Chasing the Son

by Bob Mayer

  “Sarah Briggs,” Chase said. “Westland is holding back on that. I’m sure there is a part of the black world where there are no files, but no one comes out nothingness. She knows more about Briggs than she’s telling us.”

  “I agree,” Riley said. “But she’ll tell us when she wants to. For now, we can use her help.”

  Chase didn’t look happy with that. “Everyone keeps saying we should have killed Sarah Briggs.”

  Riley nodded. “So let’s kill her next time we see her.”

  * * *

  “What did Dillon want to know?” Preston asked.

  “Get me up,” Jerrod demanded.

  Preston and Chad were kneeling on the bridge, looking down at Jerrod, twisting and turning on the harness below them. Chad had a flashlight aimed at Jerrod, effectively blinding him.

  “Just get me out of here,” Jerrod begged.

  “Did you shit yourself?” Chad asked, taking a deep sniff. He turned to Preston. “He shit himself.” He laughed. “What a pussy.”

  “What did he want to know?” Preston persisted. He had Jerrod’s Institute ring in in a plastic bag and was looking at it as if it were something new to him, even though he wore a similar ring on his own hand.

  “Same as in the High Cotton,” Jerrod said. “What happened that night with Jenrette and Brannigan.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him the same thing we told him there,” Jerrod said.

  “Bullshit,” Preston said. “You ratted on us.”

  “I swear,” Jerrod said. “Would I be hanging here if I had?”

  “Maybe you’d be dead if you hadn’t,” Preston said.

  “I swear,” Jerrod pleaded. “I kept to our story.”

  “I don’t know,” Preston said. “I don’t think you have the balls to stand up to Dillon alone. You didn’t come to the barracks when we beat the shit out of him.”

  “That was stupid,” Jerrod said. “The Pelican Brief syndrome, you dumb fucks.”

  “What?” Chad asked.

  “By beating the shit out of him,” Jerrod explained, as best one could dangling from an old wooden bridge, “you made him want to know more.”

  Chad laughed. “I don’t think so. He’ll think twice before coming after us.”

  “Look around,” Jerrod said. “He’s already come after us. Or else why am I hanging here.”

  “He’s got a point,” Preston allowed. “Dillon is turning out to be a major pain in the ass.”

  “Cut me down,” Jerrod said. “I need to get out of here. And turn that damn flashlight off. I can’t see anything.”

  “Tell me what you told him and then I’ll cut you down,” Preston said. Chad turned off the light.

  Jerrod’s voice shifted into a whine. “I’ve already told you!”

  “Your daddy is trying to develop Sea Drift for you, isn’t he?” Preston asked. “To establish your power base.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Jerrod peered up. Preston and Chad were just dark figures up on the bridge now, lit partially by the headlights of their SUV. Jerrod had dangled for what seemed like ages since Dillon left, but was really only thirty minutes. His arms were numb and he stunk.

  Under the circumstances it had been a very long thirty minutes.

  “Mrs. Jenrette told my father she foresaw me and Greer working together,” Preston said. “With Greer being the money behind my political aspirations.” He laughed. “But a study of history shows that the power of the purse is what this country was founded on. He who has the money controls. And I will be beholden to no one. And I will not tolerate rivals.”

  Jerrod looked up. “I didn’t say anything to Dillon. What happened that night stays with us. Within the Ring of just the three of us.”

  “But three can keep a secret only if two are dead,” Preston said.

  “Four know,” Jerrod said.

  Preston nodded. “Good point.”

  “And we swore an oath,” Jerrod reasoned. “The person we have to find is Brannigan. And that’s what Dillon is after. Maybe we let him do his job?”

  “If he gets to Brannigan,” Preston said, “then he’ll learn the truth. And then he’ll be after us.”

  “Not if you use your father’s power to take care of Dillon and Brannigan,” Jerrod said. “My father has people who do that kind of work too.”

  “Interesting,” Preston said. “I do have some men standing by.”

  “Come on, Preston,” Jerrod begged. “Let me up.”

  Preston got on his knees. He pulled a folding knife out and opened it. Getting on his belly, he reached underneath the bridge toward the nylon strap wrapped around the bridge trestle.

  “The rope first,” Jerrod pointed out. “Then pull me up. Or just cut the rope, then the nylon and I’ll crawl out of here.”

  “I know,” Preston said, and then he cut through the nylon.

  Jerrod dropped two inches, then a couple more as the rope cinched down around his neck. His mouth was open as he tried to cry out, but nothing came out of his lungs and nothing was coming in.

  “What the fuck!” Chad exclaimed.

  Jerrod’s feet were kicking, desperately trying to gain a foothold, but the ground was several inches below him. Close, but not close enough.

  Jerrod didn’t hear Chad or see them. He was experiencing flashes of light and a loud ringing in his ears. He couldn’t think, didn’t understand what was happening to him.

  And then he lost consciousness. But not life.

  His body continued to convulse, struggling against death even though the brain wasn’t conscious. His face was distorted, livid, the eyeballs protruding.

  Preston got to his feet and folded his knife. “I’ve read that the heart might keep beating for up to ten minutes,” he said to Chad. “If you want to rescue him, go ahead. But he’ll probably be braindead.”

  Chad wasn’t rushing to the rescue. “Why did you do that?”

  “I didn’t do it,” Preston said. “Dillon did. I’m willing to bet his fingerprints are all over that strap. And this ring if we need to use it.”

  Chapter Nine

  Friday Morning

  Riley sat on the seawall and watched Chase work out. The sun was rising from the east, on the other side of the peninsula, over Broad Creek, sending rays slanting through the trees.

  A battered heavy bag hung from a two-by-four on the bottom of the dock walkway, just above the sand. Chase was doing turn-kicks, whacking the bag solidly. He was also breathing hard. It wasn’t just a workout; it was a distraction from the matter at hand.

  Riley turned as Westland came out, dressed in khaki slacks and a blue shirt. She had a cup of coffee in each hand and she extended one to Riley. She sat down next to Riley and reached down to scratch Chelsea behind the ears, making it an audience of three.

  “Enjoying yourself?” Chase asked, as he took a break, punching a button on his watch that he’d been using to time himself.

  “I’m feeling stronger by the minute,” Riley said. “You?” he asked Westland.

  “Definitely. I prefer nine millimeter at twenty paces, though.”

  “Don’t we all,” Chase said, grabbing a towel to wipe his face. He looked past them. “We’ve got company.”

  Coming down from the side of the house was an older man wearing a white sports jacket, and a red shirt underneath, not exactly a fashion mogul; misguided Miami Vice attire. His flat-top was right out of Parris Island. He was lean and weathered. His eyes moved about, checking everything and everyone out.

  “Cop,” Westland said with certainty. “And former military. Probably Marine.”

  “Beaufort’s Sheriff Department,” Chase confirmed. “He’s a friend.” He greeted the visitor as he arrived. “Detective Parsons.”

  “Horace,” Parsons said. He nodded at Riley. “Dave.”

  “Detective,” Riley said. “This is my friend, Kate Westland.”

  Parsons gave a slight bow. “Ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”r />
  “To what do we owe this honor?” Chase asked.

  “A mutual acquaintance has gone to the afterlife,” Parsons said. “Alfonso Farrelli.”

  “Did natural causes take him or his line of work?” Riley asked.

  “It appears to be a heart attack,” Parsons said.

  “’Appears’?” Riley repeated.

  “Yep,” Parsons said. “And that’s most likely what the official report will read. And it’s what his two bodyguards swear to. Those boys say he collapsed right in front of them. They did CPR and called nine-one-one to no avail.”

  “And the reality?” Riley asked.

  “First,” Parsons said, “I wouldn’t believe a word those two thugs said. Plus, I doubt they know what CPR is. And if they had performed it, there would have been bruises on the old man’s chest. Nothing.

  “Second. I had medical examiner take a closer look. She found a needle mark on his thigh. A recent one.”

  Chase spoke up. “So someone escorted Mister Farrelli out of this world.”

  “Yep,” Parsons said. “Not that my department is going to look into it. My boss doesn’t see the point of looking into the death of a mobster. Especially on Hilton Head. Especially when two witnesses swear to a natural cause. Heart attack it is.”

  “And you’re telling us this because?” Chase asked.

  Parsons ignored Chase and looked at Riley. “He was found with an envelope in his pocket. With a sizable sum in it.”

  “I understand he made loans,” Riley said.

  “The amount in the envelope equaled exactly what I owed him, plus the vig,” Parsons said. “And the two muscle heads said you’d been to see him just before his fatal attack.”

  “We had some things to talk about,” Riley said.

  “Thank you for your kindness, sir,” was all Parsons would say. He reached into his pocket and removed an envelope and tossed it to Riley. “I appreciate the gesture, but Mister Farrelli’s departure cancels the debt out.”

  “Won’t they miss this in the evidence room?” Riley asked, but he was already sliding it into a pocket.

  “It never made it to the evidence room,” Parsons said. “I was first detective on-scene and the body hadn’t been disturbed other than getting the pulse checked. It would cause awkward questions if I had reported it and turned it in. Better for everyone all around.”

  “Roger that,” Riley said.

  “There’s something else,” Parsons said. “I pulled video from a security camera on a bank across the way; pans out to the parking lot and catches Pope Avenue and even across the street. Someone came to visit Farrelli after you. And departed just a minute before the ambulance call went in. Someone the two muscle heads didn’t say had stopped by.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a thin stack of photos. He turned the stack so they could see the top one.

  “Sarah Briggs,” Chase said.

  “Of course,” Riley said.

  Parsons handed the photos to Riley. “I assume by your reaction you are familiar with the lady.”

  “She’s bad news,” Riley said. He passed a photo each to Chase and Westland. “Sarah Briggs is what we know her by, but I have a feeling checking on that name will turn up nothing.”

  Parsons frowned. “Is she the one involved in that mess with Karralkov?”

  Riley nodded. “You met her. Hair was shorter and blonde then. Renting a house down the street.”

  “Ah yes.” Parsons nodded. “I remember; the one with the kid that didn’t exist. I’m assuming she killed Farrelli. And assuming you didn’t. I’m further assuming there’s no way I could prove it. Another reason not to pursue this.”

  “How are Farrelli’s friends in Jersey reacting?” Chase asked.

  “Too soon to tell. But most likely they’ll think it was a heart attack,” Parsons said, “unless someone tells them otherwise.” He looked at the three. “I don’t plan on doing that. And I can assure you the two muscle heads won’t.”

  Westland spoke up. “If that’s the story they’re telling, then they were complicit in the murder.”

  “They weren’t very communicative,” Parsons said.

  “We can fix that,” Riley said.

  “Gator,” Chase said.

  “Gator,” Riley concurred.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Parsons said.

  Riley had another question. “You hear anything about some big land deal for Daufuskie?”

  “All I’ve heard is Daufuskie is off limits,” Parsons said. “Not that we go out there, but even our water patrol is to steer clear, especially this weekend.”

  “Any idea why?” Chase asked.

  Parsons shrugged. “No clue. As usual, the powers that be, which means the people with money, are dictating how the law goes, or doesn’t go in this case, here in the wonderful Low Country.”

  “We appreciate the information,” Riley said. “Farrelli’s guys, or ex-guys, still at the restaurant?”

  “Last I saw. I believe they’re still thinking about what to do next and they don’t appear to be the quickest thinkers. I’ve seen swamp moss move faster.”

  Riley shook Parsons’ hand. So did Chase. The detective gave another slight bow toward Westland. “A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  And then he took his leave.

  “I’ll take Gator and Kono and talk to Farrelli’s guys,” Riley said.

  “I’ll go to the harbor master at Harbour Town,” Chase said. “Maybe he’ll have an idea where Doc Cleary would sail to and hide out. At the very least he can put the word out among his network. From what I remember Doc saying, people who sail are a pretty tight community.”

  “I’ll go with Dave,” Westland said. She stood and stretched. “I’ll join you inside in a second. I want to enjoy the view a bit longer. You do have a beautiful place, Horace.”

  Chase nodded. “Thank you.”

  The two men headed into the house.

  Westland waited until they were out of sight, then took a small mirror out of her purse. She angled it toward the water and then jiggled it, signaling in Morse code. It took only a couple of seconds, then she slipped it back in and headed into the house.

  * * *

  An effective sniper is one who accepts not taking a shot can be as successful a mission as taking one. The sniper watched the ‘dots’ and ‘dashes’ from the mirror, translating the Morse (dot-dash/ dot dot/ dot dash dot) into the three letters A-I-R that were repeated three times into what the mission briefing had been, and knew it was time to pack up.

  She slithered back on the shells until she was concealed from the land on the far side. Then, still in a crouch, she stepped down into the waist-high water of a narrow inlet that ran toward the pick-up zone about two hundred meters away. It was going to take a while to get there, but she’d been in worse places.

  She was wet, she was chilly, and she was hungry. Pretty much standard fare for an op.

  As she moved, she made a radio call for her ride to come.

  * * *

  Dillon had had to pay $5 to enter the first gated community ever in the U.S.: Sea Pines Resort, on the southern end of Hilton Head Island. He didn’t see the point of having a ‘gate’ if one could get in that easily. But tourists were the lifeblood of the island and even those who lived there had to accept that fact. So the gate was for those too cheap to fork over half a sawbuck.

  Dillon drove down streets that were like tunnels, with large oaks on either side and Spanish Moss dangling from overhanging branches framing the way. He had to admit the place had atmosphere. There were bike paths next to the road and families were tooling about, apparently enjoying their vacation. Dillon had spent a couple of weeks on Hilton Head one summer, working a temporary job and he’d watched the families spend their week in an arc, driving onto the island full of excitement on Saturday and departing the following weekend bedraggled and hoping to get home and away from each other.

  Harbour (spelled like that) Town was on the Intracoastal side of the island, an
inlet that had been dredged out to allow yachts to dock at a series of piers. The original developer of Sea Pines had built a lighthouse in 1970 that had been the butt of many a joke along the coastal area, since one wasn’t needed and it was designed as little more than a tourist attraction. The jokes stopped when the attraction worked. A popular golf tournament had its 18th Hole near Harbour Town every year and a camera was always up in the top of the lighthouse. Tourists paid another five dollar a pop just to climb up the ninety-foot high tower. And climb they did.

  To see lots of trees and water and water and trees.

  Dillon wasn’t going to Harbour Town to climb the lighthouse. He parked his car then walked to the semi-circular harbor packed with yachts of varying sizes from rich, to so-rich-you-can-see-it-in-my-linear-feet of boat. As arranged, two men were waiting next to a zodiac tied off to a pier and Dillon went up to them. They checked his drivers license, then escorted him into the rubber boat, indicating he should sit on the small bench in front of the console. One of them then sat at the console and the other behind Dillon.

  They moved slowly out past the breakwaters delineating the edge of the harbor and then the driver opened up the engine and the boat planed out, heading toward a large yacht anchored just off the Intracoastal, west of Hilton Head and opposite Daufuskie Island. Dillon estimated the yacht was almost one hundred feet long, not too bad, but not quite big enough to land a helicopter on.

  The ride took less than two minutes and then they were at the larger boat. Dillon noted the name inscribed on the fantail: Quad and the Institute flag flying from the yardarm. The two men had yet to say a word.

  “My dinghy’s bigger than your whole boat,” Dillon quoted, earning blank stares from the two.

  Not Caddyshack fans.

  While the driver kept the boat against a gangway, the other gestured. Dillon climbed on board, wondering whether he was supposed to render honors to the United States flag on the fantail or the Institute flag overhead. The Zodiac took off, heading back toward Harbour Town.

  Dillon was escorted along the side of the ship, up another set of steep stairs, and then into a wardroom.