Ernie Gaither played a solo pool game on a ten-foot mahogany billiard table lit by three shaded lamps lined in a row on a wrought iron chandelier.
A television announcer sat at his anchor desk and spoke directly to the camera.
“The big story tonight is again the latest developments in the penal island bill, which has been passed by the senate, a bill that is directly responsible for the United States being the proud new owner of a beautiful tropical island in the Pacific known as Prescott Island. All presently incarcerated California inmates on death row, or serving life with no possibility of parole, who opt to go there, will be transported to the island next month with the completion of preparatory work and the laying in of provisions. This will be the former resort’s first occupancy since 1932.”
Guzman drained the last drop of his rum and hurled his snifter at the TV set. The glass missed and smashed against the wall.
“Chingate, you fucking shyster lawyer,” Guzman said. “Can you believe this shit? A fucking nothing, guinea son‑of‑a‑bitch, and a mick flatfoot who used to put shoplifters in jail for his living, just got a bill passed in Congress that could have me eating coconut tacos the rest of my natural life.”
Ernie stopped playing pool and stared at Guzman.
“The senator can’t hurt us, boss,” Gaither said. “He’s got his ass stuck in Washington most of the time. And Frank Dugan is in to his neck with this prison island.”
“Can’t hurt me? What are you smoking, pendejo? Dugan’s got the heat on me good. I’m under indictment for drug trafficking and he’ll be planning his retirement at the beach. This beach. Not the one at that goddamned resort where I’ll be going.”
The television announcer continued.
“Our camera crews have not been allowed to film the island any closer than the perimeter of the armada of naval gunboats that encircle it. However, through the use of high‑power telephoto lenses, Brad Lester and our on-site unit filed this report earlier today. Brad, what can you tell us?”
A man rising and falling on the deck of a naval assault vessel faced an unsteady camera, the ocean rolling in swells behind his balance-shifting legs. At the bottom of the frame, a super over the shot read:
Brad Lester at our nation’s newest prison
“We’ve been here since early this afternoon, but this is as close as we’re allowed to go. The island that has everyone talking lies only a hundred yards to my right,” Brad said and gestured for the camera to follow where he pointed.
On the screen, several hundred yards away lay a palm-treed island. Buildings stood inland from the beaches, and supply boats loaded large crates onto an open platform attached to a long, covered pier that extended several hundred feet out from the shore.
Brad continued his report.
“They say that the original exploring Vikings came back to their homeland expounding a wonderful new "green land" to those back home in an effort to glamorize the frozen wasteland so they could expand their world by settling real estate elsewhere. They didn’t figure calling it “white land” would sell their idea. The United States will officially name this island behind me Prescott Island, for its former owner, but they have no need to glamorize it with an appealing name. Commensurate with its new purpose, the Prescott family occupancy here was the subject of legendary crime tales culminating in four mysterious deaths back in the 1930s. Deaths that still find their way into modern folklore and many barroom discussions.”
The camera switched back to focus on Brad.
“Well, some may call it paradise, while others may label it hell, but whatever you think, it’s now part of the USA. It may be Prescott Island to the government, but I’m told the inmates have another name for it. They simply call it ‘The Resort,’ the new home for thousands of prisoners, currently only from California, but if things go well, it may include convicts from every state in the union.”
The camera panned the ocean around the island.
“The pretty blue waters between this Navy assault craft I’m standing on and the island itself are only lovely from the safety of this boat. They are infested with the highest density of man‑eating sharks known anywhere in the world. Three lives have already been lost to them in the past few months while armed service people and civilian workers prepared the island for its new tenants.”
“As you can see,” Brad said, “You could be gazing at a vacation get-away in the Caribbean or south Pacific. Bali Hai comes to mind as I see this beautiful sunset occurring behind the coconut palms from the opposite side of this seemingly tropical Eden. The men who will be the first to populate this eight-mile piece of land may find it hard to believe that this will be their home, without a guard or a warden, and certainly without razor wire and electric fences.”
The camera swung back to a full shot of Brad.
“This is Brad Lester reporting from ... ”
Brad looks to his right, the camera follows his focus to the island and its swaying palms, now backlit by the orange ball of the sun.
“America’s newest ... prison? Maybe, after all, crime, in a strange way, actually does pay.”
Guzman pressed a button on a remote control behind the bar and the TV clicked off.
“Time to pay a visit to the senator?” Gaither asked.
“Not yet. But if I get convicted, you make sure you reunite the detective with his wife and kids.”
Chapter 29
Judd Kemp and Frank Dugan sat in Kemp’s unmarked police car in the department’s reserved lot. Kemp produced a 9 x12 manila envelope.
“The video store clips from the jewelry store only showed the men wearing masks and hats,” Judd said, “but the photos in here were taken from video footage shot from a miniature golf concession across the street.”
“Why are we just getting these now?” Frank asked.
“The business owner was video-taping his six-year-old son playing putt-putt on the course. He recently got around to editing what he shot that day and discovered the robbery suspects were in the background leaving the jewelry store at the time of the robbery and murder of the proprietor. His tape is time- and date-coded. It’s that day, all those months ago.”
“They wore masks and hats,” Frank said. “So what good are they?”
“Take a look,” Judd said and handed Frank the envelope.
Frank opened the flap and withdrew several large photos.
“Well, ain’t the beer cold,” Frank said as he sifted through the photos. “They took off the hats and masks.”
“Because they were on the street and didn’t want to draw attention.”
“It’s Gaither, and one of the other guys who was in the courtroom.”
“Look in the car parked where they’re headed.”
“I see two men, but I can only make out the driver.”
“We need to work them separately. They’ll turn on each other like eaglets in a nest.”
“We can’t try Gaither again,” Frank said and stared out the passenger side window.
“We can sure as hell try the other ones,” Judd said.
“Can put together a case against all three?”
“They’ll go down,” Judd said. “Bingo, bango, bongo.”
Frank studied the photos again, poring over each one as it played out in the escape sequence. He tucked the photos back in the envelope, then stared at Judd, who locked eyes with him.
“I’m not sure I like what I’m seeing,” Judd said.
“You know me too well.”
“You want Gaither.”
“Forget trying the sonofabitch again.”
* * *
Frank, dressed for sailing in khakis, a white polo shirt, and deck shoes, marched up the wooden boardwalk to the harbor master’s office at Marina del Rey. As he approached the office door, a man in his sixties stepped out.
“Been expecting you, Mr. Dugan,” the man said.
“You’re Captain James Fiske?”
“I am.”
“You have som
ething to show me from the insurance company?”
“I do,” Fiske said and directed Frank toward one of the long piers that extended out into the bay from the boardwalk.
At the end of the pier, Fiske stopped and pointed at a cabin boat over thirty feet in length. The name, painted in gold letters on the dark mahogany stern, was Topaz.
“She’s yours if you want ‘er,” Fiske said. “The insurance company said you were looking for a replacement for your lost sailboat. Well, I figured you might be interested in taking a look at one that could be purchased in the ballpark of what they’re willing to pay. Mind you, the owner’d be parting with her at a loss. She’s worth a sight more, but he’s getting too old to go through all the haggling to sell a big boat, especially these days when boat selling ain’t up there with peddling fancy cars in popularity. It ain’t a sailboat, but if you’d consider changing your luck on a power craft, well …”
“How come you know about my insurance company’s claims?”
“You moored your sailboat here in my marina. I’m the harbormaster of this here marina. Harbor masters know everything about their boats, bowsprit to stern, topsail to keel.”
“How old is it?”
“She was built in 1959.
“And you know that because you’re the harbormaster?”
“No. Reason I know is, she’s mine.”
“So you wangled a deal with the insurance adjuster.”
“Not a deal yet,” Fiske said and squinted at Frank in the bright sun. “That’ll be up to you.”
“Well, what they offered wouldn’t get me anything much better.”
“She’s a fine boat and would be a good investment. I kept her up for all these years, spit-polished and hand-rubbed, and every year I went under her to remove her barnacles and paint her bottom.”
“Why are you selling her?”
“Just got remarried. First wife passed on ten years ago. Loved the water, that one. My new one, not so much. Only water she likes is in a bathtub and a chaser. And I’m getting a bit too old to haul out and go fishing anymore.”
“Mind if I go aboard?” Frank asked.
“Certainly not, sir. You go check her out, and if you like what you see, I’ll take you out for a spin on ‘er.”
Frank smiled and took a long stride onto the aft deck of the beautifully-kept mahogany cabin cruiser. The older man followed and unlocked the cabin door. Frank stepped inside and gave the interior a cursory inspection, while Mr. Fiske went over more of the boat’s selling points.
“She’s a Wheeler 34-footer, and’ll do about twenty-three knots with her 540 horsepower, twin Crusader engines going balls to the wall. Got everything a person could want, full luxury, I’d say. Air conditioning, complete line of safety equipment, sleeps four, and she’ll hold 120 gallons of fuel for a goodly trip without having to stop for a refill. Full galley, got a nice head. Most ladies like that. My new bride, not so much. Got radar, GPS, all the instruments you’ll ever need. Engines barely have seventy hours on ‘em. She’s been loved and spoiled like a cherished daughter.”
“Topaz?” Frank said.
“My first wife’s birthstone.”
“I can see the love,” Frank said. “She’s not a sailboat, but I think I’ll take her.”
“Sailboat’s what got you in trouble, son. May be time to try a nice pampered powerboat.”
“You may be right, Captain Fiske.”
“Since you’re a nice lad, I’m going to throw in the slip.”
“Boat slips here are expensive. How are you going to do that?”
“With power comes privileges. I’m the harbor master, sonny,” Fiske said and grinned like Alice’s Cheshire cat.
* * *
The beach house phone was ringing when Frank entered the door. He rushed to it and yanked the receiver off the cradle.
“Yes?”
“I thought maybe we could make a deal,” the all too familiar voice of Rico Guzman said.
“No deals, Guzie.”
“Don’t be like that, detective, until you hear me out.”
“Worried about your indictment?”
“There has to be something you want that I can supply.”
“All I want is you and your boys far away in a place where you can’t come back.”
“Like your fancy resort?”
“That’d work for me.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know who killed your family? Know for sure who did it?”
“I’m listening,” Frank said and sank into the recliner.
“I believe you call it quid pro quo. Tit for tat. I give you what you want, and you make sure I don’t spend my life on la isla de tiburones.”
“I’m still listening.”
“Well, do we have a deal, or not?”
“Shoot.”
“I’m sure you already know that Ernie Gaither and those three other idiotas did it, but I’m confirming it.”
“Didn’t you send them?” Frank said.
“No, no, on the eyes of my mother, I did not tell them to do what they did. They went way beyond what I asked them to do. As I said, idiots.”
“You hired the idiots. That makes you responsible.”
“Come on, detective. You’ve had people do things for you that didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”
“They never killed a woman and two helpless children.”
“I’m so sorry that ever happened. I truly am. What did I have to gain by killing your family?”
“So you figure this drug indictment is going to go bad for you? Can’t your barrister boy Malay get you off?”
“We haven’t been close lately.”
“That’s too bad. I have to admit, he was good.”
“But we have a deal now, you and I? So everything’s going to be okay.”
“Look, Rico, let’s get something straight. I pushed for Prescott Island for one reason: to keep convicted criminals from getting back into society to continue their activity. All recidivist criminals. It’s not just you I’m after.”
“How many of them can make life a lot easier for you? How many can remove all your financial worries from now on? You deserve to have a better life than a cop’s salary can give you. What do you say? Can we come to a compromise here?”
“Do you remember two years ago when that guy kidnapped the bank president’s family and barricaded himself in the their home in Carmel Valley?”
“Yeah. Was in the news big time. You had a long standoff with him. Saw it on TV.”
“Well, he wanted a limo, with two million dollars in small bills, to take him to the airport where a private jet would fly him out of the country where he would release his hostages.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Not everything was televised and put in the papers. What you don’t know is what I said to him.”
“You’re right. I don’t remember that.”
“I got in close to him. Close enough to whisper. I promised him everything he asked for, and when the limo drove up, we showed him the money. People were shocked that I gave in to his demands. They cursed me, said I was crazy, wanted my badge. Later, he came out holding a gun on the three hostages and shuffled his way toward the limo.”
“Then he fell and all the cops jumped him. Something like that.”
“I had ordered a sharpshooter take him out. An ambulance took him away, but he was dead before he hit the ground.”
“What’s the point here?”
“The point is, I made a promise to him that I had no intention of keeping. I would have promised him the planet Mars, if he’d asked for it.”
“So your word’s no good,” Guzman said.
“My word to lowlife like you is no good.”
“I told you what you wanted to know. Now keep our deal, goddammit.”
“Enjoy the coconuts and the ocean breezes, Rico.” Frank said and hung up the phone.
Chapter 30
Marty Dimino returned home to do his senatorial state work,
of which California had an endless abundance. While the Prescott Island issue still topped every media outlet, the Golden State had other pressing concerns with fresh water resources, illegal immigration, and natural disaster preparation, to name but a few. But recent polls indicated that recidivist crime was the one problem that people feared more than a drought, a worker without a green card, or an earthquake. The “Resort,” as it had come to be known, was making final arrangements for its first arrivals in one week, and Marty wanted to be there to observe the auspicious event. From what was being bandied in the news, Marty was certain that everyone in the world would be casting attention on the opening.
Marty hit a speed dial number on his phone.
“Detective Dugan,” responded the familiar voice.
“I’m home from the Washington wars,” Marty said. “Ready for a trip to the Resort?”
“Couldn’t keep me away.”
“How are things at the beach?”
“You could use caller ID on your phones.”
“It’s a beach house with a non-pub number.”
“Didn’t stop Rico Guzman from calling.”
“Caller ID’s on the answering machine in the kitchen.”
“I’ll check it later.”
“I see the bastard’s back in court.”
“Yeah. And if he hasn’t poisoned the jury, he may be making the trip to the island with us.”
“How tight is the case against?” Marty asked.
“Never tight enough to suit me, but I’ve got a tip to follow that may put the last nail in his coffin.”
“Will you be able to get it into discovery in time?”
“I’ll know by tonight,” Frank said. “I have a meeting with a guy in La Jolla.”
“If you need me, I’ll be at Charly’s”
“Heard about you, hound dog.”
“She told me you tried to feed her to the sharks and scuttled your boat.”
Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series) Page 14
