by Jack Hardin
“What is this?” he asked.
“This, Jimmy Joe Claude, is five hundred dollars. It would be a ‘thank-you’ from me to you.”
“I already told you I’m not━”
“This would buy a lot of Milwaukee's Best or Pall Malls…or Lysol,” she added.
“Huh?”
“I’m sure this could help you and your mother. How many hours would you have to pick for Sharla to get this? Sixty? Seventy? Just tell me where I might happen to get lucky enough to bump into Jorge, and it’s yours.”
“I ain’t stupid enough to think you’re not breaking some rules with this,” he said.
“When have you ever cared about the rules, Jimmy?”
Jimmy looked back down, hungrily eyed the money, then shifted his eyes away like a guilty boy with an old issue of Playboy in his lap. Then he looked at the money again like a boy who had just put his guilt to rest underneath the closed layer of a seared conscience. He reached out for it. Ellie pulled it back. “Jorge, then money. That’s the logic I’m working with.”
Jimmy took a long breath, cleared his throat. “He didn’t tell me where he’s holing up, but it’s probably one of two places.”
“Which would be where?” she asked.
“There’s at a space at Coralwood Village and another at Ridgeside.”
Ellie pulled up the memo app on her phone and handed it to him. “I need the addresses.”
Jimmy ran his cracked, nicotine-stained fingers across the screen and gave it back to Ellie. She checked it then handed him the money.
“You tell anyone, and I’m a dead man. Do me a favor. Don’t come ‘round here no more.” He walked to the back door and opened it. “You comin’?”
Ellie thought she would have to get on the list for a nostril transplant if she did that. “Thanks. I don’t want to bother your mother again. I’ll go back out from the side.”
“Suit yourself.”
She navigated back to the front of the house and got back in her father’s old car. She looked up the addresses Jimmy gave her on her phone. One was in a trailer park in Cape Coral, the other just across the river in Fort Myers in what appeared to be a run-down area of town. She dialed Mark and waited for him to answer. “Hey, I’ve got a couple places I need us to check out. You good for a stakeout tomorrow night?”
There was a pause. Ellie knew that no one, whether they were agency or law enforcement, enjoyed sitting in a car looking over their shoulder for hours on end. “Who are we looking for?” he asked.
“I’d rather not say over the phone. Let’s circle up tomorrow, and I’ll fill you in.” They disconnected, and Ellie shifted the El Camino into reverse. A sheer curtain moved in the front window of Jimmy’s house. Ellie kept her foot on the brake and looked. Loribelle was staring at her through the dingy glass, her eyes squinting, looking like a disheveled witch. Jimmy must have shown her the money. Loribelle wouldn’t forget Ellie the next time she knocked on her door.
And hopefully, by the grace of heaven, Ellie would never have to again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FRIDAYS ARE FOR GRILLING. And not just any kind of grilling. Backyard grilling. Such was Major’s life philosophy and one that he invited everyone to espouse. Ellie pulled the El Camino into his driveway and parked behind his black Jeep Wrangler. She turned off her car, or truck, whatever it was, and grabbed the sweating six-pack of Coronas off the long bench seat. She paused and stared at the dark spot the beer brought out of hiding. It was a fuzzy circle the size of a half dollar made of black ink, written by a seven-year-old girl daydreaming with a pen. It was one of the few times her father had ever snapped at her. She’d cried, and he had tried to clean the spot, but the smeared stain remained like a burn mark on a perfect patch of skin. He had come to her later, apologized, hugged her, and told her he was leaving it there; said it would remind him that his car wasn’t as important as his little girl. Ellie ran the tips of her fingers across the blot and smiled sadly. Then she shook her head and allowed the memories to fall away as she stepped onto the driveway.
Major’s house was a modest two-story a couple miles north of hers and sat right on Dobbs Preserve on the far east edge of Pine Island. A second floor balcony came off the master bedroom and looked over a perfectly manicured front yard filled with palms, a large sapodilla tree, and gardenias that cast a sweet aroma around the yard. Major had owned the place for nearly thirty years, and though he could now afford a home three times the value of this one he was comfortable right where he was.
Ellie walked in and shut the door behind her. “Hey!” she called out.
“In here!”
She walked down the hall and turned left into the kitchen. Major was leaned over a cutting board, chopping bell peppers and onions. “Hey, kiddo.”
“Hey, Major.” She pulled out a couple beers and put the other four on the top shelf of the refrigerator. “You making shish kebabs again?” She popped the cap off a bottle and set it in front of him. She did the same for own bottle and took a long pull.
“Yep. Steaks are marinating now.” The kitchen was an open design, spilling into the living room and looking out on the back yard. Ellie walked to the sofa and sat down.
“Gloria was telling me that her mother used to put cauliflower on her kabobs. You believe that?” he said.
“Guh. Really?”
“Yeah. I mean why ruin a perfectly good meal with cauliflower?”
“Might as well stick a few radishes on there while you’re at it,” Ellie said.
Major looked up and pointed the knife at her. “Exactly.” He looked back down and kept chopping. “How was work today? Catch any drug lords?”
“Hah.” Ellie took another pull off her beer. “You know, I didn’t think I would end up saying this, but I think I might be enjoying it. I mean, all of one week in the field. We’ll have to see how it goes.”
“You mean, Tyler and I were right about the whole ‘you need to be doing something else with your life’ bit?”
“Yeah, I guess so. You were,” she grinned. “Tyler wasn’t. I still can’t believe Garrett Cage is heading up an entire DEA office. I would have put my odds on Dennis Rodman being the next pope over that.”
“You’ll have to bring him over to The Mangrove for lunch one day. Right now, all I know is that he ruined my fishing spot that day you and I were out on the water. Probably need a do-over with him.”
“You need any help?” she asked.
“Nah, just about done.” He jabbed some shrimp and vegetables onto a skewer. “I’m telling you, Ellie. This whole thing about Pete not showing up is getting to me. It’s been almost two months now. A plank on my pier would go missing before he did.”
“Yeah. I’ve got the heebee jeebees about it too.”
“This whole island searched the coast for three days. His body would have shown up somewhere. Pete wasn't rich, but he wasn’t poor either. Not kidnap-for-ransom material if you ask me. Not that anyone tried that angle. Maybe you’ll get lucky and find some answers.”
“I hope so.” Ellie looked above the fireplace and saw a framed painting of two pelicans flying low over the water. “Is that new?”
Major looked up, nodded. “Yep. Had Jean Oglesby paint that for me. It turned out really nice.”
“Jean did that? You’re kidding?” Jean was a local exhibitionist painter who had a gallery on Matlacha. She was known and loved for the bright colors she used in her flamboyant representation of local wildlife and scenery. The painting in Major’s living room was much more sober and reflected the muted colors of a graying dusk over the water.
“Jean can do about anything. You just have to ask. Which reminds me. I have a thank-you card here on the counter for her. I’m leaving out for Marco tomorrow and would rather not mail it. Can you take it by in the next few days?”
“You bet. Remind me before I leave tonight. One of these days I’ll go down to Marco with you. You still have that Grady-White I can stay on, right?”
�
�Of course. I would like that. Just let me know when.”
Ellie’s gaze fell onto the end table, and she reached over and picked up an old picture. It was set into a dark and unassuming wooden frame. The image was old, overcome with sepia that was representative of shots taken with an old SLR camera. Two young men in their late twenties or early thirties were sitting against the gunwale of a Lund fiberglass boat, both clutching a beer and their eyes squinting in laughter. One had an old trucker hat sporting the Baltimore Orioles logo, and the other wore scraggly blonde hair that grazed his shoulders. Both were shirtless and wore short cutoff jean shorts typical of the era.
“I haven’t seen this before,” Ellie said. “Did you just set it out?”
“I was going through a box of pictures I had in the guest room closet. Found that little gem in there.”
Ellie looked at Major’s swelling midsection and then back at the picture. “Which one is you?”
“That bad, huh? I’m on the right, not wearing the hat.”
“The blonde one? No kidding.”
“Yeah,” he huffed. “Age has a way of growing your gut and shrinking your hairline.”
“So who’s the Orioles guy?”
“Gunny. He didn’t even like the Orioles as far as I know. But he wore that hat all the time. No idea where he got it. Maybe winning beer pong at a carnival.”
“He was best friends with you and Dad, right?”
“Yeah. That was the last image we got of him. Norma Jean’s the one who took the picture. Probably the last one she ever snapped.”
Ellie returned the frame to its place and curled her feet underneath her. “I remember Dad vaguely saying something about them when I was little. What happened?”
Major stopped and set his hands on the counter. He leaned in on them. “The four of us - me, your father, Gunny, Norma Jean - we started our own charter company on Boca Grande.”
“No kidding.”
“Was Norma Jean dating one of you?”
He smiled and kept looking into the past. “No. Not really. I think she and I were going somewhere, but it's hard to say where it would’ve ended up. She flirted with Gunny too, so who knows? Your dad had just met your mother and was taking night classes at the college. He would come out on weekends and take a couple charters out.”
Ellie knew there had been some kind of tragedy but didn’t want to ask. She waited.
Major grabbed his beer and took a long, patient swig. “Gunny and Norma Jean booked this gig with four guests to head out and bring up some king mackerel. They had this spot, and it hooked every time they went out. Every single time. But...they never came back in.” He stared down at the polished black granite. “I knew their spot and finally went out to find them. It wasn’t like them to move spots without radioing it in. They weren’t out there, of course. Besides, by then it was early evening; sun was almost gone. No way they would be gone that long. I was coming back in when I saw something orange at port. I pulled up and it was…” Major paused, winced, and widened his eyes to keep the tears back. “It was her. Floating upside down. She was completely naked except for the life vest. I pulled alongside her and got her in the boat.” He shook his head. “She was already gone.”
Ellie waited a few breaths for him to gather himself. “What do you think happened?”
“I know what happened.” Major closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “They were murdered. Norma Jean was shot twice.”
“Oh my God.”
“Whoever booked the charter had malintent from the beginning. Gunny, we never found him. Your father wanted me to take over the charter business after that. He was focused on school and already had his sights set on working for the DOJ. They weren’t married yet, but your mother got fearful with him staying in the charter business after that.”
“Dad never talked about them. Not to me anyway.”
“I never told him.”
“Told him what?”
“That they were murdered. All he knew was that they vanished.”
A hollow spot inside Ellie’s chest was growing increasingly heavy with sadness. “Why not?”
“It wouldn’t have helped anything. Around here the local news would have nitpicked every bit of flesh off that story. I couldn’t have people thinking about her like that, that being the last mental image they had of her. I’m not sure, but with her having no clothes on I’d say she’d been raped. The bullet holes were in her back. I don’t know if she was trying to escape or not.”
“Don’t you think it would have helped to catch whoever did it?”
“They weren’t going to find them, Ellie. Because of the missing persons report, the cops looked for the men she and Gunny took out there. Turns out the names and identification they gave for the charter were bogus. That boat and those men were gone. Major blinked again and started back at filling the skewers. “I went a few miles further out, removed her life vest, wrapped some old anchor chain around her and slipped her over the edge.” He sighed deeply. “Geez, Ellie. I feel like I just turned on a rusty spigot that goes a mile down.” He wiped the moisture out of his eyes with the back of his wrist.
Ellie stared at the picture. “Yeah,” she said, silently relating. She hadn’t talked about Kabul since her return home. For one, she wasn’t allowed to. But she hadn’t mentioned it even in generalities, not even to those closest to her to let them know that ever since she had felt undone. Like an unbuttoned blouse flapping in the wind.
“While we’re talking about losses, have you been to the cemetery yet?” Major asked.
Ellie finished her beer in three chugs. “No.”
“Feel guilty about it?” he asked.
“Yep. It’s been half a year. I should be able to go by now.”
“You’ll get there eventually. You’ll know when the timing is right. He would have wanted you to heal in your own way.”
“There isn’t much that scares me, Major, but visiting my father’s grave almost makes me dizzy.” She sighed. They just didn’t make men like Frank O’Conner anymore. “I miss him so much sometimes my bones ache.”
“Me too, kiddo. Me too.”
Major ran his hands under the water, wiped them on a dish towel, and grabbed the plate of raw food. He smiled at her. “Enough of all that. Come on. Let’s go fire up the grill.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ELLIE BROUGHT her truck into a parking space near the motel entrance. Mark exited his Honda Accord and got into her passenger seat. Ellie said, “I’d ask you if you were ready to do this, but I think I know the answer.”
“I’m ready,” he said. “Just not excited.”
“You looked at the address I gave you? The one at Ridgeside? I’ll take the one at Town View Village.”
“I did. We made a bust in that area late last year. A meth lab two streets over if I’m remembering correctly.” He nodded. “Yeah, it was a Puerto Rican family. Even had the kids involved. Parents got taken off, and I had to wait back for Child Protective Services to show up. Crazy, isn’t it? Here we are poking around for those driving the coke wagon, but then you’ve got all this other crap going on too. If it’s not meth, it coke; if it’s not coke, it’s heroine, or that new zombie drug, flakka. Always something new and old.”
Ellie exited the map app on her phone. She looked out her windshield at the evening traffic passing by. Moms, dads, kids, grandparents, going to soccer practice, PTA, and coming home from jobs meant to stock their cupboards and fill their 401(k)s. Ellie jutted her chin toward the street. “That’s who we’re working for, Mark. The Gina Starks of the world. The moms in Tahoes and minivans and the young kids who want to grow up and be teachers and firemen and astronauts. We can’t get all the creeps and find all the stuff. But we’re going to get a few of them and find some of it. A few of them are going to feel the hurt. If we can do that, I can sleep well at night.”
Mark looked over at her, genuine surprise written across his face. “Well said. You might have a little politician in you
with that speech.”
“Get out of my truck,” she smiled. “Keep in touch while you’re over there.”
“Will do,” he said, and opened the door. “Good luck.”
TOWN VIEW VILLAGE was the oldest mobile home community in Lee County, came in at twenty-three acres with almost two hundred homes. The carved and painted wooden sign displaying the name of the neighborhood sat over an untended flower bed filled with milk thistle, nutsedge, and velvetleaf that threatened to continue rising and cover every letter of the sign. Jimmy had given Ellie an address on Rickshaw Avenue. She drove past a couple side streets before seeing Rickshaw on her left. She looked down the street and scanned it as she rolled by. The yards were square and small, like dirt postage stamps. Chipped concrete driveways took up most of the space. Plastic tricycles, tipped-over garbage cans left by the trash collector, and newspapers never retrieved from the curb lined the length of the street. The neighborhood had almost no vegetation to speak of. Trees and large bushes were absent. Saplings, with the dirt around their root balls still freshly turned, were half dead and lined the splotchy grass near the sidewalk, no doubt planted there by a property manager who cared more about sprucing up the area than did its residents. Ellie turned left down Hixson and moved the air conditioning knob from high to low to minimize the noise inside the cab.
The sun was an hour into its evening descent, and the shadows of the saplings and trash cans stretched down the street beyond their forms like blackened putty. At the end of Hixson, Ellie turned left then swung left again onto Rickshaw. She quickly located a lot number and compared it with the address she was looking for. The place would be on her left-hand side, the opposite side of the street from where she was now. Exactly what she wanted. Her Silverado's windows were tinted to the maximum allowed by Florida law and afforded her a little anonymity as she grabbed her field glasses and set them to her face. Some of the lots had the address number next to the front door and some only on the tattered mailboxes lining the street. Ellie found the number she was looking for three lots down, which meant that, for now, she was parked perfectly.
