Deep Blue Trouble

by Steph Broadribb

  *

  JT often quoted some saying about men being islands as if it were written just for him. He worked alone. Lived alone. Made out that he wanted the uncomplicated life of no worries about anyone or anything. Wasn’t true, though. Not when I looked back at how he’d been, how we’d been. The only trouble was that he’d never admitted to wanting me.

  I stared at my screen and tried to focus on the scanned prison logs. But the memory of JT lingered. The uncertainty of what we had, if we had anything at all, made my stomach flip.

  Why wouldn’t he speak with me when I called?

  Why wouldn’t he talk about Dakota being his child?

  Why did he push me away when I was trying to help him?

  I shook my head. He was the most frustrating man I’d never known, but he was also the most exciting. Thing was, he was wrong about the whole each of us being islands thing. Neither of us were islands. We were more like planets drawn together by each other’s magnetic fields, messing with each other’s atmospheres and trying our damnedest just to stay intact.

  The current situation might just break both of us. I couldn’t let that happen. I was far tougher than McGregor gave me credit for and I was going to prove to him that I was more than his equal. I pushed the thoughts of JT aside, and made a start on the prison visitor log.

  26

  Gibson Fletcher wasn’t an island, at least not on the first Tuesday of every month. According to the prison visitor logs, for the past year Gibson had been receiving a regular visitor – his brother, Donald.

  Every month Donald had visited for one hour, bang on – no more, no less. It was right there on the scanned copy of the visitor log open on my screen, signed and dated and witnessed. Grabbing my cell, I compared the photo of Donald’s signature on the Southside Storage form that Clint Norsen had given me. It was a perfect match.

  Busted.

  No contact. That’s what Donald had told me. He’d said he and Gibson had fallen out years before, that they didn’t see each other and he had no desire to help his brother. He’d been bitter, made it sound genuine. But his own signature seemed to be telling me different; he’d sent the package and he’d visited Gibson every month in jail. I scrolled back through the pages of the log and checked them twice. Made sure there was no mistake.

  There wasn’t, but there was an anomaly; a change in the pattern the final time they’d seen each other. Donald had visited Gibson the day before his appendix had burst. Which hadn’t been a Tuesday, and which wasn’t at the start of the month. And that day he’d only stayed seventeen minutes.

  Donald’s story didn’t stack up anymore. I’d caught him in a lie and that got me to thinking there was something underhand going on between the Fletcher brothers. Why else would Donald hide the fact they were on speaking terms. I wondered if he was embarrassed, and kept the contact between them secret due to his folks being so disapproving. Or maybe there was a more sinister reason, something more criminal, and the feud was a smokescreen to hide something else. I wanted to know what Donald was hiding and why he’d lied to me.

  Reaching for my cell, I checked my messages. Still nothing from Red, and he hadn’t looked at my earlier message either. I dialled his number. The call connected, ringing unanswered until it switched to voicemail. I tried again, same thing happened.

  My stomach flipped. Something was wrong. It’d be late afternoon in Florida now. Red should’ve called me before lunch. I needed to know what was going on.

  I glanced over at Bobby Four-Fingers. He was leaning back in his chair, eyes closed as he listened to the game. Dez and Jorge were still out and he was happily taking advantage. There’d still been no calls giving fresh sightings of Gibson in Mexico. Yet the clock was counting down and time was wasting.

  ‘Bobby?’ I said.

  He opened one eye. Didn’t look at all guilty he’d been caught slacking. ‘Yup?’

  ‘I need to follow a lead out of town, okay.’ I scrawled my cell number onto a piece of scrap paper and tossed it across to him. ‘Call me if there’s news on Gibson.’

  He took my number, propped it between his keyboard and computer screen, and closed his eyes again. ‘You got it, momma.’

  I grabbed my purse and headed out to the Jeep. Whatever was going on in Florida, and whatever secrets Donald was hiding, I sure as hell was going to find out.

  27

  It was late when I arrived back in Florida. The marina was in darkness. The only sounds at the far end of the jetty were the soft roll of the ocean and the distant hum of traffic from the highway. Inside Red’s houseboat a single light burned in the main cabin. I felt myself relax. If Red was home, maybe he’d lost his cell and that’s why he wasn’t answering my calls. Maybe he was fine and the bad feeling I had in my belly was wrong.

  As I reached for the handrail to haul myself on board I froze.

  Blood – a crimson smear across the handrail, illuminated in the glow from the window.

  Someone had left the boat with blood on their hands.

  My heart rate accelerated. Drawing my Taser, I stepped up onto the deck and hurried, light-footed, to the cabin door. Paused outside, listening, but aside from the lapping of the water against the boat all was quiet. I eased the handle down and stepped inside.

  The usually pristine cabin was in chaos. Drawers had been emptied out, crockery smashed, papers flung across the floor, dirt and blood trodden into the debris. What the hell had happened? Had Red been robbed? Where the hell was he?

  I moved quickly, searching the boat. The office, the restroom – all ransacked, But no sign of Red. I opened the bedroom door. Gasped.

  ‘Red … no … oh Jesus!’

  His eyes were shut. He wasn’t moving.

  He lay on his side, still bound by duct tape to a chair. His face was a bloody pulp. Dark red streaked through the silver of his hair. Purple bruises swelled across his eyes, his cheeks, his jaw. Trails of blood had dried crusty brown over the silver tape blocking his mouth. His shirt had been ripped open. Black and blue bruising mottled over his chest and abs. A metal rod, maybe a couple of foot long, that he used to winch the sail, lay coated with blood on the floor.

  I ran to him. Knelt beside him. ‘Red? Red, can you hear me?’

  Nothing.

  Putting my fingers to his neck, I felt for a pulse. Prayed that he’d be okay. Swallowed down the fear and concentrated on what I was doing. His pulse was weak, but he was alive.

  I exhaled hard. ‘Red, can you hear me?’

  Still nothing.

  I kept talking to him as I cut the duct tape binding him to the chair and pulled the tape from his mouth.

  His eyes flickered open. ‘Miss Lori … I…’ He gasped in pain.

  ‘It’s okay, you’re safe.’ I helped him up. Watched him grimacing with pain from each movement. ‘You need a doctor.’

  He eased himself down onto the bed. His breath was laboured. ‘No hospital … Go into one of those places when you’re my age, chances are you’ll never come out.’

  I didn’t agree. I fetched him a glass of water and started bathing his wounds with antiseptic as he drank, and refilled the glass each time it was empty. God knew how long he’d been lying here, I figured he was dehydrated, and from the slight tremor in his hands most likely in shock, too. He should have been in the hospital, but he was stubborn as a mule and I knew it wasn’t a fight I’d win even with him in such a weakened state.

  ‘What happened?’ I finally asked.

  ‘They were here when I returned from the meet with my polis contact.’ Red winced as I applied the antiseptic to the cut across his cheekbone. ‘Place was a mess. Three young guys – all fancy clothes and smart backchat – were in here waiting. When they grabbed me I figured I was a goner for sure.’

  I threw another bloodied cotton pad into the plastic bag I was using for trash and dipped a fresh one in the antiseptic. ‘They beat you pretty bad.’

  ‘That they did.’

  I wiped the blood from his split lower lip
. ‘They tell you why?’

  ‘The one with a hat – cocky little son-of-a-bitch – asked about you.’

  I felt a cold chill down my spine. Shivered despite the heat of the night. ‘And what did you say?’

  Red grimaced. ‘Told him to go fuck himself.’

  Typical Red. I smiled despite the situation. ‘Bet he loved that.’

  ‘Sure did.’ He glanced at the winching bar lying on the floor. ‘That’s when he started getting handy with the tools.’

  I put my hands on his chest. Felt his ribs, checking for breaks. He gasped. Couldn’t disguise the pain in his expression fast enough. ‘You’ve got cracked ribs for sure,’ I said. ‘You need a doc.’

  ‘Told you no, Miss Lori. Bit of rest and I’ll be fine.’

  I held his gaze. ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘I’m dog-tired. If you fetch me a couple of painkillers from the cabinet and another glass of water, I’m going to swallow them down and have me some sleep.’

  I did as he asked. Helped him into bed and pulled the blankets over him. ‘We’ll talk more in the morning. I need to find out who did this to you.’

  He curled onto his side and closed his eyes. His voice already slurred and heavy as he said, ‘Yes ma’am.’

  I watched him until his breathing changed to the slow rhythm of sleep, then padded out of the bedroom and closed the door behind me.

  As I straightened out the main cabin, sleep was the last thing on my mind. I felt wired – crazy-sick from guilt at having dragged Red into whatever trouble was following me; angry that these goons had beaten on him; fearful at what they might do next and to whom.

  28

  Next morning I rose early, just before dawn. My neck was cricked from lying on the narrow couch, my head fuzzy from a few hours of restless sleep, but that didn’t dampen my determination to find out what Donald Fletcher was holding back, and who the hell had beaten Red half to death.

  Red was still sleeping. I didn’t want to wake him, so I left a note saying I was going to see Donald Fletcher and that I’d be back by lunchtime. I told him to rest up, no heroics.

  As I hurried to my truck, I called McGregor’s office. Put it on speaker as I drove. Bobby Four-fingers answered.

  ‘Any more joy with Fletcher?’ I asked.

  ‘Nah. Couple of unconfirmed sightings but by the time the spotters got there he’d long gone.’

  ‘Same locations as before?’

  ‘Different, and really spread out.’ Bobby whistled between his teeth. ‘Man can’t be in all those places.’

  ‘Let me know if you get anything concrete.’

  ‘Will do. Where you at?’

  ‘Following up a lead. I’ll tell you more when I’m back later.’

  ‘You coming in today?’

  I thought of Red. Of the beating he’d taken. Knew I needed to do right by him before I flew back to San Diego. ‘Maybe tonight. This errand might take a while.’

  Bobby lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I’m covering for you with Monroe. Haven’t told him you’re out of town.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘No worries, momma.’

  Thankful for Bobby’s help, I ended the call and stepped harder on the gas. It was time to find out why Donald Fletcher was lying.

  *

  To say that Donald wasn’t pleased to see me would have been an understatement. He buzzed me into his wire-fenced compound without a word, but kept me waiting on the porch for near on five minutes. I was just starting to think he’d forgotten me when the door opened. He was unshaven and had the look of a man who’d just got out of his bed: hair all stuck up at odd angles, his feet bare below his track pants. He glared at me real hostile. ‘It’s early. What do you want?’

  It was nine-thirty. Not so early in my world. ‘I’ve got some more questions.’

  He scowled. Leaned against the doorframe, keeping the metal front door half closed. He didn’t invite me inside. ‘I’ve nothing to say. I told you all I know about Gibson.’

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘Well, you see Donald, that’s the problem I’ve got. I’m not sure that you did.’

  He scratched at an insect bite on his arm. Didn’t look overly concerned. ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘Let’s go inside first.’

  He glanced past me, checking the street. I turned, anxious to see if there was a sign of the man who’d tailed me before.

  A cab passed along the road. Aside from that there was no traffic. The neighbourhood was quiet. Donald shook his head. ‘No. You can say what you’ve gotta right here, and then you can go.’

  Fine, if that’s how he wanted to play it. I put my hands on my hips. Stood tall. Kept my tone businesslike. ‘You lied to me, Donald. You said you hadn’t seen Gibson in a long while, but I know that’s not true. I’ve seen the visitors’ logs from Gibson’s time in jail. You visited once a month, every Tuesday. So what I want to know is why’d you lie about it?’

  Donald scowled. ‘You’re the one who’s lying. I’ve never visited Gibson in that place.’

  Denial. I guess I’d kind of expected that; but I hadn’t expected the genuine look of confusion on Donald’s face. Still, I kept my tone firm. Knew he was most likely trying to throw me off the scent of whatever scam the two of them had cooked up. ‘Your signature’s right there in the log. You visited your brother every month, without fail.’

  Donald stepped back, and started closing the door. ‘You’re talking crazy, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but it won’t work. I told you before, I’ve not seen him.’

  I thrust my leg out, sticking my boot against the doorframe, blocking him from shutting the door. ‘I need answers, and I’m not leaving until I’ve gotten them.’

  He cursed. Glared at me. ‘Get the hell off my porch.’

  ‘Not until you tell me the truth.’

  ‘Goddammit. I’ve not seen Gibson in years. I—’

  ‘How many years?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Answer the question. When exactly did you last see him?’

  Donald shook his head. ‘I don’t remember, and I don’t give a damn.’

  ‘Was it two and a half years ago? More? Less?’

  ‘Why does it matter?’

  ‘Because I’ve got a shipping document that says you sent a package to San Diego for him on March 7th, two and a half years ago.’

  ‘You’re just making shit up. Why would I do that? What package?’

  I held his gaze. Spoke slow and measured. ‘You tell me.’

  He exhaled hard and pulled back the door. I thought he was backing down, letting me inside. I was wrong. He lunged forward, grabbed my shoulders and shoved me hard.

  I lost my balance. Stepped back. ‘What the…’

  Before I could recover, he had slammed the door shut. Shit. I pounded on the metal with my fists. ‘Open the door, Donald.’

  ‘Just leave,’ he shouted from inside. ‘I didn’t send any parcel.’

  ‘I know that you did.’

  ‘Horseshit.’

  ‘I’ve got proof.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘I’ve got photos on my cell.’

  A couple of seconds passed, then I heard the sound of a bolt unlocking. The door opened again. Donald stared back at me. His face was ghostly white. ‘You can’t have.’

  Either he was genuine about not knowing, or he was one hell of a good liar. I couldn’t be sure which. ‘I’ve got a copy of the parcel despatch documentation, and copies of the prison visitor logs. It’s your name. And the signatures match.’

  The anger of earlier had left him. He looked deflated, beat. ‘Show me.’

  Taking my cell phone from my purse, I held it out to him and flicked through the pictures; first the photo of the signed parcel documentation, then the copies of the prison logs. ‘It’s all here in black and white.’

  He stared at them for a long moment, then shook his head. Looked confused. ‘That’s not my signature.’

  ‘Wh
at?’

  He pulled his wallet from his pants pocket and flipped it open. Showed me his driver’s licence. ‘Look. This is how I sign my name. Always has been.’

  I looked at the card. My stomach lurched. The signature on Donald Fletcher’s driver’s licence was tall and loopy, not squat and tight. The signatures didn’t match.

  Donald was telling the truth.

  29

  Who’d been impersonating Donald Fletcher? That was the question that occupied my thinking on the drive back to the Deep Blue Marina. It was someone who didn’t want to be associated with Gibson, that was for sure – not on record anyway. But they’d have needed ID to prove they were who they said they were to get into the prison as a visitor, so they’d have had to have faked that, too. Not cheap, and not easy.

  So they’d gone to a lot of trouble and risked the authorities spotting them in the lie. And they’d specifically wanted Donald’s name in that prison log. Could be it was a part of the plan for Gibson’s escape – they wanted his brother in the frame. Question was, why?

  I remembered once again JT’s strategy on tracking a fugitive – family, friends, freedom – use past behaviour to predict future actions. If it was a personal thing between Donald and the person who used his identity, the connection that sprung to my mind was Gibson and Donald’s old boxing manager, Marco Searle. Searle had a relationship of sorts with both brothers and there was bad blood between them, with Gibson over Mia, and with Donald over the punch-up twenty-odd years ago. As motives went, I’d seen folks killed for less.

  Keeping one hand on the wheel, I messaged Monroe. I kept it brief, didn’t tell him about Red, or what I’d found out from Donald and my suspicions; instead, I said I needed the CCTV from the prison visits. I wanted to see the visuals from the times Donald Fletcher signed that visitors’ log. I needed to be sure Donald wasn’t trying to double bluff me and, if he wasn’t, I needed to see the person using his identity.

  I was so caught up in my thoughts I didn’t spot the black SUV until I was three blocks from the marina. I didn’t know how long it’d been following me, but as it mirrored each turn I took, I knew for sure it was on my tail.