Bitter Legacy

by H. Terrell Griffin

  “I hear you, Jock, and I know what you’re capable of, but be very careful with this guy. These are really bad hombres.”

  “Do you have a picture of Baggett?” Jock asked.

  “Sure. I’ll e-mail it to Delgado. You can pick it up on your way out.”

  “Where can we find Baggett?” I asked.

  “There’s a bar called the Snake Dance Inn. It’s just off Highway Forty-one, south of the Alafia River in Gibsonton. It’s in an old two-story building that used to be some kind of warehouse. The building’s been there for years, abandoned for longer than anybody remembers. The bar opened about five years ago. We’re pretty sure Baggett owns the place. He’s there every Thursday evening, holding court.”

  “How long has Baggett been in charge?” Jock asked.

  “Seven or eight years. He apparently killed the last leader over a drug deal gone bad. They punish their members for slipups and there’s only one sentence. Death.”

  “They sound like animals,” Logan said.

  “They are,” said Bubba. “Anything else?”

  I looked at Jock and Logan. Each shook his head. “No,” I said. “Thanks a lot, Bubba.”

  “Keep me in the loop if you find out anything. Good to see you again, Jock.”

  Jock laughed. “Same here, Bubba.”

  The screen went blank. We sat for a moment, unsure what was expected of us.

  Delgado came back into the room, handed Jock a manila envelope. “The picture you asked for is in there.”

  “Thanks,” said Jock.

  Delgado shook hands all around and showed us out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  It was mid-afternoon when we left the office building. The sun had warmed the pavement and it was radiating heat. The day was hot for late March. The humidity had climbed and I could feel sweat breaking out. It felt more like late May. I wondered if we’d have an early summer this year, but knew that we’d probably get one more cold front before the heat closed in. It wouldn’t get cold, but the front would wipe out the clouds and the moisture. We still had some good days before we had to battle the summer and hunker down when hurricanes threatened.

  We got into the car and pulled out onto the street that would take us to the Gandy Bridge across the bay and south toward Longboat Key. I was sitting in the back seat next to J.D. “You were mighty quiet in there,” I said.

  She smiled. “I was watching the master work. Jock, I get the feeling that your agency might be more important than you let on.”

  “What are we going to do about this Baggett guy?” Jock asked.

  I thought about it for a beat. “Why don’t we go back to the key, see what Bill Lester has for us on the dead guys? We need to make some plans. We can’t go after Baggett until Thursday when he should be in Gibsonton.”

  J.D. said, “Are you going to get the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s office involved?”

  “No.” Jock said.

  “You’re not planning to go after him yourselves,” she said, a hint of incredulity in her voice.

  “We are,” Jock said.

  “Wait a minute.” J.D.’s voice rose. “You’re not cops. You can’t just go busting into a place. A biker’s bar at that. You’ll get yourselves killed.”

  “Detective,” Jock said, his voice low, a sharp edge to it, “there are some things that law enforcement is better off not knowing.”

  “No, Jock. You can’t do this.”

  “Yes I can,” he said with a note of finality so pointed that she didn’t reply.

  We drove to Longboat Key, talking of unimportant things. J.D. sat quietly, seething. She hadn’t liked Jock’s tone. She was used to being in charge and wasn’t going to let anybody, let alone a civilian, tell her what to do. We drove to the police station and were sent on back to Bill’s office. He intercepted us in the hall. “Let’s grab some caffeine,” he said. He led us into the small kitchen, pulled down some mugs from a cabinet and poured freshly brewed coffee. We took it back to his office and sat around his desk.

  Lester picked up a piece of paper, looked at it, looked up. “I’ve got some IDs on the dead guys, but they don’t make much sense.”

  “Who were they?” Logan asked.

  “The long-haired punk in the boat was local. Name of Kerry Johnson. Age thirty-two. He was in the Army for a while. That’s probably where he learned to use that RPG. He was dishonorably discharged after a year and sent to Leavenworth Military Prison for five years. Seems he was dealing in the arms export business. Selling stolen government weapons to some really bad people. The guns were sent overseas.”

  “What’s he been doing since he got out of prison?” I asked.

  “Mostly drugs. He did a year in the county jail for possession with intent to sell pot. He’s been arrested several times on drug and assault charges, but nothing else ever stuck. He hangs out with a nasty crowd in Bradenton, but there doesn’t seem to be any connection to the Marauders.”

  “The bald guy?” I asked.

  “We can’t find a connection between him and Johnson. His name was Mark Berryhill, from Lauderdale. He’s been arrested a couple of times, but the charges were dismissed. Once because a witness disappeared and the other when both eye witnesses recanted their statements.”

  “Arrested for what?” I asked.

  “Murder. Both times.”

  “Any connection to the bikers?” Logan asked.

  “Not that we can find. The Broward County cops think he’s an enforcer for one of the drug importing gangs in South Florida. The moke in the hospital was Buddy Matson. He’s from Orlando. Orange County arrested him on a couple of assault charges, but couldn’t get anything to stick. They think he was trying to work his way up as a shooter for one of the mobbed up groups in central Florida.”

  “Does anybody see any connections among the three of them or with the bikers?” I asked.

  The chief grimaced, took a moment to think. “None. That’s why it’s so confusing. How the hell did these guys get together, or did they? We know Berryhill and Johnson knew each other because they were together in the boat. Everything else is like hitting a blank wall.”

  Jock sat quietly, absorbing the information. He looked up. “Got anything else, Bill?”

  “Nothing. And I want to keep this close. I think somebody had some kind of inside knowledge about Osceola. We haven’t put out anything public about him or that he’s in the hospital.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easy enough for somebody to call the hospital and ask about him?” I asked.

  “He was admitted under a fake name. Nobody at the hospital knows who he is.”

  Logan shook his head. “Do you think somebody in your department is feeding information to somebody?”

  “I doubt it, but anything that goes into our computers here is added to a database that is accessible by Sarasota PD and the Sarasota sheriff since the cases are involved in all three jurisdictions.”

  Jock looked incredulous. “You mean any cop can get to that data?”

  “No,” said Lester. “It’s a restricted database, but the shift commanders can tap into it as needed.”

  “So,” I said, “you’re not putting these guys IDs into the system.”

  “Not right away,” said the chief. “What did Sims have to say?”

  “Sorry, Chief,” I said. “We’re sworn to secrecy. I wish I could fill you in.”

  “No problem. I understand how that works.”

  J.D. hadn’t uttered a word since we entered the chief’s office. She sat with her arms folded, a stern look on her face, staring at the floor. The chief looked her. “Anything to add, Detective?”

  “No, sir.”

  I looked at my watch. The afternoon was winding down. Cocktail hour was upon us. “Anybody for a little libation at Tiny’s?” I asked.

  “I’ve got work to do,” said J.D. and walked out of the office.

  The chief said, “What’s wrong with her?”

  Jock said, “Bill, we may have to do a little wo
rk that you don’t want to be involved in. I think your detective thinks she should be in charge and that we need to follow the book.”

  “I don’t need to know anything else, Jock. I’ll talk to her. Let’s go to Tiny’s.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  In a way, our entrance into Tiny’s was a coming out for Logan. The islanders had been concerned about the shooting and whether Logan had been hurt more than they’d been told. I thought most of the reception would be an outpouring of relief and affection for Logan.

  There were maybe fifteen people in the bar when we walked through the door. Debbie, the bartender, saw us first, came around the bar and grabbed Logan in a great hug, tears coursing down her cheeks. Susie, the owner of the place, was close behind, grabbing at Logan, trying to hug him, laughing. Cell phones came out, people calling others. I figured Susie would have a big night and I didn’t think Logan would be buying anything.

  Everybody wanted to shake Logan’s hand or give him a hug, buy him a drink. As the excitement wore down, people began to notice that Jock was in the room. He was well liked on the island, and people came up to welcome him. Soon, the place began to fill with the locals, all come to see Logan, to revel in his survival, to just be around him.

  We sat and drank and enjoyed the evening. At some point the chief said his goodbyes and went out into the night. We ordered burgers from A Moveable Feast, the restaurant that shared the parking lot with Tiny’s. The crowd was thinning and I suggested to Logan that we ought to go home. We were likely to have a big day tomorrow and a hangover wouldn’t be of much use. Jock took a swallow of his O’Doul’s and smiled. Nonalcoholic beer did not produce hangovers.

  We left and drove to my house a few blocks away. We’d had a long day and we were all tired. Jock would sleep in the second guest room so that the three of us were clustered together. A defensive position of sorts. We were all armed. Jock had brought his own weapon from Houston in his checked luggage.

  I didn’t have an alarm system in the cottage. It really wasn’t a necessity on Longboat Key, or at least it hadn’t been in the past. Now I was concerned about our vulnerability in a house with so many windows. I didn’t think the bad guys would give up. And they didn’t.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The old man sat in his recliner staring through the windows to the bay. The last rays of the sunset over the Gulf reflected off it, a riot of bright colors suffusing the water. A slight breeze brought a ripple to the surface, exaggerated by the splash of a rolling fish. A trick of light gave the darkening bay the look of spun gold. The sounds of a Brahms violin concerto slipped softly from the concealed sound system.

  A half-finished Scotch and water sat on the table beside him, the tumbler sweating condensation in the warm room. Donna had draped a blanket over his lap when she brought the drink, and now was in the kitchen, making him a snack. His old stomach could not handle the rich food of the dinners she’d made him over the years.

  Death was near. He could feel it. He only had one more thing to do. Then he would die in peace, see what adventure awaited him in the beyond, hope it wasn’t just eternal darkness, that life wasn’t like a lamp, its feeble light dying into the blackness of nothingness. What kind of god would make a human being so diverse, and perverse, so intelligent, so questioning of the unknown, and then consign him to oblivion when his allotted span of years was exhausted? It didn’t make sense, was not logical. The old man had lived a life of logic and enlightenment and often perversity, but he had always been a seeker of knowledge and wealth and beauty. Surely, the gods would not simply terminate all that he was and assign his rotting corpse to the carrion, the eaters of the dead, the Stygian darkness of oblivion.

  The bay was black now, the Scotch finished. A plate with a sandwich sat on his lap. He nibbled at it, not really hungry. It had not been a good day. Three more dead people, and not one of them was among the intended targets. Lord knows, he’d paid enough money to get things done. He’d have to build a fire under somebody. In the old days, he’d have handled it himself.

  “Donna,” he called. “Come get this damn sandwich and bring me another Scotch.”

  The albino came into the room, shaking her head. “Sir, you know you’re not supposed to have more than one drink in the evening.”

  “I’m almost dead, woman. A few extra drinks aren’t going to push me over the edge any sooner.”

  “The doctor said—”

  The old man interrupted, speaking loudly, agitated now. “The doctor’s an ass, woman. Get me a drink.”

  “Yes, sir.” She gave him a disgusted look, turned, and walked out of the room.

  “Don’t give me that look, Donna,” he said, quietly, a little smile playing across his lips.

  The call had come in mid-afternoon. To the throwaway cell phone he used for this operation. The Hacker had bad news. Both the men he’d sent to Royal’s house that morning had been taken out. The one at the hospital had been killed by a lucky shot from a cop with a Kevlar vest. Shit happens. Sometimes bad luck intervenes. He’d try again. Other men, better men, more focused men. He’d get the job done.

  The old man wanted to burn the Hacker’s ass, but he didn’t know who he was or where to find him. All he had was a telephone number, and he was sure that number was as temporary as his own. He’d found the Hacker through an intermediary, a private detective who had on occasion worked for the old man, one who was not afraid to get his hands dirty. He’d always been paid well. When the old man outlined the plan to the detective, an outline that was as vague as a shapeless puff of smoke on a windy day, he’d only told him he needed someone who could find out things and had the resources to get other things done.

  “Are we talking wet work?” the detective had asked.

  “Maybe,” the old man replied. “Does that bother you?”

  “Not in the least. It’s just that it’ll cost more.”

  Cost was not the old man’s problem. He had more money than almost anyone in the world. He made Forbes’s list year after year. He didn’t care very much if he got caught. The fun was in the game, and if he lost it at this point in his life, well, so what. He’d be dead before anybody could build a case against him. What did he care? He wanted to win, and damn the consequences.

  So the detective had given him a number to call. He was told that the number had been given to him by a man in Tallahassee whose name he didn’t know. The detective had called a colleague in Jacksonville, told him what he was looking for. The man in Jacksonville gave him a number in Tallahassee, probably another throwaway number. The guy in Tallahassee gave the detective a number that he then gave to the old man.

  The old man knew his helper only as the Hacker. He was told to wire money to an account in the Cayman Islands. That money was probably wired to other banks in other countries with bank secrecy laws. The old man didn’t know and didn’t care. He wanted results. As it happened, he wasn’t getting any. Not good ones, anyway.

  Royal and Hamilton were still alive. He didn’t know if either of them had the document, but he knew it wasn’t in Osceola’s possession. At least not in that fleabag motel he’d stayed in. And it wasn’t in Royal’s house, either. He’d ordered the Hacker to get somebody into Hamilton’s apartment and search the place. He didn’t hold out much hope of finding anything. The fact that the papers weren’t in any of their residences didn’t mean much. The only way to ensure that the documents never saw light was to kill the people who knew about them.

  He couldn’t understand how Royal and Hamilton kept avoiding their killers. When he’d first heard about the documents and that blasted black man who called himself a Seminole, he knew that Osceola would come to Longboat Key to contact Royal. That’s what Oceola had told Blakemoore. But Royal was on vacation away from the island.

  Two of the Hacker’s people had gone looking for him and were redirected to Hamilton. They had waited until late in the evening, intending to simply knock on Hamilton’s door and ask him how to contact Royal. They had arr
ived just as the cops were questioning a black man near the front of the building. He heard him say that his name was Osceola and that he’d come looking for Royal. The cops took him away. Then the Hacker’s men were confronted by that idiot security guard. Some days nothing seems to work out.

  He sighed, moved a little in his chair, relieved the pressure on his thin buttocks. Maybe the Indian would die, he thought. There’d been another fuck up earlier that day at the hospital and another of the Hacker’s idiots was dead. Maybe it’s time for me to get lucky. That would be a sign, the Indian’s death from the head wound. The end for the other two would be the final acts of a dying but resolute old bastard. He chuckled to himself and closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  I was getting ready for bed. I’d brushed my teeth and undressed when I saw a red light blinking on my bedside table. It was my answering machine. I didn’t use the house phone much, relying mostly on my cell. However, old habits die hard, and I’d been reluctant to give up the land line. I decided to leave it to morning, but curiosity got the better of me. I pushed the button and listened to the message.

  “Mr. Royal, this is Lieutenant Charlie Foreman with the Collier County Sheriff’s Department. Your name has come up in a murder I’m investigating. You’re not a suspect or anything, but I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call. I think you may have known the victim.” He left his phone number.

  I checked the time on the digital readout. The call had come in at a little after three that afternoon. My watch told me that it was almost ten, too late to be returning the call. I’d get in touch in the morning.

  Marie had called Logan to say that she’d arrived at her sister’s house and was still unhappy about being so far away. She said she understood the danger and would stay in Orlando until we told her to come home.