Diamond Reef

by Douglas Pratt

  "Do any fishing?" he asked. Peterson had no real interest in fishing, but he was a politician. Fishing was a safe topic around here. Along with crabbing, gator sightings, and Florida State football.

  "Just a couple of nice sized lobsters." I looked over at him and asked, "Have you had any other calls?"

  He shook his head. "No, and I appreciate your help."

  "No, Wilson, I was happy to do it. You were more than generous."

  He gave a curt nod that indicated that the topic was finished. I turned my attention to a tennis match on the television. Taylor gave me a cold Miller Lite. It wasn't my drink of choice, but as a bartender, I never look at the label of a free drink.

  He finished the last two bites of his burger. "I have a lunch meeting over at the Hyatt," he complained between chews. "It always seems that I never get a chance to eat at these things."

  "So, you're eating lunch before your lunch?"

  "The price of public service," he joked. "Always be sure to eat before any function. Otherwise, I end up with a cold plate while the succubi glad-hand me. Besides they always dry out the chicken at the Hyatt."

  "I had a similar motto in the desert. Often it involved sleeping whenever the opportunity was there because, at any time, we might be on the go for three days straight."

  Peterson gave a little sigh. "Chase, you might be cut out for politics."

  He slid his card across the bar. When he paid, he said, "I have to get going, but I have something in the car for you, Chase. Why don't you come grab it?"

  Curious, I walked through the lobby with Peterson. My disheveled sailor look clashed with his starched Brooks Brothers suit.

  "I do appreciate your discretion in this," Peterson remarked. "This has kept me up."

  "Of course," I assured him as we approached the Mercedes that the valet had left on the curb.

  He opened the back seat and pulled a box out. Opening it, I found a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle Bourbon.

  "Wilson, this is too nice."

  "I figured you for a bourbon drinker. This is a bit of gratitude, is all."

  "Wilson, you already gave me too much for what I did."

  He waved me off with a "Nonsense."

  I cradled the box of expensive bourbon. "Thank you."

  Peterson clapped me on the shoulder and got into his Mercedes. "Well, I have a date with some dried chicken."

  Pappy Van Winkle was the creme of the bourbon crop, and I did enjoy a good bourbon. Although, I never classified myself as a bourbon drinker. I wouldn't tell the mayor that, though.

  He drove out of the Tilly's circle drive and onto the street. My eye caught sight of a Jeep parked against the opposite curb with two kayak holders on the roof. When Peterson turned onto the street, the taillights on the Jeep lighted up as the engine started.

  I took off into a run and dashed across the circle, dodging an older Cadillac that was pulling into the valet. I reached the sidewalk in time to see the license plate on the Jeep. It was the same Jeep from the surveillance video at the dentist's office. I repeated the tag number three times aloud to commit it to memory.

  Peterson's problems weren't over yet.

  When I got back to the Manta, my sandwich was sitting on the end of the bar in a Styrofoam container. I groaned a bit at the packaging, but it seemed inevitable sometimes. I handed Taylor a 20-dollar bill and picked up the phone.

  "Delp," Jay answered again.

  "It's me."

  "I should get used to the area code," he commented.

  "Can you run a plate for me?"

  "Yeah."

  I gave him the number. The clicking of keys was audible.

  "The car is registered to a Sean Gilliam. He lives in Haverhill."

  I jotted down the address on a bev nap and thanked Jay.

  "He has a pending charge for possession with intent."

  "Delightful. Anything else?"

  "No, he's only 20. I'm guessing he was small-time and got his ass in a wringer."

  "Thanks, Jay."

  "You think he has something to do with Tristan?"

  "No," I said, "This is something else."

  "You are a busy little bee, Chase."

  I hung up with him, took my sandwich, and headed back to Carina.

  26

  After a long, hot shower washed the last few days of salt from me, I sat in the salon of Carina, staring at the bottle of bourbon Peterson gave me. The foam container on the counter held the last bite of bread from my tuna sandwich. The faint aroma of fish still lingered in the boat, but I was growing accustomed to it.

  The automatic air freshener would squirt out a timed blast of fresh linen spray. That was a trick I learned the first summer I was living aboard. The small space took no time to become rank. Every time I left the boat and closed the hatches, the inside would develop a less than attractive musk to it.

  Between the moisture and the smell that builds up on an enclosed boat, it sometimes felt like a losing battle.

  Knowing who the blackmailer was left me wondering how to proceed. Whatever Sean Gilliam had on Peterson; the mayor didn't want me to track him down. On the other hand, I had a feeling that there were going to be more problems for Peterson. Gilliam was following him now, and that could escalate. Eventually, Gilliam would make another demand or take a different tact.

  He's working right now under the assumption that he's completely anonymous. Maybe Peterson already knows who he is.

  The best way to head him off, either way, is to make sure he knows that he's no longer an enigma.

  I climbed out on deck. The air was shifting. The drop in pressure was noticeable from the tingle on my skin. The same information was available, and in far greater detail on the battery-powered weather station I keep on my navigation table. Were I on the water, I'd be working to determine how big and where the storm was. In the slip, I just double-check the dock lines.

  Haverhill was one of the few little cities I knew. There was a great little Jamaican jerk place where I like to get some quality jerk pork and festival bread.

  Of course, Gilliam didn't live at the jerk joint, so I still needed the GPS to find his house.

  It wasn't a house. Gilliam lived in a small apartment building. More like a quadplex. There was no sign of the Jeep, but I did see two older plastic kayaks chained to the side of the building.

  I left the Toyota about half a block away and walked up to the building. His unit was on the second floor, and I rang the bell.

  Shuffling noises came from inside, and after a second, the door opened. A dark-skinned girl opened the door. Big copper eyes looked at me, and I had a hard time not noticing that she was only wearing a tank top. She was young. Nineteen at best, if I were a betting man.

  The copper eyes stared at me as she tried to decipher who or what I was.

  "Can I help you?" she asked.

  My eyes darted over her shoulder to take in the apartment behind her. The only thing visible was the den and part of the kitchen. Both looked like a tornado had whipped through. I counted two bongs on a coffee table.

  "I'm looking for Sean," I said. "Is he around?"

  I wanted to sound like Gilliam and I were already well acquainted. Maybe I could pass for his dealer. Although given my build, I might come across more like his dealer's version of Scar. My goal was to sound more amiable than that.

  "He's not here," she replied.

  "Damn," I said dejectedly. "I was hoping to catch him. Do you know when he'll be back?"

  "Should be later this afternoon."

  "Thank you," I tried to make myself seem charming. Usually, that doesn't work for me.

  She pushed the door closed, and I returned to the car. The afternoon waned on, and I waited. That jerk place was sounding pretty good. The sky was growing darker. Something I already predicted. That was good because the temperature was dropping, and the breeze was kicking up. Orange blossoms and flowers surfed on the wind, and I planned to keep my window down as long as possible.

  A few
minutes after five, the Jeep pulled up. The storm was crawling in from the east, and the sky had gone black and green. The air was moving slower, a good indication that the bottom was about to drop out. Gilliam was getting out of the car. The kid looked like he was still in high school. He had blond hair and a pale complexion, he was skinny, like a track star. He might outrun me, but if I got a hold of him, he'd be toast.

  I got out of the car and double-timed it up the sidewalk. Gilliam was almost to the steps when I came up behind him.

  "Sean," I said sharply.

  The kid turned around with a look of surprise. I debated how to handle him since he was just a kid. Granted, he was committing a felony, but still just a kid. No need to hurt him, but a little fear does provide a lot more cooperation than injury.

  "Who are you?" he uttered as I reached forward and grabbed the front of the t-shirt with a Devil Wears Prada logo emblazoned on the front.

  "What the hell?" he hollered. I shoved him against the wall, stunning him for a second.

  Dragging Gilliam by his shirt, I pulled him under the stairs out of sight of the street. His eyes widened in fear, and I scowled at him.

  "Let's have a little talk," I hissed at him.

  "What do you want?"

  "I want whatever you have on Wilson Peterson."

  "Peterson?" His reaction was dumbfounded. Then he recovered his senses. "What are you talking about?"

  "Look, kid," I growled at him. "I found you very easy. You were an amateur. You have a simple choice. You can pony up the video and whatever else you have now, or I can drag your unconscious ass up these stairs and force your girl up there to give it to me."

  "No," he begged, "don't hurt her."

  I raised my eyebrows as if to tell him to do what I wanted.

  "Do you know what's on the video?" he asked.

  "I don't care what's on it," I spat the words out. "I want it. Every copy you have of it."

  He nodded quickly. He said, "He's not a good man."

  "Who is?" I questioned. Gilliam was likely right. I knew that I didn't want to know what was on the video. I could speculate all day long, but if I didn't know, then I could handle the situation.

  "He'll come after me and Leah."

  "What makes you think he won't now? You've taken $70,000 from him. He isn't going to continue taking that. The cops could swoop in and arrest you. The whole thing would be swept under the rug."

  He sighed. "It's upstairs."

  "The money?"

  "That's mine," he said with shock.

  "No, it's not," I reminded him. "I can go back to dragging you up the stairs and finding it myself."

  He shook his head quickly.

  "Good, let me explain how it's going to work," I bellowed with a threatening tone. "We are going upstairs. You're going to give me everything you have on Wilson Peterson and all the money that you've bilked him for. Then you are going to forget everything about him. You don't try to blackmail him again. If you do, I'm going to find you again, and we won't have a nice conversation."

  His eyes deflated.

  "This seems a little personal for you," I noted. "Stop that shit. Making it personal will only get you in deeper trouble."

  Gilliam stared at me. "You just don't know," he mumbled.

  "Come on," I urged. "Let's get this over with."

  He walked up the stairs with my hand guiding him along. Gilliam didn't seem like the overtly brave sort. However, he might be the overtly stupid sort, so I was prepared for him to make a move.

  He opened the door, and the dark-skinned girl popped her head up over the back of the couch.

  "Hey!" she exclaimed. She was still wearing only the thin tank top.

  She looked at me. "He was here earlier," she told Sean.

  "Shut up, Leah," he ordered her.

  The girl didn't obey. "What's he want?" she asked as if Gilliam never said anything.

  "I said, 'shut up'."

  A flash of fear crossed Leah's face as the gravity of the situation sank in. She held her tongue now.

  "Why don't you sit down?" I suggested.

  She did sit down.

  "Where is it?" I demanded.

  Gilliam walked over to a desk with a brand-new computer. It was some type of gaming computer with red neon glowing off the corners, no doubt a recent purchase from the extortion money. He handed me a USB drive.

  "Delete it off the computer too."

  He sat at the computer and moved the mouse. I glanced over my shoulder at Leah, who watched from the couch.

  She obviously couldn't stand it any longer. "Is he taking the video?"

  Looking at her, I stated, "I already explained the situation to Sean here. This ends today."

  "No!" she howled, tears bubbling up in the corner of her eyes. "He can't."

  I watched the girl sobbing on the couch. Sean dragged a file to the recycle bin on the computer's desktop. When he emptied the computer's trash, I gave him a nod.

  "The money, now."

  "No," the girl whined through her tears.

  Gilliam looked from me to her. "Just take the video, and we won't ever bother him again."

  I shook my head. "The two of you committed multiple felonies here. Even if I decided not to force you to give it to me, it would only take one call to have both of you arrested for an assortment of crimes. Grand theft, extortion, and probably a handful of other things. Or I can take the money, and Peterson never has to know."

  "He'll know," Leah muttered.

  I ignored her and stared at Gilliam impatiently. I was starting to feel some compassion for the two kids. I didn't want to imagine what might be on the flash drive.

  The kid finally relented and vanished into the bedroom. I didn't like having either of them out of my sight at all, but I hadn't prepared for him to walk out. It goes without saying, I don't have much practice at this type of thing.

  "Don't move!" I snapped at Leah before following Gilliam.

  When I came through the door, he was digging through a drawer. With two long strides, I crossed the room and caught his hand as he pulled a Smith & Wesson .38 out of the drawer.

  "Dammit," he cursed as I wrenched the gun from his grip.

  "It's unloaded," I said, surprised. "You dumbass, don't ever pull an unloaded gun on someone. You'll get yourself killed."

  "I..." he started.

  "Shut up and get the money," I told him. I whispered under my breath, "Pull an unloaded gun."

  Gilliam opened the closet door and pulled out a backpack. He tossed the pack on the bed; I unzipped it to see stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

  Pulling a stack out of the bag, I fanned the bills on my thumb like it was a deck of cards. I tossed it onto the bed.

  "That's yours," I said, "as long as you are never heard from again. Understand?"

  He nodded.

  "If you left any prints on the boat you stole, you have more trouble coming for you. I don't want to hear from you, though, even if you get picked up for that. Otherwise, I'll make damned certain that Leah goes down as an accomplice with you."

  "I wiped it all down," he promised.

  "Not my concern," I explained, "as long as I never hear your name again."

  "Okay."

  "If anyone goes after Peterson again, I'll be coming for you two first. Got it?"

  "Yeah," he responded.

  "I don't know what is on here," I said, holding up the USB, "but let it go. You'll live a longer life that way."

  He nodded.

  "You better explain it to her, too," I said.

  "I will." His tone was filled with humility.

  I tossed the bag over my shoulder, threw the empty .38 on the bed, and left the room. Leah was sitting on the couch with tears streaming down her face. Gilliam was right behind me as I walked past her. He moved around and sat on the couch with her.

  I walked out into the sunlight feeling like I hadn't done a lot of good today.

  27

  The first time I noticed the older Trailbl
azer was a few blocks from Gilliam's house. Some subconscious part of my mind saw it and alerted me. The little maroon SUV had already crossed my vision, I just wasn't sure when it happened. The broken passenger mirror was the telltale sign that my brain picked up and set off the mental alarms.

  Since I was carrying a backpack filled with tens of thousands of hundred-dollar bills, I was more than a little uneasy. This could be a set-up. Maybe Gilliam had a partner beside Leah. That didn't track, though. There was no chance that he knew I was coming. Even if he did, there wasn't enough time for him to rally the troops to be in place to pick me up when I left Gilliam's home.

  At this point, the possibilities were endless. The DEA, Moreno, or someone associated with Gilliam. I had been kicking over rocks all over the last few days. Unfortunately, under stones is where the creepy and dangerous things live.

  Ditching them was possible. No matter who it was in the driver's seat, there were lots of reasons sitting in the seat next to me to lose them.

  On the other hand, my curiosity was getting in the way. Finding Tristan was becoming a murky affair. Everything I found out just made matters worse. At first, I thought I was protecting Tristan from Moreno and Kohl. Now, he might have been involved in a string of burglaries and murder. If he was involved in that, then there was no way to protect him. But there just weren't any answers that satisfied me yet.

  I took a right at the next light. The Trailblazer was three cars behind me when it turned right as well. Time to do something.

  A shopping center was coming up on the left, and I scanned through the businesses; a Starbucks, a dollar store, and a gym.

  I parked between the dollar store and the gym. The Trailblazer was smart enough to go past the first driveway that I used and turn in the second. They parked at the back of the parking lot near the Starbucks. The front of the truck pointed toward me.

  Grabbing the backpack, I slung it over my shoulder and walked into the dollar store. I bought a bottle of water, a cheap padlock, and a black backpack, similar to the one on my shoulder. It was a far cry, but it would have to do. I took the bottle of water out of the plastic bag before stuffing the rest of my purchases into the money-filled bag hanging off my shoulder.