“IDs?” Morgan said, looking at me and Deuce. He examined Billy’s and handed it back. Looking at Deuce’s badge and identification, he said, “DHS? Why’s a special-agent-in-charge coming down here about a murder case?” Morgan handed Deuce’s ID back and took mine.
Deuce ignored his question. “Did you get the fax from Doctor Fredric?”
Morgan took a cursory glance at my ID and started to hand it back. He stopped and looked at it again. “Special Agent McDermitt? We’ve met before?”
“About a year ago,” I replied. “A surveillance op in Key West Bight. We were working with DEA and the bad guys decided to turn it up a notch, into a shootout. Did you get Doc Fredric’s fax?”
“Didn’t even recognize you with all that man hair,” Morgan said, handing my ID back. “What fax?”
“Right here, Lieutenant,” the clerk said, handing him a sheet from an inbox on his desk.
Morgan took it and started to read. He got halfway down and stopped. “European?”
“That’s right, Lieutenant,” Deuce said. “You’ve got the wrong man.”
“Maybe on the murder of the girl,” Morgan said. “But Lovett owns a gun exactly like the one that the guy was shot with.”
“Exactly like?” Billy asked.
“We haven’t found the actual murder weapon yet,” the woman said.
“Circumstantial at best,” Billy said. “A judge would laugh you out of his chambers.”
Morgan glared at Billy. Finally, he relented the point and jabbed a finger at him. “You can come into interrogation.” He turned to Deuce and said, “Unless the federal government has an interest here, you two can wait right here.”
Without another word, or waiting for a reply, Morgan opened the door to the inner office and motioned Billy inside.
“Doesn’t matter,” Billy said, remaining where he stood. “My client won’t be answering any more questions. Not even what time of day it is. Which, by the way, is now twenty-four hours after you brought him in for questioning. Charge my client or bring him out here. Now.”
Morgan stood with the door open for a long moment. “What the hell,” he finally said. “Neither of us thinks he did it, anyway. Evans, go get Mister Lovett and bring him out.”
After Detective Evans left, Morgan turned to me and Deuce. “So, what’s the Fed’s interest in this case.”
“Purely personal,” I said. “Lawrence is a friend of mine.”
“Not entirely personal,” Deuce said, as Detective Evans returned with Lawrence. “The department I currently head will be dissolved soon, and Agent McDermitt and I are opening a private investigation and security company. Mister Lovett will be retaining our services to find whoever killed his employees.”
“Cap’n Jesse!” Lawrence said, when he saw me. “Yuh look like a boat bum.”
I laughed. “Good to see you, too, Lawrence.”
“Thanks for gettin’ me out, Cap’n.”
“Wasn’t me,” I replied. “Your lawyer, Billy Rainwater, got you released.”
Lawrence looked at all three of us in turn, then picked up on the ruse, extending a hand to Billy. “Thanks for coming, Mistuh Billy.”
“Billy,” Deuce said, “would you mind catching a cab with Lawrence to his home and stay with him? I’m sure he wants to get cleaned up and back to work. We’ll catch up with you later this evening.”
“Always wanted to see what it was like hanging out with a cab driver in a tourist town,” Billy said, and the two of them walked out the door.
“You want to find out what we know,” Morgan said, after they left.
“Not really,” I said, grinning at Morgan. “We probably know as much or more than you already. We were thinking that we might be of some help in your investigation.”
“Well, it’s after lunch time,” Morgan said. “We can compare notes while we eat.”
“Hurricane Hole?” I asked. “My treat.”
“You’re on, McDermitt.”
Ten minutes later, Deuce and I were seated at a table on Hurricane Hole’s back deck, right next to the water. The storm must have kept most people inside, as there wasn’t anyone else on the deck. At the moment, it was sunny and fairly cool.
“They obviously know more than we do,” Deuce said. “What do we have to bargain with?”
“The location where the murders took place,” I replied, as a waitress approached. We both ordered bottles of Kalik.
“All we have to go on is Rusty’s guess.”
“You’ll find that in matters of wind, wave, and current, your father-in-law’s guess is better than most any oceanographic computer model. We can find it with the Revenge.”
Morgan and Evans came out onto the deck from the protected bar area, and Deuce and I both stood up.
“We might have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Deuce said. “We really do want to help, and I think we have information that might be important. Please, just call me Deuce, okay?”
Morgan extended his hand. “Ben,” he replied. “My partner, Devon.”
I shook hands with both of them. The woman detective had a firm, dry handshake. She looked to be in her late twenties, but I’m never good at guessing a woman’s age.
“Jesse,” I said, and we all sat down. Deuce gave me a slight nod, giving me the go ahead. “We might have a good starting point as to where Isaksson’s boat was when the murders took place,” I said to Morgan.
“This is the guy I told you about, Evans,” Morgan said. She gave him a puzzled look and he added, “The Marine I told you about.”
“How’d you know I was in the Marines?”
“I didn’t recognize you with the hair and beard,” Morgan said. “But, that boat of yours sticks out and I checked you out after that shooting. Couldn’t get deep enough to learn anything about you being a Fed, though. Good cover.”
“You’re a Marine?” I asked Evans.
“Ninety-five to oh-three, sir,” she replied.
“Can the sir, okay?” I said. “I retired in ninety-nine. Infantry.”
“MP Company, Headquarters Battalion, Second MarDiv.”
“Lejeune?” I said. “My last billet was there. Scout-Sniper Instructor with Force Recon.” We surveyed each other a little closer, a bond already formed. She had the beginnings of tiny crow’s feet at the corners of her light-brown eyes, but didn’t wear makeup to try to hide it. I realized my initial estimate was probably off by a few years. Looking closer, I guessed she was at least thirty. “Deuce here is a former SEAL commander. Or will be pretty soon.”
“Not sure I follow,” Morgan said, looking at Deuce. “You’re with DHS and in the Navy, but working on the side as a private detective?”
“I was recruited out of the SEALs to head a small unit down here,” Deuce said. “Originally, we were to have only a loose attachment to DHS. Last year, Homeland Secretary converted our covert little operation into an overt police force, with many of the same duties and powers of the FBI.”
“But you’re working as a PI?”
“Long story,” Deuce said. “And I don’t want to get into politics, but it appears that our organization’s days are numbered.”
“Pretty much what the sheriff told me on the phone, while we drove over here. Said that you being here in any capacity has the blessings of the president himself.”
Deuce shrugged as the waitress arrived to take our orders. “Jesse took him fishing a couple of years ago.”
Both detectives arched their eyebrows at that. We placed our food order, and after the waitress left Morgan asked, “So, how is it you know where the boat was when Isaksson was murdered?”
I explained how I was on the flats that afternoon and heard the shot and knew what direction it came from, because my dog’s part pointer and was locked onto something he could hear, but I couldn’t.
“Wait,” Ben said. “You’re relying on a dog?”
“Not completely,” I replied. “But I know it was a gunshot and Doc said it happened about the time I heard i
t. And I know the direction it came from. You spend much time on the water?”
“When I can,” Morgan replied. “I was a marine patrol deputy for a few years.”
“So you know it’s hard to judge how far away something is based on the sound.” He nodded, so I continued. “I have a friend who grew up on the water here. His dad and grandpa, too. He knows instinctively what the wind and tides are doing. He gave us a pretty good idea where the woman’s body and the boat had drifted from based on the locations of where they were found. Using a chart, I can show the direction I heard the sound from and he can pinpoint the channels and how the currents flow that would have put the woman’s body where it was found, and the boat where it was found. Where the three lines intersect is where Isaksson’s boat was when it and the woman’s body parted company.”
“I think you’re really enjoying this,” Deuce said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak that many words at one time.”
“We have techs working on the wind and current data,” Morgan said. “What I want to know is, how is it you guys know where the bodies were found? That information hasn’t been released.”
“The federal government isn’t without resources,” Deuce replied.
We continued to discuss the case as we ate. Devon had a surprising appetite for a woman so slim. I couldn’t help but wonder what all that fuel might power, under her business suit and slacks.
Morgan finished his last bite and wiped his mouth, wadding the napkin and dropping it on his plate. “So, we’re going on the assumption that both victims were killed on or near Isaksson’s boat, while they were working together as salvors, which Mister Lovett hired them to do. He’s only been out there a couple times, always following his GPS, so he’s unable to tell us where to look. The anchor line on the boat was cut and the boat set adrift after the murders, for whatever reason. Maybe the killer thought they’d just float out into the Gulf, instead of drifting toward shore.”
I took the last bite of a pretty decent grilled snapper sandwich and chewed quickly. “I have a dive boat. Deuce and I are both qualified search and recovery divers, and have done some treasure hunting as well. We’ll go up to Snipe Key tomorrow and start looking around. From what my friend tells me, the area Isaksson and Marshall were diving is probably four to five miles north of there. If the killer cut the anchor line at their dive spot, we can probably find something. The water’s very clear in the Gulf during a falling tide. It might take a few hours, but I bet we can find the spot where his boat was anchored.”
“I don’t know,” Morgan said. “The sheriff prefers to keep a tight lid on investigations, particularly major crime scenes.”
“Including a crime scene that’s outside the three-mile limit?” I said.
“And in a national wildlife refuge?” Deuce added.
The detective thought for a moment and seemed to come to a decision. “You find anything—” he began.
“You’ll be the first to know,” I interrupted.
“Mind if Evans goes with you?”
Devon looked nervously at Morgan. “Out on a dive boat?”
“Are you a diver?” I asked.
“No,” she replied. “Not even a boat person.”
“Take some Dramamine,” Morgan told her. “I want you with them.”
“What will you be doing?” she asked.
“Old-fashioned cop stuff,” he replied. “We know the guy is big. We know he’s a white guy with dark curly hair. He had to have gotten out to the victims’ dive site by boat. I’m gonna put together some road deputies and start canvassing boat rental places. I don’t think he’s much of a boat person, and he probably rented a boat. Someone might remember renting to him.”
Harley and Duke sat at Harley’s slightly elevated private table in the corner, with Jasmine sandwiched tightly between them. Unlike the other tables in Rafferty’s Pub, there was no candle in the middle of this one and the stage lights didn’t reach it, leaving the three of them in near total darkness but able to see the whole bar floor and stage.
The club’s patrons were otherwise occupied anyway, as a new girl spun around on the pole. Her full name, or at least the name she gave Harley when he hired her, was Jenae Saequa. She’d told him it was French for “a little something” and she sure was. No more than five feet tall, she couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds wearing a wet jacket. Her tiny body was firm and well-toned, and she performed with an athletic grace, spinning around the pole and even hanging upside down from it at times. She was obviously not a newcomer to pole dancing, and no stranger to performing in the nude. The men in the bar—as well as a couple of women—were enjoying the show and oblivious to the goings-on in the darkened corner.
Harley rarely touched the product he sold, preferring alcohol. But when his brother slid the tiny mirror toward him, with half a dozen lines of white powder on it, he picked up the small gold-plated tube and snorted one of them. Below the table, Jasmine was rubbing him through his jeans. Everything was going smoothly and, for the first time in a long time, Harley felt satisfied with where he was in life. So he leaned back, tossed down a shot of tequila, and let her slender fingers perform their magic on him.
Duke’s eyes were glued to the new girl on the stage. When she’d first come in, earlier in the day, he’d escorted her to Harley’s office. Standing next to her made Duke feel even larger. The top of her head didn’t even reach his chin, and he guessed that he probably weighed nearly three times what she did. Jenae had told Harley that she’d just arrived in Key West and was staying with a friend, but only for a few days, and she needed some fast cash.
Harley had told her that Wednesday nights were usually pretty busy and she accepted the one-night, tips-only trial gig, but would need to leave at midnight for another job.
The raucous music ended, and Jenae picked up a sheer white negligee and put it on as she left the stage. The music started again as the DJ introduced Brandy, who took the stage wearing brown-and-white chaps, knee-high white boots, and a white cowboy hat.
Duke’s eyes followed Jenae as she moved through the bar, talking to several patrons, until one nodded and stood up. She took the man by the hand and led him toward the VIP room in back.
“I gotta head out in a little while, Harley,” Duke said.
Jasmine had tugged Harley’s pants open and was now stroking him slowly under the table with one hand, while she held the gold tube to her nose with the other and snorted up another line.
“Where you gotta go?” Harley asked, tilting his head back, enjoying Jasmine’s manipulative fingers.
“Just got some personal stuff to take care of,” Duke replied, tossing down a shot of tequila.
Before Brandy finished her third dance, Jenae returned to the bar, again circulating around the tables, as the man she’d gone to the VIP room with headed for the front door, smiling. In minutes, Jenae was leading another half-drunk shrimper to the back room.
Harley tapped out a little more dust onto the mirror from a glass vial. Using a small razor blade, he quickly chopped up any large pieces into powder and then deftly cut them into several long straight lines. He was amazed at Jasmine’s dexterity, as she one-handed the gold tube, then leaned back, sniffing, and drank down half her shot glass—all while not missing a single stroke.
Several minutes later, the shrimper Jenae had taken to the VIP room staggered out and returned to his table. Duke watched as he quickly drank what was left in his glass, opened his wallet, and looked in it. The shrimper shrugged, tilted his glass again, and headed toward the door, munching on the ice. Duke knew that these men would tell their friends about the new girl in town, and they’d come back in droves. Nothing brought in business like good word of mouth.
Duke checked his watch and saw that it was almost midnight. He waited a moment more, and when Jenae didn’t return to the bar he knew she was in the dressing room, getting ready to leave. “Gotta run,” he said to his brother, who was now putty in Jasmine’s hands.
Harl
ey grunted as Duke stood up, pocketing the little glass vial with several grams still in it. He went straight to the back door and out into the small employee parking lot. Duke knew all the cars there, and walked quickly to his Jeep. He climbed in and waited. Jenae had arrived earlier that evening with a friend, and the other girl had left immediately.
Hope the other girl’s late, Duke thought, as he sat in the dark in his beefed up red Wrangler, watching the back door.
A moment later, Jenae stepped out and lit a cigarette while looking around the parking lot. She was wearing tight jeans, slung low on her hips, that hugged her legs all the way down to her ankles. Black three-inch heels added to the illusion of very long legs. Above the low-cut jeans, her tight belly was visible below a cut-off football jersey with the number sixty-nine on it.
Duke smiled and started the engine, revving it a few times, so Jenae would know he was there. He flicked on the lights and pulled out of his parking spot, turning toward her.
Duke stopped just a few feet from where she stood and killed the engine. “You got someone coming?” he asked, innocently, as if he were just a boss looking out for one of his new employees.
“I just called her,” Jenae replied, recognizing the giant man in the Jeep and smiling. “Said she’s running late, but she’ll be here in like twenty minutes, so I came out for a smoke.”
“Call her back,” Duke said, trying to be cool and in control, like his brother. “I’ll be happy to give you a lift.”
“It’s way up on Big Coppit Key,” she said, taking a tentative step closer. “I wouldn’t want to put you out or anything.”
Duke grinned, like he’d seen his brother do to seduce women. “No big deal. I’m going up island to Sugarloaf anyway. Big Coppit’s right on my way.”
Jenae smiled and stepped up beside the Jeep, trying to lift a leg to get in. But she was too short, her jeans too tight, and the Jeep’s oversized mud-tires too tall.
“Hang on,” Duke said, setting the brake. He reached up and grabbed the roll bar, lifting himself from the seat and swinging his legs out.
Duke quickly moved around to the passenger side, where he easily scooped Jenae up like she was nothing. She squealed, wrapping an arm around his neck and hanging on. Duke gently placed her on the Jeep’s passenger seat.
Fallen Hero: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 10) Page 12
