T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 01 - Southern Fatality

by T. Lynn Ocean

  Ox positioned the Benz inches from their bumper. Bill did a double take in his rearview mirror. He changed lanes erratically a couple of times, just to be sure it was us. We ensured him that it was. A middle window in the rear of the truck slid open and the Uzi appeared. Lolly, still attached to Walton and twisted awkwardly, was behind the trigger. A spray of metal showered us and deposited a row of quarter-size spiderwebs in the bulletproof windshield.

  “How much more use do you think they have for the kid?” I asked, rolling down my window enough to get my arm and the Glock through it.

  “Not much. Walton is spare baggage to them at this point.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. They’ll kill him as soon as it’s safe enough to stop and uncuff Lolly from him.”

  Another explosion of bullets came our way and Ox reflexively angled the sedan to keep my open window away from them. I rested the Glock’s barrel between the door and the side mirror, aimed, and shot once. The right rear tire blew and the truck fish-tailed as Bill struggled to keep it under control.

  “Nice shot, Barnes.”

  In soldier mode, Ox always called me by my last name. I liked it. “Thanks,” I said.

  The crippled truck careened into a twenty-four-hour convenience store parking lot and, after clipping a gas pump and ripping it from its base, bounced to a stop at an adjacent pump. We stopped twenty feet behind it. The brightly lit parking lot was deserted. Lolly fired at us a third time while Bill fished around behind the seat, most likely in search of his bolt cutters. We didn’t have a clean shot to return fire without the risk of hitting Walton, and could only watch events unfold. Bullets continued to bounce off my car and I knew the damage would be extensive.

  An instant of stillness was immediately followed by another spray of bullets as Lolly covered Bill while he jumped from the truck, pulled a fuel nozzle from the overturned pump, locked the handle in an open position, and threw it on the ground.

  “Oh, hell,” I heard myself saying.

  “This thing fireproof, too?” Ox said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m guessing you want to save the kid?” he asked.

  “The senator would appreciate it.”

  As a glassy pool of gasoline spread into the parking lot, Bill sprinted to the passenger’s side of the truck, going the long way around to use the vehicle as cover. He threw three lightning-quick punches into Walton’s face before cutting the cuffs in half, freeing Lolly She passed the Uzi to him and, clutching her purse and Walton’s computer, positioned herself so that the truck was between us. We still didn’t have a clean shot to take either of them out, and thoughts of chasing on foot were quelled by the rapidly growing puddle of gasoline and the danger it presented to Walton.

  The last thing we saw before Bill lit an emergency road flare and threw it into the growing puddle of fuel was the two of them running away, him possessively gripping her upper arm. A barrier of hungry flames instantaneously appeared and licked at the gas pumps and the abandoned pickup truck. We didn’t have much time.

  Ox threw the vehicle into low gear and, driving straight into the wall of fire, slammed into the rear of the pickup and kept his foot on the gas pedal until we had pushed it forty or fifty feet beyond the flames. I jumped out before we’d come to a good stop, retrieved a bloody and half-conscious Walton, and dragged him into the backseat while the Benz was still rolling. The explosion came in the same instant we sped away, the force of it lifting our rear wheels off the ground.

  “You’re going to have to start doing background checks on your boyfriends,” was all Ox said as the car regained stability and we accelerated into the night.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Although it was well after midnight and the Block was officially closed, the booze flowed freely. The self-serve decree was in effect and Cracker must have sensed my good mood because, breaking a rule, he helped himself to some dry-roasted peanuts from a wooden bowl that sat on a table. Lying on his belly and using his front paws, he delicately shelled the peanuts with his front teeth before gobbling the encapsulated morsels.

  The Block’s cook had put out baskets of chicken fingers and french fries and everyone was snacking. An assortment of law-enforcement folks, mostly off-duty, roamed and chatted, congratulated each other, and gossiped. Preferring to keep a low profile, Ox and I deflected all attention away from ourselves.

  Bobby and Spud were in a heated discussion about the best way to attract a sugar momma babe and Soup rummaged behind the counter, apparently in search of something to eat other than chicken. Trish, with Steroid in tow, was making the rounds to see everyone. She smiled cheerfully when I asked how the moonroof on her car was working out, and if she’d talked her new boyfriend out of a phone tracker yet.

  A day had passed since we’d recovered Jared. Lolly and Bill had not been found, but carjackers fitting their description stole a Cadillac half a mile from the gas station. The car was found an hour later at a small landing strip just outside of Wilmington. For all I knew, Bill was a private pilot and the two of them were long gone. I tried not to beat myself up over how trusting I’d been where Bill was concerned and vowed that it would never happen again. Jersey Barnes would not be fooled twice.

  After melding all the puzzle pieces into one large picture of Lolly’s life, Ox and I learned that her father was a known gambler who bet not only on sports and cards, but also on stocks. He traded on margin, using Chesterfield Financial’s brokerage services, and went so far into debt that he was being hounded by legitimate collection agencies and not-so-legitimate loan sharks. The story that Lolly’s mother told everyone, including her daughters, was that their father lost the family savings and home by taking bad investment advice from Samuel Chesterfield. The seemingly innocuous lie was a fertile seed, which took root in their young and moral-less minds and grew into a layered path of cancerous revenge and greed. Based on his cell phone records, Bill had only entered Lolly’s picture two months earlier, when Chesterfield first made plans to move his family to Wilmington. I surmised that the pair dated during college and just recently sparked up an old relationship. Whatever their situation was, I didn’t care.

  Walton survived the beating to his face with only a broken nose and had been taken into police custody. He told interrogators that he and Lolly were going to collect the ransom money and run away together, and that he knew nothing about Bill. Lolly had gotten them fake driver’s licenses and passports and had bought tickets to Aruba, where they were supposed to start a new life together, because they were in love.

  Before he was questioned, I told Walton that we knew about Social Insecurity all along and that the virus had been thwarted. Wisely, he didn’t mention anything to the police about his hacking skills. I don’t think investigators believed that a woman who was married to Chesterfield would run away with a stoned Citadel dropout, but mysteries were what kept them in business. Aside from Ox, Spud, Soup, and Trish, only Chesterfield knew the real story that began with a single gunshot to the head of a distraught gambler. And of course Walton, who’d confirmed my guess that he opened an overseas bank account to receive the stolen money. Chesterfield’s face had gone pale when I explained Social Insecurity, and it went white when he learned how close his brokerage firm had come to hosting the theft of tens of millions of dollars.

  Jared had a near brush with death and lost vital signs for nearly two minutes in the ambulance before paramedics restored his heartbeat. Doctors had stabilized him and given him something to counteract all of the dope in his system. He was going to be fine.

  “Damn, I’d like to have seen the look on her face when she realized there was no money in the overseas account,” Chesterfield said quietly to Ox and me. The three of us were seated at a table and Chesterfield sipped a shot of Dewars on ice.

  “Is there anything we can do for you?” I asked him.

  “No. I think I’m still in shock. I thought I was a pretty good judge of character, but Lolly sure had me snowed. They both did. Barb,
way back then when she worked for the company. And, Lolly right up until two days ago.”

  “It could happen to anybody,” I said, speaking from firsthand experience.

  Chesterfield poured some more Dewars from a bottle that sat on our table. “Jared kept apologizing to me in the hospital,” he told us, needing to talk to someone. “Apologizing about giving Walton the SIPA information, even though he got the flash drive back. Apologizing about giving Barb money all these years. He told me he’s gay, and apologized for that. He told me everything and apologized some more.”

  “He’s a good kid,” Ox said.

  “Yes,” Chesterfield agreed. “He’s going to do very well in the business. Now that he no longer has anything to hide, there’s no telling how far he’ll go.”

  He started laughing suddenly and I wondered if he was about to lose it from all the stress. But the laugh faded to calm as he shook his head in wonder. He gave my hand a squeeze. “I’ve got to get back to the hospital. Earlier tonight, they told me Jared will sleep for a long time, but I want to be there when he wakes up.”

  “Be good for Jared to see you first, when he comes to with a clear mind,” Ox said.

  Chesterfield stood. “Jersey, Ox, thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for saving my boy. They were going to set the place on fire, whether you’d showed up or not. They wanted him dead. Him and Sigmund’s son, too.”

  “Do you want Lolly found?” I asked, standing to see him out.

  Chesterfield thought for a few seconds before replying. “Yes. But for her, being on the run with no money might be a worse punishment than jail ever could be.”

  He was right. Living on the run in fear of being caught—without the advantage of wealth—would be a life sentence in itself.

  “Before you go,” I said to Chesterfield, “may I borrow your cell phone for a moment?”

  Without bothering to hide my actions, I opened the battery compartment and removed the tracker that Trish had installed. Chesterfield looked from me to Trish, who sat at the bar engaged in conversation with a Wilmington detective.

  “I thought she looked familiar,” he said through a smile. “She’s the one that bumped into me outside my office and asked to use my phone? She works for you?”

  “Yes, at times,” I admitted as a new thought occurred to me. “You know what I was just thinking? If Jared hadn’t felt bad about being blackmailed into giving that USB flash drive to Walton and decided to get it back, I’d never have found it in the gym bag and Soup never would have uncovered Social Insecurity. The flash drive Jared stole from Walton was an altered version of the original database. That’s what put everything in motion. If it hadn’t been for Jared’s conscience, we never would have stopped Social Insecurity.”

  We all thought about that for a moment and drank some more.

  “He put it in a gym bag? Where was the gym bag?” Chesterfield thought to ask, still standing.

  I realized my mistake, but figured Chesterfield wouldn’t much care. “In your hall closet.”

  “I paid you to break into my own home?” he asked without expecting an answer. “Those bugs the agents found in my condo? Yours?”

  “Yes, and yes.” Ox and I stood to see him out.

  “Do you have anything else planted anywhere on me? In the heel of my shoe maybe? On one of my cars perhaps?”

  I assured him that I didn’t. He shook my hand before leaning in to bear hug me. He did the same with Ox.

  “Tell Soup that I’ll look forward to seeing him in the office next week, would you? I’d tell him myself, but I think he’s back there cooking and I’ve got to run,” he said and disappeared to the parking lot.

  “Tell Soup what?” I said, although my hearing was fine.

  “Chesterfield paid Soup an excessive amount of money to retain his services for the next year. Soup’s going to overhaul the entire Chesterfield Financial e-commerce security system,” Ox informed me.

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding. But he said that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook for the tab you owe him. I think he wants your boat.”

  “Yeah, I promised it to him for a week.”

  “No, forever,” Ox said, as we sat back down. “He wants you to give him your boat.”

  Looking around, I didn’t see Soup. He was probably whipping up a tasty beef bouillon. He had every right to be cocky. The SIPA transfers had gone smoothly. Chesterfield Financial’s reputation was intact. From a financial standpoint, nobody was hurt and from a public-scare standpoint, nobody was the wiser. Yes, he had a right to be cocky. But not that cocky.

  “Speaking of the boat, I was going to have my retirement celebration tonight, with Bill.”

  “I know.”

  “I’d much rather celebrate with—”

  Ox’s fingertips brushed across my mouth, halting the flow of words. “I know,” he said, the two syllables emerging like rich, decadent, pure understanding. Stunned, I looked at Ox and my body flushed and relaxed simultaneously. He returned my gaze with hungry eyes when an agitated voice snagged our attention, breaking the spell.

  “But Dirk told me your car was for sale,” a cop was saying to Spud. “My wife’s getting into real estate and I thought I’d buy it for her. It would be perfect for driving prospects around to look at houses!”

  “Nah,” Spud told him. “The car is not for sale. I’m gonna hang on to her.”

  “You sure? I can pay cash.”

  “Of course I’m sure! She’s a great car. I’d be crazy to get rid of her, for crying out loud.” Spud’s voice carried, his walking cane rising into the air for emphasis.

  Without warning, Ox pulled me off my chair. “Everybody get down! Get down now!” he shouted, reaching for the holstered Kimber.

  The noise level dropped as all the cops in the bar reached for their service weapons and scanned the bar for the threat that put Ox on alert. Trusting his instincts, I drew my Glock and remained in a prone position.

  A split second later, Spud’s Chrysler LHS ripped through one of the industrial garage doors, propelled by a garbage truck’s front-end forklift. It was the type of collection truck that serviced Dumpsters at restaurants and construction sites, and emptied them by turning the Dumpsters upside down over the bed of the truck. The long forked rods had impaled the Chrysler’s two side windows and the momentum of the two vehicles sounded like a train wreck as they impacted the Block. Twisted sheet metal from the garage door squealed and wood tables and chairs splintered as the trash compactor kept coming. People scrambled to get out of the way. When Spud’s car and the giant truck plowed to a halt in the heart of the bar, an enraged Lolly jumped from the cab’s driver’s seat and threw a laptop computer at me. It sailed over my head and shattered a row of liquor bottles.

  “What did you do with my money?”

  Apparently she’d checked her overseas account balance, only to find it sitting on zero. No fewer than twenty guns were sighted on her, so I didn’t see a need to point my own. Bill was nowhere in sight, though he could have been hiding in the truck. More likely was the probability that Lolly had killed him, realizing that he was no longer of use to her.

  Unfolding from a crouched position, I holstered the Glock, wishing I hadn’t already taken off my vest. “I don’t know what you mean, Lolly,” I said. “What money?”

  “Don’t play coy with me, bitch. Where’s the money?”

  “Well.” I paused to stare at the ceiling, wrinkling my nose at the stench of rotting trash that emanated from the truck. “There’s about two hundred dollars in the cash register. You’re welcome to take that, since you’re in a pinch. Pay it back whenever you can.”

  Red face contorted with rage, Lolly reached into the cab and produced the Uzi. Every cop in the place opened fire on her as she ducked to take cover behind the front end of Spud’s Chrysler, which was suspended a foot off the ground. I hit the cement with a tuck and roll as she blindly opened fire in my direction and kept the trigger engaged. Glass shattered a
nd things popped as she fired the submachine gun in a sweeping arc from a squatting position behind the Chrysler. Bursts of rapidly placed single shots fired back at her and the majority of them pinged off Spud’s car. Lolly took a hit in the lower leg and another one or two in her arms but continued firing the Uzi until her magazine ran out. Still crouching, she threw the worthless weapon over the hood of the car, in the same general direction she’d thrown the laptop. The shooting stopped and, ears ringing, I inhaled the smell of spent gunpowder and stood.

  “It’s over, Lolly. You can’t win this game.” I didn’t see Ox and couldn’t tell if anybody had been hit besides Lolly, but we needed ambulances. With the noise we’d just made, the cavalry was surely already on the way.

  “I’ll kill your boyfriend if you don’t tell me what you did with my money.” Her voice sounded strong, despite the blood pooling around her.

  I studied a broken fingernail. “Really? I thought he was your boyfriend.”

  “Two-bit detective bitch,” she spat, emerging from the cover of the Chrysler, holding a revolver. In the same instant, Bill ran through the ripped-open garage door, directly behind Lolly, and everyone momentarily held their fire as she spun to face him. Nobody wanted to be the one who accidentally shot my ex.

  “Lolly, put the gun down!” Bill screamed at her. “No more killing!”

  I caught a glimpse of Ox moving in behind Bill. Lolly got off a single shot that ripped through Bill’s midsection in the same instant Ox threw a knife that landed squarely in her chest. Ox dove for cover as Lolly fired twice more during the seconds it took her to quietly crumple, her body getting peppered with incoming bullets on the way down.

  In the echoing aftermath, Ox and I gravitated to each other. His hands found mine and we automatically checked each other’s body for signs of damage before making the rounds to check on our guests. Spud had been grazed in the upper thigh, a federal agent had taken a single round in the forearm, and Soup had a deep gash in his back from flying glass, but miraculously, nobody was seriously injured.