She knew who her father was, read about him occasionally in the papers, usually the financial pages. He sent a generous check every month, but had no other contact with her. He was a distant presence in her life, like the city of San Francisco, a place she’d dreamed of visiting, but had never seen. Yet, she had always felt a magnetic pull toward this ghostly personage, a feeling that she chalked up to some genetic convergence beyond her understanding. She often wondered if her father felt the same way.
On the day after her grandfather’s death, a stranger knocked on her door. He was in his fifties, dressed casually, a man of robust good health and a gentle smile. He told her he was her father and he’d come to take her with him, if she’d go.
She went, and they never spoke of his absence from her life for so many years. He’d once told her that he’d loved her mother so much that he’d never married because no other woman had ever evoked the overpowering emotions he’d felt in the presence of the woman who had given his daughter life. There was never an apology or an explanation. She was content with that.
Over the years, she’d traveled with him, always as his companion, never his daughter. He’d told her he could not let his enemies know that he had family, because that would put her at risk of kidnapping or worse. She’d accepted that explanation, and happily served for thirty years as his nurse and helper. She was content to be in his life even if it meant standing in the shadows. She loved him and she thought that, in his way, he loved her.
Donna went to the old man, kissed him on the forehead, and pulled the sheet over his face. She called his doctor and the funeral home where they’d made arrangements. The doctor would be along shortly to take care of the formalities.
The old man had left everything to his only child. His empire was run by managers and would continue that way. Donna would never have to make an appearance. She’d issue any orders required of the sole stockholder of such a large enterprise by phone. Nobody need ever know that the housekeeper was now in charge.
There were things that had to be accomplished over the next few days. Until then, there could be no announcement of the old man’s death. It was important that he appear to be in charge of the operations he’d set in motion. There was a lot to do to preserve the empire before announcing his death.
A phone rang, the prepaid that was to be used that day. She answered to hear the tight voice of the Hacker.
“Let me speak to the old man,” he said.
“He’s not available.”
“Don’t give me that crap again, woman. Get him on the phone.”
“One moment.”
Donna held the phone at her side for a minute, then spoke into it again. “He said for you to tell me whatever you want. He can’t talk to you now.”
“I’m not going to deal with some go-between. Put his ass on the phone. Now.”
“He said to tell you that you’ll have to talk to me from now on. If you don’t agree to that, your contract is finished.”
There was a moment of quiet, only the sound of heavy breathing coming over the phone. Then, “Okay, goddamnit, but I don’t like it. I want to know what’s going on up in Hillsborough County.”
“What do you mean?” asked Donna.
“At the Snake Dance Inn. Baggett’s been taken.”
“I don’t know what or who you’re talking about.”
“Baggett’s my man, my subcontractor on the job for the old man.”
“We don’t know anything about that. Who you use to do your job is your business. We only want results.”
“Well, there ain’t going to be no fucking results with Baggett gone.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. My employer will be, too. We’ll have to get somebody else to complete the contract.” She closed the phone, a smile on her face.
She knew exactly who Baggett was, but she hadn’t known anything about his disappearance. She’d have to look into that. The phone rang again. The caller ID told her it was the same number that the Hacker had just called from. She ignored it.
When the cell stopped ringing, she opened it and dialed Morton.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
In the end, the whole thing fell apart, collapsed in on itself like an imploded building. It was one of those small errors that we all make on a daily basis, the ones that come about because we’re in a hurry or maybe didn’t stop to think before we took some small action, an action that normally would have no consequence. In this case, it was the use of a cell phone.
I was sitting on the sofa, sipping from a cup of coffee, reading another newspaper. Logan was in the shower. Jock was deep in conversation on his phone, standing alone on the balcony, chuckling occasionally, then listening some more. He finally closed the phone and came back into the living room. The sliding glass doors were open, giving us a whiff of the salt air blowing lightly off the bay. A gull cackled in the distance, its cry taken up by others, a rising din of birdcalls floating on the breeze.
Jock was grinning. “I think they screwed up good,” he said.
“What happened?” I asked.
“The DEA techies found a lot of numbers on Baggett’s cell phone, both incoming and outgoing. Most of them were to or from his known associates, other bikers. Some of the numbers were assigned to throwaway phones and thus untraceable.
“We hit pay dirt with one incoming call,” said Jock. “The number is assigned to a Gus Hawthorne.”
“Do we know who he is?”
“A captain on the Hillsborough sheriffs.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. The call was made last night, probably about the time that the 911 operator was getting the call about the fracas at the Snake Dance.”
“Do you think Hawthorne knew what was going down?”
“He was the commander of the sector that covers Gibsonton. He would have been at the scene.”
“What do you make of that?”
“The feds are going through ol’ Gus’s entire life. They’ll strip him clean. If there’s any funny money or holdings or anything that doesn’t fit with his salary, they’ll find it. For now they’re letting him sleep. He’s at home in Valrico.”
“Have they asked Baggett about Hawthorne?”
“Yeah. Showed him a picture. He couldn’t, or wouldn’t, identify him.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I think he couldn’t. I can’t believe a sheriff’s captain would let a guy like Baggett know who he is. He’d probably wear some sort of disguise when they met. There’s a sketch artist with Baggett now, trying to change Hawthorne’s appearance to match the man Baggett knew as Morton.”
“Why would a cop use his personal cell phone to call a known bad guy?”
Jock shrugged. “My guess is that he panicked when he heard about the gunfire at the Snake Dance and used his own phone instead of a throwaway to call Baggett.”
“Could it have been a wrong number? Just a stupid coincidence?”
“Maybe, but then he wouldn’t have called the number three times in about ten minutes.”
“Where do we go from here?” I asked.
“There’s some more information on that SIM card. There were a series of calls from different numbers that we can’t trace. More throwaways. The DEA people cross-checked the numbers with the cell carrier’s records and found that some of them originated from the east side of Sarasota County. They chased down most of the throwaway numbers and found that several calls were made from them to other throwaways on the south end of Longboat or just over the bay in Sarasota. There’s one cell tower on the mainland that picks up that entire area.”
I was quiet for a beat. “You think someone locally is connected to Hawthorne and then to Baggett?”
“It seems that way. The techies are checking now to see how many throwaway numbers were used in that particular tower’s range. So far, they’ve come up with several numbers, but each was used on a different day. Sometimes more than one call to or from the throwaway, but the number was onl
y in use for one day.”
“We’re narrowing it down.”
“Here’s the kicker,” Jock said. “The number that used the local tower on Wednesday is the same number that our buddy Turk called to get permission to kill you.”
I sat up. “I’ll be damned.”
“Yeah, but that tower covers a lot of territory. We may not be able to take it any further.”
I said, “Walter Driggers, the man who owns ConFla, lives on the south end of the key.”
Logan rejoined us and poured Jock and me more coffee. He sat in a chair across from me with a glass of tomato juice in his hand. Jock related his conversation with the DEA and sat back.
Logan looked at me. “What do you think all this means?”
I thought for a moment. “Let’s see. We’ve got a number somewhere near the south end of Longboat Key that was called from a throwaway phone out in East County. The same number in East County had been called by Baggett. Then, Turk called the number here, on the same day, to get permission to kill me.”
“And,” said Jock, “we know that Baggett is one of the bad guys and he’s connected to the phone out in East County and that phone is connected to a phone in this area. We know that Turk is a bad guy and he’s connected to the same phone that bounces off the local tower. Thus, there has to be a connection to the throwaway in this area to all the bad guys.”
“That ain’t exactly Sherlock Holmes kind of stuff,” said Logan. “Any fool could figure that out.”
“Right,” I said. “But we also know that Turk worked for ConFla and that the owner of ConFla lives on the south end of Longboat. A man named Driggers.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Logan.
“New information,” I said.
Logan grinned. “So, the only conclusion we can come to is that the bad guys are connected to the owner of ConFla who lives on our little island.”
“Yes, but that still leaves us with nothing connecting Morton/Hawthorne to the person we assume to be Driggers,” I said.
“It’s all guesswork,” said Jock. “We don’t know anything except that Baggett and Turk called the same phone on the same day and that phone may or may not be on Longboat Key.”
“Round and round she goes,” said Logan.
Jock gave Logan a cold stare. “Not funny. How do we turn guesses into facts?”
“I’ve got an idea,” I said.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
“Hello.” Morton’s voice was groggy from sleep.
“Mr. Morton,” Donna said. “We need to talk.”
Morton came wide awake. The only woman who knew him as Morton was the albino. She’d contacted him the week before through one of his Mexican connections. His phone had rung and she was on the other end of the line. She asked to meet him to discuss a mutually rewarding business arrangement. She insisted that the meeting take place in the late evening in a public place.
They’d met in a Starbucks in South Tampa at ten on a Friday night. He was wearing one of his disguises. Not much, just a little hairpiece to cover his bald spot, a fake mustache, clear glass spectacles, a small pillow under his shirt to give him the appearance of a man of more substantial girth. He wore a faded pair of jeans and a long-sleeved checkered shirt.
He was surprised to find that the woman was an albino. She was wearing a hooded coat, so he could see nothing of her but her face. A few strands of white hair hung over her forehead. He noted that she was in late middle age, but there was nothing else to be gleaned from her appearance.
He had ordered a large coffee and was sitting at a little round table in a corner when she arrived. He was the only customer. She came straight to him, asked if he was Morton. He nodded his head, and she took the seat across from him. She did not order anything.
“I need somebody killed,” she’d said, without preamble. “I understand you can make that happen.”
Morton was taken aback by her directness. He thought for a moment, staring at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Come, Mr. Morton. Let’s not play games.”
“Ma’am, I don’t know who the hell you think I am, but you’ve got the wrong person.”
The woman smiled, showing teeth, evoking in Morton the image of a predator about to pounce on the hapless prey. “I know who you are, Captain Hawthorne. What I don’t know is if you are prepared to provide me with your services.”
It was like a blow to the sternum, sharp, debilitating, heart-stopping. Morton sat back in his chair, the air escaping his lungs in one huge draft. In all the years of his moonlighting from the sheriff’s office, none of his associates had ever discovered who he really was.
The woman smiled again, this time a little reluctantly, as if she was disturbed to have upset the man. “I know about your drug connections and I know about your relationship with the West Coast Marauders. I know that you have on occasion contracted out killings for the Mexican cartels. If I was a cop, you’d be in jail now. I’m not.”
Morton looked defeated, his veneer of certainty breached, his quiet confidence in himself and his anonymity lying in shambles on the coffee shop table. “How did you find out?”
“You’d be surprised at what information one can buy if one has enough money.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Mr. Morton, I am an immensely wealthy woman. I bought the services of the best information retrievers in the world. I’m also very smart, and when I put all the pieces together, I figured out who the shadowy Mr. Morton is. Then I had you followed, just to validate my suspicions. Your disguises are very good, natural appearing, not overdone.”
“What do you want?”
“I told you. I want some people killed.”
“Who?”
“A lawyer on Longboat Key named Matt Royal, his buddy Logan Hamilton, and a black man who claims to be an Indian.”
“Why?”
“That’s none of your business. Do you want the job?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Probably not.”
“Okay. How much money is in it for me?”
“One hundred thousand dollars.”
“When do you want it done?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll be in touch.”
With that, she stood and left the coffee shop. She didn’t turn around or look to either side. She walked out the door and disappeared into the night. She did not tell Morton her name.
All other communications had been by phone. Early on Saturday she gave him instructions to go ahead with the kill, wire transferred ten thousand dollars into his offshore account, and promised that the remaining ninety thousand would be sent to the bank when Royal, Hamilton, and Osceola were dead. All three of them, she’d said, not just one or two. She was adamant. All three.
Now she was on the phone on a bright Friday morning when he was trying to sleep off the night shift he’d worked.
“Yes,” he said.
“You have failed me. I’m not happy.”
“I sent my best men.”
“Okay, let’s see how much you screwed up. The sniper missed Hamilton.”
“Ma’am,” Morton said, a hint of pleading in his voice, “my man hit him. It was just luck that Hamilton didn’t die.”
“And you didn’t get the Indian. Why would your man hit him in the head instead of shooting him?”
“I don’t know, and the man’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah. I sent him to the hospital to finish off Osceola, but he got finished instead.”
“And the others?” she asked.
“The two men I sent to Royal’s house didn’t come back. Somehow, Royal killed them. I don’t know what happened, but I’m bringing in some other guys to finish the job.”
“Did you know that your buddy Baggett has been kidnapped?”
“My buddy? I don’t know anybody named Baggett.”
“Mr. Morton. Don’t start lying to me or you’ll be the next one to die. I know
about your meetings with Baggett at the Snake Dance Inn.”
Morton sighed. “Okay. Yes, I knew he’d disappeared. I was at the Snake Dance last night.”
“Do you have any idea who took him?”
“None.”
“You don’t seem too concerned about it.”
“He can’t identify me. He can sing like a choir and he’ll never be able to connect Morton to me.”
“I’m not worried about you.”
“Even if they got to me, I don’t have any idea who you are, so I couldn’t give you up.”
“I hope not, Captain Hawthorne, or you will most sincerely regret it.” The phone went dead.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
The house stood like a small castle on the shores of Sarasota Bay. It was a Mediterranean Revival expanse of luxury, its stuccoed walls painted a medium beige, its roof a crown of red barrel tile. A driveway leading from Gulf of Mexico Drive wound through a hedge of sea grapes that shielded the house from the more plebian drivers who daily passed by on the island’s main street. The house was built up over a multicar garage, a concession to federal rules that affected waterfront homes. Two stairways flanked the double front door, flowing downward in an arc from a small landing at the top. I took the stairs to the right and Bill Lester climbed those to the left. We met at the top and the chief rang the doorbell.
I’d called him with the information we’d learned from Jock’s friends at the DEA and suggested that we talk to Walter Driggers. The chief agreed, but stressed that he had no legal authority to make the man talk if he didn’t want to. He couldn’t even make Driggers see us. We decided to just show up and see if we could meet with him. We were hoping that a little conversation would pry something loose.
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