Southern Comfort

by Fern Michaels

  On the long drive to Key West, he let his brain go into overdrive as he plotted his course of action when he arrived. He stopped once for a bathroom break and fresh coffee.

  Tyler climbed back into the Mustang to continue his 120-mile trip down US Highway 1 to the Keys. It was a beautiful, hot sunny day, and he drove with the windows down, the radio playing some golden oldies that didn’t bother him at all. He wasn’t into jive and rap or any of the other funky stuff that passed for music these days. He absolutely loved the music of the fifties. That was the one and only thing he and his father had in common. Music for some reason always allowed him to think things through and come to a resolution of sorts. In short, music calmed and soothed his soul.

  As he tooled along, his thoughts took him in all directions. If he could just remember who the phone voice belonged to, it might help him a lot. With the clock ticking on his case, he knew he was going to have to act quickly to sort out what was going down on Mango Key and at the same time be aware that it could be nothing but a hoax and a blackmail scheme. He’d never gone undercover as a solo agent before. Agents always worked as a team or as a group. What he was doing was totally outside the box, not to mention breaking the rules, and he had no idea if he was made of the right stuff to pull it off. He admitted to a certain amount of fear, yet he felt exhilarated at what he was about to do.

  His thoughts took him to Patrick Kelly, the cop who lived on Mango Key. He’d read the man’s dossier and it was now committed to memory. He was ninety-nine percent certain Kelly was just who he said he was, a former homicide detective in Atlanta who had dropped out of the mainstream because of a personal tragedy. But he might have observed activity if there was indeed any. Tyler’s last call before boarding his flight to Miami had been to the Coast Guard, and while they were doing their daily patrols, they had nothing to report in regard to any strange or illegal activity.

  So was the tip last year a hoax? What about the recent call? He had to admit he wasn’t one of those agents who had a sixth sense or was tuned to all things criminal, but this time his nerves were twanging all over the place. Then again, his twanging nerves might have something to do with the DEA trying to oust him. He knew he was a little late entering the game, but if there was a way to backtrack and prove himself, he was going to do whatever he could to make it happen. If he was successful and got fired for his efforts, at least he’d be able to live with himself.

  Suddenly, traffic slowed, and Tyler slammed on his brakes. The SUV behind him braked with a loud screech, stopping within a hair of his rear bumper. Tyler craned his neck to see if he could spot anything in front of the long line of cars, but most of the vehicles were SUVs, and it was hard to see over their tops. Either an accident of some kind or a car had broken down in the middle of the road.

  Tyler climbed out of his car as a dozen or so other lookie-looks trying to see what the problem was climbed out of theirs. It was an elderly bearded man, who bore a striking resemblance to that macho writer who’d lived in Key West, who clued them in from nine cars up that a pickup had broken down. While they waited outside their cars, the people chatted among themselves, including Tyler in their conversations. He was one of them. He liked the feeling and joined in, talking freely about the heat, the road, the pipeline that carried the water supply to Key West. He was told to go to Sloppy Joe’s, Ernest Hemingway’s favorite watering hole, to eat and enjoy the view. Also he was told of the upcoming Sloppy Joe’s Thirtieth Annual Papa Look-alike Contest on July 22–24. That explained the bearded old man.

  Kids scampered around, and dogs in the backseats howled their unhappiness at not being allowed to join in. Tyler loved it all. He listened to glowing details about Key West’s spectacular sunsets and the quaint bed-and-breakfasts.

  Tyler turned when he felt a hand on his arm and saw a pleasant freckle-faced thirtysomething woman asking what was going on. She smelled like warm sunshine and vanilla. She was wearing jeans, a cherry red tank top, and a baseball cap. Great tan and no makeup. The girl-next-door type.

  Tyler pointed ahead, and replied, “That guy up there said a pickup broke down. It looks like they’re trying to push it to the side although there isn’t all that much room. It might be a little while.”

  “Oh, well.” The woman shrugged. “I’m on vacation, so I’m in no hurry. How about you?”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Tyler lied with a straight face.

  “Your first time to Key West?” the pleasant woman asked.

  “No. I’ve been here before. I’m staying at the Southernmost Point Guest House.” Was she flirting with him the way he looked? He decided she was. “Have you been here before?”

  “My first time. Actually, it’s kind of a vacation and work trip all rolled into one. I teach tenth grade at J. P. Stevens High School in Edison, New Jersey. We’re going to be studying famous authors when school starts in September, so I thought who better than Ernest Hemingway? Nancy Holliday,” she said, holding out her hand to be shaken. Stunned, Tyler stuck out his hand, surprised at how solid her handshake was.

  “Nice to meet you, Nancy. Currently, I live in LA, but I get around a lot with my job. Looks like traffic is starting to move. Nice meeting you.”

  Nancy Holliday smiled and lit up Lawrence Tyler’s world. “Maybe we’ll see each other again. I understand Key West isn’t all that big. You know, small world, etc.” She laughed again, and Tyler grinned.

  “Tell you what, I’ll meet you at Sloppy Joe’s tomorrow around eight if you aren’t busy. Hey, we better get moving,” he said when horns started to blow.

  “Okay,” Nancy called over her shoulder as she sprinted toward her car.

  An hour later, Tyler turned left off the highway onto Duval Street, headed to the Southernmost Point Guest House, where he’d made an open-ended reservation since he didn’t know how long he’d be staying. It would be his home base. He assumed that Nancy Holliday wasn’t staying at the same place since she hadn’t said anything about what a coincidence. He didn’t want anyone watching his comings and goings. He knew, though, that he’d do his best to meet up with her at Sloppy Joe’s tomorrow if it was at all possible.

  There was a bounce to Tyler’s step when he parked his rental, yanked out his duffel and laptop, and made his way into the guesthouse. He registered under his own name and was shown to his room, which thank God had its own bathroom as well as an Internet connection. The room was huge, neat, and cozy. It would work. Oh, if my parents could only see me now, he thought. The thought made him laugh out loud.

  Tyler unpacked, laying out his used clothing in one of the lavender-scented drawers. For a moment he thought he was back in his own town house with his own dresser drawers, which Talaga lined with what she said was lavender-cypress drawer liners.

  He fired up his computer and sat down to read his e-mail to see if the boat he’d reserved would be ready in another hour. He used his cell phone to check in with the Coast Guard and was told there was still nothing to report. He shrugged as he brought up Google Earth and zeroed in on Mango Key. He wished now he’d made a trip down earlier to check out the Key in person. Well, he was here now. The big question facing him was, did he check things out in the daylight or wait for darkness? The boat he’d requested would have running lights, but he’d have to notify the Coast Guard if he was going to take to the water in darkness. “Always cover your ass,” he mumbled under his breath. But then again with the cover of darkness, he could move at his own pace, do what he needed without fear of discovery.

  Screw the rules.

  He also needed to check out the cop on the beach. A straightforward house visit should do it, he told himself. Face-to-face, he’d get a measure of the man, then make his decision as to whether he was who he appeared to be on paper.

  Tyler never fooled himself, at least not in private. He knew his one strong point was his ability to have total recall of events and occurrences. He remembered every single word he’d ever read. He remembered every little nit-picking detail of cases he’
d worked on even years ago. His father had always been surprised at his phenomenal memory, with his mother saying he inherited his memory from her side of the family, which was all bullshit as far as Tyler was concerned.

  He hit Google Earth again and homed in on the structure at the end of Mango Key. But before he sat down to study the pictures that were popping up on his computer, he raided the minibar under the television stand. He withdrew a bottle of Evian water and drank half the bottle in one gulp. He was back at the computer within minutes.

  Tyler studied the huge structure, surrounded by a high brick wall, from all angles as he tried to figure out what it was going to be used for. Mango Key was the perfect place for all manner of illicit enterprises, and one couldn’t forget it was a mere ninety miles by water to Cuba. He gulped the last of the water and leaned back to think, his mind racing a hundred miles a minute.

  If he could only remember what it was about the voice of the unknown caller, disguised or not, that made him think he knew who it was. Sooner or later, when he was least expecting it, something would come to him. He was sure of it. His thoughts still churning, he glared at his cell phone, which had the audacity to pick that precise moment to ring. He looked down at the caller ID and winced. He clicked it on. “Tyler,” he said succinctly.

  “Mr. Tyler, please hold for the governor,” a flat-sounding voice said coolly. Like he had a choice? As far back as he could remember, he’d never refused to take a call from his father. Not when he was still a force in the house of representatives, nor since he became the governor of Florida. His stomach muscles crunched into a knot as he waited to hear his father’s voice, wondering what he’d ask of him this time.

  The voice, when it came through, was booming, just like the man himself. It was full of authority and cheerfulness. To a point. “How’s it going, son?”

  Tyler sucked in his breath. “Depends on what you mean by it, Dad.” Was the old man finally going to get around to telling him he knew his ass was on the line, that he was soon going to be an ex-DEA agent? Not likely. He was probably already pulling and yanking strings behind the scenes to make sure it didn’t happen. Someone should tell him this time around, no matter what he did, it wasn’t going to work.

  “You DEA agents are all the same,” the voice boomed. “Overworked and underpaid. Where are you, son?”

  Tyler’s antenna went up. His father had never asked him where he was on an unsecured phone before, so why now. Unless he had someone watching him. To what end? Lie or not lie. He opted for the high road, and said, “Circumstances being what they are, I’d rather not say over this phone, Dad.”

  His father’s voice still boomed, but it seemed to Tyler that it had lost some of its luster. “That serious, eh?”

  “Afraid so, Dad. Company phone.” Something was up with his father. He knew this particular number wasn’t secure. Tyler focused on a vase of fresh purple flowers on his nightstand. He wondered what they were called. He just bet Nancy Holliday would know what they were. Now, where did that thought come from? “Is there anything in particular that you wanted?”

  The voice still boomed. “Just staying in touch with my only son. However, I did want to ask if you would be joining your mother, me, and Carlton over the Labor Day weekend? I thought we might go sailing on the Chesapeake. Make a day of it, have a picnic on board, a few drinks, see the fireworks they shoot off at the harbor.”

  The last thing he wanted to do was go sailing with his parents and Carlton, his godfather, whom he’d despised from day one. Nor did he want to picnic or watch fireworks with them. He wondered if the old man knew he’d be out in the cold by Labor Day. Probably, he decided, and that was the reason for the invitation. Probably wanted to negotiate another trade-off.

  “Sorry, Dad, can’t make it.” An inner voice warned him not to make an excuse, but he was sick and tired of the lies, tired of being his father’s lackey. Sorry, I can’t make it would have to suffice. “Listen, Dad, I’m being paged. Gotta run. Tell Mother hello for me.”

  Sweat dripped down Tyler’s cheeks. He swiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt. What the hell was that all about? His father had the ability to surprise him still.

  Something suddenly pinged at his memory, but he couldn’t quite bring it to the surface of his mind. No matter, it would come to him eventually just the way the identity of the unknown caller would come to him. It always did.

  Tyler walked over to the window and looked out. If he wanted to, he could go to the marina now and take out the boat he’d rented, but he hadn’t notified the Coast Guard. One phone call would be all it would take. But should he do it? Second-guessing himself had always been one of his major problems once he joined the DEA. Before he could change his mind, he grabbed his canvas bag and left the room. He called the Coast Guard on his way to his car.

  July in Key West was hotter than the fires of hell. Residents strolled the streets in flower-printed shirts and worn-out flip-flops. Didn’t they realize how silly they looked? Obviously not, he decided. On a whim, he illegally parked in front of a tacky tourist shop. Inside, he purchased clothes like all the tourists wore. He would fit right in. He kept his temper in check as he made his way, mile by mile, to the marina. The high temperature and equally high humidity weren’t helping matters. He couldn’t wait till he was out on the water to cool down. He regretted now that he hadn’t bought some shorts and some sandals, normal-looking clothes he wouldn’t be embarrassed to wear. Maybe he could pick some up on the way back. Or he could head back to Miami and purchase them there, where he wouldn’t stand out as much as he suspected he was going to stand out here in Key West. He’d manage.

  He was experienced on the water, almost as good as the governor. If his father knew he had to take a shitload of Dramamine because he’d never acquired sea legs, he’d never hear the end of it; but what his father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt either of them. He’d sailed every summer and had his own sailboat at the beach house. But he preferred power boats, to his father’s dismay.

  His eyes searching for the landmarks the owner of the marina had provided, Tyler found his way to the lot, where he parked his rental, climbed out, and headed for the ramshackle office that boasted that they carried top-of-the-line Jet Skis, catamarans, and cigarette boats to rent. Next to the office was a souvenir shop, where they stocked beachwear, sand in a bottle, plastic palm trees, and what seemed like a hundred shelves filled with suntan oil. He sauntered into the shop, his gaze going in all directions to see if anyone was following him. He didn’t see anything or anyone that looked suspicious, so he walked inside. Maybe he was flattering himself that someone was interested in him. The blast of cold air shocked him. He actually found himself shivering.

  Fifteen minutes later, he had three pair of shorts that looked distressed and three T-shirts that said he “hearted” Key West. He bought two pairs of Ray-Ban sunglasses and another baseball cap, which said Miami Dolphins on it. If he dipped it in the ocean water, it would be perfect. Once he hit the water, he could throttle down, snip off the tags, and change his clothes. Two pair of rubber flip-flops, and he was good to go. He paid for his purchases with cash. No sense leaving a trail for anyone to pick up.

  When he signed for the cigarette boat he’d rented, he paid in cash but used a phony credit card for security, a card he’d used many times on different cases. It matched a phony driver’s license. Who was he kidding anyway; no one would be looking for him. For someone to be looking for him, he’d have to be important, and that was the one thing he wasn’t. At least according to his colleagues at the DEA. He was nominally in charge of the Miami office. He should be there issuing orders, but no one, not even the custodial staff, would speak to him, so he’d opted to go out on his own. Then, he asked himself, What the hell am I doing here hoping I’m incognito? Almost as if in answer to his question, his cell phone rang. He looked down to see the number of the caller. He swallowed hard. UNKNOWN CALLER. UNKNOWN NUMBER. Answer or not? He opted not to. Whoever the bastard was, he�
��d call back. He was sure of it.

  Key in hand, Tyler jogged his way to the waiting cigarette boat, which would take him out to open water. He leapt on board and checked things out. Satisfied that the boat was going to get him back and forth, he opened his canvas bag to check the contents. All the tools of the trade, even his gun. He was good to go. He liked the idea that a map of Florida and all the different Keys was under hard plastic on the side of the dash. Along with a navigation chart.

  A scraggly looking teenaged boy released the boat from its moorings, and Tyler backed away from the dock. The boy waved. He waved back.

  He was on his own. He admitted to a small thrill of excitement at what might lie ahead of him in the days to come.

  Chapter 9

  Kate Rush swiped at the sweat dripping down her face from the blistering midafternoon heat. She looked over at her partner and grimaced at her angry countenance. Should she try to mollify Sandy or should she start to bitch the way Sandy had been bitching all morning? “I’m going for a swim to see if I can cool down a little. If you see that crazy parrot attacking me, call the Coast Guard.”

  “Are you out of your mind? I’m going with you. Whoever the hell said that skimpy air-conditioning unit would keep us cool is off their rocker. It’s hotter inside this tin can than it is outside. One more day, Kate, and I’m outta here if something doesn’t happen. I mean it this time. Do you hear me, Kate? I really mean it.”

  Kate knew her partner meant it because she felt exactly the same way, but since she was the leader of this two-woman team, she had to act accordingly. She reached for a bright green and yellow beach towel and slung it over her shoulder. “By something happening, do you by chance mean your suggestion that we hike down the beach and invite our two male neighbors to a weenie roast? I said I’d go along with the idea if you really want to do it. Do you?” As a diversion it wasn’t much, but it would have to do for the moment.