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

by Paul Sekulich

  He called into the house, “Hello. Anybody home?” and waited for a response. No response. Assessing where a lower middle class household would keep important documents came down to dresser drawers, desks, trunks, and fire-proof lock boxes. Upper middle class used safe deposit boxes in banks and often had fire-proof containers as well, but the Stukowskis would likely be folks who relied on the simple security of their own home, a foolish dependence, at best. Malay found the troublesome letter and video tape cassette in the bottom drawer of a lateral file in the den.

  With the small parcel stuffed in the back of his waistband under his jacket, his steps were retraced and Malay drove away, mindful that no one paid any attention to his visit.

  Now it was time to choreograph the death and disappearance of Mr. Davis.

  * * *

  Gentle currents swirled in the bottom of the pool as Frank tugged on the iron grate, which was larger than a semi’s tire. His brain was about to demand a breath when the grate pulled away from the concrete pipe it covered. He shot the eight feet to the surface and gasped, filling his burning lungs with precious air.

  He glided through the sea water to the edge of the pool nearest to the mansion, vaulted himself out of the water, and retrieved his machete. The afternoon air was warm and felt good after his cooling dip. He stretched and extended his arms high above his head. It was then that he heard the rustling noises, like dry brush being trampled.

  “Good God, there is more than one of them,” Frank uttered aloud.

  Ten yards away, at the edge of the jungle tree line stood six Komodo dragons staring at him, their tails thrashing from side to side. Slimy goo dripped from their mouths.

  Frank gathered up the rope next to the pool.

  * * *

  The cool night sky was alive with stars as Malay returned to the del Coronado. He found their room empty, but spotted Mitch’s cell lying on the nightstand, which he tucked into his inside jacket pocket. Downstairs, he settled his bill at the desk, collected Mitch from the bar, who was two degrees from being falling-down drunk, and drove to Guzman’s yacht. The Mago would be the perfect place to end the threat of Mitch. Davis. It might be tricky, but Malay would take care of the details. His life had earned him a doctorate in handling details.

  Mitch slept for most of the ride, but as the car jolted over the marina’s speed bumps, he stirred enough to open his lazy eyes to survey his whereabouts.

  “Why are we going to the yacht?’ Mitch asked as the Mercedes pulled into its familiar marina space and parked.

  “We need to get that boat in shape for sale,” Malay said. “A lot of money is sitting unused on the water.”

  “I have to swab decks?”

  “No. We need to take inventory of what will be needed. I’ll bring in a cleaning crew.”

  “How much is it worth?’

  “Enough for you to live like royalty for the rest of your life.”

  “All right, man. I’m down with that.”

  Malay led the way to the yacht and they boarded her, Mitch struggling to mount the inclined gangway.

  “I want to see the staterooms that you guys used when you were here. Which one was yours?”

  “I’ll show you,” Mitch said and lumbered into the main companionway.

  A few stair steps later, Malay stood in Mitch’s quarters, a classic ship’s stateroom turned into a living space redesigned by a wayward teen. The mussed bed looked like it had never been made. Empty beer bottles and drink glasses lay strewn from night table to dresser to deck. The smell of stale cigarette smoke and spilled beer permeated the room’s air.

  “Nice digs, eh?” Mitch said.

  “Elegant,” Malay said. “Let’s head aft to check the fantail bar.”

  “Can we have a drink while we’re there?”

  “Absolutely, my friend. Could use one myself.”

  On the fantail, Malay lit the bar lights and made a straight bourbon drink for Mitch and popped the cap on a Perrier for himself.

  “Bottoms up,” Malay said, serving the round.

  Mitch slugged down the drink and slammed the glass on the teak bar.

  “I’ll have another, Mr. Barkeep.”

  Malay complied, filling Mitch’s glass the brim. Mitch took a little longer to consume the fresh bourbon drink and stared at Malay with a blank expression.

  “There are several large scratches where the Zodiac went over the side. We need to see how much damage needs to be repaired before we put the Mago up for sale. We need to replace the Zodiac as well.”

  “Scratches,” Mitch said, slurring the word. “We don’t need no stinkin’ scratches.”

  Mitch laughed at his movie misquote.

  “We most assuredly don’t,” Malay said, “but let’s take a look.”

  “Tonight? It’s dark out.”

  “I’ve got a light, and we’ll need to use safety lines.”

  “What you mean ‘safety lines?’”

  “You’ll see. Let’s go.”

  Malay steadied Mitch as they jostled their way to the deck that formerly carried the Zodiac. It had been secured on the seaward side of the wide deck where mooring lines now lay near the gunwale. A swim deck extended from the stern outside the transom. Malay shone his flashlight on the swim deck.

  “We need to step out onto this deck to get a good sight angle on the damage,” Malay said as Mitch swayed next to him. “Tie this line around your leg for safety. You don’t want to slip overboard in this cold water.”

  Malay extended one of the mooring lines to Mitch, who stared at it like it was a dead snake.

  “All right,” Malay said. “I’ll hook you up.”

  Malay tied the heavy line around Mitch’s right ankle and then tied the other line around his own.

  “Okay, now step onto the swim deck with me,” Malay said, offering a hand while he tethered Mitch with the line.

  Mitch bumbled over the transom and plopped unsteadily onto the swim deck with Malay’s help. Malay followed and moved to the starboard edge of the narrow deck and peered up at the side of the vessel. He took a small flashlight from his pocket and shone it on the side of the yacht.

  “Take a look up there,” Malay said. “You can see the marks.”

  Malay switched places with Mitch and guided him to the edge with a hand in the small of his back. Mitch stretched to see the boat’s side as Malay washed his light on the imaginary damage.

  “Get a good look,” Malay said, nudging Mitch farther out on the edge of the deck. “We need to make a detailed report to the insurance company.”

  “Man, it’s hard to stand out here … I think I should …”

  Malay made one last look around to make sure no other eyes were able to see them, then pushed Mitch into the water, lapping only two feet below the swim deck.

  “Oh, God,” Mitch said, falling, then plunged head-first into the dark bay water.

  “Bottoms up,” Malay said under his breath.

  Malay pulled up firmly on the line around Mitch’s leg and held his foot out of the water for more than three minutes. Mitch flailed and struggled violently, but couldn’t get his head back above water. Soon all activity below the surface stopped. Malay untied the line and let Mitch’s body slip into the blackness below.

  Malay returned the two mooring lines to where they had been and hosed off the decks to remove any footprints.

  Malay felt certain that when Mitch’s body was discovered, the authorities would examine him and find that he had been well past drunk, apparently fell into the water, and drowned. Simple as that. Many cops already knew that Mitch stayed on Guzman’s boat, so there would be little suspicion of any foul play.

  The Mitch Davis threat: eliminated.

  * * *

  Frank scoured the grounds of the Prescott mansion for anything useful for combat. His sweep of the back yard brought him to something puzzling. He conjured with its meaning and formed a theory.

  Apparently Sanford Prescott planned to dig a moat around the property. A t
hree-foot wide ditch sixty yards long, and more than eight feet deep, curved across the yard fifty feet from the back of the mansion. It extended to the pool but stopped a few feet short, as if awaiting later connection to the seawater supply from the swimming pool. The walls of the ditch were sheer and slippery-moist from the natural humidity of the island.

  Several chickens had fallen into the ditch and strutted about at the earthen bottom in confusion with no ability to escape. The scene had given Frank an idea, a tactical one the marines would’ve been proud to use.

  He gathered small twigs and grassy weeds.

  * * *

  That night, Frank stayed busy while he felt safe from any visit from Rico Guzman. Tomorrow he’d have to be more on guard. A crude spear had rewarded him with a couple of fish, a pleasant change from the epicurean monotony of coconut meat.

  Drinking was a dilemma. He suspected that many of the vintage wines in the cellar were not only potable, but delicious, with their classic labels from French chateau wineries the likes of Lafite Rothschild, Margaux, and Latour. But drinking wine might dull his senses, and alcohol could dehydrate him at a time when water would be as important as air. He’d have coconut milk and pretend it was Bailey’s Irish Cream.

  Amazingly, the chickens, absent during his last visit, had returned. Survival, concerning food, had blossomed into a tropical feast. The fireplace, where he cooked the fish and poultry, produced minimal smoke, since he’d burned only aged oak balusters ripped from the staircase, and promptly extinguished the fire after use. He was keenly aware that any fire announced itself by wafting its distinctive smell on the airways, but he allowed that he would be alone this first night. Tomorrow might be a different story.

  Staying inside the mansion would be chancy after tonight. Tomorrow he’d take his issued tools, plus a bow he’d fashioned from a bed slat and a strand of mattress wire, and seek safer digs. Hickory shafts from an ancient set of golf clubs proved arrow-worthy, and he’d tested his archery skills on a few chickens he’s snuck upon as they pecked seeds in a flower bed. Now it was time to look around for a suitable new hideout and a secure place to sleep.

  Outside, the sky was overcast. Dark clouds promised rain and he was thankful his heavy work was done. Outside he noticed something else. Two men from the inmate community stood across the back yard. They carried machetes and stared at Frank.

  “Paybacks can be hell, detective,” the chunky one with a gravelly voice said.

  “I dreamed of having a shot at you like this,” the skinnier man said. “Every night in Folsom I dreamed of this moment.”

  Frank readied the bow and loaded an arrow.

  “No Playboys and Hustlers in the magazine rack?” Frank said.

  “You don’t reckon for real you’re gonna hurt anybody with that piece of shit bow and arrow, do you?” Chunky said.

  Frank held his readied arrow pointed to the ground and kept his gaze on the two men. The skinny one began slapping his machete on his palm and marched toward Frank. The stocky man joined in the march and walked on a parallel line with his partner. They moved in lock step for another five yards. Frank held his position.

  The next stride made by the inmates landed on what appeared to be solid ground covered with weeds, but it gave way. In one second, the two men plunged into the ground and disappeared. Frank approached the eight-foot deep ditch he’d covered and peered at the men below lying on their backs. The ditch extended for thirty yards in both directions from where the two men lay.

  Skinny scrambled to his feet, looked up, and said, “Are you’re so stupid, dick, you don’t think we can’t climb outa here and get at you.”

  “Tell that to your ditch mates,” Frank said.

  “What the fuck you talkin’ about, asshole?” Chunky said.

  From the darkness of the weed-covered tunnel on either side of the inmates slithered two Komodo dragons, their razor-toothed maws agape.

  “Jesus, man, what the fuck…?” Skinny yelled as one dragon clamped his jaw on his leg.

  The chunky man scrambled to recover the machete he’d dropped when he fell in, but the other Komodo was on him, snapping his saliva-slick teeth again and again on the man’s face.

  Frank knew that even if the two inmates could muster the strength and ingenuity to escape the ditch, they would only prolong the inevitable. In twenty-four hours the Komodos would follow their infected scent, track them down, and devour them while they were still breathing. Tracking them in that ditch wouldn’t pose much of a problem for the giant reptiles.

  The screams from the ditch filled the pre-rain air. A third man emerged from the tree line and stared at Frank. Frank recognized him as the outspoken man at the council meeting convened by Dan Crawford.

  “Care to join your friends?” Frank asked, pointing to the collapsed vegetation that had concealed the ditch.

  “No fucking way, dude,” the man said and scurried back into the cover of the jungle.

  The noises from the ditch reduced to growls from the dragons and moans from the men. Frank left it at that and headed to the cabana behind the pool. It would provide shelter and give him a wide view of the house and grounds. When and if Guzman found this compound, Frank would fight the battle here on familiar territory.

  * * *

  Daley Foster had not heard from Mitch Davis, going on five days. He had called her at least once every day, and while she had ended their romance, she still cared about him and agreed to accept one of his video tapes along with its dreary instructions. She had tried to contact him on his cell, but her calls went unanswered. Mitch warned her that should trouble befall him, she was to follow the video tape instructions to the letter.

  Daley called Detective Judd Kemp at the San Diego Police Department.

  “Detective Kemp, this is Daley Foster. I have information for you from Mitch Davis. I understand you know him.”

  “I do,” Judd said. “Where is he?”

  “I’m not sure. He calls me every day, but I haven’t heard from him for almost a week. He said to contact you if I suspected something was wrong. He left me specific instructions and a video tape.”

  “Do you know what’s on the tape?”

  “No, but I know it has something to do with one of your detectives.”

  “Which detective?”

  “The one who was convicted of murder and was on TV a while back.”

  “Frank Dugan?” Judd asked.

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  “Can you come see me at the station?”

  “I’ll leave now.”

  “You know how to get here?”

  “I know where it is. I went there one night to visit one of Mitch’s friends.”

  “I’ll alert the desk sergeant to pass you through.”

  * * *

  It was morning of the fourth day. The sun was hidden behind the island, east of where Rico Guzman lay nestled in palm fronds. He slid out from his crude shelter, stood, and danced his legs to increase his circulation.

  Two of his days had been spent blazing paths into the brambles and thick greenery. Nothing of Frank Dugan had materialized. Guzman had retreated to the shoreline.

  He gazed at the narrow beach to the north and realized that traversing the outer perimeter of the island merely indulged his own desire to take the easiest route. He knew the interior would have to be penetrated if finding Frank Dugan topped his agenda, but he saw something in the distance that piqued his interest enough to walk the sandy strip a few more paces.

  Two hundred yards later, he saw the remains of a broken-down, rickety pier.

  Stories had floated through his new inmate population about the history of the island, a history that surrounded the Prescott family and their rich patriarch Sanford. The stories centered on the tropical retreat the millionaire had built on the island, but convicts had been led to believe that any evidence of the elegant resort had long disappeared, the victim of many violent storms. But here Guzman plainly could see the vestiges of a man-made pier. And whe
re there was a weather-exposed pier, there could also be a better protected building or two nearby whose condition had fared better.

  Rico paced inland from the pier, up a gentle slope, and encountered a paved walkway. His eyes followed where the pavers led.

  They led to a Spanish mansion.

  Chapter 44

  Errol Malay sipped a neat 18-year-old Glenlivet in his country club lounge and surveyed the new menu the chef had put together for the fall season. A young man with a sexy woman ambled by his table and Malay’s prurient imagination undressed her twice before the couple made it to the bar. The pleasant interruption of his menu perusal made him recall something Mitch Davis had said when they’d chatted over dinner at the club. It was almost insignificant, a small, a throw-away tidbit, but Malay didn’t achieve his competitive edge by overlooking even the tiniest detail that could prove important.

  Malay played back the evening with Mitch. He had purposely guided the conversation to determine Mitch’s relatives who might have received one of the video tape copies of the Gaither murder. Mitch had mentioned his mother, his uncle, and something else … someone else. A girlfriend that he’d broken up with recently.

  Could he have given her one of the tapes?

  He had to find her. But how?

  Malay rose from the table and rushed out to get to his car. Mitch’s cell phone was in the glove compartment. He had meant to get rid of it, but now was elated that he’d kept it. Mitch’s girlfriend’s number had to be on that phone’s call log.

  Five minutes later, Malay found numerous calls to “Daley” in Mitch’s call log and contact list. He dialed her number.

  “Hello,” a female voice said.