by Tripp Ellis
"Mr. Zamora would like to meet with you."
"Now?" I asked.
The man nodded. "It's a one-time offer, and Mr. Zamora doesn't like to be kept waiting."
I’d been angling for this meeting for a long time, and I wasn’t about to pass it up. But that didn’t mean I wasn't conflicted about it.
Reagan had a confused look on her face.
"I need to go,” I muttered. “Can we pick this up later?"
Her face crinkled, and she looked offended. "You're going to pass up this to go with him?"
"It's important."
"And I'm not?"
"I didn't say that.”
She flashed me a sassy look. "Your loss. This was a one-time offer too," she said, pointing to her hot little body as she backed away from me.
She spun around and sauntered down the dock toward the Wild Tide, putting an extra sway in her hips just to rub it in.
I exchanged a glance with the man, and there was a small degree of sympathy in his eyes. "You must really want to talk to Salvador?"
"You could say that."
"No weapons."
I figured as much. I didn't like it, but it was the terms of the meeting. I lifted my shirt and carefully pulled my holster from inside my waistband and handed the weapon to the man.
He took it from me and said, "You’ll get this back after the meeting."
Then he motioned for me to spin around while I held my shirt up.
"I need to frisk you."
"Whatever floats your boat.”
He patted my cargo shorts down, and when he was satisfied, he motioned me toward the SUV.
I climbed into the backseat and slid across the smooth leather. I buckled my safety belt, and the man climbed in beside me.
There was a driver and a passenger up front. Both of them were armed.
"What's your name?" I asked the man beside me.
I don't think he wanted to tell me.
"Call me Roderigo."
"Tyson," I said, extending my hand. I figured I would at least be cordial.
He stared at my outstretched hand and declined my offer.
Roderigo pulled the door shut and nodded to the driver. The SUV cruised out of the parking lot and whisked me to a palatial estate on the other side of the island. We pulled into a driveway, beyond wrought-iron gates, that opened automatically. We followed the drive and circled around to the front of the house. The driver parked the car, and Roderigo hopped out and held the door for me.
I thanked him as I stepped from the vehicle.
"This way," he said.
I followed him to the door, and the man in the passenger seat followed behind me. I didn't particularly like being sandwiched between the two thugs, but I desperately needed information from Salvador Zamora. I was willing to do just about anything to get it.
The foyer was tiled with Italian marble, and the dual staircases spiraled up to the second floor. To my left was a parlor with a nice library full of leather-bound editions. At the end of the foyer was the main living area. The home was impeccably decorated with what I would describe as modern classic furniture.
In the living room, Salvador Zamora mixed a drink at the wet bar and dropped in a few cubes of ice with silver tongs. They crackled when they hit the expensive liquor.
Salvador smiled. “Ah, Mr. Wild. So good of you to come. Can I offer you an adult beverage?"
"Sure."
"What's your poison?"
"I'll have what you're having."
“MacMillan X 64. My favorite."
"A man with good taste," I said.
It was an extremely expensive single malt scotch from the Highlands of Scotland. Not something you could buy at your local liquor store.
Salvador was impeccably dressed in a double breasted suit with a cotton broadcloth shirt, tie, and matching pocket square. He had dark, slicked back hair that was graying on the sides. He had an expertly trimmed mustache and goatee. His deep tan, dark eyes, and chilled features made him a hit with the ladies. This was a man who had good taste and enjoyed the finer things in life. He oozed style and sophistication. He didn't strike me as your average drug dealer.
Salvador was smart.
He never handled product himself. Never talked about his business on the phone or in email. From what I could tell, he only gave orders to his trusted associates, who then spread the commands to lower-level thugs on the totem pole.
The Feds could never get anything on him.
It drove them crazy.
He poured me a drink, dropping in a few cubes of ice, and handed me a glass. We toasted, and I sipped the fine whiskey.
It was smooth with a capital S.
"What can I do for you?" He knew damn good and well why I was here. Big Tony had told him everything.
I needed to phrase things carefully. Salvador would never implicate himself in any criminal activity.
“Let me preface this by saying I am here strictly for personal reasons. Not in any official capacity."
"If you were here in an official capacity, we wouldn't be having this meeting."
I smiled. "Some acquaintances of yours were killed a few years ago. The weapon used to kill them was the same weapon that was used to kill my parents. I thought, perhaps…“
"…I might be able to shed some light on the situation?" He paused for a moment, giving away nothing.
I wasn't entirely sure he would answer my question.
Then, after an almost unbearable silence, he said, "I have a vague recollection of reading something in the paper about those two men. I wouldn't call them acquaintances. It's possible that I met them socially here or there, you understand."
I nodded. I knew they were his employees.
The whole act was bullshit. But I didn't care how he told me what happened, as long as he told me. I could read between the lines.
"What I recall, and I could be mistaken, was that those men were shot on the water, and their boat, and whatever it contained, was stolen. Now, there was some speculation about an illicit transaction gone bad. At least, that's what I remember reading in the paper."
"These strangers that you don't know… If you had to guess, who do you think may have killed them?"
"I like to fancy myself an armchair detective,” Salvador said. “I love mystery novels. I'm fascinated by cold case files. I watch all of those crime shows on the Internet."
"Me too."
“That particular crime went unsolved, but it seemed obvious to me that the authorities should have looked into Esteban Rivera. He was a large trafficker of narcotics at the time."
“At the time? Where is he now?” I asked.
“A few bad decisions, a few enemies made, that kind of thing can make a man go into hiding.”
“Any idea where?”
Salvador smiled. “If only I knew. Perhaps he went back to Columbia.”
I suddenly realized why Salvador was helping me. He probably wanted Esteban taken care of.
"Do the initials XC mean anything to you?"
"Trust me,” Salvador said. “That's not who you're looking for."
I regarded him curiously.
"From what I hear, XC is just a low-level guy who deals in stolen merchandise. You want the man XC acquired the boat from. You want Esteban. He may not have pulled the trigger himself. But it was most likely men in his employ.”
"And you're certain about that?"
Salvador smiled. "I'm not certain about anything. This is all hearsay and conjecture. The ramblings of a crazy old man with a failing memory and a penchant for mystery novels."
Salvador Zamora wasn't old, his memory wasn't failing, and judging by the leather bound classics that lined the bookshelves in the parlor, he was well read.
"I appreciate your time and generosity."
We shook hands, and I swallowed the rest of the expensive whiskey. "Thanks for the drink."
"My pleasure. And I trust we will never meet again. Especially in a professional capacity."
Disappointment didn't even begin to describe the way I felt when I returned to the boat. Reagan was passed out in the guest room. So much for indulging desires.
I took Buddy for a walk to burn off some energy, then I filled his bowl with water and made my way to the master suite. When I woke up the next morning, Reagan was already gone.
I made breakfast—an omelet with cheese, mushrooms, onions, and spinach. After taking Buddy out, I took a shower, got dressed, then grabbed my helmet and strolled down the dock toward Diver Down. It was a beautiful morning. There was a cool breeze coming off the water and not a cloud in the sky. The boats gently swayed in their slips.
I breathed in the fresh air. Despite the chaos, there was nowhere in the world I'd rather be.
I pushed into the restaurant and took a seat at the bar. "Have you seen Reagan?"
Madison was getting ready for the day. "Yeah, she stopped by not too long ago. She told me to tell you that she was going to the station to pick up her belongings, and that she would deliver the note to Elijah. Whatever that means?"
"Thanks. Did she say when she'd be back?"
"No." Madison paused. I could tell something was on her mind, but she was hesitant to ask. After a few moments, her curiosity got the best of her. "So, you two looked pretty… close last night. Anything interesting happen?"
"No. And if it did, I wouldn't tell."
Madison rolled her eyes. "Please, you two have had a thing for each other from the beginning."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"How is Jack?" Madison asked.
"I don't know. I'm about to call him."
"That's pretty scary stuff. I hope he's okay."
"Me too." I dialed Jack's cell phone.
After a few rings, he answered. "Have I got a story for you!”
"I'm all ears."
"Well, you're going to have to wait. My phone is about to die. Can you run by the house, grab my charger, and bring it up here?"
"Sure thing. Do you know when you're getting out?"
"They still have me hooked up to this monitor. I don't think I'm getting out of here until this afternoon, unless I organize a jailbreak."
"Have you had any more episodes?"
"Define episode? I mean, I certainly had my heart rate elevated last night, if you know what I mean?" Jack said in a lecherous tone.
He started to say something, but the call disconnected. I assumed his battery went dead.
"Looks like I'm Jack’s errand boy today," I said to Madison. "I'll catch you later."
I left the bar, pulled my helmet on, put on my gloves, and straddled the crotch rocket. I cranked the engine up and revved the throttle a few times, then eased out the clutch and rolled out of the parking lot, onto the highway.
I was wearing a T-shirt and cargo shorts—not my full race leathers. When I rode like this, I was extra cautious. I had put the bike down once before, and I didn't plan on doing it again. They say there are two kinds of motorcycle riders. Those that have crashed. And those that will crash. I hoped that I had gotten my one and only crash out of the way on this bike. But there were never any guarantees.
I zipped over to JD's and pulled into the driveway. I knocked on the door, and after 15 minutes of banging, Scarlett answered with an annoyed face. She squinted at me through tired eyes. She had a low, dry, raspy, morning voice. She whined, "What do you want?"
"I need to pick up a few things for Jack. You know where his phone charger is?"
She shrugged. "Feel free to look around. I'm going back to bed."
"What did you do last night after we dropped you off?"
She looked like she could have been hung over, and I worried for a moment that maybe she had gotten into a bottle to drown her anxiety.
"I was too wound up to sleep,” she said. “I stayed up watching movies till 4:30 AM."
I think she was telling the truth.
Scarlett yawned and stretched like a cat, then wiped the sleep from her eyes.
I rummaged through the house and found Jack's charger. "Do you think he needs anything else?"
"Maybe a fresh change of clothes for when he gets discharged?"
I went into Jack’s bedroom and fumbled through the drawers and picked out a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and a Hawaiian shirt. How could I go wrong with that choice?
"Do you want to go to the hospital with me?" I asked.
"Is he okay?"
"He sounded fine when I talked to him this morning."
"I'll go up there later. I have the keys to Jack's car." She grinned, then spun around and staggered back to her room and fell into bed.
I hopped back on the bike and cruised up to the hospital. A lady at the information desk in the lobby told me where the cardiac care unit was, and I took the elevators up to the 4th floor. Jack was in room C-415.
I strolled through the antiseptic hallway, looking for the room number. The walls were two-toned—sea-foam green on top, mauve on the bottom. There were fake plants in the corners and soothing pastel paintings of seascapes on the walls. The sound of ventilators filtered into the hallway from dim rooms. Death lingered in the shadows.
"Can I help you?" a nurse asked from behind the main station.
"Jack Donovan?"
An exasperated look washed over her face. It was easy to see that Jack had probably been a handful the previous night. This particular nurse was completely over it. She pointed to the room a few steps away.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
I poked my head into the room and saw JD reclining in bed, watching TV. He was still hooked up to the monitors, and his vitals displayed on a screen by the bed.
He looked relieved to see me. "Thank God. I didn't know what I was going to do without a phone."
“There's a phone right there," I said, pointing to the landline by the bed.
"Yeah, but I don't know anybody's number. That's all stored in my contacts in my phone."
I found an outlet for the charger and strung the chord to the bed. He plugged in his phone, and a few moments later, it sprang to life with a red charging icon.
I took a seat by the window. "How are you feeling?"
"Fan-fucking-tastic!"
"You look better than you did last night."
"I really think it's a result of coming off the medication. Ever since I stopped taking that stuff, I'm just a little irritable. Sweaty. I get dizzy easy."
"Well, hopefully that's all it is." I paused. "I take it you had a good time last night after we left?"
A look of pure ecstasy filled his face. "Oh, my God, dude! You would not believe it."
I just shook my head.
JD was about to tell me the story when Dr. Parker stepped into the room. "Good morning, gentlemen. How is our patient doing?"
"Top of the world," Jack said.
"Well, we didn't pick up any abnormalities in your heart rhythm last night. Your blood work is fine. I can't really find anything wrong with you. Your heart rate did get a little high during the night for a brief period of time, but from what the nurses tell me, that was due to external stimulus?"
A sheepish grin curled on Jack’s face and he shrugged.
"I’d like to keep you here until after lunch—just to give us some more data. If we don't catch anything on the monitor, I'll prepare your discharge papers, and you can go home. But I would like you to follow up with your cardiologist on Monday."
"Will do, Doc," JD said.
Parker left the room. He talked to a nurse in the hallway before moving on.
As soon as he was out of earshot, JD said, "So, get this. At first they were gonna put me in a semi-private room, and I said fuck that. I'll pay extra for a private room. I didn't want to be in with someone snoring all night. So, they finagled it so I could be in here. We're not in the room 15 minutes when Carol says to me, she's never done it in a hospital before."
I knew where this story was going before he even started telling it.
"S
o, I say, now's your chance." JD had a shit-eating grin on his face. "She pulled off that tube top and stripped out of those leather pants, and let me tell you… kapow! That woman is built like a brick shit-house.
“Then she asks, do you think you're healthy enough for sexual activity? You’re goddamn right I'm healthy enough, and if I'm not, I can't think of a better way to go out.
"So, she saddles up and goes to town. She's bouncing up and down, riding me like a goddamn rodeo queen. The heart monitor is going beep, beep, beep, beep. The bed's rattling and bumping into the wall, and I'm just trying to hang on for dear life.
“To top it off, she's a screamer.
“I mean, she's moaning and howling, and I know damn good and well everyone on the floor can hear it. One of the nurses comes in to check and make sure everything is okay, and I think she about had a heart attack when she saw us."
I chuckled.
"Needless to say, you can bring me to the hospital anytime if that shit’s gonna happen."
I laughed again.
A commotion in the hallway drew my attention. It sounded like an argument. Voices grew louder and louder. It was unusual for the cardiac care unit. My curiosity drew me to the door, and I peered down the hallway. My face crinkled with confusion at the sight.
17
"You cannot come in here, sweetie," the nurse barked in a condescending tone.
"Excuse me?" Denise said. She stood in the hallway in full uniform.
I rushed down the corridor to see what was going on. "Is there some kind of problem here?"
"I'm sorry, but strippers are not allowed in the hospital. Mr. Donovan cannot have any more visitors!"
Denise looked flabbergasted. "Strippers? You think I'm a stripper?"
The nurse looked her up and down. "You got the body for it."
The nurse had obviously either been on duty last night, or heard about Jack's escapades.
I flashed my shiny gold badge and said, "She really is a deputy sheriff. That isn’t a costume. Those aren't tear-away pants."
The nurse looked Denise over again. She forced a smile. "I'm sorry. My mistake."
I took Denise's arm and escorted her down the hallway. Her face was still crinkled with disbelief. "What's going on here?"
