Stan, meanwhile, had a knee in my stomach and was trying to get his gun-hand free. I hung on like grim death. If he dropped the gun, it would probably hit me in the face and maybe even break my nose, but I didn’t want him to be able to use it, so I fought on.
In the middle of everything, the gun went off with another almighty bang. The bullet shot up and hit the ceiling at an angle. And then it pinged off. No safe burial in leather and stuffing this time, and no small puff of dust. The boat was made of metal, so the only thing that happened was that a tiny flake of white paint dropped off the ceiling and fell. The bullet changed direction and kept going, straight toward the kitchen.
I think I screamed, but honestly, my ears were ringing so loudly from the rapport that I couldn’t hear myself. I did hear the sound when the bullet hit the toaster and made it jump a foot in the air.
And from the doorway came a voice.
“I’d drop that gun if I were you, son.”
The voice didn’t belong to Ty. He wouldn’t have had time to get here, anyway. No, my rescuer was the old guy with the bait bucket, whom we’d passed in the parking lot when we arrived. Except instead of a bucket of bait, now he was holding a sort of rifle with what looked like a sharp arrow poked into the end of it. Behind him, I could see several of the other boat owners we had passed on the way here peering over his shoulder.
Stan hesitated.
“This spear is three feet long, son,” Bait Bucket told him. “It’ll punch straight through you. And with a barb at the end, it’ll hurt like hell coming out. You sure you want to risk it?”
Apparently Stan wasn’t sure, because his hand went a bit limp.
“Go ahead, girl,” Bait Bucket nodded to me. “Take it.”
I took it. And turned it around and pointed it at Stan. Best as I could figure out, there should still be a bullet left. Or maybe it was only the old six-shooters in Westerns that had six bullets; Stan’s gun may have had more. But he’d used two on Sullivan and Martoni, and one in getting away from Martoni’s house. Number four was buried in the backseat of Enrique Fuentes’s car, and the one that had killed Juan’s toaster was number five.
That was if he’d started with a full clip, of course. But there ought to be at least one bullet left, I figured. Enough to shoot him if he tried anything.
He didn’t. He moved off me and then lifted his hands. The retirees from behind Bait Bucket swarmed through the door and down the stairs. They surrounded him and dragged him up and out into the sunshine. And with so many of them and only one of him, there wasn’t a whole lot Stan could do. I imagine he might have considered making a break for it and jumping into the water, but between the Coast Guard patrolling the sea and Bait Bucket on shore with his spear gun, I figured he knew his chances were poor.
“You all right, young lady?” Bait Bucket asked and extended a hand to me. Not the one holding the weapon. The other one.
I took it and let him haul me up from the bed. “Yes, thank you. What happened?”
“Recognized him,” Bait Bucket said. “His face has been on the news every day this week. I don’t know what he thought he was doing, walking around outside in broad daylight. Everyone in the marina knew who he was. And everyone in the marina knows Juan Fuentes. And that ain’t Juan.”
I shook my head. No, it wasn’t.
“You know Juan?” Bait Bucket asked.
“A little.”
“You know how he’s doing?”
I told Bait Bucket I’d been informed that they’d be bringing Juan out of the induced coma later today. “So I assume he’s doing all right. Or will be doing all right, with a little more time.”
Bait Bucket nodded. “If there’s anything he needs, tell him to get in touch. He’s one of us.” He turned toward the stairs to the outside, and then took a step back. “After you.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” I said, and climbed the couple of steps up to the sunshine. And if I held onto the railing a little extra hard—because my knees were a bit wobbly—it’s nobody’s business but mine.
Ty came screeching into the parking lot a couple of minutes later, just behind the squad car with flashing lights and sirens that was coming to take Stan away. Bait Bucket had not only pulled out his spear gun and organized the other boat owners into attack formation, he had called 911 first, so they could be on the road as quickly as possible. If I were forty years older and wasn’t already crazy about Ty, I’d marry Bait Bucket. A man who can handle all that, plus rescue a damsel in distress, is a keeper.
“Cassie!”
I turned around when I heard the shout, and saw Ty leap off a little crotch rocket motorcycle and run toward me, skirting the uniformed cops converging on Stan to drag him off into the squad car.
I managed a smile, although my face was really starting to hurt. And must be starting to turn black and blue, too, because his eyes narrowed. “What happened?”
“Stan,” I said.
“He hit you?”
“It was my own fault. I wouldn’t get on the bed.”
“It was not your fault,” Ty said. “Nothing that happened was your fault. It was his fault. All of it.”
He shot a look over his shoulder that should have dropped Stan dead in his tracks, but since he was already inside the police car, it was hard to tell exactly how he reacted. Knowing him, he probably smirked.
“Just take him back to jail,” I said, turning away. “Convict him, and lock him up, and lose the key. Make sure he can’t hurt anyone else ever again.”
Ty nodded. “The trial will resume tomorrow. With a few extra charges. Another rape and attempted rape, escape, assault on three police officers, breaking and entering, deprivation of liberty...”
“Is Enrique OK? And Carmen?”
“They should be at the hospital by now,” Ty said, with a glance at his watch. “If you don’t mind riding on the bike, I can take you there. You can give your statement to Enrique when he’s awake.”
“I’d like to see them,” I admitted. “And Juan. Are they still waking Juan this morning?”
“As far as I know.” He put an arm around my shoulders and guided me toward the bike, only stopping to shake Bait Bucket’s hand on the way past, and to tell him thanks for saving the day. “The police will be by later to take your statement. And everyone else’s. They’re a little short-staffed right now, with three people laid up in the hospital.”
Bait Bucket nodded. “I’ll be here. We all will. You two take care, now.”
We continued on toward the bike. The squad car with Stan in it drove past us, slowly, making for the entrance to the parking lot. I looked at it, but couldn’t make out Stan’s face through the window.
“He’ll make it to where he’s going this time, right?”
“With nobody to help him,” Ty said, “yes.”
“He never told me whether it was Sullivan or Martoni who helped him with the handcuffs. I asked, but he told me it would be something for me to think about while he...”
Ty’s arm tightened around my shoulders, but his voice stayed even. “We’ll figure it out. Once Juan’s awake, he’ll be able to tell us.”
All the more reason to get to the hospital. I quickened my steps, and next to me, Ty did the same.
BY THE time we reached the Lower Keys Medical Center, Enrique Fuentes had been examined and patched up and declared good to go. Technically speaking, he had a negligible little concussion—his words—but with Stan to process back into jail and a lot more charges to file, and a trial to get back on track, not to mention the last few loose threads to wind up, he couldn’t afford any downtime. So he’d promised the doctor he’d take it easy and would lie down if he started seeing double, and we found him sitting beside Juan’s bed. Where Juan still had bandages wound around his head, Enrique had gotten away with losing a patch of hair on the side of his head to accommodate a large Band Aid.
Juan was still asleep, or maybe unconscious, but the various tubes and needles had been removed from his arms, leavin
g purple and yellow bruising behind.
“How long has it been?” Ty wanted to know, his voice soft, even though the whole point was to wake Juan so we could see how he was doing.
Enrique answered in the same hushed tones. “They stopped the medication at eight this morning. But it can take hours for it to work its way out of his body so he wakes up.”
“What about Carmen?”
Enrique’s face darkened. “She isn’t here. They took her to Doctor Johnson at the women’s clinic.”
The same one where I’d been last year. Where they had treated all of Stan’s victims. “Good choice,” I said.
Enrique nodded, looking exhausted. “My mom’s gone there to be with her. My dad’s on his way home from work. He’ll be here for Juan.”
“And you?”
“I have to get back to work,” Enrique said. “I was just sitting here for a while, hoping that he’ll wake up so I can arrest Sullivan or Martoni before I leave. I don’t have time to come back later.”
Ty hid a smile. “I’d be happy to arrest Sullivan or Martoni for you,” he said.
“Thanks, but he’s my brother. I want to do the honors.”
Hard to blame him for that.
He added, “Cassie looks a little worse for wear. Have you had that looked at?” He glanced at my face.
I lifted a hand to it, self-consciously, and winced when it hurt. “I haven’t even looked at it myself. Maybe I should.”
“Mirror in there,” Enrique said and nodded to the bathroom door. And then realized he probably shouldn’t have, because he turned a shade paler.
“I’ll go grab some ice,” Ty said, heading for the hallway. “I’ll be right back.”
He went outside at the same time as I ducked into the tiny, adjacent bathroom and turned on the light.
Oh, boy. Yeah, I did look like I’d taken a beating. Funny; it had hurt at the time, but not enough that I had thought it would turn into this.
One whole side of my face was bruised and swollen, from temple almost to chin. And because Stan had caught the edge of my eye socket, my eye was turning black. I looked like I’d gone a couple of rounds in a boxing ring. And when I pressed on it, it hurt.
“Here.” Ty showed up in the doorway with a cold compress he must have charmed out of one of the nurses. “Hold this against it for a few minutes. It’s probably too late, but it might make you feel better.”
“Maybe.” If the skin was already turning purple and blue-black, there wasn’t much that could be done, I figured. Nonetheless, I held the compress to my cheek, wincing, as I went back to sit down by the bed. Only to see Enrique leaning forward, intently.
“His eyelids fluttered.”
Ty and I leaned closer, too. He was right; Juan’s eyelids did flutter.
“Juan?” Enrique said. His voice came out froggy, and he had to clear his throat and try again. “’mano? You in there, bro?”
We all watched, holding our collective breath, as Juan’s eyes opened. He blinked at the ceiling, disoriented, for a few moments before his attention moved to Enrique. This tongue flicked out to moisten his lips and he managed a whisper. “Hospital?”
Enrique nodded.
“Why?”
“You were mugged,” Enrique said, going with the simplest and quickest explanation.
Juan’s gaze tracked to me, and the bruises on my face. “My fault?”
“No,” Enrique said, at the same time as I shook my head.
“Not your fault. Do you remember walking me home from Captain Crow’s Monday night?”
Juan nodded. It was a tiny nod, just the barest movement of his head. If I felt rough, I could only imagine how he must feel. “We got mugged?”
“We didn’t. You walked me to the motel and then you went off on your own. You had a... you were meeting someone, you said.”
Juan blinked.
“Do you remember?” Enrique prompted.
“I went to Bobby’s.” Juan moistened his lips again. “Met a guy. Had a few drinks. Was going home when...” He shook his head.
“Do you remember being at the cemetery?”
“No...” Juan said, his eyes drifting shut again.
“The guy you were meeting...”
Juan didn’t answer, and for a second I thought he’d fallen back asleep. Enrique must be more used to his brother’s reactions, because he leaned over the bed. “Listen.” And then he switched into Spanish, much too fast for me to follow. All I could catch was a word here and there, but it was enough—along with the numerous mentions of Stan’s name, which is the same in any language—to know that Enrique was telling Juan everything that had happened over the past two days.
As Enrique talked, the expression on Juan’s face went from defiant to disbelieving to shocked. When Enrique started slowing down, probably because he was nearing the end of the story, Juan’s gaze tracked to me and the ice I was still holding to my cheek. “You OK?” he whispered.
I nodded. “The old guy with the spear gun saved the day. You have great neighbors.”
He smiled faintly. “My boat OK?”
“You have a bullet mark on your ceiling. And you’ll need a new toaster. Other than that, it’s fine. Same as it was.”
“Stan’s back in jail,” Enrique said. “We’re going back to court tomorrow. I’ll be adding a lot of new charges to the ones we already had. And I’d like to nail down his accomplice before I leave here today. But he wouldn’t tell Cassie who helped him with the handcuffs.”
Juan didn’t speak.
“We know it was either Dave Sullivan or Cody Martoni,” Enrique added. “He beat you up, ‘mano. And he helped Stan escape. That’s not the kind of cop I want in my department.”
We waited for Juan to decide to talk. After a few seconds, Ty added, “What he did goes way beyond trying to keep someone’s sexual preferences quiet so he won’t get in trouble, Juan. Because of what he did, you’re here, and another cop—an innocent cop—got shot. Your brother got a concussion, Cassie could have died, and Carmen—”
“Cody,” Juan said. He closed his eyes. “The guy I was meeting Monday night was Cody Martoni.”
I glanced at Ty. He glanced back. And then we both looked at Enrique, who looked like Juan had punched him in the gut.
Maybe he’d have been happier if Juan had fingered Dave Sullivan.
Or maybe not. Maybe he’d have gotten that sick look on his face no matter which name Juan had said. Either way, Enrique lost—and had to arrest—another cop he’d trusted up until now.
“Get some sleep,” he told Juan and got to his feet, more heavily than usual. “Dad’s on his way. I’ll stop in later.”
I don’t know whether Juan heard him or not. He might already have been asleep. Or he might have been pretending to be asleep, so he wouldn’t have to watch Enrique head out the door to arrest someone I thought Juan had maybe hoped he could care about.
It wasn’t a long walk. Martoni was still just around the corner. It took half a minute to get there, even with Enrique dragging his feet.
Martoni was looking a little better today. Still hooked up to all his wires and tubes, but with a little more color in his cheeks. When we walked in, he managed a smile. Until Enrique told him, his voice heavy, “Cody Martoni, you’re under arrest for assault and dereliction of duty and facilitating an escape from custody—”
Then Martoni’s eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open. He shook his head violently, so violently that he turned pale.
“Juan’s awake,” Ty told him. “He said you and he got together on Monday night. At Bobby’s Monkey Bar.”
Martoni managed a whisper. “That’s not illegal.”
“No,” Ty agreed. “But assault is.”
Martoni shook his head. “I didn’t touch him, man. I wasn’t anywhere near when that happened. I know I should have walked him home. But he didn’t... we weren’t...” He flushed.
They weren’t on those terms yet, and Juan hadn’t invited him to walk him home. Or so I
assumed. It fit with what Juan had told me on Monday night. Not a date. But drinks with someone he’d liked enough to dress up for. The beginning of something.
“Try again,” Enrique said. “Because I don’t buy that some stranger turned up out of the blue to mug my brother the day before you helped Stan Laszlo escape from custody.”
“Not just mug him,” I shot in. “Stan said he told you to kill Juan. But that you messed up.”
Both Ty and Enrique stared at me, wide-eyed. So did Martoni.
“You’re crazy,” he said hoarsely. “I wouldn’t hurt Juan. I like him. I was hoping...” He trailed of.
“So who did?” Enrique wanted to know.
Martoni shook his head. “I dunno, man. I wasn’t there. Last time I saw him, he was walking away from Bobby’s. I should have gone with him, but he didn’t ask. I thought maybe he didn’t want...”
Enrique and Ty exchanged a glance. I was inclined to believe Martoni, and it looked like maybe they were, too. He certainly sounded sincere.
“What happened at lunch yesterday?”
Martoni took a breath. “Stan was moaning in the back seat. Sully stopped the car. I opened the back door to see what was wrong. And he shot me.”
“Did you open the cuffs?”
Martoni shook his head. Firmly. A bit more firmly than I figured he ought to, since he turned pale. But his voice was as strong as he could make it. “No, sir, Detective. I did not.”
Enrique nodded. “Get some rest. Your folks are on their way.”
Martoni nodded, too, and sank back against the pillows, looking exhausted. We were halfway out the door when he spoke again. “Stan?”
Enrique looked at him over his shoulder. “He’s back in custody.”
We all watched Martoni’s face, looking for a flicker of fear, of worry. But there was nothing. Just a smile.
“Sullivan,” Ty said when we were outside in the hallway.
Enrique nodded. He turned to me. “Were you telling the truth about what Stan said?”
Finding You Page 12
