Unknown Remains

by Peter Leonard

  Jack went back in the bedroom, grabbed his wallet and car keys, looked out the sliding door and saw Cobb coming toward him. He ran into the hallway, saw Ruben coming out of the kitchen, and took off for the front door forty feet away.

  “Is him,” Ruben yelled behind Jack.

  The stairs were close. Jack swung the door open and went down, two steps at a time. He was halfway to the third floor when he heard them, looked up and saw Ruben and behind him Cobb holding a sawed-off shotgun. Cobb fired before he got to the third floor, the heavy sound echoing through the stairwell, buckshot pinging off the railing and stairs in front of him.

  He went down another flight. The door to the second floor opened as Jack approached, and he squeezed past a silver-haired couple startled by his presence, standing there frozen. He heard Cobb say, “Get the fuck out of the way.”

  Jack ran down two more flights to the parking garage filled with light-colored, late-model luxury cars, passed a white Cadillac pulling in and glanced over his shoulder at Cobb and Ruben. He ran to the entrance and came out looking at the ocean to his right and went left into the parking lot, looking for his car.

  Cobb, moving toward the oncoming Cadillac, leveled the shotgun. The car stopped. Cobb opened the driver’s door, reached in, grabbed a tan, gray-haired senior by the shirt collar, and pulled the man out of the vehicle. The senior went down on the concrete floor. Cobb slid in behind the wheel. Ruben got in on the other side and said, “Why’d you hurt the old man?”

  “All we got going on, you’re worried about some senior citizen might have a couple months to live? Why don’t you worry about finding Jack? That make any sense to you? ’Cause we’re about to fucking lose him.”

  Cobb did a U-turn, tires squealing, racing out of the garage.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Diane had just seen Cobb and Ruben get in the Mustang, Ruben wearing a uniform. She had to move fast if she was going to catch them. She ran across the street, got in her car, and took off speeding up the coast, no idea where Cobb and Ruben had gone, surprised when she saw a red Mustang waiting for the bridge to go down at Hillsboro.

  She heard her cell phone ring, reached in her purse, and grabbed it.

  “Mrs. McCann, it’s Detective Brown. How you doing today? I stopped by earlier, no one was home, ’less you saw me, didn’t answer the door. I see you’re sellin’ the house.”

  “What can I do for you? I’m out of town.”

  “Yeah, where you at?” She could hear him drawing on a cigarette, blowing out smoke.

  “Florida,” she said without thinking. Why did she tell him that? “I needed to get away for a few days.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, everything’s fine.” She tried to say it calm, but it didn’t come out that way.

  “Took your advice, went to visit Duane Cobb and Ruben Diaz. Both looked like they cleared out in a hurry. You wouldn’t know nothing about that, would you?”

  “Their line of work, I’m sure they’ve made enemies.”

  “I’m talking to one, isn’t that right?”

  “You think they’re running from me?”

  “Well, they’re running from someone.” She heard Detective Brown exhale and pictured him with a cigarette in his hand, smoke drifting up.

  “You know a Joseph Sculley?”

  “You know I do. He was Jack’s best friend.”

  “Mr. Sculley was murdered a couple nights ago.”

  “Not Sculley. Jesus.” Her eyes welled up and Diane felt tears roll down her cheeks. “Sculley was a good guy. Why would anyone want to kill him?”

  “I don’t know.” Marquis paused. “Let me ask you something. Was Mr. Sculley gay?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Found him naked in bed with Mr. Linehan, the doorman. Like the shooter came in, caught them in the act, and shot them.”

  “I’m not an expert on Sculley’s sex life, but I can’t imagine. He’s married, and his wife Ilene is a good friend. If something wasn’t right, I’ve got to believe I would have heard about it.”

  “Two men that fit your description of Duane Cobb and Ruben Diaz were seen entering the building where Mr. Sculley lived, talking to the doorman, and seen leaving sometime later. You know something about this? Are you holding back on me?”

  “Why would I be holding back on you.” She paused looking ahead, lost sight of the Mustang. “Listen, I’m in the middle of something. I have to go.”

  “Hang on, where in Florida you at?” Detective Brown said as she disconnected. He called back and she let it ring.

  Diane followed the Mustang into Palm Beach, parked and waited while Cobb went into a flower shop and came out with roses, orchids, and a stuffed animal. What was this? What was going on? She followed the Mustang south along the coast and watched it drive into a condominium complex.

  She waited till the Mustang was out of sight and drove up to the gatehouse. The guard came out and said, “Good morning, how may I help you?”

  “I’m interested in buying or renting, who should I talk to?”

  He made a copy of Diane’s driver’s license and directed her to the sales office in the lobby of the high-rise and said, “Have a nice day.”

  “I just saw a fella with a gun in the stairwell,” a tall silver-haired man in golf attire said, walking into the lobby. There was a collective murmur from the dozen or so seniors sitting nearby. The ponytailed girl behind the reception counter picked up the phone and said, “Jerry, we’ve got a situation. Someone’s running around with a loaded gun.” The girl listened. “I have no idea.” To the people in the lobby she said, “Security’s on their way.”

  Diane had been waiting for something to happen, but not this. She got up and went outside, felt the tropical heat after being in the chilly air-conditioning. She walked to her car and sat with the engine running, not sure what to do next. She saw a man running, coming toward her. He stopped in the next row of cars twenty feet away, his size and the way he moved holding her attention, and her heart started to race.

  She was looking at a guy with Jack’s muscular legs and broad shoulders, a guy with Jack’s light brown hair and chiseled features, Jack, who she thought was dead, his unknown remains buried in the rubble of the Trade Center. It seemed surreal, and yet there he was, the man she had loved and had been married to for twelve years. Diane thought he was alive, but seeing him now, she couldn’t believe it.

  She sat there frozen for a couple beats, reached for the door handle, and stopped. What was she going to say to him? Why did you have an affair, you son of a bitch? No, she had to do better than that. Why didn’t you come home, admit what you did, and handle it like a man? That’s what the Jack McCann she thought she knew would’ve done.

  And as if he had heard her, Jack turned, squinting in the morning sun, looking at her in the car. Did he recognize her? And if he did, what was he thinking? Now something caught his attention and he turned, glancing toward the high-rise. She saw it too, a white car speeding across the parking lot. Coming from the opposite direction was a security vehicle. The two cars screeched to a stop, almost collided in front of her.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Cobb got out of the white Cadillac with a sawed-off shotgun, held it across his body, and blew out the windshield of the security vehicle. Jack jumped in his car and drove out of the parking space as Cobb turned, pumped, and fired two times, blowing out one of the taillights. Cobb got back in the Cadillac, floored it in reverse, tires squealing, turned the car ninety degrees, and took off.

  A dazed, over-the-hill security man, windshield glass covering his pink uniform shirt, got out of the damaged vehicle, talking fast into a two-way radio.

  “Goddamn it, get the PD over here posthaste. White Caddy coming your way, two Caucasian males, one of them has a shotgun.”

  Cobb raced through the complex, knees under the steering wheel, trying to keep the car in a straight line, trying to feed shells into the shotgun. He glanced at Ruben. “Hate to bother y
ou, think maybe you could give me some assistance here?”

  “Looks like you doing all right to me. What you want?”

  “Would it be too much to ask you to hold the fucking steering wheel?”

  Ruben slid over in the seat and gripped the side of the wheel.

  Cobb let go, fed shells into the loading flap till he heard each one click. He held the action release button, pumped the slide, loading a shell in the chamber.

  Now he took the steering wheel back. Up ahead, Jack’s car was almost to the gatehouse. Cobb heard a siren in the distance.

  “You make all the plans, what next?”

  “We’ll find out, won’t we?” Cobb was jacked, revved up. “Got a problem, you can leave anytime.” Ruben didn’t like it, too bad. The shotgun barrel was wedged at an angle on the floor mat, the rounded grip sticking up over the bottom of his seat. If Ruben tried anything, Cobb wondered, could he bring it up and pull the trigger?

  The guard was standing in the exit lane next to the gatehouse as Jack approached. The guard stepped back in, and the security gate went up. Jack turned right on the beach road. The siren was getting louder, closer. The guard saw Cobb and Ruben coming and drew a revolver, holding it down his leg. Cobb lowered the side window and rested the shotgun barrel on the sill. The guard saw it and dropped the revolver, taking a step back, ran into the gatehouse and out the other side, moving along the boulevard entrance to the complex. Cobb busted through the security gate and turned right on the beach road just before a speeding Palm Beach County Sheriff’s cruiser, lights flashing, entered the complex.

  “Believe that? Old Duane came through again, didn’t he? There was never a doubt in my mind.” But there was. Jesus, that was close.

  “Is not over yet,” Ruben said, going negative on him again.

  “I had hoped my earnest vibes would rub off on you, turn your contrary outlook around, but it doesn’t seem to be working.”

  “I don’t know what you saying. Man, you like to talk, uh? Try not to open your mouth, try not to say nothing for five minutes. I bet you can’t do it.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “What I tell you, uh?”

  No matter what happened, this was the last time he’d be dealing with Ruben Diaz.

  They caught up to Jack a couple minutes later on a narrow stretch of beach road, the southern part of Palm Beach, Cobb hanging back in the Caddy. “Want to take him now, or see what he does?”

  “Think he got the money with him?”

  “Where else is he gonna keep it?”

  “I don’t know, man. Maybe he buried it. I saw that one time in a movie.”

  Duane wanted to give Ruben an IQ test, wondering what his score would be, remembering from high school that most Americans were between 85 and 115. Considering how many times Ruben had been hit in the head, Cobb wouldn’t be surprised if Ruben’s IQ had dipped below 80, borderline deficiency in intelligence, not feebleminded, but he might get there yet. Cobb’s, on the other hand, had been 130, but he thought it was higher now. He just plain felt smarter. “I think we let him get comfortable, see what he does.”

  “Why ask, you already make up your mind?”

  “I thought you might surprise me.”

  “Lose the tone, or I’m gonna surprise you.” Ruben reminded him of Charles Bronson now, Charles delivering a line in a movie, saying it straight, but there was menace in his voice. You believed Bronson just as Cobb believed Ruben.

  They followed Jack to the airport in West Palm and into short-term parking, Jack driving like a maniac through the structure, tires squealing around turns, dodging people rolling their suitcases, jumping out of the way. Cobb and Ruben were on the third level passing the elevators. Ruben said, “Stop, there he is.” Jack was wheeling a suitcase into the elevator.

  Ruben ran for the stairs, went down to the second level, where the gates were, ran to security. It was packed. He was out of breath, out of shape, sweating under the guayabera. He scanned people in the roped-off area six rows deep that reminded him of a livestock pen, everyone angry, taking off their shoes, coats, belts, rings, Jesus, practically undressing to get on a fucking airplane. McCann could not have gone through that fast. Ruben didn’t see him.

  He went down to the lower level and ran outside. Glanced toward the taxis lined up, no sign of him. He looked left at the car rental pickup lane, saw Jack in a crowd, getting on a Hertz bus. “I find him,” Ruben said, calling Cobb on his cell phone. The Hertz bus took off.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Driving out of the complex, Diane passed a Palm Beach Police car, lights flashing, speeding by. She slowed down and watched it pull up to the high-rise entrance. The security gate had been broken off, no sign of the guard. Diane stopped at the road, no idea where Jack was, but maybe she knew where he was going. It was a long shot, but it was the only one she had.

  Three hours later, she crossed the bridge to Captiva Island, driving on a narrow strip of land, houses on both sides of the road set back behind tropical foliage. Diane was thinking about the two times she had been here with Jack. They had been deeply in love then, couldn’t get enough of each other. They had stayed at Jensen’s On the Gulf the first time.

  Captiva was sleepy, old Florida, the pace so slow Jack thought someone had slipped a Quaalude in his orange juice. The first time, it took him a few days to adjust and realize he didn’t have to be anywhere. He wasn’t on a schedule. “This is the most relaxed I’ve been in ten years,” he said after a couple days.

  They stayed in a cottage on the beach, smoked weed, lay in the sun, and read paperback thrillers. They went to the Mucky Duck, drank shells of beer, and ate grouper sandwiches. They made love in the afternoon and took naps. When did things between them begin to change? Diane never noticed. Though when he took the job at Sterns & Morrison, they saw each other less often. Jack was gone three or four nights a week, and that went on for years.

  The bottom line was that in spite of the affair, Diane thought she still loved him. At first it bothered her. She had run the gamut of emotions from anger to forgiveness. Jack had cheated on her. Diane thought she could handle that and maybe let it go and move on. But now the situation was a lot more complicated. Vicki and Sculley were dead. And Jack had stolen money from one of his clients. But worst of all, he let her think he had been killed on 9/11.

  She stopped at Jensen’s, went to the reception desk, and asked if Jack McCann had checked in. He hadn’t, and now she was thinking, coming here was crazy. She got in the car and decided to drive to Fort Myers, drop the rental off, and fly home. Passing the ’Tween Waters Inn, she thought about the last time she had been there with Jack, pictured him having a Stoli and tonic, talking to locals and tourists, Jack the all-purpose conversationalist.

  Diane hit the brakes, made a U-turn, and pulled into the ’TWI parking lot. She grabbed her purse, went into the crowded restaurant, and sat at the bar, a three-sided rectangle. She looked across at two fifty-year-old guys in golf shirts, drinking white wine, self-conscious sitting by herself. One of the guys raised his glass to her, and she looked away.

  The bartender, wearing a Drive-by Truckers T-shirt, said, “What can I get you?”

  She ordered a Coke and opened a menu that was on the bar top next to her. Diane had not eaten anything all day and was thinking about a hamburger when she heard him say, “Anyone sitting there?” She turned and saw Jack behind her in shorts and a T-shirt, looking tan and healthy like he was the Captiva poster boy.

  “You remind me of someone, but the girl I know has blonde hair.”

  Diane thought there might be a slim chance he’d be here but now was surprised to see him. “You finally got the nerve to face me, huh? I had to come all the way down here.”

  “How’d you figure it out?” He sat next to her.

  “It seemed like the logical choice knowing the trouble you’re in. This is the end of the line. Who would think to look for you here?”

  Jack raised his hand, got the bartender’s attentio
n, and ordered a Stoli and tonic. He turned in Diane’s direction, eyes meeting hers, then glancing down at the bar top, head bent forward, avoiding her.

  “Look at me.” She said it angry, wondering what had happened to Jack, the stand-up guy she married.

  He fixed his attention on her. “I owe you an apology.”

  Diane shook her head. “You owe me a helluva lot more than that.”

  The bartender set Jack’s drink down in front of him. He looked relieved to escape the hot glare of her gaze for a few seconds. Jack picked up the cocktail, took two big gulps, and put it back on the napkin. He faced her again. “I got involved in something that blew up on me.” He paused, glancing at his vodka and tonic, picked it up, and took another long drink.

  “I think I know a lot of it. The affair with Vicki, the money you took from one of your clients. When I first heard it, I thought, no way. But it’s true, isn’t it? I met with Mel Hoberman and Barry Zitter. They wanted me to pay them back what you stole out of your life insurance. I know Cobb and Diaz, the two guys looking for you, and I don’t think they’re going to give up. What I don’t know is why.”

  “I made a mistake.”

  “A mistake? I’d say it’s a little more serious than that.” Diane paused. “Why didn’t you call me when you got out of the Trade Center? Why did you let me think you were dead?”

  Jack finished his cocktail, the booze loosening him up, and signaled the bartender for another.

  “Forget about your drink and talk to me.”

  “I was in trouble.”

  “Are you talking about San Marino Equity?”

  “I don’t know what that is. Never heard of it.”

  “Ruben Diaz said you owed them seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  “He was scamming you.”

  “He showed me a contract that had my signature that wasn’t even close, telling me I was responsible for the debt. Any of this sound familiar?”

  Marquis Brown landed in Fort Myers, went to the rental place, and they gave him a Chevrolet.