Frank looked to Alex.
“What did the warden say, Alex?”
“Exactly the words you just said,” Alex said.
“Your word as a Christian?”
“You have it.”
“You’ll give us this deal straight? Even the negative aspects? No lies?”
“I’m better than George Washington, Dan. He couldn’t tell a lie. I can, but I won’t.”
“I’ll watch your TV show. Good God, it’s gotta be better than Brady Bunch reruns.”
* * *
Over the next three months, Frank carried his message to every correctional institution in California that held convicts, who had no chance of ever seeing release. Complete information packets and brochures were distributed to every long-timer or death row inmate in the entire state. Frank equated it with a media blitz, the ultimate real estate pitch, designed to sell the island facility.
The ballots were administered by each prison and carefully overseen by an independent agency similar to the Price-Waterhouse company that handled and maintained the secrecy of the voting on the motion picture Academy Awards. The opportunity for institutional bias could skew the results in favor of passage, since facility administrators and local politicians were heavily in favor of reducing their inmate populations and their attendant soaring costs, which now had crept over $50,000 per prisoner. Strict oversight would be the order for the entire voting process.
By Thanksgiving, the voting was tallied and the majority of the results were forwarded to Martin Dimino in Washington where his senate bill lay, awaiting either a tie-breaking majority, or a defeat, leaving the entire concept of a correctional island dead, perhaps never to be resuscitated.
Frank’s phone rang at the Dimino beach house.
“Hi, Marty,” Frank said, anxiety in his voice.
“I have most of the voting results. The votes from Pelican Bay are still out,” Marty said. “There’s a lively debate going on and Warden Griswold has asked for more time. He wanted to know if we’d be willing to come to the prison and answer more questions the inmates have. It might help.”
“I’ll go, if you go.”
“I’ll be in San Diego tonight,” Marty said. “I’ll get us a government plane and we’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”
“The votes. What do we have so far?”
“We have a defeat. We’re minus 897 votes.”
“I pitched this idea with everything I had,” Frank said.
“I know you did, Frank, No one could’ve done more.”
“With all the negative votes, can we expect the naysayers to accept going to the island if it passes?”
“If we succeed with a winning outcome, only the ones who want to go will get to go. This first wave of inmates could be in the five-to-six thousand range, which is about all I’d want to test in our trial debut.”
“Looks like we may not have to worry about that.”
“Come on. Put on your best salesman’s face for the discussion. They’re going to ask tough questions. We need their votes.”
“I’m not going to pad it, Marty,” Frank said. “I’m laying it out straight.”
“Tomorrow, 7 A. M. at Lindbergh Field,” Marty said and ended the call.
Chapter 27
Rico Guzman paced the hand-painted Italian tiles of his restaurant-size kitchen floor. Trails of thick smoke from a Cuban panatela flowed behind him as he moved, filling the room with its pungent aroma. He slapped a folded newspaper against his thigh repeatedly. Ernie Gaither sat at an oak dining table, laboring to keep his sloppily-rolled marijuana joint lit.
“If that cop and his DA friend get this penal island bill passed, the government will hand over several million to bankroll the project,” Guzman said, holding up the paper.
“So what, boss?” Gaither said, with the short reefer stuck to his lower lip. “It’s for cons with no chance for parole.”
“You’re not seeing the far-reaching effects. All three-time losers will also be sent there. You and I already have two federal raps on our sheets.”
“We did our time, so what’s the beef?” Gaither said, snatching the burning roach that had glued itself to his mouth.
“That doesn’t matter. One more conviction and we could end up on this coconut colony.”
“We ain’t into nothin’ now,” Gaither said. “We stay clean. Send other dudes to do the shady stuff.”
“They only have to connect a few dots to come right back to us.”
“So, what you wanna do?”
“I’ll think of something.”
Guzman threw the paper across the room.
“You always do, jefe,” Gaither said and massaged his sore bottom lip.
Guzman stared out the bay window of the kitchen at the gently rolling sea outside, a view he always found peaceful and settling. Today he regarded it as an ominous, powerful hunter that wanted to trap him in on all sides.
“You’re right,” Guzman said. “I always find an answer.”
* * *
Twenty-six inmates seated at tables in the dining room at Pelican Bay wore their toughest faces and burned their eyes into Warden James Griswold as he stood at the front of a room the size of a military mess hall. Helmeted guards lined its perimeter and outnumbered the prisoners two-to-one. Frank Dugan and Marty Dimino sat at a table behind the warden, studying each inmate’s body language for signs of indifference, hostility, or alpha leadership. Two men in the special audience stood out above all others in the latter category: Dan Crawford and Buck Canton.
“I’ll get right to the point,” Warden Griswold said. “Here today is United States Senator Martin Dimino and Detective Frank Dugan of the San Diego Police Department. A few of you have already met the detective.”
An inmate in the back said, “Some of us met him long before he came to visit.”
General laughter broke out among the inmates, and the warden acknowledged the comment with a terse smile. As the interruption subsided, Frank and Marty unzipped a large art portfolio lying face-down on their table.
Griswold continued.
“As most of you are aware, they have proposed to Congress an alternative method for state and federal corrections. It will primarily concern inmates like yourselves who are here for life without possibility of parole, or sitting on death row. You’ve requested a chance to speak with these two men about questions you have regarding this innovative and exciting opportunity to serve your terms in the freedom of an island off our coast. I will turn the meeting over to the senator at this time.”
Marty Dimino rose and stepped to the first row of inmates.
“I know that you’ve had a chance to look at and consider what my colleague Frank Dugan outlined for you weeks ago. We understand that you may have questions, and that’s why we’re here today. To answer them as best we can. Ask away.”
A huge man in the middle of the group stood and stared at Marty.
“Suppose I go to this island of yours and decide to break bad and kill me a couple of turkeys that get on my nerves?”
“You can do what you want,” Marty said. “Remember, you’ll be establishing a completely new society. If you break the rules that your new community sets up, you may have to face the majority who made those rules. They may decide to kill you.
The big man laughed. “Yeah, right. That’ll be the fuckin’ day.”
Frank jumped up and took a position next to Marty.
“It was other people who put you in here,” Frank said, “and continue to keep you in here ... until you die. If you’re so tough, let’s see you leave.”
Everyone turned toward the big man, who slowly retook his seat.
“Don’t ever underestimate the power of the little guy,” Frank said, “especially if he outnumbers you. A bunch of tiny army ants could bring the toughest of us to our knees. It was bad judgment and disregard for the rules that put you here. If you go to Prescott Island, you’re going to have to play by rules too, but they’ll be your rules. It’s a
new chance for many of you. A better chance, I’ll wager, than many of you gave your victims.”
Murmuring and unrest rippled through the inmates. Frank stared them down.
“You’ll find, after four men murdered my family, that I’m not much at mincing words, but I’m also fair. And I don’t like a lot of bullshit.”
Dan Crawford stood.
“Your literature says we can fish and swim and have a gymnasium, a ball field, and a lot of other nice things. What happens if one group or another of us decides they want all that good stuff for themselves? What happens if we have to go to war with each other?”
“My suggestion?” Marty said. “Keep the peace. War has always accomplished one major thing: it kills the bravest and the best of both sides. A war will leave a battlefield of bodies that you will have to deal with, or be no better than pigs that sleep in their own dirt.”
Silence. No one spoke or stirred.
“This first group that will be volunteering to go to the island will total a population no larger than the fans that fill a medium-size hockey arena,” Marty said. “It’s a beautifully workable size to govern and live in harmony. You will be supplied everything you’ll need to make your lives pleasant. Not merely bearable, but pleasant. Look at your present quarters, and then look at this.”
Marty pulled a brightly-colored picture poster from the portfolio and held it high. The twenty-by-twenty-eight-inch photo depicted a tropical island that one might mistake for a travel ad for Barbados with modern buildings in the background.”
The faces of the audience softened, a few even smiled.
“My cell don’t have no palm trees,” an older inmate said.
“We go there,” another said, “we gonna see somethin’ like that?”
“Exactly like this,” Marty said and propped up the poster on the table with its fold-out easel.
“Who going to build them buildin’s?” a tall, thin man asked.
“You are,” Frank said. “And we’re going to provide you with the materials, the instruction, and the tools you’ll need to do it.”
“How ’bout TV?” another asked.
“You will have closed circuit television with DVD movies at first,” Frank said. “Later we may bring in a secured satellite TV link for you.”
“So we will have electricity?” an inmate directly in front of Marty said.
“There will be wind generators, solar electric sources, and power supplied by the attendant ships nearby,” Marty said.
“Any women?”
“Only on the DVDs and the porn channels,” Frank said.
“Look at the bright side,” Buck Canton said. “It’ll be a great place to be gay.”
Marty and Frank exchanged glances.
“What happens if we decide to go for this idea?” Crawford asked.
Frank pointed to the poster displayed on the table.
“We all win.”
* * *
When Frank and Marty returned home to the beach house, there was a surprise waiting. Charly Stone was reading a newspaper in her Jaguar on the right side of the driveway. Marty parked his car at the curb and the two men closed in on Charly’s driver side window.
“Thank God,” Charly said. “The bartenders are back.”
“What’s your pleasure?” Marty said and bent over and kissed her, while Frank opened the garage and stepped toward the house.
“No sex stuff until I go to bed,” Frank said.
“No sex until I get a drink,” Charly said.
“Keep your clothes on,” Frank said as he passed through the door. “I’ll pour us something tasty.”
Frank headed to the bar, set up three glasses, and hunted for the scotch. As he pulled the Johnny Walker bottle from the bar rail, a glinting object across the room drew his eye. He set the bottle on the bar, moved to the sofa, and stared at a metal object peeking out from between the seats cushions.
Marty and Charly entered the room and paused when they saw Frank’s frozen stare at the sofa.
“Drinks are at the bar,” Charly said, “not on the sofa.”
“What is it, Frank?” Marty asked.
Frank plucked a tissue from the box on a side table and used it to pick up an object partially concealed in the seats of the sofa.
Marty and Charly moved in closer to Frank.
Frank held up the gold locket, its gold chain pinched in the tissue.
“It was Amy’s,” Frank said.
“Jesus,” Marty said and began a check of the points of entry to the house.
“Sit down, Frank,” Charly said. “I’ll get the drinks.”
Frank eased himself into a leather chair next to the sofa, while Charly tossed her purse onto a pub stool and busied herself at the bar.
“See if you can find a Zip-Loc bag,” Frank said to Charly. “I need to get this to forensics.”
Charly hurried into the kitchen. The sound of drawers and cabinet doors opening and slamming shut poured out from the kitchen.
Marty returned and stood in front of Frank.
“No signs of any break-in,” Marty said. “No alarms were tripped, no video. Bastards must be ghosts.”
“Or will be,” Frank said as Charly darted over to Frank with a small plastic bag and held it open in front of him.
“I need to get this to the lab,” Frank said, dropping the locket into the bag and rising.
“Before you go,” Charly said, moving to her purse, “I have pictures for you from the island.”
Marty said, “I’ll go over the sofa and the rest of the house to see if there’s any evidence of a visitor.”
Charly handed Frank an envelope.
“The photos of that animal’s footprint are in there,” Charly said.
“I’ll go see Dr. Kaufmann at the zoo,” Frank said. “She’ll know what it is.”
“See Judd Kemp as soon as you can,” Marty said. “He’s been tailing our four suspects since trial. May have something to report.”
“Next, they’ll be charging us for harassment,” Frank said. “I told Judd not to do that.”
“He’s careful,” Marty said. “He assured me that they’ll never spot the tails. He uses several teams and changes their cars and clothing. Old school pro.”
“I got a message from Judd about new evidence from the Huntington Beach jewelry store heist,” Frank said. “A couple of the Guzman gang may have left clues.”
“Meet us at Harry’s tonight,” Marty said as Frank exited the room and shot for the garage.
* * *
Frank drove to the San Diego zoo and parked his Bronco next to the reptile pavilion. Inside the facility’s office was Dr. Marta Kaufmann, the foremost herpetologist in southern California and perhaps the world. Many of her colleagues had stated in print that what Marta didn’t know about creatures with scales wasn’t worth knowing.
“Good morning, detective,” Marta said as Frank entered her cluttered space. “What do we have this time? An anaconda that swallowed a material witness?”
“Nothing as much fun as that,” Frank said and shook her outstretched hand. “I took digital photos of a claw print and printed them out at my computer. The actual size was over twelve inches in length. Not sure what made it.”
Frank slid out the photos from a manila envelope and handed them to Marta. She pored over them for several seconds, then looked up at Frank.
“Where did you get these?” she asked.
“An island about a hundred miles northwest of here.”
“The animal that made this print is a long way from home.”
“Where’s home?”
"Indonesia.”
“How did one arrive just off our coast?”
“Good question,” Marta said. “I suppose you want to know the facts about this interesting reptile.”
“I do. Give me all you got.”
“The print in that photo was made by a Komodo dragon, a large species of monitor lizard. A male can grow to ten feet in length and weigh more than
two hundred pounds.”
“Holy crap.”
“It can sprint twelve miles an hour and track a scent more than three miles away. A mature Komodo can dive fifteen feet in water and climb trees to get to prey. It has a particularly nasty bite that inflicts its victim with highly infectious proteins, which will debilitate prey within hours.”
“Oh, momma.”
“The Komodo typically bites its prey and lets it go. No big fight to subdue it, which might serve to injure itself, knowing the wounded animal will succumb to the deadly saliva in a day or two. It then simply tracks the scent of the decaying or dead animal and makes a meal of it.”
“I stood right in the spot where it ate a peacock,” Frank said.
“Peacock? What is this island? A remote zoo?”
“It was once a resort a millionaire bought in the 1930s. He built a mansion on it and apparently imported animals that he found interesting to impress his guests. A regular Howard Hughes. The island’s being considered as a prison for especially bad convicts.”
“If there are Komodos breeding there, your convicts will need to be replenished regularly.”
“Suppose there’s only one?”
“How big is this island?”
“About thirty-two square miles.”
“Then the convicts have a chance. They could kill the Komodo, but they’re tough, fast, and wily. And the men would have to be extremely careful not to get bitten in the process.”
“The men will have access to medical services,” Frank said. “Provided by a U. S. Navy hospital ship.”
“If they get bit by a Komodo dragon, they’ll need it, and promptly.”
“The dragon print was on the opposite side of this island, maybe four miles away. What happens if one of the inmates hikes there and gets bit far from the medical ship?”
Marta handed the photos back to Frank and said, “He gets the death sentence.”
Chapter 28
Rico Guzman stood at a bar in his clubroom, a room that easily could have existed in the most elegant hotel in Ernest Hemingway’s Havana. He decanted a long pour of Barrilito Especial rum into a crystal brandy snifter and brought it to his mouth and drank half of it.
Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series) Page 13
