Wild Fury

by Tripp Ellis

  The groupies cheered when the song was over and made rock 'n' roll gestures with their hands.

  The rest of the band tried to hide their grins. They all exchanged a surprised look. They were all thinking the same thing. Holy shit! Who is this guy?

  The band had played the entire song—longer than 8 bars.

  JD looked at me with a cocky grin, then back to the band. "It was fun, gentlemen. I'm sure you need to get to work," he said to the drummer.

  "No, man. I think I could stick around for another song. If you're up for one?"

  JD pretended to think about it for a moment. "I guess I could hang out with you fellas for another tune."

  The drummer asked Jack what song he'd like to do next.

  JD replied, "Dealer's choice. I can sing anything you throw at me."

  The drummer conferred with the rest of the band, then counted off the beat again. The guitar blazed, and the bass thumped. JD screamed into the microphone again.

  I kept my ears plugged.

  By the time the second song was over, several more groupies and musicians had spilled into the small rehearsal space to see what was going on. There was nothing else coming out of the warehouse that sounded as good.

  I guess the drummer decided to blow off work, or it was a bullshit excuse to begin with, because the audition turned into a full-on practice session as the band ran through a set of 10 songs. It was like a mini concert, and the room was packed by the end.

  After a quick glance to the rest of his bandmates, the drummer set his sticks across the snare drum, climbed off the drum stool, leaned across the toms, and shook JD's hand. "The gig is yours if you want it. That was fucking awesome, man!"

  There were more howls and cheers from the impromptu crowd.

  JD shot a quick glance to me. I shrugged, why not?

  JD grinned. "Count me in!"

  There were smiles all around.

  "Excellent," the drummer said. "I'm Styxx, that's Dizzy on guitar, and Crash on bass."

  "Jack Donovan. But everybody calls me JD."

  Jack shook hands with Dizzy and Crash.

  Styxx frowned and shook his head. "Cool, man. But you need a stage name. Something rock 'n' roll."

  Jack's face twisted as he pondered a name. "I'll think of something."

  "Dude, you're way better than our last singer," Dizzy said.

  "You ain't seen nothing yet," JD replied. "When's the first gig?"

  "We just fired our old singer. We've got a spot Saturday at the Sonic Temple. I wasn't sure we'd be ready in time," Styxx said. "But, shit, we could play a set tonight and kill it!"

  He had a wide grin on his face.

  "About the band name…" Jack started.

  A worried look crinkled on Styxx's face. "You don't like it?"

  JD's face twisted. "While I think the name Louder Than Fuck is appropriate, I think we could come up with something that has more potential. Plus, if your old singer sucked, you don't want to carry that baggage into the new band, do you?"

  Styxx exchanged another glance with Dizzy and Crash. Then he shrugged. "New singer, new name. Sounds fair. Got anything in mind?"

  JD's face scrunched up, and he scratched his chin. "How about Wild Fury, in honor of my buddy here?"

  Jack pointed to me.

  The band exchanged a glance. "I can dig it," Styxx said.

  "Wild Fury!" Dizzy howled, flashing a rock 'n' roll hand sign above his head.

  "Wild Fury it is!" Crash added.

  There were cheers from the impromptu audience.

  "What do you think?" Styxx shouted to the crowd. "Does it work?"

  They howled even louder.

  There were grins all around.

  "Can you make rehearsal tomorrow at 4 PM?" Styxx asked.

  "Yeah, I think I can swing that," JD said.

  "Rock 'n' roll, man!" Styxx said.

  The two shook hands again.

  A crowd of people came up to JD and congratulated him. There were lots of pats on the back and more handshakes. Gorgeous groupies flirted with JD.

  He didn't mind one bit.

  Something told me his foray into music was going to be a raucous affair.

  6

  We left the rehearsal hall, climbed into Jack's Porsche, and headed over to Oyster Avenue. The sun hung low in the sky, and the street brimmed with tourists, hopping from bar to bar.

  There was always a steady stream of tourists, but the crowd grew thicker after dark. We stopped at Sand Bar for happy hour. It was a beach-themed bar with sand dunes painted on the walls, a sand volleyball court in the back, and lots of pretty people in skimpy attire. We took a seat at a cocktail table and ordered a round of drinks from a pretty little blonde waitress named Rosalie. She brought us two ice-cold beers in longneck bottles, sweat dripping down the labels. JD and I lifted our bottles, clinked necks, and toasted.

  "To rock 'n' roll," JD said with a grin.

  "To rock 'n' roll."

  We each took a well-deserved swig.

  "Congratulations!" I said.

  "Why not have a little fun, right?" JD said. "I can do the rockstar thing for a little bit. And did you see some of those groupies?" Jack had a lecherous glint in his eyes. "I don't know why I didn't think of doing something like this before."

  The conversation sparked something in JD's mind. "Which reminds me. I need to call Scarlett. She had her screen test today. Hopefully her audition went as well as mine."

  Scarlett was back in Los Angeles, pursuing the dream. She was up for a small role in David Cameron's next picture, Ultra Mega 2.

  He was one of the biggest directors in Hollywood, helming one of the biggest franchises. The superhero action movie was one of the highest grossing films of all time and starred Bree Taylor. Since her death, the studio was in a panic about how to continue the series.

  There were a lot of big-name actresses in line for the role, and every week some gossip blog put forth a new theory about who would assume the mantle. Scarlett was up for a small part—a few lines at best. But it could be her big break.

  Her foray into acting hadn't gone well so far. Hollywood can be a tough town with a lot of pitfalls to navigate. I had my fingers crossed that she'd catch a break. From what I could tell, she had been working hard and was staying out of trouble. I was all for whatever would keep her on the straight and narrow.

  Jack pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Scarlett's number. It rang a few times then went straight to voicemail. "Hey, sweetie! Just calling to see how your screen test went. Give me a call back when you get a chance. Your old man’s got good news."

  He grumbled and slid the phone back into his pocket. "I can never get through to that girl. I bet she'd pick up the phone for you."

  "I'm sure she'll call you when she's got good news to share," I said.

  "Oh, she'll call when she needs more money in her bank account, that's for sure. I hope she books this gig so I can stop paying rent on that apartment of hers." Jack took another sip of his beer. "Speaking of housing, I'm almost hesitant to ask, but what's the status of the pending sale of Diver Down?"

  I frowned and shrugged. "I think the closing is next week. I'm kind of out of the loop. It's beyond my control."

  "So, Madison's really gonna go through with the sale?"

  "Looks like it."

  "And you still don't know who the buyer is?"

  "She won't say."

  "Can you pry it out of Brynn? She's still handling the deal, isn't she?"

  "She's being tightlipped about it. I think Madison is worried I'm going to try to derail the whole thing. All I know is somebody came in with an offer considerably more than she was asking, and more than Finley was willing to pay." I sighed. "I don't blame her. Madison needs to do what she needs to do, and, I guess, if that means selling Diver Down and the marina, so be it."

  Jack frowned.

  "Look, it's out of my hands. There's nothing I can do at this point."

  "Maybe we should look at getting a slip o
ver at the club?" JD suggested.

  "We'd have the club initiation fee, dues, and we would be paying four times what we're paying now for the slip fee. The place is meant for people with too much money and not enough sense. I talked to Finley. She agreed to let me rent a slip over at the Nautilus."

  The Nautilus was one of Finley Morgan’s premier properties. A luxury high-rise with an upscale marina that was for residents only. The young, beautiful real estate mogul was fast on her way to becoming one of the largest property owners on the island.

  Jack's head teetered on his shoulders, weighing out the pros and cons of that option. "Not bad. I sure am gonna miss the marina at Diver Down, though."

  "Me too!"

  "It's got a good vibe. Most of the people are cool. It's not too stuffy. Sure, there are a couple people with sticks up their butts. We just need to land in a place that’s not gonna kick us out for having a few parties now and then."

  JD's parties could often get quite out of hand.

  I was playing the sale of Diver Down casually, trying to act like I was at peace with it. But I really wasn't. After my encounter with Esteban Rivera, I wasn't sure what to think about anything anymore. Regardless of what the scumbag had said, the property was the last bit of my parents that I had left to cling onto. Maybe I needed to let all of that go? But Diver Down just felt like home.

  In all my years of traveling the globe and running special ops and clandestine missions, I didn't have a home. I got used to calling home wherever I could find a place to lay my head for the night. But after spending time in Coconut Key, I had gotten used to the stability in my life. My friendship with Jack, my strained relationship with my sister, Madison, my work with the Sheriff's Department—this was home. These are the things that matter to me. And Diver Down, and the marina, were part of that.

  I had always practiced a sort of Zen-like detachment from material possessions. At the end of the day it's not about the toys or the money in your bank account. It's about the bond you forge, the relationships you build, and the good you can do. Madison was right, I would land on my feet no matter what happened, but I wanted to find a way to keep possession of the property. Seeing it turned into a high-rise development, or luxury resort, or entertainment center with restaurants and bars didn't sit well with me. I had no idea what this new buyer's plans were for the property, and that made me nervous.

  More and more the island was getting covered over with concrete and tall structures. With each new development, the quirky charm of the island slipped away. A lot of the long-time Islanders were fond of the phrase keep Coconut Key weird.

  I was beginning to agree with them.

  I didn't want to see the place turned into this corporatized destination designed to extract the most money possible from tourists and residents alike.

  I liked the hole-in-the-wall bars and the laid-back vibe. There was a sense that time stood still in Coconut Key, like the rest of the world didn't exist. It was like an alternate dimension. Sure, the island had its problems. But it had a quaint, old-school charm to it. I hoped the island would never lose that spirit. But one by one, as new developments came in and tore down all the places that gave Coconut Key its character, I felt like we were heading down that inevitable, soulless path.

  I had to find a way to come up with the money to purchase the place from Madison.

  "I bought some new gear," JD said. "A ground-penetrating radar with a range of up to 40 feet. You do not want to know how much that thing cost. If there's treasure buried on Angelfish Key island, we'll find it. This thing will send a wireless signal to your iPad and create a 3-D image. It's pretty amazing."

  "I'm telling you, it's out there."

  "I say we get back out there first part of next week. Nobody's ever out there on Monday."

  My phone buzzed in my pocket, interrupting my thoughts. I pulled the device out and looked at the caller ID on the screen. It was Felicity Brock, Colt Steel's attorney. I had done some investigative work for her firm at the request of Colt's mother. The former Navy SEAL was on death row for the murder of his wife—a murder he claimed he didn't commit. When I took the case, things weren't looking good for him.

  "Are you sitting down?" Felicity asked.

  "That doesn't sound like good news," I said.

  7

  "It's good news. Good and bad," Felicity said. "But so much better than the alternative."

  "Tell me the good news," I said.

  "They were able to pull a print from the latex glove that was found on Colt Steel's property. The one the original prosecutor failed to disclose during the trial. Not a match for Colt. The print was run through AFIS (automated fingerprint identification system) and didn't come up with any hits. The footprint in the carpet also did not match any of Colt Steel's shoes at the time."

  "That is good news!"

  "Thanks to the evidence you found, the judge granted the motion for appeal, citing the fact that the prosecution failed to disclose exculpatory evidence to defense counsel. The courts have offered two options. We can retry the case, which could take years, an exorbitant amount of money, and no guarantees. Or, Colt can accept a plea agreement for a charge of manslaughter with time served. He can walk a free man tomorrow, but he will have a felony on his record."

  "That sounds kind of screwed up to me," I said. At this point in time I was pretty well convinced of Colt’s innocence. "What's he going to do?"

  "He's going to take the deal," Felicity said.

  I cringed, but I couldn't blame him. "That's better than rotting away in a cell."

  "His thoughts exactly. I just wanted to say thank you. This wouldn't have been possible without your work."

  "My pleasure. I'm glad everything worked out," I said.

  "When he gets out, he's heading back to Coconut Key to see his mother and start over. He said he'd like to meet you personally and shake your hand."

  I smiled. "Sure thing. Give him my number. Have him contact me when he gets in town."

  I ended the call, then dialed Sheriff Daniels's number. "Any word on McTaggart?"

  "I was just about to call you." There was a grim silence. "He didn't make it."

  An anchor tugged at my heart, and a frown pulled my face. "Ah, shit!"

  "You said it."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. He was a good guy." My eyes flicked to JD, and he knew exactly what had happened.

  He hung his head.

  "Have you talked to Sally?" I asked.

  "I have," Daniels said. "She's taking it hard, as expected."

  My gut twisted. "Does she need anything? Is there anything we can do?"

  "Her family is with her now, and the Support Unit is providing assistance."

  "I'd like to start a fundraising campaign."

  "The Support Unit is on it. The funding page should be live soon. I'll send you a link."

  "Keep me posted."

  "Find out who those dirt-balls were moving product for," Daniels said. "I want to nail everybody in that supply chain."

  "You got it," I said.

  "Brenda got a positive ID on the real estate agent. The dental records matched Chelsea Jones. Also, Brenda found two, .22-caliber slugs in the remains."

  "Has the next of kin been notified?" I asked.

  "Yes. Chelsea's dad lives here in town. Talk to him. Talk to her coworkers. See if you can find out who she was showing the place to. You two are like bloodhounds. You'll pick up the trail."

  "We're on it."

  "I'll have Denise call you with her father's address. She just spoke with him."

  "You want us to talk to him tonight?"

  "No time like the present. Denise told him you are on the way over now." Daniels paused. "Please tell me you two aren't already hitting the sauce?"

  "No," I said, innocently. "Why would you think that?"

  "It's after 5 PM."

  "Just one beer," I confessed.

  Sheriff Daniels groaned. "Eat a breath mint. Try not to smell like a brewery."


  He ended the call, and I slipped the phone back into my pocket. My eyes flicked to JD. "Looks like happy hour is over."

  We paid the tab, left the bar, and strolled down the avenue to Jack's Porsche which was parked at a meter. We hopped in, and he cranked the beast up. Denise called and gave me the address, and we zipped across the island to Don Jones's house. We stopped along the way and I bought a pack of spearmint gum in an attempt to conceal our happy hour delights.

  Don had done well for himself. He lived in Casa Del Mar. It was an upscale luxury high-rise with an ocean view, a marina, full fitness center, and 24-hour concierge service. The place wasn't cheap. I knew the units started at $1.2 million. The penthouse suite was upwards of $5 million.

  There was a security box with the keypad in the foyer. I punched #414 to dial Don's condo.

  A voice crackled through the speaker a moment later. "Hello?"

  "I'm Deputy Wild, County Sheriff's Department."

  "Come on up," Don said.

  He hung up, and an instant later the door buzzed. JD pulled it open, and we stepped into the opulent lobby and waved to the concierge sitting behind a desk.

  "We're here to see Don Jones," I said.

  He motioned to the bank of elevators, and we strolled past the modern art statues, the endless waterfall, and the lounge. I pressed the call button, and a moment later we stepped onto the lift. Level 4 lit up as I pressed the button, and we were whisked skyward.

  We stepped off the elevator, strolled down the hallway, tiled with imported marble, and knocked on #414.

  A moment later, a distraught Don Jones pulled open the door. He had gray, almost white, hair. He was late 50s. His nose and cheeks were red, and his eyes were puffy. He had that deep, empty gaze that people get when they have lost everything.

  Jack flashed his badge, and Don motioned for us to enter his condo. We strolled through the foyer, and he offered us a seat on the couch.

  It was a nice place.

  Floor-to-ceiling windows. A large terrace. A view of the ocean. There was a large flatscreen display, surround-sound stereo system, and a modern kitchen with state-of-the-art stainless steel appliances. There was a master bedroom on one side of the living room and a guest bedroom on the other. $1.2 million didn't buy a lot of square footage in this building, but the units were luxurious.