A machete or knife fight could go a lot of ways, and even if you win, you could be badly cut up or limp off to bleed out and die later.
Time to go west. Frank studied the early morning sun and traveled in the direction old Sol was heading. He stopped his hacking south and embarked on a serpentine path west, scraping past jungle obstacles to the right, then to the left, leaving no cleared way in his wake. By the time Guzman journeyed out, Frank’s trail would be repaired by Mother Nature. By the time Guzman found Frank, he’d likely be one tired Cubano.
Another problem entered Frank’s busy mind. What if it took Guzman days, even weeks, to find Frank? Frank would have to fabricate shelter, obtain food, and find more than a liter of drinking water that rode on his shoulder. Coconuts could be his salvation and there were plenty of them everywhere. Comforting to know, but after about ten coconuts, he was sure he’d be craving a pizza.
Frank wondered how long this affair would take. A week? Months? Hell, he could scratch himself, get an infection, and be dead by the time Guzman finally got to his cold body.
A simple plan was turning into a complex situation. A situation that produced more fear than any human enemy could instill.
* * *
Malay sat at the linen-clad table at his country club and watched Mitch Davis stuff down a fourteen-ounce filet mignon like there was a prize for it. He thought the video tape he’d viewed depicted as damning a testimony to torture and murder as he’d seen since The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Mitch had indeed captured a graphic piece of indisputable evidence against him. But the evening was going swimmingly and Mitch had drunk four Maker’s Mark old fashioneds and was jiggling the ice in his drained glass at every passing waiter for another.
Malay planned to tactfully interrogate his charge with subtle queries intended to disclose the location of those dangerous tapes. The question remained, how many copies were out there in different locations? One, two, more? He had to wheedle that out of his toasted enemy, and soon.
When Mitch passed out, Malay would return to the motel and extract the tape from the video camera and replace it with one of the blank tapes in the gadget bag.
Malay seethed at the idea that this was going to be a battle of wits where it was smart versus stupid.
But stupid, so far, was costing more than a Malibu call girl, and wiping the floor with smartie.
* * *
Frank made it to the Prescott mansion in less than five hours. Not much had changed since his visit with Charly. A few more Spanish tiles had cascaded onto the yard and more glass had vacated the windows and glinted in small shards on the roof and patio.
There had been so little time to thoroughly explore the place before, but now a more in-depth examination might prove useful in the upcoming clash with Guzman. He stepped lightly as he made his way onto the shaky front porch and then to the entrance, which, when pried open, scraped loudly against the debris lying below the door’s wide bottom edge.
Inside the musty smell of aged plaster blended with a pungent odor of mildewed wood. Frank wanted to hold his breath as he scanned the walls and grand staircase, but soon abandoned that idea and resorted to shallow inhalation. The stairs had miraculously avoided the deterioration that most of the house had endured. Their oak risers and treads displayed mission style newness and the Oriental runner was amazingly intact in vivid colors. His eye caught a door under the stairs and stepped to it for a closer inspection. Behind the door stood a stairway leading to a black abyss below that Frank could only imagine was a basement. Maybe a wine cellar, considering the former owner’s penchant for the impressive entertainment of his guests. With no light available, Frank opted to visit the lower level later.
Shelter wasn’t going to be a problem for this first night, anyway. It would be more than eighteen hours before Guzman would be allowed to give chase. Finding a soft mattress to lie on would be nonexistent. Everything fabric here had fallen victim to moisture, mildew, and critter residency. The hard floor would do, but cutting conifer branches from the nearby landscape could serve to soften hours of hard floor sleeping.
Back outside, Frank circled the house searching for the few pines that grew among the palms and reserved a watchful eye for anything convertible to a weapon. The utility shed still had tools and the spade was right where he’d left it, jammed into the ground by the shed door. He pulled the spade from the soil and surveyed the area. Beyond the pool, he saw what he surely needed.
And it saw him.
Chapter 42
After dinner, and a crème brulee dessert for Mitch, Malay ordered two snifters of Gran Marnier after dinner drinks. Malay weighed the possibility that the 90 proof liqueur would either make Mitch more garrulous or send him into an alcohol blackout.
“Why did you pay for a sleazy motel when you could’ve stayed with a relative?” Malay asked.
Mitch’s head swayed from side to side and contained bloodshot eyes with lids at half mast.
“Relatives ask too many … um … too many stupid questions.”
“You mean your mom and dad?’
“No. Dad’s dead. Mom lives up in Costa Mesa. Too far to drive … drunk.”
“Does Mrs. Davis need some of this money we now have?”
“Mrs. Davis? No … no. My mom’s name is Stukowski. Married a Polack. Stan. Nice guy, though. Doesn’t beat her like the old man did.”
Mitch took another sip on his GM.
“How about your other relatives who don’t ask stupid questions?”
“Shit. That jus’ leaves my uncle Phil. He’s okay, I guess, but he lives in fuckin’ Sunset Beach. Talk about a goddamn road trip …”
“He your father’s brother?”
“Yeah, but not mean like that bastard my mom used to be hooked up with.”
“You going to share any of this money with any friends or relatives?”
“Well, shit, I ain’t got any friends. They’re all dead. Even my girlfriend dumped me.”
“Other relatives?”
“Mom and uncle Phil. That’s ’bout it. Hey, can we go grab us a few zees somewhere? My ass is fading, man.”
“I understand. Eating can certainly wear one out.’
“You messin’ with me?”
Malay laughed.
“No, my friend. I enjoy a person with a good appetite. Hope you enjoyed everything.”
“I did. That was some good shit.”
Malay signed the check on the table and stood.
“What do you say we crash at the del Coronado?”
“You got the money, honey. I got the time,” Mitch said and wobbled to his feet clutching the table cloth along with his linen napkin.
Malay peeled Mitch’s fingers off the tablecloth and guided him toward the door.
“The Hotel Del Coronado,” Mitch said. “Son of a bitch. Class up the ass.”
Malay forced a smile.
“It’ll be like a suppository from heaven.”
* * *
Guzman forged into the overgrown mass of foliage, chopping at the plant life like a sugar cane harvester. He plodded on following Frank’s original direction with its obvious path, but within half a mile, the clearly visible swath of severed flora ended and he faced a dense wall of scrub palms and vines like a verdant roadblock. It was time to stop and think. Which way would that cop bastard go?
A light bulb flashed in Guzman’s head. The jungle was too tiring for Dugan to continue thrashing his way, so he decided to take an easier course: the beach. Travel would be far kinder by scuffling through the sand and shallows than fighting the razor-sharp palm fronds and unforgiving lianas. That scenario posed a question: where was he going? Around the entire island? The island was more than thirty miles in circumference. That would be a lot of scuffling.
Two of the inmates, who had fallen victim to Detective Frank Dugan’s dogged investigations and subsequent arrests, made it clear to Guzman that they would relish a chance to kill the nightmare cop who ended their illicit careers. Rico had demurred. H
e wanted Dugan all to himself, and told them he would slaughter the detective and dedicate the killing to them and all inmates whose freedom had been cut short by the young phenom of the SDPD.
Guzman decided to take the beach route. At least it would be cooler, less obstructed, and a lot more scenic. He would take his time. There was no rush, except for the need to replenish food and water. On many an evening, the teenage Guzman had stayed in the tobacco fields and lived off the land. He knew how to find water and how to set a stone-fall trap for a rodent. He could light a fire and even make himself a crude cigar from the tobacco he’d stolen from the drying barns. This island would pose no more difficult living than he’d experienced early in his life.
After all, Cuba was a tropical island too.
* * *
Malay plopped Mitch Davis’s limp body into his elegant bed at the Coronado’s ocean view suite. The seriously-impaired drunk was asleep before his head struck the pillow.
It was time to recount what had been gleaned at the country club dinner and do a bit of research on his laptop. He discovered that Mitch’s mother, age 52, was married to a man named Stan Stukowski, age 60, and they lived in Costa Mesa on Wilson. He was certain that they had one of the tapes he sought. The uncle, Phil Davis, age 54, lived in Sunset Beach on PCH over a surf shop. Stan was a welder and worked in Newport Beach, primarily in the boat yards. Phil was a liquor store clerk in Sunset Beach. That seemed to be the total roundup of Mitch’s extant relatives. Breaking in to their homes and finding those two tapes didn’t seem to portend any real difficulty for a man with the resources of Errol Malay.
He would travel north in the morning and leave Mitch at the Coronado with plenty of money, and a note saying he had to depose several witnesses for an important upcoming trial.
* * *
Frank stared at the Komodo dragon beyond the pool. Colorful feathers adorned the gigantic maw of the nine-foot reptile, a throwback from a long-ago age where there were no humans. The hapless peacock it was dining on lay below its open jaws, which were lined with too many sharp teeth for Frank to estimate. With the Machete drawn and at the ready, Frank hoped his first life-and-death fight wasn’t going to occur here and now.
The Komodo returned to its meal, ignoring its audience of one. Frank eased the tension he applied to the handle of the machete. The mystique of this animal had crossed his mind numerous times since his last visit, even when he wasn’t fully aware of what its footprint proved it to be. But now, having learned so much about this magnificent hunting machine, Frank wanted him as an ally. No one else on the entire island knew about this creature, a serious advantage to the one person who did. Frank planned on how he could use a dragon to be his friend. It reminded him of a movie about a young boy who trained one, only this one didn’t fly.
The element of surprise could be a warrior’s most powerful ally. He thought of Pearl Harbor and knew that that was undeniably true.
* * *
Rico Guzman had circled the south end of the outer island and was now on a northern heading, hugging the surrounding waterline. He kept a sharp eye for any interior activity that could come from the jungle, especially any activist wielding a machete.
The ten or eleven mile trek had consumed more than half of his water. A stop to crack and eat a coconut had delayed him a bit and the overhead sun put him at nearly noon. The rich coconut meat and sweet milk was worth the time, and, after all, what was the rush? Dugan wasn’t leaving the island. It was a big place to hike, but not so big that Rico Guzman couldn’t find him.
Guzman wondered if Frank Dugan was actively searching for him, instead of lying in ambush, waiting for him to mindlessly cross his booby-trapped path, or charge out from hiding to slash him across the neck with a deadly swing of his machete. He chuckled at the thought of the flatfoot beating him on turf akin to that where he’d been born. The pendejo was from Baltimore. What jungle was near Baltimore? Disney World?
As the sun drifted toward the ocean on the west side of the island, Guzman continued to search for evidence of his quarry. So far, he hadn’t seen a single sign of human origin. Not a footprint, nor a freshly bludgeoned palm frond. Nada. No man could swim around the island. It was too far and there were those pesky sharks. He crossed off swimming, but had to consider that the man had somehow navigated across the dense jungle. But thirty-two square miles of jungle, as he’d been told, was a lot of territory to hide in.
This fight would not be resolved in a day. Guzman decided to pace himself for the long haul. He sat on a the trunk of a palm tree that had fallen toward the water, and planned how he would pass the nights.
* * *
After confirming that Phil Davis was working in a Sunset Beach liquor store off Pacific Coast Highway, Malay drove the few blocks to the address he’d pulled from the Department of Motor Vehicles. He was amazed at how careless many people were regarding the security of their home. The lock on the upstairs apartment door opened with the gentle insertion of a credit card. Inside, he found the video tape lying in a dresser drawer on top of socks and boxer shorts. He was in and out in less than five minutes.
Now he knew for a fact that the tapes existed. He exited and relocked Phil’s apartment, and headed south for Coast Mesa. Mitch’s mom and stepfather might present a bigger challenge than his uncle had. There would be two of them. He might have to employ a ruse to get them both out of the house so he could conduct his search, but he had outlined several plans to get what he wanted. A successful attorney always kept alternate strategies at the ready.
Malay knew why he topped the bar association’s list of successful lawyers. He always stayed smart. Being smart never failed him. He’d get his tape, which would nullify Mitch’s threat to his career. Mitch himself would be next. Again, all smart moves, smart strategies.
Malay smiled at the mental preview that he’d dispose of Mitch Davis and write off the twerp’s dinner and hotel outlay as business expenses. What good was an IRS concession unless you used it? He could even take off the cost of the trips to Sunset Beach and Costa Mesa.
Life was good.
Chapter 43
Frank continued his research on the Prescott mansion. He found that a narrow casement window in the back of the building provided light for the basement, not much, but enough. The sweaty tee shirt came off Frank’s back and served as the rag to wipe the crud off the window. The improvement was substantial and he could see objects in the cellar below. A generous wine rack drew his attention. Rows of wine bottle necks protruded from the wooden racks. A few might still be drinkable, Frank imagined. A trip back to the door under the staircase might prove beneficial.
The oak treads creaked as Frank took cautious steps down into the cellar. The casement window allowed him to make a survey of the room. Other than the wine rack, there wasn’t much to see, but one object drew his eye. Hanging from a hook on the south wall was a coil of hemp rope, about thirty feet of it. Frank wondered why it was there. A further survey of the room revealed the reason.
The wine racks had ropes strung across their length and under the necks of the wine bottles at their shoulders. The half inch diameter hemp was tied off with large knots at the outer sides of the thick oak. The ropes gave support to the downward angle of the bottles and apparently could be adjusted to the achieve the desired pitch to keep the corks supple and expanded.
Frank instantly saw purpose for the find.
* * *
At noon, Mitch Davis crawled out from under the soft comforter on the del Coronado’s king bed and plodded to the bathroom to flood water on his crusty eyes. He was fully dressed except for shoes and his head ached like he was having a terminal migraine. The medicine cabinet was filled with soaps, bath oils, and shampoos in little sampler bottles, but no medicine. He thought the cabinet was totally misnamed, slammed its mirrored door shut, and jammed on his Nikes. A minute later he was taking the elevator to the bar. Hair of the proverbial dog was what he needed. A lot of it. And he’d charge it to Malay’s bill.
Each drink tasted smoother than the one before and soon the throbbing in his temples subsided. Drinking felt good, especially when it included good boozes like Wild Turkey and Makers Mark.
Malay still scared him, but with what he held over his head he’d be a partner with the fancy-fuck lawyer. Milk him for all he was worth. Mitch knew he could turn the video over to the cops anytime, but what would that get him? A pat on the back and a thank you? Shit, living on the high side was nice. He and Malay would split ole Rico’s pesos and live the life that that Cuban prick used to have.
Yep, he had the world by the ass.
* * *
Malay parked his Mercedes on Wilson, a block from the home of the Stukowskis, and punched in the phone number he’d found online on the “white pages.” The burner cell phone speaker sounded three rings.
“Hello,” a pleasant feminine voice said.
“Is this Mrs. Stukowski?” Malay asked.
“Uh … yes it is.”
“Mrs. Stukowski, this is Detective Matthews of the Huntington Beach Police Department. We have your son and need you to come here to take him home.”
“Oh, my, what’s he done?”
“He hasn’t done anything wrong. He was attacked by a gang of hoodlums and roughed up a bit. They stole his car and we have men out tracking it down.”
“Huntington Beach, you say? Where is your station?”
“Beach Boulevard right at PCH.”
“My husband and I will be right there.”
“Excellent. We’ll be looking for you.”
Malay ended the call and watched the white stucco house a hundred yards up the street. In less than five minutes, a woman and a man hurried from the house and left in a red Toyota of pre-millennium vintage. Malay waited five minutes, then drove up Wilson and parked in the Toyota’s vacated space. A minute later he was at the back door of the house. It was unlocked. Malay shook his head in disbelief, and stepped inside.
Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series) Page 21
