by Tom Corcoran
“Or that he and Hayes set it up. Did anyone identify the bullets I found in Mercer’s hallway wall?”
“I heard someone say they were nine-millimeter slugs.”
“They could have come from your stolen pistol?”
She said, “I want this all to stop.”
“Sam and I are going to visit Thorsby this evening. By boat.”
Teresa looked more upset than pissed. “You are not a cop. Take care.”
I went straight to Carmen’s house. I wanted something with a waterproof lining. I asked to borrow her daughter Maria’s rainy-day backpack. Carmen had just arrived home from work. She invited me in. “You can get your jollies, watch me change into my comfort clothing.”
“My threshold for jollies is extremely high today,” I said. “Maybe if you got naked and danced the dirty boogie to an old Fats Domino record . . .”
She gave me a look. “Shame about Holloway.” She peeled off her Postal Service blouse, pulled on an old Miami Dolphins jersey. “I bet his daughters are devastated.”
“You think Dexter Hayes would move his family down here if he wanted to be closer to Julie Kaiser?”
Carmen narrowed her eyes. She led me to her kitchen, offered me iced tea, poured two glasses. She finally shook her head. “It was too long ago. We fantasize about high school sweethearts, we all do it. But we’re past thirty. Reality makes the rules. That romance was half their lives ago. There’ve been too many changes since then. There are too many obstacles today.”
We took our tea to the front room. She heard something and said, “Here comes the male.” Her boyfriend pulled up in a Dodge Ram pickup—the man in the VIAGRA TESTING TEAM T-shirt The group in P.T.’s must have been Butler Dunwoody’s crew. She introduced me to Nick. No last name.
“Rough place you’re working,” I said.
“Working until today,” said Nick. “We got pulled off early.”
“Any idea what’s going down?”
“Nope. I mean, hey. Nothing weird ever happened until that Donovan character started hangin’ around. Before that some other guy was around, checking on things, taking Polaroids. His brother-in-law, I guess. Then the first guy stopped comin’ by, and it was this Donovan and the next thing you know Dick Engram’s dead. The next thing, Donovan gets arrested. Now we got a stop-work order from the boss.”
“Any idea when you’ll start back?”
“Dunwoody told us, ‘Tomorrow or never.’ ”
Maria had left her backpack at school. Carmen gave me a belly-pack with a plastic lining. I went home, called Monty Aghajanian at the FBI’s Newark office. Voice mail. Goddamned voice mail. I asked him to call me back anytime. If he didn’t get me tonight, or get the message tonight, early morning was okay. I popped a beer—as if I needed another—and began to sort items I’d need for my boat ride, my onshore excursion. I sat on the bed to think about everything that had happened in twenty-four hours.
At eight-thirty the phone woke me.
Sam said, “Pick you up in ten.”
I brushed my teeth, put on Levi’s and a black long-sleeved shirt Sam had suggested I wear a black ball cap. I’d never worn dark hats under the tropical sun. The only one I owned read PARROT HEADS IN PARADISE. A freebie from Lou, a bartender in Margaritaville. I found an old pair of black high-top sneakers in the closet then folded in a fresh Ziploc bag.
Marnie and Sam roUed into the lane nine minutes later. She’d borrowed a boxy old Buick Century. Sam looked dressed to kill. Black pants, black shirt, a black knit watch cap, ankle-high nylon brogans, a knife strapped to his calf.
We drove out North Roosevelt I’d forgotten to call Monty Aghajanian. Marnie had her cell phone, but I hadn’t brought Monty’s number with me.
When the county jail came in sight Sam said, “The more I think about it no matter who else is involved, Donovan Cosgrove is weird. I say he did in Richard Engram.”
Marnie argued the other way: “Donovan Cosgrove doesn’t have enough beans in his jeans to pull it off. His bitchy wife, die’s another story. If a girl could have brass balls, they’d hear clanging in Cuba.”
They waited for my opinion. I finally said, “I’ve added up all the evidence and I’ve narrowed it down to nine possible suspects.”
Sam asked Marnie to pull into Sugarloaf Key Resort’s parking area. He pulled two black Motorola transceivers from his duffel. Palm-sized UHF units. “Captain Turk and I use these in the backcountry. We share information, but not with the world. Once in a while an angler will ask me to drop him on a mangrove spit He’ll want me to get lost, let him fish in peace. I’ll go behind another island, chill out until he calls.”
Sam matched the transmission channels, plugged in tiny earpieces and remote condenser mikes. He pointed out the microphone key and squelch control. Showed me how to set it for voice-activated transmission.
I got out of the car. Sam chattered the whole time Marnie drove him to the far end of the parking lot, U-turned, and came back. Every word came clearly through the pinkie-sized plug in my ear. Marnie drove another loop while I held the contact mike against my throat chattered on constant-key. She looped again while Sam and I exchanged four or five quick messages.
When she dropped us off at Johnny and Laurel Baker’s place, Marnie said, “Make it a success.”
Always the reporter.
I said, “If I find what I think I’ll find, you’ll get your exclusive.”
“That’s not what I meant. I’ve written too many dead-people stories this week. Why don’t you both come back aUver
29
Sam coiled his dock lines, stowed them under the center console. I held the wheel, motored the canal at idle speed behind the homes of Blue Gill Lane. Sam had covered his gauges with a fitted foul-weather cover. Small flaps with Velcro closures shielded the illuminated dials. The sky was clear, the January night air crisp, close to sixty, with low humidity.
We looked like overdressed dope scammers heading for an offload. I wondered what the hell I’d dealt us.
“We’ll go north,” Sam said, “hang by Little Knockem-down, wait a few. Then run south, find our markers with the spotlight”
I steered the dogleg toward Kemp Channel. “Why all that?”
“Someone sees us exit this canal and run to Summerland, they might come back to Johnny Baker. We’ll go north, shut her down, and wait. Then come back south, pretend we’re lost, shut her down again. See if anybody comes out to help. No Samaritans means no witnesses. We go in.”
“I go in. You’re in the boat.”
Sam looked into the water. “You said that before. You’re the boss.”
“Gimme a break. My learning curve has been bent for years. I’ll need you to come ashore and save my ass if they glom on to me.”
He said: “Done.”
“How about Customs? How about Marine Patrol? A reasonable cop would take us for Commie infiltrators.”
“It’s too shallow to scuttle hardware,” said Sam. “We go to the backcountry and outrun them.”
“They’ll put a spotlight on your F-L numbers and trace the boat.”
Sam opened a mini-duffel that he’d carried from Marine’s Jeep. I heard tools rattle. He pulled out a roll of two-inch black gaffer’s tape, stripped a couple lengths, lay belly-down on the bow to cover his Florida registration numbers. He tore another piece, maybe three inches long, pasted it over my ball cap’s Parrot Head insignia. “So much for that bull’s-eye,” he said.
Sam took the wheel, exited the canal, steered around four or five shallow water stakes. Only someone who’d seen them in daylight could’ve navigated without running aground. He pointed us north to deeper water. We stopped three minutes later. Sam killed the motor, let us drift.
“I don’t get this far up the Keys much lately,” he said. “Marnie told me a speeder hit a key deer on Big Pine this week. But the table got turned.”
“How so?”
“Motorcycle, in excess of eighty in the special slowdown zone. The deer lived. Tw
o broken legs. The bike rider went ass over teakettle. Hamburger on the highway. Killed instantly.”
Justice, in theory, for an animal.
Six cold-case murder victims never got theirs.
Sam pulled more gear from the duffel. A small-caliber rifle, a night scope, a net bag full of tubes and tiny jars—a jungle survival kit. He handed me a four-inch rubber-handled stainless skinning blade in a nylon sheath. And a three-inch lockback to stick in my pocket.
I looped the belly-pack over my right shoulder, under my left armpit. Sam dropped in the radio, extracted the ear and microphone wires. He used dark adhesive tape to attach the ear wire to my neck, the mini-earphone inside my ear. He taped the remote mike to my Adam’s apple. “Now, in case you sweat and fuck up the adhesive . . .” He wrapped a short Velcro belt around my neck to hold the mike in place. He clipped the other radio to his belt, rigged his wires the same way. We stood apart, checked volume levels. With the voice-activated circuitry, we didn’t have to press buttons. “These are good for two miles,” he said.
Sam pulled one more piece of equipment from the duffel. A Walther PPK pistol. He snugged it into my belly-pack, said, “Safety on.” Wheeler had called himself a “qualified coconspirator.” He was more than qualified. He was an equipment freak. I was amazed at how little time it took law-abiding citizens to turn themselves into vigilante commandos.
Sam cranked the motor, popped us to a plane, sped to Kemp Channel Bridge. We slowed a hundred yards south of the overpass, raced our wake another ten yards. Sam adjusted his throttle to mimic a sputtering engine, then shut it down. We drifted, kept an eye on channel markers. Sam sang softly, Vietnam humor to squelch his nervousness: “The Magical Mystery Tour is coming to take you away . . .”
We studied the shore, discussed lights in homes and on poles. “The tide’s coming in. I don’t see any rescuers. Let’s start talking through the radios. I’ll pole in and drop anchor. You kneel on the bow. Be my eyes. You’re looking for rocks.”
“Favor that Environmental Center,” I said. “I don’t want to crawl ashore in the mobile-home park. Some landowner’ll freak out, pop me with a twelve-gauge.”
In my ear: “You think they guard the coastline like the Cuban Army?”
“No, but they watch for Cubans. You can bet that.”
“My point, exactly. Anymore, a boatload hits the beach and a pack of starving people come ashore. They wander through yards, grateful to be on dry land. Maybe swipe fruit off the trees. My buddy on Grassy Key doesn’t donate old clothes to Goodwill anymore. He hangs them in the yard. They’re gone by morning. The refugees leave behind salt water-soaked rags. They’re not a threat once they hit land. They’re glad to be in America.”
“Your point?”
Sam used his pole to slow our progress. “Define your threat. If shotguns pop, they’ll belong to your target, not the neighbors. But don’t think about it now. Just remember that Scott Kirby lyric.” Sam spoke as if reciting gospel: “If you’re walkin’ on thin ice, you may as well dance.”
“Mambo till the sea cows come home.”
“If I see action ashore that’s not you,” he said, “I’ll give you a di di.”
“DeeDee lives in Indiana. She’s a sweet one.”
“This one’s Vietnamese. Means hurry your ass out of there.” He pointed to a moored sailboat. “If your boys shine a spot, I’ll hide behind that.”
“Time to go for it.”
“Get off the south side of the boat, in case you splash,” said Sam. “Think about noise, not hurry. Go slowly. If you trip, don’t try to stay standing. Roll with it, into the water. Land on your knees. Come up slowly.”
Sam was repeating words he’d heard over thirty years ago. Words he’d memorized going into enemy turf. Words that may have saved his life.
I went in. The thigh-deep salt water was warmer than the night air.
I heard Sam through my earphone: “Check in with me every couple of minutes. I hear the word panic, I’m on the beach.”
I said, “Okay,” into the microphone. “Did you hear that?”
“Don’t worry. The radio works.”
I eased through the water, aimed for a house between the study center and the Big Crab Fish House. I wanted to hit the beach just west of Thorsby’s dock. The shallows were rocky. I stubbed my feet, scraped an ankle, felt grateful for my old basketball sneaks. I found a rhythm. I’d go a dozen steps, crouch, count to ten as I scoped the shoreline. I’d stand, repeat the process. I scanned the waterfront, memorized lights ashore. Lights turned on weren’t so bad. Lights gone out might mean an observer. For now, no lights changed. Only two boats at Thorsby’s dock.
Closer to land, I felt like my skin glowed, made me a walking target. I hit calf-deep water, wanted to hurry but minded Sam’s warning about noise. Every reflection was a warning shot. Chunks of broken Styrofoam net floats spooked me. I wanted to sort night sounds, judge each threat. I sensed that a rustling of lizards in the ground cover was prelude to a billy-club whack. Each time I stopped to listen, a truck on the highway, many yards distant, would drown out every other sound. I thought, Do real commandos worry about waterlogged shoes that squish when they walk?
“I’m on solid ground,” I said.
“I see you. Nothing else moving.” Sam had his night scope on me. “You get your pack wet?”
“Dry.”
I moved east toward the lobster boat I’d seen Tuesday. I tripped over a six-inch concrete footer. The foundation for a shed that never was built. The cat spray was either good or bad. Good, if people nearby were accustomed to prowling sounds. Bad, because I saw no cats. Perhaps, like the area birds, they’d been served for supper.
At the edge of Big Crab’s property, a motorcycle graveyard in a mangrove clump. Frames, bent wheels. No fenders, no engines. Light reflected off a few pieces. New items, their paint not yet dulled by sun and corrosion.
I crouched under the dock, held still. No sounds except for the soft slap of inshore waves. I moved east, angled inward. What I’d taken to be a mobile-home park was five shabby trailers. The rusted one close to the water stood alone. The next three formed a U. I couldn’t be certain in darkness, but they appeared to be connected. Light and voices and TV sounds came from the open windows of the fifth unit, the one closest to the highway. A tall slat fence blocked my view. It also blocked the highway’s view of Thorsby’s compound. The sliding gate was wide enough to bring in a boat on a trailer. Or a stolen car. A faint two-track of flattened weeds ran from the gate to the triple-trailer U.
I heard a solid thunk in the occupied trailer. I froze, heard drink cans pop open. The refrigerator. Beers for three people. I heard an exaggerated moan and canned music. A porn-movie sound track. I couldn’t have hoped for a better diversion.
I followed the dirt track to the U, kicked something small and hard in the dirt. Shit. A trip wire, a silent alarm? I held still, waited for a scramble in the porn theater. I quickly looked down, caught a glint of chrome. A fresh Master lock, with no corrosion. I checked the rear wall of the nearest trailer. A false wall, a lift gate disguised as the ass end of a trailer, and a side-hinged metal door. On the door, an unsecured hasp. I pocketed the lock so no one could find it and lock me in. I opened up. A stink of grease and mildew.
“Going inside,” I radioed, almost whispering.
I heard: “Okay.”
I stepped up. A sticky wood floor. The door swung shut behind me.
“You hear me now?” I said.
“Yes.”
I pulled the small camera from my belly-pack, hung the string around my neck, flicked on the penlight. In the dimness I could see most of the large, U-shaped room. I wondered if Navy Security missed their F-150 pickup truck. In front of it, Teresa’s Grand Am. Then Heidi’s Jaguar roadster, Bug Thorsby’s low-slung pickup truck, a bright red Mustang Steeda Cobra, and a twenty-four-foot SeaRay powerboat. I didn’t know why they’d bothered to swipe the moldy Pontiac Sunbird convertible. It had belonged to a former bart
ender, Jesse Spence, now a boat builder in Fort Pierce. Maybe he had abandoned it. I walked slowly to my left, to check the far trailer. At least thirty mopeds. A Conch Train Jeep. Two of Paul’s Portable Potties. Norby would be pissed. I moved back to the doorway. Hanging from the mirror of Bug’s truck: an upside-down crucifix cut from a compact disc.
I said to Sam, “They could open a used-car lot.”
I played the penlight along the walls to check for windows. I didn’t want my flash to draw attention. The windows had been covered with flattened grocery sacks and duct tape. I wanted front shots and license tags of each vehicle. I quickly shot three photos. After the fresh meat—Teresa’s car, the pickup truck, and Heidi’s Jaguar—I found no more license plates. I checked the Jaguar’s glove box. I pictured myself plopping pictures and registration slips on Liska’s desk in the morning. There was no paperwork in the truck, the Jag, or Teresa’s car. Liska would get only pictures.
A sound, outside. Oh shit, the fence gate sliding. The lock isn’t hung on the hasp. The bad guy’s going to know someone’s in here. I pocketed my mini-flash, replaced the camera, and palmed the pistol in my belly-pack. Leave the gun alone, I thought. Too much noise, a pistol shot. Sure to draw a crowd. I didn’t relish a knife fight in the dark. I didn’t know how good he was. I didn’t want to lose my only silent weapon.
I needed something quiet and solid. I took a chance, shone my penlight on the floor. Nothing. I shone it in the pickup bed. Nothing there, no two-by-four, no tire iron. Like the iron in Teresa’s trunk. Four months ago I bought her a decent NAPA jack and a four-armed lug wrench so she could toss the factory-supplied can opener.
My brain sped into high gear. Teresa had complained that the remote release lever didn’t work. She’d put a spare trunk key under the rear floor mat. Could I open the car door, shine the interior lights long enough to get the key? If shitbird walked inside the trailer and saw the light, all hell would cut loose.
