Far From Shore (Coastal Justice Suspense Series Book 2)

by Mark Stone

  “Something like that,” I conceded.

  “Figures,” Boomer chuckled. “Well, far be it from me to make a liar out of my best friend.” He dug into his pocket, and pulled out a scrap of paper with a name, number, and address scribbled across it in his own horrendous handwriting. “I want you to start here,” he said, handing me the paper.

  “Jack Lacey,” I said aloud, reading the card.

  “He used to be a damned good officer in the Coast Guard, the best at SARs. That’s search and rescue,” he explained.

  “I know what it means,” I answered. “I watch the Discovery Channel just like everybody else.”

  “He was the best,” Boomer answered as the wind started to pick up. The temperature had dropped a few degrees pretty rapidly too. A storm was coming in to tamp down the heat. “People called him the Finder, if I’m not mistaken. I think he might be able to help you out.”

  “Called?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “You mean he’s not with the Guard anymore?”

  “He was honorably discharged about a year and a half ago,” Boomer explained. “Had some issues.”

  “I’m sure he did,” I said, offering the paper back to Boomer. “I can handle this one on my own.”

  Boomer knew how I felt about people who stepped out on their duties. My grandfather was in the Army for more than a few years; served right through Vietnam and never opened his mouth to complain. Honorable was definitely better than not, but a discharge still meant that this Jack Lacey had run out on his commitment, and I didn’t need someone like that riding shotgun with me.

  “I’m not asking you to give him a badge and a side arm. I just want you to question him and see what he knows. Maybe get his take on everything and what he thinks happened here.” He solidified his stance. “In fact, I’m not asking you anything. I’m going to need you to do what I said, Detective.” Boomer smiled.

  “You really love playing the ‘chief’ card, don’t you?” I shook my head.

  “What’s the point in having it if you don’t use it?” he asked. “And that’s not all. Debbie’s making pot roast tomorrow night and the girls have plans with their friends. I’m gonna need you to come over and help me polish it off.”

  “The ‘chief’ card get you that too?” I asked, grinning.

  “Nah,” Boomer said, patting me on the shoulder. “I don’t need the 'chief’ card for that. I can just threaten to tell your grandfather what really happened to his car the night of your sixteenth birthday.”

  “That’s cold,” I answered, thinking back to that night and letting the memory warm me. “Fair enough. Count me in.”

  “Good man,” he said, turning and heading back toward the department building. “Now go on home. You’ve worked way too much, considering it’s your day off.”

  “Guess I have,” I answered.

  “Oh,” he said, turning back toward me momentarily. “What’d your brother have to say for himself?”

  “That he didn’t do it,” I said. “That it wasn’t his car. Nothing new.”

  “Okay,” Boomer said. “I want you to stay away from that one. I know you well enough to know you probably swore to move Heaven and earth for that son of a bitch too.” He shook his head. “Don’t. You’ve got enough on your plate and I want you to focus on the Sands murder for now.” He nodded at me. “'Chief' card.”

  “'Chief' card,” I answered.

  *

  By the time I made it out to my truck and started toward home, the streets of Naples were packed. We were right in the middle of tourist season, a time of year that had grown considerably since I’d left home. Back before my time in Chicago, you could count on tourists bouncing around the winters months and then some in the summer, assuming they could stand the heat. Nowadays though, you were lucky to get six weeks in this coastal paradise without tourists crowding out the place.

  Part of me was happy to see that. Tourism was our lifeblood down here, after all. And, though I was a government employee whose salary was guaranteed regardless of the local economy, it did my heart good to see the people I grew up with; the gift shop owners, the barkeeps, and the auto mechanics doing well thanks to increased interest in our little oasis.

  I was stopped though and, given that my old Chevy barely had electric windows much less the Bluetooth capability to connected my phone to the speakers, I picked up the things and checked my messages.

  There was a text from my grandfather telling me he had been to his doctor’s appointment and that everything was “A-okay” with one of those smiley faces at the end. I didn’t like it when kids used those. The idea of my grandfather riding the next wave of technology sat even less easily with me. Still, I was happy that things were going reasonably well with this treatment and that, as I read in his next text, he felt well enough to “throw a few back with the boys tonight”. Thankfully, this text was “smiley face” free

  “It better not be too much, old man. You remember that Dr. Day said you needed to take it easy”, I wrote back. I had been happy when Dr. Rebecca Day decided to take the lead on my grandfather’s treatment. She was whip smart and one of the only people in the hospital who could put my grandfather in his place.

  As the traffic started moving forward, I placed the phone between my shoulder and ear and checked a voicemail from a number I didn’t recognize.

  I was weaving through bright orange cones and flashing signs telling the traffic to “Slow Down” when a woman’s voice came on the line.

  “Detective Storm, this is Joanna Headley, your brother’s secretary. I spoke to Mr. Storm earlier and he wanted me to give you the number of Rayburn’s Body Shop. He also told me to tell you to ask to speak to Daniel Rayburn. He’s the mechanic your brother spoke to regarding the work he was supposed to do to the back bumper and to also give you the number of the man your brother hit, causing the damage.” The woman proceeded to give me the numbers and, though I had promised to keep my distance from the case, I wrote them down anyway. At the very least, I could give the intel to whoever Boomer put in charge of getting to the bottom of things.

  I was about to hang up when the woman continued.

  “And, Detective Storm, if you wouldn’t mind referring a message to your brother, as it’s going to be difficult for me to get in touch with him before his bail hearing. Would you tell him that the board has caught wind of his recent troubles, and that they’ve scheduled an emergency meeting for three days from now.” She took a deep, almost troubled breath. “And please tell him that he was right. Mr. Cash is spearheading it. I appreciate your time, Detective, and I hope what Peter says about you is true. Because, if you really are the good Storm, I know you’ll get to the truth of this.”

  The message ended and I tapped the end button on my phone, tossing it into the cup holder. My mind was racing as I looked toward the road. The work zone had come to an end and the traffic was starting to break into a more rapidly moving line. It was still crowded, but not so much as to aggravate me anymore. I couldn’t say the same about Peter’s charges, because those were nipping away at my brain in a most unwelcome fashion.

  The case was as open and shut as they came on the surface. Peter was caught driving the car. He was under the influence of something. Drugs were found in the car. It was an easy conviction. Something still didn’t feel right though. The motive wasn’t there and, though it pained me to admit this to myself, there was more to it.

  I had interacted with my brother recently, and I was a damned good detective. I could tell when people were lying most of the time, especially when they were people I knew or people I had come into contact with in meaningful ways. It might have been stupid and it certainly wasn’t enough to base an investigation on, but I believed what Peter was telling me. I believed he wasn’t guilty.

  Then, as though fate herself was guiding me in the right direction, a car in front of me caught my eye. It was a black BMW, like Peter’s. And there, on the right side of the back bumper, was a huge dent.

  It was just like
Peter said. It was his car.

  Chapter 9

  My hands tightened around the steering wheel, making a mental note of the license plate number and glaring at the car. If I was right and this was actually Peter’s car, then that meant his story about someone drugging him, switching out the registration information, and planting drugs in the trunk might actually be true. If it was, it meant not only that my gut feeling was spot on, but that this crime went deeper than what met the eye.

  Trailing back just a little, I threw my blinker on and got over in the left lane, keeping a few cars between myself and the dented bumper of the black BMW.

  Reaching for my phone, I dialed Tammy’s personal phone number and put her on speaker.

  “I didn’t think you were ever going to use this,” she said, after picking up on the second ring. “I was starting to think giving you my number a few weeks ago was a waste of time.”

  There was some flirtiness in her voice, though no more than usual, which was good. It meant she was most likely still at work, and that was where I needed her to be.

  “Tammy, I need you to do me a favor,” I said, my eyes trained on the black BMW as it turned off of Main Street and onto Peachtree, which would have been even more crowded this time of day.

  “Just say the word, sugar,” she answered coyly. A pang of guilt ran through me. This woman was obviously sweet on me and, at another time, I might have even repaid the favor. I wasn’t in a position to do that right now though, and certainly not with someone I worked alongside. As it was, I hoped the favor I was about to ask her didn’t come off as too presumptuous.

  “I’m very literally following a lead on a case. I need you to run a license plate for me, but I need you to keep it between us.”

  She waited just a beat before she answered and I thought, for all the world, that she was going to either turn me down flat or berate me about rules and regulations.

  Instead, she just muttered, “So that’s why you called me on my personal phone? So the call wouldn’t be monitored?”

  “Tammy,” I started, turning on Peachtree and finding that the black BMW had woven its way up a full quarter of a mile in the traffic. I was going to have to move quicker.

  “It’s alright,” she stated quickly. “I get it, and of course I’ll do that for you, sugar. Give me five.”

  I read the number off to her and she hung up. Refocusing the full of my attention on the car in front of me, I leaned up in the driver’s seat, surveying the area.

  I needed to keep the car in my line of sight, but I saw very little need to do more than that. If Peter really had been framed, then it would be in my best interest to find out where this car was headed. So long as I stayed on its tail, I’d be able to get whoever was inside as well as whoever they were going to see. The adage about birds and stones ran through my head as the car turned off Peachtree and onto Arbor.

  Damn. Arbor was heading into a more residential neighborhood. If we had ever one car between us on that strip, we’d be lucky. My only saving grace, of course, was the fact that I was in my truck and not a squad car. In this beat up Chevy, no one who didn’t know me would ever think I was a police officer. At least not one who was actively on duty.

  I pulled down Arbor as well, leaving behind the cover of traffic, but keeping my distance otherwise. I tried to think of where this car might be headed. There was nothing out here aside from houses. If you head out far enough, you’d reach farmland and a quick left would run you smack dab into the Gulf, where marinas and docks littered the sand along with bars, eateries, and boat shops. He could have been going any number of places. The thing I needed to figure out, in addition to where, was why.

  My phone rang and I answered it quickly. “Tammy,” I said, swallowing hard as I kept a watch on the black car, which I had now let get even further away from me. “What’d you find?”

  ‘That’s the thing,” she answered uneasily. “I didn’t find anything.”

  ‘What?” I asked, tightening my brow.

  “Are you sure those numbers are right?” she asked. “Because I couldn’t find a Collier County registration matching that description. Hell, I couldn’t find a Florida tag matching it.”

  “That’s the number,” I said sternly.

  “Should I check again?” she asked. “Should I let Chief Anderson know what’s goi--”

  “Check again,” I said. “Call me back if you find anything different. I’ll let Boomer know myself if I need to.”

  “Okay,” Tammy said, though I could tell she wasn’t as comfortable with all of this as she had been just a couple of minutes ago. I couldn’t blame her for that. This was as much confirmation as I needed that something wasn’t right.

  “Thanks, Tammy,” I said and didn’t wait for her to answer before I hung up the phone.

  I had only taken my eyes off the road for a second, just long enough to tap the “end call” button on my screen.

  When I looked up, a black BMW was roaring up the blind hill I was nearing. And it was doing so right in my lane.

  I jerked the wheel hard to the left, skidding into the opposite lane as the car whizzed by me, nearly flying down the back road.

  Screeching, I pulled the wheel hard, slowing down just enough to be able to turn around without flipping my damned truck. My heart was racing as I settled in the correct lane and slammed my foot down hard on the accelerator.

  The BMW had barely slowed as it neared me, and it wasn’t about to now as it neared Peachtree again. Whoever was driving the car must have made me. They knew I was following them, and maybe even knew I was a police officer. Though, in my truck, that would mean they knew who I was as well.

  They were obviously trying to scare me off. No one in their right mind would think a puny car like that could hold up to my fortress of a truck in a head on collision. No. Whoever was behind that wheel couldn’t continue in the direction they were going once they knew I was on their tail, and they wanted to delay me from being able to follow them again, maybe even scare me away.

  If that was their intention, they’d find it was a wasted one. Dillon Storm wasn’t the type to get scared easily, and the truth was I could drive a truck almost as well as I could drive a boat.

  I tightened my grip on the wheel as the BMW flew out onto Peachtree and into traffic. My heart skipped a beat, watching a red car swerve off the road in order to miss it.

  Breaking only slightly to make sure I had an opening, I pulled out onto Peachtree myself, flipping the switch that turned my lights and siren on. This guy obviously knew I was after him and, even if the impossible happened and this car wasn’t involved in what was going on with my brother, I had more than enough reason to pull him over.

  Of course, that would require the driver to actually slow the car down first.

  The black BMW wove out of traffic, faster and much more haphazardly than before.

  I followed suit as well as I could, though his reckless endangerment of those around him made it harder than it should have. Luckily, the people of Naples weren’t stupid, and the majority of them slowed down, throwing themselves into the opposite lane as they saw me bearing down toward them, sirens wailing.

  I neared the black car, but as I did, it slammed on brakes, spinning around and crossing the divider between the lanes.

  It left skid marks on the road as it switched directions, the tires moaning even louder than my sirens.

  I watched as the car pulled into into the opposite lane again. This time though, the car that was cut off of didn’t have time to react.

  It slammed into the black car, sending it fish tailing and sliding off the road and toward a thick rustle of swampland that lined the highway.

  I watched the car come to a stop, and knew this was my chance.

  With much more caution, I turned around myself. With a fresh accident on the scene and my flashers still going off, the cars on this side of the road slowed to a near stop.

  I pulled over to the black BMW and hopped out of my truck, pulli
ng the gun from holster.

  “Step out with your hands up!” I yelled as I rounded the car. As I did though, I saw that it was empty. Devoid on anyone, I noticed a pair of licorice whips in the driver’s side cup holder. They hadn’t been eaten, but the tops of them had been chewed down until they were basically mangled.

  Looking over to the nearby swampland, I knew that was where the driver had raced off to find cover. I started toward him, but then I heard a yell from behind me.

  “Officer!” A woman’s voice shrieked. “Officer! She’s hurt!”

  I turned to find the woman who had just slammed into the black car standing outside of her own crumpled red Buick. Her hand was pressed against her head, blood seeping out from her forehead.

  “Oh no,” I muttered and rushed over to the woman, cursing the driver and knowing I wouldn’t be able to follow.

  Chapter 10

  “Got yourself into a bit of trouble, I hear,” my grandfather said as he leaned all the way back in his recliner in the living room of The Good Storm.

  He and I had been on this boat (a gift from my brother after I basically saved his inheritance and kept him out of jail) for a few weeks now and, though the place would never be home the same way the ramshackle house I grew up in was, we were getting along pretty well. The interior of the boat was nicer than anything we had at home; all clean and shining. It had two bedrooms and two separate bathrooms, which was a hassle when it came time to deal with routine maintenance, but it was nice not having to share with the old man in the mornings.

  What was more, the living room area was spacious and Peter had made sure it was completely furnished, including the recliner my grandfather was enjoying right now.

  “Figured if one of us was gonna do it, I’d be the safer choice,” I answered, smiling back at him as I made my way to the fridge and pulled out a beer.