Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series)

by Paul Sekulich

  After hours of tossing in and out of sleep and staring at the ceiling, Frank turned on the lamp on the side table and noted the time on his watch. It was 5:07 AM.

  Frank eyed the master dresser in the room. A moment later, he found himself rifling through drawers. Inside lay new tee shirts, an assortment of socks, and a pajama set, still in plastic wrap. A brand new package of navy blue swimming trunks stopped his rummaging. He ripped open the cellophane bag and held them to his waist for size. Close enough. He tossed them onto the bed and felt around in his clothes pile and pulled out a Glock 9-millimeter automatic. He sat on the foot of the bed and stared at it until his eyes began to water.

  Chapter 8

  Frank ambled on the moonlit beach along the water’s edge, the cold brine lapping across his feet. He tightened the draw strings on the swimming trunks to secure the loose fit. The surf farther out roared and broke in white froth, the smell of the ocean strong in the predawn breeze.

  Frank stopped, stared out at the tiny lights of an offshore ship several miles to the west. His fixed focus blurred and the ship was gone. Something else took its place. A home movie played…

  Frank, Amy, and their two children walk along a beachside boardwalk abundant with shops and eateries. Billy, their two-year-old, lags behind and becomes interested in peeking under a pregnant woman’s overhanging maternity garment. Neither the pregnant woman, nor the rest of the Dugan family, see him at first. Amy turns around to look for him. She sees what he’s doing and alerts Frank.

  They try to stifle their laughter as they go back to retrieve him, but it’s useless. When they get to him, he’s reaching up under the woman’s top. The pregnant woman jumps, not knowing what is grabbing at her belly. When she sees that it’s a little boy, she smiles in relief, then laughs. Amy and Frank arrive just in time to apologize, retrieve the boy, and hustle him off. Amy pats Billy on the behind, sending him ahead of her where she can keep an eye on him. Their little girl, Deborah, wags an admonishing finger at her brother as he nears his older sister.

  The mental scene blurred and dissolved into another series of scenes:

  The Dugans are seen buying tickets at the entrance to the Fun House. They all gleefully go inside. The Dugans are seen coming out of the Fun House. The two kids are laughing, but Amy is pale and Frank doesn’t abound with joy.

  The movie dissolved and another mental movie faded in:

  Frank rams Amy’s bumper car broadside giving her and Deborah a healthy jolt. Amy grimaces, Deborah frowns and cries. Frank and Billy laugh like mischievous school boys and whisk their car away to find more victims.

  The Dugans get into seats on a roller coaster. The ride starts off with a jerk. The roller coaster soon speeds down a nearly vertical section of track, hits the bottom, and makes a sharp right turn. The faces of Amy and Deborah are smiling and exhilarated; Billy looks mortified and Frank ducks his head between his arms, hanging on to the safety bar with a death grip.

  At a boardwalk restaurant the family is seated at a table outside stuffing down hot dogs, ice cream, and drinking sodas. Amy takes a big drink of a vanilla milkshake directly from the large cup without using her straw. When she removes the cup from her face, she has a huge white mustache which she proudly displays for everyone.

  Amy and Frank dance romantically in an open boardwalk ballroom. The children are asleep on a nearby park bench that faces the dance floor. Frank kisses Amy gently, pulls her close as they slowly trip the light fantastic.

  Amy and Frank wearily carry their sound asleep children to their beds in a hotel suite. Moments later, Amy enters their semi‑dark master bedroom and crosses to a wide bed. She is silhouetted by the light beaming in from the sliding glass door of the balcony. She wears a sheer nightgown, revealing her shapely body. She slowly lets the gown slide to the floor. Frank watches from the bed. She joins him and they begin to make love in the glow coming from the moon.

  Frank’s last mental scene faded to black. His thoughts returned to the present as he stared seaward. Daylight was breaking. He sloshed into the shallow surf, slowly at first, then broke into a run. When the water got too high to plow ahead and stay upright, he dove into the waves and swam toward the distant ship.

  Frank stroked for several minutes, stopped, treaded water, and glanced back toward shore. He was far from the beach. He was okay with that. Frank had determined that drowning was the best way to go. The gun would just leave an ugly mess for others. Not his style. No, the sea would claim the former marine as her own, and there would be no need to tidy the remains. Drowning would be the perfect way. He would eventually become exhausted and let himself slip under the waves. He’d be able to hold his breath for a while, but soon his brain would force him to breath, and the sea would fill his lungs. There would be choking at first, but soon he’d mercifully black out as the water displaced his air, and he’d surrender to death.

  Frank smiled. He looked forward to being with Amy and the children.

  Being an excellent swimmer could prolong things. Frank knew it would take some time for him to wear out, but the water, while cold, felt pleasant in contrast to the warm summer air. He twisted back to look seaward for a moment, before launching into his long swim, and beheld a sight that chilled his blood much lower than the temperature of the Pacific.

  Chapter 9

  Ominous fins appeared in the distance. Several of them.

  Dolphins, Frank hoped.

  The reality soon set in. Numerous large sharks were knifing their way in his direction.

  Drowning was one thing, but becoming ripped and slashed to death by rows of razor-edged serrated teeth was abundantly another. There was a reason these gray eating machines were the world’s most successful predators─ not just at present, but since the beginning of their life on earth.

  Frank turned east and swam back toward the beach. He glided with long, powerful strokes, careful not to create turbulence and audible splashes in the water. He smoothly slipped shoreward like a silent crocodile, his head shifting from side to side to grab a breath, his eyes barely above the waterline.

  The sharks closed in on him before he neared the shore. They surrounded him. Frank continued to stroke his way toward the beach, slowly now, methodically. His heart pounded so hard in his chest he could feel its pulsations in his inner ear.

  A massive shark eased over to Frank, maybe twelve feet in length, he judged. It brushed his elbow with its sandpaper-texture body, but didn’t attack. Others in the school did the same thing. They swam inches away, gently bumping him at times, crossing his path, beneath him and beside him. One nudged Frank with the side of its mouth, glistening teeth brushed by an inch from his shoulder, surfacing enough for Frank to see its round black eye. When they gathered the thickest around him, they changed course and headed north, parallel to the coast.

  Frank continued swimming toward shore alone.

  Death had twice refused to bestow her blessing on him as an orange sun rose over the land.

  * * *

  Frank emerged from the surf and sloshed through the shallows to the dry sand of the beach. He turned and gazed seaward with bewilderment.

  “Forget your scuba gear, Mr. Cousteau?” a familiar voice said.

  Frank whirled about to face the source.

  “If you’re heading for Japan you might need some fins,” Lieutenant Mike Graham said.

  “Hey, Mike. Just taking a wake-up dip.”

  “I called to see how you were doing, but when you didn’t answer, I decided to drop by.

  “How’d you know where to look?”

  “Dimino called. Asked me to pay the visit.”

  “Doubting my mental stability?” Frank said, plodding toward the beach house.

  “Marty was kinda concerned.” Graham said, following.

  “When I left him he couldn’t make complete sentences.”

  Frank and Mike entered the beach house. Frank turned on the television in the living room.

  “This is an uptown joint,” Graham said
, taking in the spacious interior.

  “Make yourself at home. Only be a minute.”

  Frank disappeared into the hall.

  “Any coffee?” Graham asked.

  “Try the kitchen. I didn’t make any yet.”

  In a minute, Frank returned, drying off with a beach towel.

  The TV came to life on a morning news channel. A somber announcer spoke on camera.

  “The killing of the Reseda youth makes the hundredth in greater Los Angeles this year,” he announcer said. “Police officials pledge to increase their efforts in high crime districts, but city lawmakers are in a quandary as to where to obtain more budget money to pay extra patrolmen. The mayor has called for an emergency session of the City Council to address the problem. Many officials say the budget shortfall is statewide.”

  “No wonder I can’t get a raise.” Graham said.

  Frank went to the guest room, doffed the swimsuit, and redressed in most of his court clothes, minus the tie. He turned his attention to the bed and retrieved his pistol and slid it into his belt holster. Back at the front of the house, he found Mike Graham in the kitchen searching through the cabinets and eventually finding a bag of Starbucks French Roast coffee beans.

  “Got a coffee mill?” Graham asked.

  “I don’t know where anything is here,” Frank said. “May be some juice in the fridge.”

  A ringing phone sounded. Graham pulled the cell from his belt, brought it to his ear.

  “What’s up?” Graham said, then listened . “Where?” A short pause. “Got it.”

  Graham ended the call and bolted for the door.

  “Senator McAllister’s been shot.”

  “What?” Frank said, chasing Graham.

  “Robert McAllister. The U. S. Senator. He’s been shot at the marina. I’m outa here.”

  “I don’t have a car,” Frank yelled.

  Frank ran to the kitchen counter where he’d tossed the beach house key.

  “Don’t do anything nuts,” Graham said, barreling out the door.

  “Take me with you,” Frank shouted, snatching at the key and the attached garage remote, propelling the set onto the floor ten feet away.

  “Shit,” Frank said and scrambled to retrieve the pair, but by the time he snatched them and scurried to the door, Graham’s unmarked cruiser had roared out of the driveway.

  * * *

  Marty Dimino’s man brought Frank his Bronco an hour later and he drove to the Beachcomber and changed into his typical detective dress in his hotel room: A navy polo shirt, khakis, and a pair of cross training shoes. He tucked his Glock in its belt holster and drove north on the San Diego Freeway. He tuned the radio to a local newscast, reported by a baritone-voiced announcer.

  “Family members say that Senator McAllister was taking his usual early morning walk at the San Diego Marina where his boat is moored, when the attack took place. Authorities say he was shot three times in the upper body by a large caliber handgun. Paramedics administered first aid at the scene on the unconscious senator, and he was rushed by helicopter to the Scripps Mercy shock trauma unit.”

  The announcer paused for a moment.

  “This just in: at this time, the senator’s condition is unknown. No suspects and no motive for the crime have been determined. Known in the Senate as a staunch conservative and a strong anti‑crime activist, Senator Robert McAllister was home for the current congressional recess after serving more than four consecutive and distinguished terms in the United States Senate. We’ll be following this story throughout the day as updates on the senator’s status come in.”

  The announcer paused for a second.

  “Coast Guard officials today confiscated more than thirty kilos of pure cocaine while making an inspection of a South American yacht off King Harbor today in Redondo Beach.”

  Rampant crime topped all the recent news stories, not only in California, but everywhere on the globe. Frank felt that crime was going on a military offensive, surging to prove its dominance. He wondered if the underworld was increasing its assaults because it intended to win the war. After all, crime had brought its fight to his own door. Now an important lawmaker had been attacked. 9-11, school shootings, terrorism at shopping malls. Nowhere seemed safe anymore.

  Frank saw his face in the rear view mirror. His eyes were like the ones he saw on his marine buddies in Desert Storm before battle. The eyes of a warrior. Now there was another war to wage, another hill to take, another engagement.

  Maybe the biggest one of his life.

  Chapter 10

  Frank parked the Bronco in the driveway of his rancher, turned off the engine, and slid out. He took out a set of keys and slowly walked to the front door. A real estate sign on the lawn advertised the house for sale.

  The inside of the home looked like one left by owners who intended to be away for a long time. Frank knew that was partly true. His family would be away forever. The interior remained as it was when he last saw it, but boxes now were stacked everywhere as if a move was imminent. Most of the upholstered furniture was covered with white sheets. Wall decorations and small items were absent from the decor. The rooms in view had been recently painted. The smell of water-based latex still lingered in the stuffy air. Painting supplies and stepladders were scattered throughout the foremost rooms.

  Frank began a reluctant, reminiscent tour of the house. The kitchen sparkled like new. Only the refrigerator revealed habitation where a crayon drawing hung on the door attached with a small magnet. The drawing was a child’s stick figure of a man, beneath which was printed: "My Daddy."

  Frank opened the refrigerator and took out a soda from the sparse offerings inside. He opened the can, took a sip, and wandered out.

  The office looked unchanged. The bookcase displayed athletic trophies won by Frank for football and swimming, and framed photographs hung on the walls showing the Dugan family at various ages and holiday events. Deborah, Billy, and Amy dressed like characters in Star Wars made Frank ever so briefly smile.

  A photo of Amy and Frank hugging at the beach stopped his eye. He picked it off the desk and left the room.

  Frank trudged to the doorway of the master bedroom and paused. He forced himself to peer inside and steadied himself against the doorjamb. The room had also been newly painted; the bed, neatly made with a new bedspread. The furniture exactly as it was; his wedding photo with Amy still on the dresser.

  He left without going in.

  Frank stepped along the hall and entered the children’s room. He scanned the single beds, a crib, a dresser, a chest of drawers, and several cardboard boxes. He crossed to the stack of boxes and opened the flaps on one. He reached inside and removed a toy dinosaur, studied it with a pained smile. and gently replaced it.

  A tightening in his stomach told Frank it was time to leave.

  * * *

  Frank locked the house, climbed into his car, and placed the beach photo on the passenger seat. Barbara Chalmers intercepted him at the open Bronco door.

  “Frank,” she said, reaching in, embracing him. “How are you?”

  “I’m hanging in there, Aunt Barbara.”

  Frank slid out and stood facing her. She held him at arm’s length.

  “You look awful.”

  “Had a long night.”

  “I’m so sorry. I did my best to convince them. I saw those men. I saw their car, and I had that license number right. God, they didn’t believe me.”

  Barbara clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes filling.

  “It’s not your fault. You did all you could. The trial’s over.”

  Frank kissed Barbara on the cheek and gave her a hug.

  “Gotta go,” Frank said. “You did your best. You are the best. And you’re the last of my family now.”

  “Your father’s still alive, isn’t he? Back in Baltimore?”

  “I don’t count that abusive bastard as a relative.”

  “I’m sorry ... ”

  “Don’t be. As long as I ha
ve you, I still have the best of my ancestors…from my mother’s Minneapolis side.”

  “Get along witchya now, love,” Barbara said, slipping into a Minnesotan patois.

  * * *

  Frank pulled the Bronco off the road and parked in the lot of a busy shopping center. He jogged over to a newspaper dispenser, dropped in coins, and pulled out a copy. He glanced at the front page above the fold, grimaced, and tucked it under his arm.

  Frank returned to his car and skimmed the interior articles in the paper. He put the photo of Amy and him in the glove compartment, and flipped the paper onto the passenger seat. With his hands on the top of the steering wheel, he pressed his forehead against his knuckles. Several moments passed before he snapped open his cell phone and pressed a few buttons.

  “Marty, it’s Frank Dugan. I need to talk to you right away.”

  * * *

  The district attorney’s offices were bustling with men and women in business dress hustling about from cubicles to conference rooms to various hallways. Frank threaded his way to a large office where Marty Dimino talked on the phone. The DA faced a window that provided a grand view of the city of San Diego, his back to the door. Marty finished his conversation and swiveled in his chair to hang up the phone. He looked up to see Frank standing in front of his desk.

  Frank tossed a newspaper on the desk in front of Marty. The bold headline read:

  SENATOR MCALLISTER DIES

  Frank leaned on the desk.

  “What will we need for you to run for the Senate of the United States?”

  Chapter 11

  “Charly Stone said she’d consider it,” Marty Dimino said, wheeling the gray Beamer 740 through the traffic on the freeway. “She’s a busy lady. After she ran my campaign she was hired by the police department. Ran their psychology division. Profiled bad people. Now she freelances doing PR for anyone who wants attention, branding, any kind of positive publicity. You give her straight answers. She already knows what’s in your head. She’s like a female Hannibal Lecter without the liver and fava beans.”