by Stuart Woods
“I’ll call my department,” she said. “You call the state police and have them look for him on I-95 South. My guess is he’s headed toward home. And I’d stake out that bar Tricky’s, too.”
“I’ll take care of that. Let’s talk tomorrow.” Harry hung up.
Holly called her department and gave Trini’s description to the duty officer, with instructions to radio it to all cars.
“Pizza’s hot, I think,” Grant said, pulling it from the oven and putting it on a platter.
They sat down to eat.
“Who did you tell your cops I am?”
“A neighbor,” she said. “Your cover is still intact. You ready to tell me what you’re working on yet?”
“No can do; nothing has changed in that regard.”
“Have some more wine,” Holly said, pouring him some. “Then we’ll talk about it.”
“Wine will not loosen my tongue.”
“In vino veritas,” she said.
“Not yet. You’re exciting to know,” he said.
“Thanks; you’re pretty dull.”
“What do you mean, dull?”
“The most interesting thing about a person is often his work,” she said. “And I don’t know anything about yours.”
“I’ve regaled you with stories from my undercover past,” he said. “Isn’t that enough?”
“And I’ve given you my body; doesn’t that count for something?”
“It counts for a very great deal,” Grant said. “In fact, once or twice, when you were giving it especially well, I nearly blurted out everything. You want to try again?”
“I’m eating pizza,” she said. “It’s hard to give your body and eat pizza at the same time.”
“Later?”
“We’ll see.”
“Listen, when we’ve eaten, I want you to pack a bag and come home with me.”
“Why?”
“If it was Trini out there, I wouldn’t be surprised if he comes back.”
“You have a point,” she said, kissing him and leaving tomato sauce on his mouth.
“He’s not going to stop trying, you know. He has a reputation for persistence.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Don’t be sorry, be safe,” he said, kissing her back.
“Listen, if we’re going to keep exchanging tomato sauce, let’s do it at your place.”
“Pack a bag, and pack Daisy a bag, too. Enough for a couple of days, or until they find Trini, whichever comes first.”
Soon, they were walking hand in hand up the beach toward Grant’s house, with Daisy gamboling in the dunes. Holly had the gun in her other hand, all the way.
42
Holly was in her office reading about the death of Howard Singleton when Harry called.
“I want to bring you up to date,” he said.
“You still sound terrible, Harry. Are you at work?”
“Yes, but soon I’m going home and to bed.”
“Okay, bring me up to date.”
“Nobody has found Trini Rodriguez so far, but there’s a statewide APB out for him; sooner or later he’ll turn up.”
“I hope he doesn’t turn up on my doorstep again,” Holly said.
“Grant gave me an account of the evening. Sounds like you saved his neck.”
“I’m always happy to pull the FBI out of it. By the way, have you seen this morning’s Miami papers?”
“No.”
“The head guy at the GSA, Singleton, got hit yesterday.”
“I know about that.”
“It’s got to be related to the Palmetto Gardens thing.”
“It’s not. I spoke to Singleton’s deputy yesterday, a guy named Willard Smith. He says they weren’t working on anything similar. My guess is a jealous husband.”
“Yeah? Well, my guess is Trini Rodriguez.”
“Why would Trini and his people want Singleton dead?”
“I think that would be a real good thing for the FBI to figure out, Harry. A federal employee is dead, and that puts it right in your lap, doesn’t it?”
“I prefer to let the local cops lead on things like this, unless there’s a pressing reason for it to go federal.”
“Call Singleton’s replacement and ask him if he wants to be next; that might get him thinking about why the man was killed.”
“I told you, I’ve already talked to him, and they aren’t working on anything remotely related to this other stuff.”
“Harry, can I remind you that we don’t know what the hell this other stuff is about?”
“Not yet.”
“If we don’t know what it’s about, how do we know that Singleton’s killing wasn’t related? I think his death ought to be on the federal front burner.”
“You’ll have to let me make that judgment, Holly; it’s what I do.”
“You are the most exasperating man,” she said.
“You sound like my wife.”
“Listen to her, Harry.” Holly hung up. She thought for a minute, then called information and got the number for the Miami office of the General Services Administration and dialed it. Shortly, she had Willard Smith on the line.
“My name is Holly Barker, Mr. Smith. I’m chief of police in Orchid Beach, Florida, up the coast.”
“What can I do for you, Chief?” He sounded in a hurry.
“It appears that the death of Howard Singleton might be related to a case I’m working on up here.”
“And what case would that be?”
“Perhaps you’ll recall that there were two murders and another attempt that were related to your office’s auction of the Palmetto Gardens property?”
“I know about that. Listen, I’ve already talked to the FBI about that.”
“I know; I’ve just talked to Harry Crisp.”
“Then your question must be the same as his?”
“Yes. Is there anything at all you’re working on that sounds like the Palmetto Gardens deal?”
“Nothing.”
“You mean you have no confiscated properties for sale?”
“All the time, Chief, but not like that one. In that case, we appeared to have lowball bidders who had been killing off the competition, but when they failed to kill Mr. Shine and the sale to him went through, they had no further reason to kill people.”
“But what I’m asking is, is there another sale pending which might attract the same sorts of bidders?”
“You mean a criminal element?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not. I’ve been through every sale on Howard’s desk—and incidentally, I was the one who put those sales on his desk—and neither Howard nor I has spotted anything remotely similar to the Palmetto Gardens case. I’ve been reviewing the files again this morning, just to be sure, and there’s nothing. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I have a great deal of work to do today.”
“Will you call me if something similar comes up?”
“I will certainly do that, Chief,” he said, then hung up.
And he didn’t even take my number, Holly thought.
Her phone rang; it was the medical examiner.
“Morning,” she said. “I hope you’ve done the autopsy on our shooter of last evening.”
“I have, and he died of two gunshot wounds to the chest, both from your weapon.”
“Anything else?”
“He had amalgam dental fillings, just like the other one.”
“So he’s Cuban?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not, if the fillings are the same?”
“Well, he’s blond and blue-eyed, for one thing.”
“Aren’t there any blond and blue-eyed Cubans?”
“I’ve never encountered one. And there’s something else.”
“What?”
“He had a tattoo on his left bicep that looks military to me.”
“American military? Like a regimental symbol?”
“Like that, but not American. There was a legend underneath that
was in letters of the Cyrillic alphabet.”
“You mean, like Russian?”
“Yes.”
“There were a lot of Russians in Cuba at one time, weren’t there?”
“Yes, military advisors. I believe they were advising on how to assemble medium-range ballistic missiles. But that was back in the sixties, and this guy is in his early to mid thirties.”
“Could it be a Cuban outfit?”
“Then the legend would be in Spanish, wouldn’t it?”
“You have a point,” she admitted.
“The tattoo is of crossed daggers, and I had the legend translated. It says, ‘Blood and Loyalty.’ ”
“Send me a photo of the tattoo, will you?”
“It’s already on the way.”
“Anything else about the guy that was unusual?”
“I think he might have been a boxer—or at least someone who has taken a beating on more than one occasion. He had a broken nose—twice, according to the X-rays—and some broken ribs that had healed, too. I’ve sent his prints along with the photo.”
“Thanks, Doc.” She hung up and tried to figure out why a Russian might be involved in this.
43
Holly drove to Grant’s house after work, an unmarked car following her. She had arranged for around-the-clock cops to be parked outside.
She entered the house to wonderful smells of cooking. “Hello there,” she called.
“Dinner’s in half an hour,” Grant called back.
“Mmmm,” she said, sniffing the air and kissing him. “Did you ever do an undercover job as a chef?”
“Short-order cook once, for a week. The worst work I’ve ever had to do; it nearly put me off food.”
She fed and walked Daisy, and came back to the house. “I’m going to grab a shower while you’re finishing dinner,” she said.
When she came back downstairs, dinner was on the table—a risotto with shrimp and asparagus, and a lovely chardonnay.
“So, how was your day?” Grant asked.
“Not bad. The ME called, said the dead pizza guy was Russian.”
“How could they tell? Was he carrying a passport?”
“No ID at all, but he had amalgam fillings, which you don’t find in this country anymore, and he had a Russian military tattoo.” She described it to him.
Grant shook his head. “Blood and loyalty. I’ve never heard of anything like that. Crossed daggers doesn’t sound military, either; crossed swords, maybe.”
“I saw a photograph; it’s definitely daggers.”
“Send it to Harry; he can run it against the Bureau’s files.”
“Good idea.”
“You run the guy’s prints?”
“Yes, but we came up with nothing.”
“If he’s an immigrant on a visa, his prints should be on file with INS. Tomorrow, run them against their files. They may not have gotten passed on to the Bureau yet.”
“Thanks for the suggestion.”
Grant started clearing the table, and Holly helped. Then her cellphone rang.
“Hello?”
“Miss Barker?” The voice was female and quavering.
“Yes, who’s this?”
“It’s Marina Santos.”
“Is something wrong, Marina?”
“I went to the grocery store, and when I came back . . .” Her voice broke, and she seemed unable to go on.
“Marina, what is it? Tell me.”
“My mother and my aunt are dead.”
“Oh, God.”
“There was blood all over the kitchen; they were shot.”
“Marina, where are you now?”
“I’m on my cellphone in my car, parked on the street outside my aunt’s house.”
“What’s the address?”
Marina gave it to her, and Holly wrote it down. “All right, Marina, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to start your car and drive away—don’t hang up. When you drive away, check your rearview mirror to see if anyone is following you. Now, go ahead.”
“All right.”
Holly heard the car start.
“I’m driving down the street, and no one is behind me.”
“All right, give me your cellphone number.” Holly wrote it down. “Now, I want you to go to a public place, very well lighted, like a supermarket parking lot, and park right in front of a big store. I’m going to call the police, and then I’ll call you back with further instructions.”
“All right,” Marina said.
Holly hung up and called Ham’s house.
“Yo,” Ham said.
“It’s me,” Holly said. “Is Ginny there?”
“You don’t want to talk to your old man?”
“Not right now, old man; let me talk to Ginny.”
Ginny came on. “Hi, Holly, what’s up?”
“Ginny, can you fly me to Sarasota?”
“Sure, when?”
“Right this minute; it’s urgent.”
“All right.”
“Tell me the name of the closest airport; we’re going to pick up a passenger.”
“It’s called Sarasota-Bradenton, and it’s near the north-south interstate, north of Sarasota. You can tell your passenger we’ll meet him at Dolphin Aviation.”
Holly heard Ham speak up in the background. “Tell her I’m coming, too.”
“Tell Ham to come armed,” Holly said. “I’ll see you at the airport, just as fast as I can get there.”
“Right.”
Holly hung up. “I’ve got to fly to Sarasota; Trini has killed my witness’s mother and aunt.”
“Jesus,” Grant said. “I’m coming with you.”
“Drive me to the airport,” Holly said. “I don’t know how much room there is in the airplane.”
“Hang on.” Grant went upstairs and came back putting on a jacket over a shoulder holster.
“Daisy, you stay here and be a good girl,” Holly said.
Daisy put her head on the floor, but watched them as they left.
In the car, Holly called Marina back.
“Hello?”
“Marina, are you all right?”
“Yes, but I’m very scared.”
“Do you know how to get to the Sarasota-Bradenton Airport?”
“No.”
“Do you know how to get to the interstate?”
“Yes, I can see it from here.”
“Get on the interstate going north and look for signs to the airport. When you get there, find a place called Dolphin Aviation and wait for me there; I’m flying in.”
“Dolphin Aviation?”
“If you can’t find it, ask. You’ll get there before I will, so just go inside and make yourself comfortable. Tell them you’re being picked up if they show any interest in you.”
“All right.”
“And keep your cellphone with you.”
“All right.”
Holly hung up, called the Sarasota Police Department, and asked for the duty commander.
“This is Lieutenant Brower,” a voice said.
“Lieutenant, this is Chief of Police Holly Barker, from Orchid Beach, Florida.”
“Where is that?”
“Directly across the state from you, east coast.”
“Oh, yeah, I’ve got it on the map. What can I do for you, Chief?”
“I’ve just learned about a double homicide in your city.” Holly gave him the address.
“How did you hear about it?”
“The person who found the bodies called me.”
“Why didn’t he call us?”
“There are very good reasons, Lieutenant,” she said. “The FBI are on this, too. The person who found the bodies didn’t witness anything. I’ll get back to you so you can talk to the witness later. In the meantime, I’m responsible for that person’s safety, and I’m taking steps.” Holly gave him her cellphone number. “You can reach me on that number later tonight or tomorrow morning at my office.”
“All right, C
hief.”
“Now, listen. The shooter is very likely a man named Trini Rodriguez.” She gave him a complete description. “He may be hanging out in the neighborhood, waiting for my witness to come home. He drives a red Ford Explorer sometimes.”
“We’ll keep an eye out for him.”
“He’s wanted for murder in Fort Lauderdale, and the FBI want him, too. He’ll be armed and extremely dangerous.”
“What is your witness’s name?”
“I’ll let you know about that when the witness is secure. Good-bye.” She hung up. “Step on it, Grant,” she said. “Don’t worry about getting a ticket.”
Grant stepped on it.
At the airport, Ginny was waiting beside a larger airplane than the one Holly had flown. “We’ll take the Saratoga,” she said, “since we’ve got so many people.”
Holly introduced Grant to Ginny and Ham.
Ham looked Grant up and down, then turned to Holly. “Are you two . . . ?”
“Shut up, Ham, and get in the airplane.”
44
Holly was in the pilot’s seat, taking instruction, and she spotted the airport beacon, flashing green and white. “I have the airport,” she said.
“Good,” Ginny replied. “The automated weather tells us the wind is three-zero-zero at six knots, so we’re landing on runway thirty-two.”
“I see the runway lights,” Holly said.
“And which one is thirty-two?”
Holly looked at her compass. “The one going left and right.”
“Good. Now switch on your landing lights.” She pointed at the switch. “Make a normal approach, just like with the Warrior. This is a heavier airplane, and it will take more of a pull on the yoke when you flare. This is a night landing, and the thing about a night landing is that it feels as if you’re a little higher than you really are, so expect the gear to touch down sooner than you think.”
Holly announced her intentions on the radio and was cleared to land. She reduced speed, put down the landing gear, and followed the landing check, as Ginny read it to her from the checklist.
“You’re a little high and hot,” Ginny said, “but you’ve got plenty of runway. A little less throttle.”
Holly made the adjustment and landed a little harder than she’d expected to.
“That’s a night landing for you,” Ginny said.
Following Ginny’s instructions, Holly taxied to Dolphin Aviation and went through the shutdown checklist. When the propeller had stopped, a lineman chocked the nosewheel, and everybody got out.
