Frank collapsed on the toilet and tried to compose himself. A second later, the snake wriggled over the top of the shower enclosure. Frank leapt to his feet and tried to get out of the bathroom. The ten-foot snake stood upright on its coiled tail and whipped its open mouth again at Frank, missing him by an inch, shattering the full-length bathroom mirror on the door.
Frank bolted from the bathroom and yanked the doorknob hard to slam the door shut. The pursuing cobra got its head caught between the rapidly-closing door and the jamb. The cobra’s head sheared off and flew into Frank’s face, glanced off his cheek, and fell onto the bedroom floor, its jaws still snapping.
Frank stumbled across the room and leaned on the dresser breathing heavily.
The phone on the night table rang. Frank plodded over to the phone and grabbed the receiver.
“Hello.” Frank said, his voice low.
“Stick to police business, Mr. Dugan,” a male voice said. “The DA doesn’t need your help.”
“Want to tell me who this is?”
“In time, Mr. Dugan. For now, quit campaigning ... or join your family.”
“You sonofabitch─”
The phone went dead. Frank slammed the receiver onto its cradle and crossed to the chest of drawers, pulled open a drawer, and rooted around. He tried another drawer and did the same. He charged into the walk‑in closet and searched everywhere in the small space. No luck. He emerged from the closet. Defeat displayed on his face.
“Goddammit.”
The phone rang again. He rushed to it, snatched the receiver.
“You kiss my ass, you chickenshit muthafucker.”
“I’m game, but it’s tough to do on the phone,” the voice of Charly Stone said.
“Oh, my God. Charly, I’m so sorry.”
“Bad day?”
“So far, a very large cobra in my bed, a threatening phone call, and I have mice.”
“Now give me the bad stuff.”
“Wait me a minute. I haven’t checked the rest of the house.”
“Seriously, a cobra? I have to give it to them. That’s original. You okay?”
“I’m good. Don’t tell PETA. I Killed the snake.”
“My timing’s too perfect. I called to tell you that Guzman’s backing a candidate for the senate.”
“Who?”
“Well, since Hitler was unavailable, he’s putting his money on Errol Malay.”
“The defense lawyer at the trial?”
“The same smug bastard,” Charly said. “Call Marty, Judd, and Mike. Let them check out your place.”
“I’m okay. I don’t need— ”
“I’m not going to waste my time trying to get some macho knucklehead to help me get Marty Dimino in the senate, Frank. You came to me for advice. Now I want you to take it. Call Marty Dimino, Judd Kemp, and Mike Graham right now, or get yourself a new campaign manager.”
There was enough silence on the line to pass a freight train through.
“All right, all right. You win. I had a mother, you know.”
“How do you feel?” Charly asked. “Do you want to go on with this?”
“More than I ever wanted anything in my life.”
“Good man. I’ll be over later. And, Frank …?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t forget to brush your teeth and say your prayers.”
Chapter 14
Marty Dimino spoke before a crowd of people in a park.
“The cost of maintaining a single inmate in our present prison system is approaching a staggering $50,000 a year. Most law‑abiding Americans don’t make that much money a year. We’ve got to draw the line somewhere. Imagine that money going into our health care, into higher education to offset the outrageous costs to put our children through college, or into better and more efficient sources of energy. It’s time to get tough on this drain on our tax dollars.
The sizable audience applauded.
* * *
Frank Dugan spoke before a large, filled‑to‑capacity auditorium. A banner above him welcomed all to the Los Angeles Convention Center.
“The thugs that broke into my home and killed my family I’m sure were multiple offenders. They likely had prior convictions going back to their juvenile days. They were out loose on our streets, plotting their next treachery among decent folk. I say put violent and recidivist criminals away for good and away from us.”
The crowd roared its approval.
“How are you going to do that?” a man in the crowd shouted.
“We’re working on it,” Frank said.
* * *
Marty Dimino stood before a packed crowd at a cavernous sports arena. Jumbotrons captured him from every angle and displayed larger-than-life videos of him as he worked the predominantly Hispanic attendees.
“We’re not curing our crime problem, only temporarily storing it. The physical appearances of these laughably correctional confines are eyesores to all America. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of looking at prisons. And now they want us to pay to build more? With your hard-earned money. Enough is enough. ¡Basta es basta!”
The huge crowd chanted the phrase in a deafening collective voice.
“¡Basta es basta! ¡Basta es basta! ¡Basta es basta! ¡Basta es basta!”
* * *
At a major college graduation, Frank spoke from an elevated platform in the football stadium.
“The number one problem in America today is not the War on Terror or foreign aggression. It’s crime. The chances of one of you being harmed by a foreign power is extremely remote. The chances of you or your loved ones being victimized by our own criminals is not only possible, it’s likely. It’s a sad commentary to report that we can now walk more safely in the streets of Beijing than we can in our own major cities. And here’s the real crime: the cost of dealing with these criminals who live within our own borders could be used for your children’s institutions of higher learning, for tuition, fees, books, and housing. Oh, that money is going for institutions, all right. Institutions we didn’t want to purchase. Institutions we were forced to purchase. I say we’ve had enough.
Resounding applause, cheers, and whistles exploded from the audience.
* * *
Frank and Charly, dressed in coats, walked to their cars parked next to each other on a nearly deserted lot. The cool night air contrasted dramatically with the warmth of the day and caused Charly’s cold hands to seek the comfort of pockets.
“What do you plan to do with these chronic offenders you keep railing against?” Charly asked.
“Not sure,” Frank said. “I’m working on it.”
“I keep hearing that, but, so far, I’m not getting back any good answers. You’ve presented the problems for everyone to clearly see. Now you’d better counter with some solutions.”
“I know this much. Hardened repeat criminals don’t belong where decent people live.”
“How’re you going to stop them from coming back into society?”
“I don’t know yet,” Frank said, climbing into his Bronco. “Get into your car.”
Charly slid into her Jaguar sedan, closed the door, and rolled down the driver’s window.
“Lock your doors,” Frank said.
“Well, will you look who’s turned into a mother hen.”
“Save the smart mouth. Just do it.”
She locked the doors and started the car.
“’Night, Charly,” Frank said, cranked his engine and drove off.
Charly stared after him as he disappeared from the lot. When she drove only a few feet, a loud screeching noise broke the night quiet coming from her car’s engine compartment. Charly stopped the car, turned off the motor, and climbed out. She opened the hood and peered inside.
“A gentleman shouldn’t leave a pretty lady alone in a dark parking lot,” a deep Southern voice said from behind her.
Charly spun around to face the voice. The source was indistinct in the darkness, but she could see that it was ta
ll, a man moving closer.
“It sets the stage for crime, know what I mean?” the male voice said.
“Yeah, I do.”
Charly withdrew a small automatic pistol from her coat pocket and pointed it directly at the shadowed head of the stranger.
“Get your hands up, assbreath,” Charly said.
The stranger raised his hands high.
“Ho. Wait a minute, Charly. It’s me,” the voice said, the accent gone.
The stranger moved into the light, revealing Mike Graham.
“You a-hole. You think you’re funny?” she said, lowering the gun.
“Holy shit, Charly, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Scare me? Check your shorts.”
“Peace, Charly. I just wanted to tell you about what we found at your boy’s place.”
“My boy? His name is Frank.”
Graham smiled at her annoyance. “We didn’t find any more surprises like that snake, but we didn’t find any suspicious prints or solid clues, either. They got in with lock picks. Wore gloves, it looked pretty pro. We’re checking the reptile houses at the zoos to see if they’re short one large‑type king cobra.”
“I didn’t mean to be rough, but I don’t consider dark parking lot jokes funny. Stick to daytime pies in the face.”
“I’m really sorry,” Graham said, staring at her gun. “You got a permit for that thing?”
“Yep. Marty talked me into getting one when I took on this campaign.”
“Probably a good idea. Hanging out with Frank appears to be kinda dangerous.”
“So they tell me.”
“You know how to use one of those?” Graham asked.
“You almost found out.”
Charly got into her car, restarted the engine. The screeching noise repeated for a moment, then changed to loud chirps.
“Your Fan belt needs adjusting,” Graham said over the noise.
“I can’t hear you. My fan belt may need adjusting,” Charly said and drove away, leaving Graham standing in the deserted lot.
Chapter 15
Frank lay on his beach house bed reading a newspaper. A strange sound repeated several times, then stopped. It seemed to have come from the front of the house. Frank’s stared at the bedroom door. He gripped and withdrew his Glock from under the pillow and listened. The noise repeated. Frank carefully slipped off the bed, took a small flashlight from the night table drawer, and tip-toed through the hall in his socks. He didn’t turn on the flashlight, but sidled along the wall to the living room in the dark, feeling with his shoulder as he moved.
As he neared the living room, he waited and listened. The scratching sound radiated throughout the house. Frank’s ears directed him to the kitchen, perhaps to the door to the garage. He stealthily stepped toward the sound. The sound stopped.
Frank crouched low as he passed through the doorway into the kitchen, the counter and floor cabinets shielding him. He made his way over to the garage door and flattened himself against the wall. He checked the readiness of the gun in his waistband, aimed the unlit flashlight in front of him, and grasped the doorknob. The knob slowly turned, the flashlight clicked on, and he pulled open the door to the garage. A camouflage poncho and hat hanging on the back of the door were caught in the flashlight beam as they flew into Frank’s face.
Frank slashed at the swinging poncho with the flashlight, drew his Glock and pointed it at the offending garment, his trigger finger tightening. A heart‑pounding second was enough to stop him from squeezing off the shot as the reality of the situation set in.
A clattering noise snapped Frank’s head toward the garage floor, his gun pointed where his eyes searched for the source. A mop in a bucket had toppled from a low shelf near the door. He lowered the gun, exhaled fully, and let his muscles relax.
The original noise sounded again. It was coming from the kitchen cabinet where he’d set the mousetrap. Frank moved two steps over to the cabinet door and flung it open. He shone the light into the cabinet. In his trap was a brown and white field mouse.
“Next time I call Orkin,” he said.
* * *
Frank carried a plate of lettuce and cheese onto the beach house deck. He crossed to the mousetrap sitting on the beachside railing and pushed the food through the wire mesh.
“Chowtime, Willie Sutton. You gotta get a job, pal. This robbing and freeloading has got to stop. If I let you go around here, in two days you’ll be back in my kitchen pulling another job, won’t you?”
Frank bent low and close to the mouse, now shredding the lettuce with rapid chews.
“Go ahead. Stand on the Fifth. Don’t incriminate yourself. I understand.”
The warm breeze off the ocean vibrated the leaves of the two ficus trees in their planters. Frank checked the sky.
“No rain in sight, Willie, so I’ll leave you outside to enjoy the air. Watch out for cats and hawks.”
Chapter 16
Marty Dimino’s BMW pulled to a stop at a traffic signal. As Marty waited for the light to change, he glanced into his rearview mirror and noted the two men in a late model Mercedes who’d rolled directly behind him. The man driving the sedan wore light gloves and dark glasses. The passenger in the sedan stared at his lap and busied himself with something below Marty’s line of sight.
The light turned green and Marty drove off, the sedan close behind. The Mercedes followed Marty through the city streets. Every turn Marty made, they seemed to copy. Marty sped up and made three intricate turns to see if they were truly coming after him. The Mercedes matched each move of the BMW and its every attempt at evasion. Suspicions confirmed.
Marty decided to take the upcoming ramp onto the 5 freeway and try to outrun his pursuers. He floored Beamer, which roared to 75 miles an hour. The Mercedes tailgated at equal speed, the beamer darting past numerous vehicles as they swerved in and out of the fast‑moving freeway traffic. The pursuing sedan approached Marty’s left rear. The man in the passenger seat of the car pointed a gun barrel out of his window at Marty and let loose a burst of automatic gunfire. The bullets riddled Marty’s car, missing him by inches. Marty accelerated more and barreled onto the right shoulder of the freeway, but the unrelenting sedan kept pace with him and appeared to jockey across lanes looking for a new angle of attack.
A motorist, broken down on the right shoulder, stood next to his car as Marty rounded a curve and sped toward him. Marty yanked a hard left to avoid the stranded man, but clipped the trailer of a semi in the right lane of the freeway in the process. The terrified motorist vaulted over the jersey wall next to the shoulder. The clipped truck caromed into the chasing sedan, slowing them both. Marty saw an exit flying up on the right and took it at high speed, scraping the retainer wall as he broadslid his BMW 740 onto the twisting ramp. He glanced in his mirror and cursed at seeing the Mercedes charging behind him, careening into the concrete wall, then righting itself as it squealed after his Beamer
The chase went on over surface streets as the two cars ran red lights and stop signs, leaving a wake of crashing vehicles and scurrying pedestrians. Marty managed to put needed distance between his car and his aggressive tagalongs by maneuvering around a large box truck. Marty tore through a side street and checked his mirrors. The Mercedes had disappeared.
* * *
The men in the Mercedes, having lost sight of their quarry, slowly patrolled the streets studying every alley and avenue. After backtracking the neighborhood, they caught a glimpse Dimino’s distinctive BMW on a side street. The car was parked near the curb, the driver’s door fully open. The vehicle looked abandoned. The Mercedes driver made a slow turn and cautiously rolled toward the seemingly empty car.
The two men scanned the area looking for Dimino as their car pulled behind the BMW and stopped. They saw city work vehicles and a lunch wagon dispensing drinks and food to the workers, who were congregated around the open-sided service vehicle. In the middle of the street, an open manhole with accompanying warning lights, caution striped s
awhorses, and a Day-glo yellow safety fence appeared to be the subject of the service work. Nothing else was near the open manhole except the BMW, fifteen feet away. A few pedestrians walked the sidewalks, a merchant busied herself arranging flowers in front of a small floral shop, and civil engineer-types in shirtsleeves, ties, and hardhats conferred near a city pickup truck.
A man in a hardhat made notes on a clipboard near the back of the open food truck. He was partially concealed by the van’s open rear doors. The two men in the Mercedes got out of their car. The driver, the larger of the two men, approached Dimino’s car, withdrew and pointed his pistol into the back seat as the smaller man carefully opened the rear door of the car. Nothing inside but a briefcase on the seat.
They inspected the open front seats of the car. Nothing there, either. The small man gestured his partner to look into the open manhole. They both stared into the dark abyss under the street. They checked to make sure no one was watching. The small man directed the large man to descend on the ladder into the street. The big man showed reluctance, but the small man made his order more emphatic with his gun. The larger partner complied and disappeared into the street. The small man looked around, then followed.
Both men reached the bottom of the sewer, stepped off the ladder, and slogged through the ankle deep water flowing in the subterranean tunnel.
“Son of a bitch,” the big man said, shaking the filthy sewage from his designer shoes.
“He’s in here someplace, so stop with the shoes,” the small man said. “We got work to do.”
The two men sloshed along in the tunnel. Rats scurried atop the tunnel’s electrical conduits and occasional concrete ledges and made chirping noises as they fell in and paddled in the water.
Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series) Page 6
