“There’re always cars there.”
“It’d have been pretty simple,” I said. “He followed Nell home, popped her before she got into the house, stashed her body somewhere, drove his car to Bimini Bay, stole the boat, ran down the bay to the canal, put the body in the boat, went to Sister Key, left the body, took the boat back to the canal, and drove away in Nell’s car.”
“One of the neighbors would have heard the shot,” said Sam.
“Not necessarily,” said J.D. “That little twenty-two doesn’t make a lot of noise, and if he’d shot her in the car or inside the house, the noise would have been very limited.”
“Did your people take a look at the house to see if she was killed there?” asked Sam.
“Yes. The forensics people went over it with a fine-tooth comb. I don’t think she was shot inside the house. Maybe in her car.”
“You haven’t found her car?” asked Sam.
“Not yet.”
“The killer could be anywhere by now,” said Sam.
“He could,” said J.D. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Our trip back up the bay was uneventful. I called Jock to let him know that we were on our way back, and he met us on the dock behind Pattigeorge’s. J.D. left for the police station to see if she could get an update on the forensic examination of the boat. Jock and I helped Sam wash down Sammy’s Hat and left for home.
CHAPTER TEN
Jock and I settled into a couple of deck chairs on my patio, he with an O’Doul’s and I with a Miller Lite. The sun would be going down soon. I loved watching the sunset from the Gulf side and I often did, usually at the outside bar at the Hilton. But sundown on the eastern side of the island was beautiful as well. In a few minutes, as the sun sank toward the surface of the Gulf, its rays would reflect off the cumulus clouds hanging over the bay, painting them in bright pastels as the turquoise water turned gray in the diminishing light.
“How’s Gene doing?” I asked.
“Not well, but he’s tough. He’ll survive this, but it’ll take some time.”
“What’s he doing about a funeral?”
“He’ll bury her here as soon as the medical examiner releases the body.”
“Do you think the murder was some sort of revenge against Gene for his involvement with your agency?”
“I don’t see how. I don’t think anybody could connect him to our group. His cover was as an analyst for the State Department. But I think the murderer is going to be very surprised to find out that he killed one of us.”
“What do you mean?”
“He won’t like the final result.”
“Explain that to me.”
“The director told me to take the bastard out.”
“You mean kill him,” I said.
“Yep.”
“Will you?”
“If I get to him before the law does.”
“I don’t know, Jock. What about J.D.?”
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
“You can’t do that to her.”
Jock sat silently for a few minutes. I let him stew. He found himself in a paradox. J.D. was his friend and yet, so was Gene Alexander. Jock lived in a world where the bad guys were taken out. He killed them to protect all of us, his countrymen. I think he died a little with every one of the enemy he killed, no matter how deserving that person was of death. I was one of the few people in the world outside his agency who knew what he did for a living. He was a sometime assassin, a man sent by his government to kill those who would kill us. And when the deed was done, when he’d carried out his orders, finished his mission, he’d come to Longboat Key and crawl into a bottle of bourbon for a week. His nights were long and arduous, filled with regret and anger and self-loathing. He’d talk about our childhood in the small town in the middle of Florida where we’d grown up, of how he’d ended up in the service of his country, a noble calling, but one filled with duties beyond the understanding of the ordinary American. He hated what he did, but knew he was better qualified than almost anyone in the world to carry out his missions. And he knew that those missions were crucial to the survival of our nation. So he went out into the world and did evil to the evildoers. Was there some balance there? Or was he just another killer, no better than the idiots who killed for their rancid causes?
The answers never came, but by the end of the week, the week we called the cleansing time, he slowed down on the drinking, nursed less severe hangovers, and began running miles each day on the beach, leaching the alcohol and the hatred out of his system. Then he’d go back to the wars, back to the dismal pursuit of his deranged quarry, back to protecting his country.
“I won’t betray J.D.,” he said.
“What then?”
“She’s potentially a target. If I killed the guy and she didn’t know about it, she’d continue to feel threatened. I won’t do that to her.”
“Where does that leave you and the director’s order?”
“It wasn’t really an order. More like permission.”
“Then what’ll you do?”
He chuckled. “Play it by ear, I guess. If I can kill the guy without compromising J.D., I’ll do it. If not, he belongs to her and the law.”
I said, sarcastically, “I know she’ll be pleased.”
Jock laughed. “We’re not going to mention this to her, are we?”
“Not on a bet. She’d pack your ass off to Houston before you could get your gear together.”
“She’s tough, podna. God, she’s tougher than you and me put together.”
“And a lot prettier,” I said.
My phone began to play the first bars of The Girl from Ipanema.
“J.D.,” I said as I wrenched the phone from the pocket of my shorts.
“Geez,” said Jock, rolling his eyes.
“Good afternoon, Detective,” I said.
Jock shook his head, grinning.
“Aren’t we formal?” said J.D.
I looked at my watch. It was after six. “You up for some dinner?”
“Sure. What’ve you got in mind?”
“How about the Lazy Lobster in thirty minutes?”
“I’ve got to shower and change. Give me an hour.”
“Okay, Toots.”
“Toots? Have you lost your mind?”
“Sorry, Detective. See you in an hour.” I closed the phone.
“Call her ‘Toots’ again and she’ll probably shoot you,” said Jock.
“Yeah. I gotta watch my mouth.”
We drank another beer, showered, dressed, and left the cottage for the two-mile drive down the island to the Lazy Lobster Restaurant. We didn’t know that we were driving straight into the path of a murderer.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The restaurant was housed in the Centre Shops on Gulf of Mexico Drive. We pulled into the parking lot, a sea of asphalt that was well shaded during the day by trees planted in the medians that bordered the parking spaces. At night, the trees partially blocked the security lights, giving the place a dappled look, one that could be a bit scary in a city, but not on our key. We didn’t have much crime and what we had was never violent. An occasional car burglary, but that was about it.
We parked and were standing in the shadows at the end of a row of cars, waiting for J.D. to join us. I saw her Camry turn into the lot. She passed us, waved, and drove toward an open space about halfway down the line of cars. A cream-colored BMW coupe came in behind her and turned down the same parking lane J.D. had taken.
“Shit,” said Jock. “That’s Nell’s car.”
“What?” I asked, but Jock was moving like a sprinter coming off the blocks, pulling his ever-present pistol from the rear waistband of his pants, running toward J.D., calling to her. I had been so engrossed in my thoughts that I’d missed the BMW. Jock was several feet in front of me as I began to run after him.
J.D. was getting out of her car as the BMW passed her and stopped a couple of car lengths from where she had pulled in. The
BMW did not move, just sat in the driving lane, lights on, engine idling. The door opened and a man stepped out. Even from a distance of fifty feet, I could see the look of alarm on J.D.’s face as she perceived the danger. Her instincts were good. She dropped to the ground and rolled to her right, sheltering behind a parked SUV. I was running after Jock, not sure what was going on.
The man from the BMW was standing beside the car, a pistol in his hand. He fired two shots in rapid succession toward J.D. Missed. He looked in Jock’s direction and his pistol barrel started to move toward a new target. He was a half-second slow, and that cost him his life. Jock fired just as the man let loose his second shot at J.D. Had the man fired only once, he might have had a chance. Maybe his concentration on J.D. was so intense he didn’t see Jock barreling toward him, pistol coming out, rising to point at him. We’d never know. Jock’s shot, made on the run, caught the man just above his right eye. He fell backward from the impact, dead in the instant the bullet hit.
Jock was past J.D., running full out to make sure the man was truly dead. I stopped to check on J.D. She had her pistol out and was positioning herself to join the firefight. I told her it looked like it was over. “I think Jock killed the son of a bitch,” I said.
She got up, her pistol in her right hand, pointed toward the asphalt, her phone in her left calling for backup. We moved cautiously toward Jock, who was standing over the dead man. “This could be Craig,” she said, “the man Sam told us about. Look at the tattoos on his arms.”
The man lay sprawled on his back next to the open door of the BMW, his arms stretched out over his head. The interior light from the car shown weakly on the ugly tattoos that covered his arms below the elbows. He was dressed in a tropical print shirt, cargo shorts, and ancient boat shoes. A foul odor emanated from him, a mélange of unwashed body, day-old booze, and bad breath. Except that he wasn’t breathing anymore.
We were only a half mile from the police station and within minutes two cruisers careened into the parking lot, sirens screaming, blue-and-red lights flashing. The first one came to a stop a few feet from us and Officer Steve Carey stepped out, pistol drawn.
“J.D.,” he said. “You all right?”
“I’m fine. I don’t think there’re any more bad guys around.”
“Where’d he come from?” he asked, pointing to the dead man.
“He was in that BMW. I think he followed me from my condo.”
“Did you call in the tag number on the BMW yet?”
“Sorry,” she said, her voice tight. “I’ve been a little busy.”
Steve grinned, reaching for his radio mic. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll take care of it.”
The cop from the second cruiser walked up. “Should I call the medical examiner?”
“Yeah,” said J.D, “and let’s get this area cordoned off. We’ll need the forensics unit, and somebody better let Sharkey know.”
“I’ve already called him. He’s on his way. The chief, too. He just got in from Spain.”
A crowd was gathering, but so far no one had gotten too close. The young officer went to his cruiser trunk and pulled out a roll of yellow tape and began to surround the area with it. One of the spectators asked the cop when he could get his car out, pointing to a Mercedes parked next to J.D.’s car. “It may be a while, sir. We’re investigating a death.”
“I’ll be in the bar,” the man said.
The crowd was good natured and turned back to the restaurant. I suspected the bar’s booze stock would be greatly diminished before the scene was released and the guests could get their cars out.
“J.D.,” Carey said, “the BMW is Nell Alexander’s car.”
“Okay,” said J.D. “Nobody touch it until the forensics people have a look at it. Steve, can I borrow your flashlight?”
She shined the light on the dead man’s arms. “Those are prison tats if I’ve ever seen them,” she said. She ran her hands over his body, searching for any weapons or anything else he might have on him.
“Matt, help me roll him over. I need to see if he has anything in his back pocket.” We checked. “Nothing,” she said. “He’ll be in the system. As soon as we can run his prints, we’ll know who he is.”
“J.D.,” I said, “how do you know he followed you from home? And why? If he was planning to kill you, wouldn’t it have made sense to do it there? Less people.”
“That may have been his intention. When I came down the elevator to my car, several of my neighbors were in the parking lot, talking to that cop over there putting up the tape. He recognized me and said there had been an incomplete 911 call from one of the condos, and he’d been sent over to check it out. It turned out to be just a mistake in dialing by the owner. She and a couple of visitors were in the lot talking to the officer. I guess the shooter was spooked by the patrolman.”
“That was a lucky break,” I said.
She smiled ruefully. “Yeah. When I came out onto Dream Island Road and turned onto Gulf of Mexico, I noticed a car behind me, but didn’t think anything about it. No reason to. I guess he followed me here, and took his shot. He probably didn’t see you and Jock, or at least didn’t think you were any danger to him. Bad mistake. I owe you a big one, Jock.”
Jock had been standing quietly next to the BMW. “That’s what friends are for,” he said.
“How did you know, Jock?” I asked. “You reacted so quickly.”
“I’m not sure. Instinct, I guess. There was something wrong about the scene. The BMW was similar to Nell’s and it was right behind J.D. As soon as J.D. got out of her car, he got out of his. It just looked like a setup of some kind. Maybe the fact that Nell’s car was a BMW was banging around in the back of my brain. And I thought I saw a glint of light reflected off his gun. But that may just have been my imagination. I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger though, if he hadn’t shot at J.D. first.”
Steve Carey came over. “J.D., Sharkey and the chief will be here in about ten minutes. The crime-scene people are sending a wrecker to tow the BMW to the sheriff’s forensics garage so they can take a good look at it. The chief said for you to go on into the restaurant and make yourself comfortable until he gets here.”
“I can’t go in there looking like this,” she said.
I noticed for the first time that the slacks she was wearing had a tear at the knee. “Are you hurt?” I asked.
“No. I skinned my knee when I jumped behind that SUV, but nothing serious.”
“Let me look at it, J.D.,” said Steve Carey. The Longboat cops are all trained emergency medical technicians. He bent down and pointed his flashlight at the area where the slacks were torn. “A little road rash. Let me clean it up and get some antiseptic and a bandage on it. You don’t want it to get infected.”
By the time Steve had finished with her knee, Sharkey and Chief Bill Lester drove into the parking lot. Martin Sharkey was a tall man who kept in good shape and probably wore the same size clothes he had in high school. His close-cropped dark hair was turning gray at the temples. Lester was shorter, his brown hair thinning a bit on the top. He had a little belly that he needed to be careful of, and a demeanor that told you he was in charge, even when his face was split by his famous grin. Both men were well liked and respected on the key, and they often fished with me aboard Recess.
“Well, Jock,” said Lester as he walked up, “here you are on my island, and the shit hits the fan. What is it with you?”
“Must be my personality, Bill. How was Spain?”
“Muy bueno.”
“Learned some of the lingo?”
“Sí.”
“Good for you.”
“You just heard my entire vocabulary. But the wine was excellent. Where’s Logan? When you two are causing trouble, he’s usually in the mix.”
Logan Hamilton was my best friend on the island. “He and Marie are spending some quality time down in Key West,” I said. “He should be back tomorrow or the next day, assuming the island doesn’t run out of Scotch in the meantime.”<
br />
He turned to J.D. “I understand somebody took a shot at my favorite detective.”
“Your only detective,” said J.D. “Jock saved my butt.”
“Bring me up to date.”
“How much do you know about the Alexander murder?”
“Martin called me yesterday about finding the body, but I couldn’t get a flight out until this morning. He kept me updated by phone though, so I’m pretty much up to speed. Do you think this guy killed Nell Alexander?”
“Maybe.” J.D. told Lester and Sharkey what we’d found out from Sam earlier in the day. “I put it all in a report that’s probably on your desk by now. This guy fits the description and the BMW belonged to Mrs. Alexander. I don’t think there’s much doubt that he’s the killer. Maybe the car will give up the evidence we need to be sure.”
A Manatee County Sheriff’s SUV pulled into the lot, towing a trailer. “Here come our portable lights,” said Lester. “You guys know the drill. We’ll have to have detailed statements from all of you. Why don’t you go on home, and I’ll send somebody by later.”
“We can’t leave,” I said. “Our cars have been impounded.”
“I’ll get Steve Carey to drop you off.”
“We’ll be at my house, Bill,” I said.
I ordered pizza from Oma’s on Anna Maria Island, and the kid in the Jaguar delivered it. He was probably the only pizza dude in the whole country who drove a new Jag. I liked his chutzpa and always gave him a big tip. I opened some cold beer for J.D. and me and an O’Doul’s for Jock. We were still a little shaken from the ordeal at the Lazy Lobster.
“What do you make of this, J.D.?” asked Jock.
“I think you got the guy.”
“But why was he trying to kill you?”
“I don’t know. I guess he was the same one who was on the phone last night.”
“Have you gotten anything from Miami yet?”
“No. But the chief of detectives down there promised me something by noon tomorrow. I think it’ll be a lot more detailed than anything they’ve sent us. But I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen the one from tonight. If I’d put him away, I’d remember.”
Fatal Decree Page 5
