J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 02 - No Time to Die

by J. D. Trafford

  Jane folded her arms.

  “I was just thinking,” she said. “Women think. That’s all I’ve been doing.” Jane walked closer to Michael. Physically she got closer, but there was an emotional distance between them. Their conversations were flat.

  “You did a good job today. I asked you to get me a delay, and you got me a delay.”

  Michael sighed. He knew they needed more. A delay was just a delay.

  “We need causation,” Michael said. “I can’t get you that.”

  “No more tricks up your sleeve?”

  Michael shook his head.

  “Afraid not.” He picked up his suitcase. He walked over to Jane, set the suitcase down and then kissed her on the cheek. “Any word from the feds?”

  Jane stepped back.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well stay on Justin,” Michael said. “That guy still loves you and there’s still some time.”

  ###

  Jane sat alone on her ratty couch. It was the same ratty couch she had bought secondhand while in college. It was the same ratty couch she had during law school, and now, here it was. The ratty couch was in the middle of her sad, one-bedroom apartment in Jesser, Florida.

  She was rapidly closing in on 40 years old. She had no husband, no real boyfriend, no kids, no house, and a failing law firm. She rubbed her hand on the frayed cushion.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Jane allowed herself a few more minutes of self-pity, and then she got up. She walked over to the kitchen, opened her freezer, and found the pint of Ben and Jerry’s chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.

  Jane grabbed a spoon, and walked back into her living room. She sat down on her couch, took off the lid, and then resumed the pity party in earnest.

  The ice cream went down easy. One spoonful came after another, until it was all gone.

  She set the empty container down on the end table, and then Jane laid down on the couch. She closed her eyes. She laid in the silence; thinking. She ran over the options in her head. They were options related to both the case against Jolly Boy and her life.

  After sorting and resorting the list, Jane came to the simple conclusion that her future largely, if not entirely, depended on the case against Jolly Boy. She had to win. She had to figure out a way to win.

  Jane eventually sat up and got her cell phone out of her pocket.

  She punched in a few numbers, stopped, and then finished dialing.

  It started to ring. For a moment, Jane thought about just hanging up and forgetting about it.

  Then, an answer.

  ###

  It took Justin Kent about an hour and a half to get there.

  Jane opened the door and let him inside. They gave each other an awkward hug, and then Kent stood near the door. It was his first time back to her apartment after their broken engagement, and he was unsure of what to do with himself. Kent knew every inch of the place, but he didn’t think he should act on that knowledge.

  Finally, Jane figured out what was happening. He wanted direction.

  “I’ll take your coat,” she said. “Just have a seat at the table.”

  Kent half-smiled, relieved.

  He walked into the small kitchen area, pulled out a chair and sat down.

  Jane came back from her bedroom after putting his coat on her bed. She opened the refrigerator.

  “I’m having a beer. You want one?”

  “Sure.” Kent folded his hands in front of him. As Jane pulled out the bottles and began to screw off the caps, he filled the silence.

  “I’m glad you called me,” he said. “I wasn’t sure whether I should call after the meeting, but I wanted to. … You didn’t seem too happy afterwards.”

  Jane handed him an open bottle of beer, and then she sat down on the other side of the table.

  “It’s a lot to take in.” Jane took a sip from her bottle, and then started to pick at the label. “Sounds like Vatch wants him pretty bad.”

  Kent nodded.

  “He’s been after that money for years. Probably won’t ever stop.”

  “Well I was being honest in there. I really don’t know anything.”

  Jane took another sip of beer.

  “Of course I’ve asked a few times, but Michael always blows me off. In a way, I don’t want to know. He’s a good guy. He’s a friend.”

  “Do you love him?” Kent asked.

  The question took Jane back.

  “I like him,” she said, thinking about it. “I could love him, some day. Depends. There’s too much going on right now to fall in love, too much unknown.”

  Kent nodded. He waited a moment.

  “I miss you, Jane,” he said. He played with the beer bottle in his hand, a nervous fidget. “We aren’t getting back together right now, and I get that, but I still miss you. I miss seeing you in the morning when I wake up. You made me feel proud of what I do.”

  Jane picked at the label on her bottle a little more, and then managed to pull it off. She balled up the wet sticker, and pushed it off to the side.

  “If we were to do this deal,” she said, ignoring what Kent had just told her. “How long would it take?”

  “Not long,” Kent said. “We could set it up pretty quickly, but you need to tell us. You’re the one running out of time.”

  “We’ve got our medical expert, and then there’s Elana. She hasn’t testified yet, but she’s last.”

  Jane finished her beer, and then got up and walked the empty bottle over to the sink.

  “But the judge told us we needed to connect the dots, and neither the medical expert or Elana can do that. That’s why I need your help.”

  She rinsed out the bottle, and then Jane put the bottle in the recycling.

  “And you’re sure the feds aren’t going to do it just because it’s the right thing to do?”

  “If it was me, I’d do it in a heartbeat with no strings.” Kent smiled. “But this is the FBI.”

  Kent got up and walked over to Jane. He put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Vatch knows he’s got leverage. He wants something in return.” Kent shrugged. “It’s not my call. I’m sorry.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  It wasn’t even midnight and the club was already pulsing.

  Dylan could walk into any club on South Beach, but the T1M3 was where he spent most of his nights. He walked past the long line of tourists and posers that would never make the doorman’s cut, and then slipped under the red rope with a nod and a hundred-dollar bill.

  Inside it was already packed. The huge dance floor pulsed with the rhythm of DJ Politik. The domed ceiling erupted in bursts of smoke and light while 12 women in glowing bikinis pranced on raised platforms.

  On a typical night he’d have already zeroed in on a woman for later, but not tonight. He made his way back to the VIP lounge by himself.

  To the right, he went up a few stairs, and then past another bouncer. One nod and he was in.

  Dylan found a seat in the back.

  Within a few seconds of sitting down, a waitress brought him a Red Bull and vodka. He took a few sips, and then pulled out his cell phone. He sent a text: BATHRM IN 10.

  ###

  The bathrooms at T1M3 were dark. Dylan walked to the third stall and sat down on the toilet. He didn’t need to go, but that’s where he needed to be.

  A few seconds later a man came into the stall next to him. The man sat down, and then put a leather courier bag down on the floor. Dylan leaned over, reached under the stall just a bit, pulled the bag toward him, and then picked the bag up.

  Inside the bag he found a loaded gun and a bag of cocaine.

  Dylan took out a handkerchief, picked up the gun, and slid it into his jacket pocket. Then he picked up the blow. His heart beat a little quicker, and he cursed his brother for pretending to be better than he was. His brother never gave him the respect he deserved. The business only existed because somebody had to bend the rules. You don’t eat tomatoes in the winter
without a slave or two.

  Dylan removed a large clip of cash from his wallet. He put it in the bag, and then slid the bag back under the stall with his foot.

  By the time he flushed and exited the bathroom, whoever had brought the leather courier bag and its precious contents was long gone.

  ###

  Dylan McNaughten had a pretty simple plan. He was going to meet Maus at the nature preserve, and then shoot him in the face. That couldn’t be too hard, thought Dylan. He’d never killed anybody before, but it seemed easy.

  After Maus was dead, Dylan was going to pick up one of Maus’ dead hands and fire another shot high into the woods. The second shot was for the residue. He needed to make it look like a suicide.

  Dylan had seen it on one of those cop television shows. Guns leave a residue on the hand and sleeve of the shooter when fired. He needed that.

  Although Dylan figured there wouldn’t be too many tears that Maus was gone, he wanted ‘proof’ of Maus’ purported suicide. After the Jolly Boy graveyard had been discovered, reporters started calling about Maus. The reporters knew about the trial, and they knew about some of Maus’ handiwork. A suicide would just mean the fat boy had snapped under the pressure.

  It was a simple plan. Dylan stopped his car at the nature preserve’s entrance. The preserve was closed, so the gate was closed.

  Dylan unlocked the door, but, before he got out of the car, he opened his new bag of coke and did a few lines. He was coming down and he needed a fresh hit to smooth the edge. It felt good. He loved the feeling of cocaine. It was power.

  Dylan sealed up the bag and put it in his glove box. Then he took out a pair of thin leather gloves. Dylan looked at the gun laying in the passenger seat. It was a beautiful weapon, elegant. He picked up the gun and moved it to the center console of his car.

  Then he got out and walked up to the gate. The chain was in place, but it was loose and unlocked. That was good news. It meant that Maus was already inside the preserve, waiting.

  Dylan unwrapped the chain, lifted the gate, and then went back to his car. He pulled it forward twenty yards, and then got out of the car and walked back to the gate. He returned the chain to its place, and then he was on his way.

  He followed the winding road about a mile further into the preserve. It was pitch black, and he was concerned about an animal darting in front of him. He continued on until he saw a sign for the trailhead and then another. Dylan followed the signs to a small parking lot.

  He slowed down and picked the gun up off of the center console. He kept it low in his right hand while steering with his left.

  Dylan scanned the abandoned parking area. Maus was alone. He was outside his truck, leaning against the truck’s passenger-side door and drinking a beer.

  Perfect.

  This was the time for improvisation, and Dylan knew immediately how it would go down. He felt a rush of confidence. There were certain things in life that couldn’t be planned. He couldn’t have known where Maus would park his truck, whether Maus would be in his truck or outside. He couldn’t have known whether Maus would be angry, scared, or drunk. Maybe Maus would be holding a shotgun. No way to know, there were too many variables. So he had kept the plan simple – a rough outline that would be filled in at the moment of engagement.

  It was going to work. Dylan felt good.

  He slowed down even further. As he pulled into the parking space next to where Maus was standing, Dylan unrolled the window. It was a natural thing to do, and it was also natural for Maus to see and hear the window open.

  When Dylan stopped the car, Maus put his hand on the roof and bent over to say something through the open window. When Maus opened his mouth, Dylan smelled the alcohol come off his breath.

  “Evening, deputy,” Dylan said.

  As Maus answered Dylan’s greeting, Dylan shoved the gun’s muzzle into Maus’ mouth and pulled the trigger.

  The shot jolted Maus’ head. The entire back of his skull blew off. Fragments splattered the side of his truck as his body fell to the ground.

  That was easy.

  Dylan put the car in reverse, pulling back about 10 feet. He decided to keep the car’s lights on so that he could better see what he was doing.

  He got out of the car, walked over to Maus’ body, and then picked up Maus’ right hand. It was the perfect combination of the planned and the improvised.

  Dylan rubbed his nose, longing for another hit of coke, but he knew it would have to wait. He placed the gun in Maus’ hand, manipulated the index finger over the trigger, and then fired a shot high and off into the woods. Stepping back, Dylan let the hand go and let the gun fall to the ground.

  Dylan smiled. The cocaine had made him powerful. He stepped back and started thinking that he should be named the CEO of Jolly Boy. His brother didn’t have the balls. He thought, I’m fucking ready now!

  Dylan made it about halfway back to his car when he heard some movement. His first thought was that it was a deer or something. Then he heard the shouts. The light changed. He looked around and was blinded by high-powered flashlights on all sides.

  “Get your hands in the air and get down.”

  Dylan tried to comprehend, but he couldn’t figure it out.

  He hesitated, and then his leg was kicked out from under him. Dylan fell. They were shouting instructions at him, but he still didn’t understand. Somebody grabbed his hair and shoved his face into the dirt. Gravel cut into his cheek, and he felt a boot come down on his neck. His arms were pulled back. His hands were put together, and then a plastic zipcord looped around each one and pulled tight. The plastic edges cut his wrists and he started to bleed.

  Another person shouted instructions at him, but Dylan laid still. This evidently made the person angry, because he received a quick kick to his side and a pain shot through his rib cage.

  Multiple hands grabbed him, and Dylan was rolled over onto his back. A flashlight shown into his face, keeping him blind, and then he heard the words: “You’re under arrest.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Jane and Michael sat and listened to the cross-examination of their medical expert – a tweedy man in his late fifties, a professor at the University of Florida-Miami and a general legal gun-for-hire.

  His career had followed a path typical of medical experts. He had gone to medical school, gotten his degree, published papers and taught classes until he had received tenure. Once he had the security of academic tenure and a guaranteed pension, he focused most of his energy on testifying in as many cases as possible for $20,000 to $50,000 a pop.

  Jane waited and then stood up, objecting to a question posed by Harrison Grant related to some obscure medical issue. Judge Delaney quickly overruled her objection.

  Being overruled was expected. Jane only made the objection to interrupt Grant’s rhythm and remind the jury that she still existed.

  Harrison Grant continued, ending with three questions.

  “You agree that Mr. Estrada’s cancer was terminal, meaning he was going to die within a year, correct?”

  Their expert agreed with that statement, as he had to, because it was true.

  “And you don’t know for certain what caused Mr. Estrada’s cancer, right?”

  The expert tried to explain that, based on his medical review, the cancer was caused by repeated exposure to pesticides, but ultimately Harrison Grant boxed him in. He was ultimately forced to admit that he didn’t know exactly what caused the cancer, and that there were thousands of people who died of cancer who had not been exposed to pesticides.

  Finally, Harrison Grant asked, “And you don’t know who killed Tommy Estrada do you?” The professor shook his head. He didn’t know who had killed Mr. Estrada. He only knew that Tommy Estrada was killed by repeated blows to his head with a blunt object.

  ###

  Jane asked a few questions on re-direct, but she was anxious to get the medical expert off the witness stand. She wanted a break. It had taken everything in her power not to check her v
oicemail messages during the testimony.

  She looked down at her notes, and then looked up at Judge Delaney.

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  Judge Delaney nodded. He looked at Harrison Grant, and Grant stated that he didn’t have any further questions, either. Then Judge Delaney looked at the jury and smiled.

  “Okay, then I think this is a good time for us to take a break.”

  Everyone in the courtroom stood and watched the jury stand, stretch, and then file out the side door.

  Jane immediately picked her briefcase up off of the floor. She set it down on the table, opened the briefcase, and pulled out her cell phone. Jane turned it on.

  Michael watched her, wondering what was going on.

  “Expecting a call?”

  Jane nodded her head.

  “Yes, I am.” She stared down at the cell phone screen and waited for it to connect to the network.

  “Somebody I know?” Michael asked.

  “Justin. I’m hoping he’ll call.” Jane got up, punched the button for her voicemail, and then listened. “I got a message,” Jane said.

  “From him?” Michael asked. “He called?”

  Jane nodded as she started to walk away.

  “I think something happened.”

  ###

  Jane said goodbye to Justin Kent and hung up the phone. She looked at Michael from across the room. He was still sitting at their table. Jane wasn’t quite sure what to say.

  She knew she was going to win. She’d done it. But it had come at a cost. Her “win” was built upon the loss of three lives. First, Tommy Estrada was dead. Second, Roberto Estrada was dead. Late last night, the police had confirmed that Roberto was one of the people buried in the cypress grove. Now Maus was dead, too.

  Michael saw that she was off the phone. He stood up.

  “Okay, what’s going on? What did he say?”

  Jane didn’t say anything. She walked across the room to Michael. She took his hand.

  “We have to talk.” She led him out of the courtroom. “Things got complicated.”