nice time, and in spite of their thuggish career choices, the four men were friendly and even had some interesting… if edited for the company… stories to tell.

  Late the next morning, I drove over to downtown Saint Pete to the Albert Whitted commuter airport where Veronica’s private Gulfstream 500 sat waiting. I was met by the lone pilot, a woman about my age named Jean Belmar. Jean was a medium-height brunette with attractive features and a body that, although tended a bit toward plump, was pleasing and looked strong.

  “Veronica told me you need to get to the main plant in a hurry,” Jean said after shaking my hand. “We’ve only got one pilot today, though.”

  “Actually, we have two,” I said with a wry grin. “I’m qualified on several aircraft, including single-engine commuters and multi-engine military ships. I’ve flown Cessnas, Hercs and what was once a DC3 or C47 one time.”

  She grinned, “Awesome! You ever fly a jet?”

  I shrugged, “No… but I’m a quick study.”

  She led me into the well-appointed plane. The G500 wasn’t nearly as large as Colonel Grayson’s Gulfstream 700, but it was spacious and comfortable looking.

  “It’s about eighteen hundred miles,” Jean said as we got comfortable in the small flight deck. “We cruise at about six-twenty-five, so we’re looking at three hours. We’ve got autopilot, of course, but it’s nice to know I’ve got a backup driver.”

  We went through the pre-flight checks together, and then she started the engines. Apparently, the aircraft had already been fueled. More than enough to go to Wyoming and back and then back again.

  “Want to handle the takeoff?” Jean asked.

  “Shit yeah,” I said and then tuned the radio to the appropriate frequency. “Whitted departure, Gulfstream whiskey-niner-seven-five-papa request taxi.”

  “Niner-seven-five-papa, Whitted departure, cleared to taxi bravo echo and hold,” The disembodied voice said officiously.

  “Wow, that was easy,” I said.

  “Small airport,” Jean stated. “Only one bird on the runway now. You got this?”

  I gave the plane a little throttle and used the rudder pedals, which also were connected to the nose gear, to spin the aircraft and head off the apron and onto taxiway B. We lumbered along, and I turned left onto taxiway E and then another hard left and stopped us just before the ILS hold line.

  “Nicely done,” Jean said with a little smile.

  “Whitted departure,” I said into the mic. “Niner-seven-five-papa holding.”

  “Confirmed, niner-seven-five-papa… switch to point six for tower.”

  I did and then said: “Whitted tower, Gulfstream whiskey-niner-seven-five-papa request clearance to takeoff.”

  “Good morning niner-seven-five-papa,” The tower controller said cordially. “I see by your flight plan you’re headed out west. Advise on takeoff to climb to one-three-hundred to avoid Tampa International traffic and proceed three-zero-zero. Advise also make contact with Clearwater tower. Standby for clearance.”

  “Standing by for clearance, will climb to thirteen hundred and radio Clearwater, niner-seven-five-papa,” I said.

  “Now keep in mind that this bird has a lot of power for its size,” Jean said. “She’ll practically leap off the runway, so you don’t have to yank back on the controls.”

  “Roger that, ma’am.”

  We received clearance and I shoved the throttles to the stops. The small private jet gathered herself and then raced down the runway, and within what seemed like only a few seconds, we lifted and were soaring over the buildings of downtown. I throttled back and climbed to thirteen hundred feet and then turned toward the northwest. We contacted the small Clearwater International Airport and were advised that our course was well out of their traffic pattern. Once out over the Gulf of Mexico, we set the bird on the rhumb line course to the Bradford Avionics private airfield, climbed to forty-three thousand feet and set the autopilot.“Now this is livin’,” I said, leaning back in the co-pilot’s seat and stretching as best I could.

  Jean grinned at me, “Ever flown private before?”

  “Never flown one… but my… uhm… boss… has a G700 that acts as his sort of roving office,” I explained. “I’ve ridden in it.”

  “Your boss?” she asked. “I thought you were a private eye?”

  “I am. I’m also attached to a special international law enforcement agency known as the International Counter-criminal Enforcement Agency. ICE. I’m a Lieutenant Commander in the U.S. Navy.”

  Her pale green eyes grew wide, “No shit? I was in, too. Did my flight training and flew a couple of tours on the Big-E. Mustered out a couple of years ago when I made O3. Better money in the private sector. What’s your designator?”

  “X113.”

  She whistled, “SEAL? You’re a SEAL?”

  “Sort of.”

  She chuckled, “How do you ‘sort of’ become a SEAL?”

  I grinned, “Didn’t start out the traditional way. Didn’t go through SEAL indoctrination at Coronado Springs. But my being a cop, my personal training and other things helped to prep me. I go to Patrick every couple three weeks and train with my team. Kind of bring me up to speed. Where I got my flyer’s ticket.”

  “Damn,” Jean noted profoundly.

  “Yeah,” I replied with eq
ual profundity.

  “Well, Commander, there’s drinks and stuff in back if you’re hungry or thirsty.”

  “Thanks, I might grab a coffee… how about yourself?” I asked as I released my harness.

  “Love a cup.”

  I went back into the tiny galley and got the coffee pot going. I brought two cups forward again and took my seat next to Jean, “So how long have you worked for BA?”

  “About five years,” she replied. “Good gig mostly.”

  I drank some coffee, “Mostly?”

  She only shrugged.

  “You and Veronica get along?”

  “Oh, sure. Julius… Mr. Bradford… too.”

  “But maybe not with everybody?”

  She eyed me sidelong and a slight wry smile played across her full lips, “Investigating, Commander?”

  “Scott… and well… why not?” I asked. “You’re aware of what happened a week ago?”

  Her face took on a more rigid expression and she nodded, “Yes. Veronica and I are pretty close. We spend a lot of time together on these flights. I can’t believe that guy tried to kill her.”

  I sighed, “I’m not sure it was Ted. I think he’s involved… but probably not directly responsible, if you see what I mean. He was the finger man. She thinks it’s one of the Bradfords.”

  Jean chuffed, “Don’t blame her. She’s not the only one I fly around… and what I’ve overheard… well, nothing to indicate anybody was out to get her, exactly…”

  “But they’d sure like to squeeze her out,” I finished for her.

  “Right.”

  “Jean…” I hesitated and then simply looked through the windscreen at the robin’s egg blue sky and the smattering of fluffy white clouds sailing by beneath us.

  “What?” she prompted.

  “Nothing,” I said and sipped more coffee.

  “Oh, come on, Scott. I hate when people do that.”

  I chuckled, “Me too. Well, it’s just… I wanted to ask you about Veronica. If you know anything about her that I should know. Something that might help me home in on who’s behind this. Because it’s not just last week. Last night, more men came to her house. And the night before, the same man who hired them sent two guys to my boat. It’s serious.”

  Jean sighed, “I don’t know much of anything that can help. Veronica was very loyal to Julius. Over the past year, she’s lived like a nun until this Ted Whittaker guy. So no affairs or anything to muddy the waters… least not as far as I know.”

  “And even if there were,” I stated with a small smile, “you wouldn’t rat on your boss, whom you’ve known for five years, to a guy you’ve known for an hour.”

  “Even if we’re both squids,” she said and grinned. “Sorry.”

  “No need. I admire and appreciate loyalty, Jean.”

  We chit-chatted off and on for the next few hours. Once our course took us into Colorado, Jean took us down to twenty-thousand feet and turned more northerly and followed the Rocky Mountains. Even from that great height, the scenery was spectacular.

  “So tell me about BA,” I inquired as she reset the autopilot.

  “Well, the plant is located on the edge of the Great Divide Basin not far from Laramie and I-80. It’s a great spot, sitting on top of a wide mesa with plenty of runway room. You can see mountains and the river basin. Great place to ride horses, as you might expect,” Jean began. “The plant itself is a mix of an administration building, manufacturing center where we fabricate the electronic systems, test facility and a clean-room like hangar where we can install the gear in up to four aircraft at a time. There’s an airstrip, of course, with a tower, storage hangars, maintenance shop and fuel facilities. There’s a small pilot’s lounge and FAA office there. We’ve also got a fifty-room hotel complete with restaurant, bar and pool.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “We get a lot of visitors,” Jean explained. “Military pilots delivering and picking up, so they have a nice place to stay. We’ve also got a few VIP cottages and a fully staffed stable for horses. There’s even a housing development about a mile away.”

  “For the employees?”

  She nodded, “We employ over five thousand people, many of whom live near the facility. They’re welcome to use the recreation facilities. Some folks live a little further in Laramie and even as far as Cheyenne. Most live close, though.”

  “That include the Bradfords?”

  She chuckled, “They’ve all got houses there. There’s a sort of… compound… a little outside the main grounds and in the foothills. Four houses, private stable, pool, tennis, yadda-yadda.”

  “Christ… must be nice to be loaded, huh?”

  She scoffed, “Yeah, must be.”

  We flew over the Colorado/Wyoming border, Jean descended to ten thousand feet and activated her radio.

  “Bradford approach, Corporate flight whiskey-niner-seven-five-papa. Requesting traffic, weather and landing.”

  “That you, Jeanie?” a man’s voice said cheerfully. “Back so soon? Figured you’d be basking in the Florida sun for another week or so.”

  She smiled, “We’re pretty informal here, Scott. At least with this bird… ahem… delivering a VIP for a tour. Veronica’s still in Saint Pete, Walt.”

  “Roger that, Jeanie,” Walt, the ATC, replied. “Winds are northwest at fifteen. Enter the pattern at one-eight-zero. Altimeter is one-zero thousand. Hang tight, though, we’ve got a Herc coming in from over the hills and he’s ahead of you. I don’t even have you on radar yet.”

  “Affirmative, Walt,” Jean replied. “We’re about… thirty nautical out. Already headed trip-zero. Reducing airspeed to one-five zero knots.”

  She deactivated the autopilot and throttled back. The plane was remarkably quiet, and the reduced speed was barely noticeable at first. However, the landscape below began to slide by much slower. The Laramie Mountains off to our far right and a sparsely forested valley to our near right. Directly ahead was a flattish plain that was spotted here and there by wide expanses of arid landscape, a few clusters of trees, and to the east, a wide-open area of wavy golden grass between the airfield and the forst. To the west were the visible peaks of the Snowy Mountain range.

  Ahead, man’s hand began to show. I could see several large buildings and a long silvery strip that slashed across the land in an unbroken line. Probably one of the runways.

  “There’s the C-130,” Jean said, pointing ahead and to the left.

  A tiny black spec at about our altitude slowly came into view on the far-left side of the viewports. As we drew near, it took on definition and became the unmistakable shape of the big military aircraft. The C-130 Hercules is one of the most recognizable airplanes flying today. Its bulky fuselage, four powerful wing-mounted engines and tall tailfin give it an impressive and stately appearance.

  The big Herc turned into the traffic pattern, and we followed a mile or so behind them.

  “C-130, Corporate seven-five-papa,” Jean said into the mic. “We’re entering the pattern on your six. Welcome to Bradford Avionics. Where’d you kite in from?”

  A crackle and then: “Good morning, seven-five-papa. U.S. Navy flight out of Mare Island. You folks are gonna upgrade our gear this week.”

  “And you came to play cowboy, I’ll bet,” Jean teased.

  A laugh, “Roger that, seven-five-papa. See you on the deck.”

  “Better add a ‘sir’ to that, Navy. Got me a SEAL commander on board.”

  “Well, hoo-rah!” the Herc pilot whooped. “Got me a commander aboard too. Who knew that we were both so important, huh seven-five-papa?”

  Our laughter joined the Herc crew’s.

  Walt broke in over the channel, “Hey, if you assholes are finished playing grab-ass up there, I’d like to clear Navy for landing on runway zero-niner. You orbit one more time, Jeanie, and you can come in after him.”

  We eventually made it back on the ground and in one piece. Always a plus. Jean guided the Gulfstream toward a lone hangar that w
as apparently specially designed for the plane. She parked us just outside the doors, and a team of dungareed men trotted out to see to the aircraft. As we descended the steps down to the now blistering apron, a white Cadillac Escalade turned toward us from around one corner of the building. The SUV looked new, and its tinted windows hid the driver until it neared.

  “That’s Wilfred Franklin, the secretary and treasurer,” Jean explained. “And aside from Veronica, probably the brains of this whole company.”

  “The red-carpet treatment?” I asked askance as the big SUV stopped near the tip of the Gulfstream’s port wing. From the driver’s seat, a medium-height and broad-shouldered black man of about fifty years stepped out. He wore a navy-blue suit, sparklingly white Oxford shirt and burgundy tie. A pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat on a face that was square, handsome and showed hardly a mark of his age. Only his salt and pepper hair gave him away. In a way, he reminded me of Colonel Warner Grayson. When he spoke, however, his accent was a refined and highly educated New Englander. Probably a Harvard man.

  “Welcome back, Jean,” Franklin said with a smile and an extended hand. “And welcome to BA, Mr. Jarvis. I’m Wilfred Franklin. Veronica asked me to meet you and show you around and do whatever I can to assist in your… investigation.”

  I shook Franklin’s heavy hand. Although the handshake was strong, the hand was smooth and soft with manicured nails. A man of numbers, evidently. Made sense.

  “Thank you, Mr. Franklin,” I said. “Did… did Veronica mention why I’m here?”

  He nodded, “I know all about it. Jean, I’m going to give Mr. Jarvis here the nickel tour. Then Linda and I are putting on a little dinner party at the house later. We’d love it if you would join us.”

  Jean grinned, “Sure. Should I bring Andy?”

  “Of course,” Franklin said. “We’ve already asked Sarah Beth, too.”

  I felt something tighten in my stomach. Jean flashed a smile at me, “Andy Bradford and I are engaged, Scott.”

  “Fantastic,” I said, feeling heat rise into my face.