by Tripp Ellis
“I thought you weren’t in charge of the case,” Paris snarked when I called.
“I’m not in charge of this case, but that doesn’t mean I’m not looking into it,” I said.
“So, now you want to talk?” she sassed.
“If you have information pertinent to the case, you need to share.”
“So, we’re back to a one-way street?”
I took a breath. “I pointed you in the direction of the person who could provide you with the most information.”
“And she was very accommodating.”
“So, what are you complaining about?”
“I’m not complaining about anything. I just thought that we might have a little more… open communication.”
I wasn’t sure if we were still talking about the bombing, or our lack of personal communication. We’d had a night of fun between the sheets, then it was back to business as usual afterward. “Tell me about the anonymous caller.”
“I didn’t speak to the caller directly. He called the station and spoke to the receptionist.”
“Was the call recorded, by any chance?”
“No.”
Static crackled over the line as I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. Paris was being difficult.
“How about you tell me everything you told Agent Blake?”
“I guess I could do that. But what’s in it for me?”
“The satisfaction of knowing that your information might actually save someone’s life.”
“I already have that satisfaction because I told the lead investigator in charge,” Paris sassed again.
I growled, “Paris…”
“Okay, fine. You’re no fun. When did you get so uptight?”
“When some jackass blew my friend to pieces.”
“I didn’t realize you were close with the judge.”
“We weren’t drinking buddies, but he was a good man.”
“From what my producer told me, a guy called the station claiming to be with the Unified Injustice Consortium, or something to that effect,” Paris said. “He said Judge Perry was complicit in the continued injustices, contributing to the incarceration of thousands of innocent people. He said the bombings would continue until the current system is abolished.”
“Thank you. Was that so difficult?”
“Difficulty level, moderate.”
“When did the call come in?”
“Maybe 10 minutes ago. My segment producer told me while I was on the air, and I broke the news live.”
“Then you told Agent Blake?”
“Yes, I’m still on the scene. She’s right here. Do you want to talk to her?”
“No.”
“Tit for tat, Deputy. What can you share with me?”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I have something to share,” I said.
Paris groaned. In a highly sarcastic tone, she said, “I’ll be sitting by the phone waiting for your call.”
Paris hung up, and I called Sheriff Daniels.
“I’m already on top of it,” he said. “The station manager gave me the number that came up on the caller ID. Denise tracked it to a guy named Myles Maxwell. The dipshit called from his own mobile phone. Let’s go take this bastard down.”
I was all in favor of that.
I ended the call and slipped the phone back into my pocket. I filled JD in on the details. We left Diver Down, rushed down the dock to the Avventura, and donned our tactical gear. We raced back to the parking lot, hopped into the Porsche, and headed across town to the perp's apartment. There, we met Sheriff Daniels, Agents Blake and Ross, and deputies Mendoza, Robinson, Faulkner, and Erickson. With tactical vests, helmets, extra magazines, flash-bang grenades, and assault rifles, we were ready to storm the building.
Myles lived on the second floor of a small complex on Cutter Avenue in Jamaica Village. The shabby, seafoam green concrete building wasn’t the pinnacle of luxury. The paint was stained and faded, and the sidewalks were cracked. The lawn had been mowed but not edged. A bicycle lay in the yard, and I figured it wouldn't be there for long in this neighborhood.
The tactical team advanced up the walkway and climbed the steps. The sound of a TV spilled out from a neighboring window as we rushed down the walkway to apartment #12. We gathered on either side of the door and readied our weapons.
JD banged his fist against the door and shouted one of his favorite phrases. "Coconut County! We have a warrant!"
An instant later, Faulkner and Erickson heaved a battering ram into the door, splintering it from the frame. It swung wide, and I tossed in a flash-bang grenade. It bounced across the tile in the foyer and rolled into the living room. The thunderous bang rattled the entire complex, and a blinding flash lit up the apartment like a strike of lightning.
We poured in through the haze, clearing the tiny apartment with tactical precision.
A disoriented and stunned Myles Maxwell found himself on the wrong end of several assault rifles. He cowered on the couch, raising his hand innocently, his eyes wide.
"On the ground, now, scumbag!" JD shouted.
"What the fuck?"
Mendoza and Robinson advanced down a hallway toward the bedrooms, clearing the rest of the apartment.
"Facedown! Now!" JD shouted again.
Myles complied, bringing his face to the carpet between the couch and coffee table.
Empty beer cans lined the coffee table, and a tray with 1/4 ounce of dried, shitty looking weed rested near an ashtray. The smell had soaked into the fabric and carpet. The whole apartment smelled like beer and cheap weed.
JD slapped the cuffs around the perp's wrists, then yanked him to his feet.
"I didn't do nothing, man!” Myles protested.
“You didn't call the TV station and take responsibility for the bombing?” JD asked with a healthy dose of sarcasm.
4
"For real? That's what this is about?” Myles asked. “That was just bullshit."
"Bullshit, huh?" JD said. "Judge Perry is dead, and you think this is some kind of joke?"
"Man, I didn't kill nobody. You can't arrest me for making a prank phone call?"
"Yeah, we can," JD said.
He nodded to Faulkner and Erickson. They grabbed Myles by the arms and dragged him out of the apartment.
He groaned and whined, "Who's gonna pay for that door? And all my stuff? You can't just leave my apartment wide open. All my shit will be gone. That’s a brand-new TV,” he shouted, his voice echoing through the foyer.
I had little sympathy for the guy.
“The place is clear,” Mendoza said when he returned to the living room with Robinson.
We searched the apartment with the ATF, scouring every nook and cranny, rummaging through drawers, closets, and cabinets. We pulled out seat cushions, turned over mattresses, and looked in vent shafts. A K-9 unit was brought in to search the apartment for explosive material.
There was nothing tying Myles to the bombing—no gunpowder, no wiring, no batteries, no pipes. It didn't mean he was off the hook. He could have easily constructed the devices elsewhere.
“This doesn’t look like our guy,” JD said.
“I say we lean on him anyway,” Payton said. “He may be working with someone.”
“I don’t think we’re dealing with a mental giant here,” JD said in reference to Myles. “This guy would blow himself up if he tried to make a bomb.”
Myles was taken to the station, printed, processed, and put into an interrogation room. He had a few drug possession charges and a DUI on his record. Other than that, he was clean.
We let Myles sit in the interrogation room for a while to simmer. When we thought he was ready, JD and I entered the room with Agent Blake. Agent Ross watched from the observation room with Sheriff Daniels.
"You guys got the wrong guy,” Myles protested. “I ain't make no bomb."
"Why did you claim responsibility?" I asked.
Miles shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't think you’d find me."
"Tell me about the United Injustice Consortium," Agent Blake demanded.
Myles’s face crinkled. "Who?"
"When you called the television station, you claimed responsibility on behalf of that organization."
Myles chuckled. "Oh yeah, right. I just made that shit up."
"You better wipe that smile off your face," JD barked.
Myles stared him down. "What are you gonna do about it?"
JD's face reddened.
"You do realize it's a state and federal crime to mischievously convey false or misleading information to law enforcement,” Agent Blake said. "Title 18 of the US code, section 844, subsection (e). You may also be liable in a civil action to recover damages."
"For a prank phone call? You’re out of your mind.”
We all glared at him.
"Look, I don't know nothing about no bomb,” Myles said. “I watched the news and decided to fuck with everybody."
"Did you know Judge Perry?" I asked.
"Yeah, that motherfucker sentenced me to two years probation and community service for a bag of weed.”
"So, it’s safe to say you weren’t a fan?"
"Hell no, I wasn't a fan. But I ain't stupid. If I were going to blow up a county judge, I sure as hell wouldn’t call nobody and tell them about it. I’d keep my damn mouth shut."
We all glared at him.
“Come on, man. I was high as fuck when I called the TV studio. It was a joke. I didn’t know you all would get so bent out of shape about it."
"Well, now you know better, don't you, Myles?"
"How about I say I'm sorry, and you guys let me off with a warning? I didn't mean nothing by it."
I shook my head and pushed away from the table. I stood up, walked to the door, and knocked for the guard to buzz us out. The lock clicked, and I swung the door open.
Myles shouted at us, "What happens now? You can’t do me like this."
We stepped into the hallway, and the door clicked shut behind us. Sheriff Daniels and Agent Ross joined us a moment later.
"That clown doesn't know anything," JD said.
"It was wishful thinking," Daniels said. "Something tells me this thing isn't just going to fall into our laps."
"I'll let you know as soon as I get the analysis from the lab," Payton said before leaving with Agent Ross.
We watched the two agents stroll down the hallway. Special Agent Payton Blake had a nice stroll.
Frustration tensed the sheriff’s face. The lack of control bothered him, especially on a case this personal. It was easy to see.
“We’ll sort this out,” I said.
Daniels gave a grim nod before walking away.
"I don't know about you, but I'm starving," JD said. “Let’s get out of here.”
I agreed.
My phone buzzed in my pocket as we headed toward the parking lot. I pulled it out and looked at the screen—it was the hospital. I took the call and held the phone to my ear.
"Deputy Wild? This is Dr. Parker with Coconut County General.”
"Dr. Parker, thank you for following up with me. I hope you have good news."
“Mrs. Perry is out of surgery and is in a recovery unit now. She's doing well. She suffered a few shrapnel wounds and a particularly nasty abdominal wound. But we’ve got her stabilized, and she should make a full recovery."
"Do you think she can handle visitors?"
"She's a little groggy and on pain meds. I don't know how much useful information you’d be able to get out of her. You might find an interview more productive tomorrow if you can wait."
"Time is always a factor in these scenarios."
“It's your discretion. I’ll let the staff know that you might be stopping by tonight or tomorrow."
"Thank you."
"I hope you catch the bastard who did this," he added.
“So do I.”
I ended the call and slipped the phone back into my pocket. We hopped into the Porsche, drove back to Diver Down, and took our usual seat at the bar.
Teagan greeted us with curious eyes.
I just shook my head and gave her the disappointing news. “Looks like the caller was pulling a prank.”
“Who does that?” she asked, her face twisted with disgust.
“I don’t know,” I said with an exasperated sigh. “It's a crazy world.”
“Need a drink?”
“Do you need to ask?” JD said.
“You want the hard stuff?”
“Yes, ma’am,” JD said with a grin.
Teagan poured us both a glass of whiskey and slid the smooth amber liquid across the counter.
JD and I lifted our glasses and toasted, “To Ed.”
The glasses chimed as we clinked them together, then we sipped the fine aged whiskey. We placed an order and reminisced about Ed while we waited for our meal.
In his tenure as a Circuit Court Judge, Ed had seen just about everything. Nothing could shock him, and he always told it like it was. He certainly wasn't one to censor his opinions. Like the rest of us, he made his fair share of enemies over the years. I'm sure there were countless convicts out there who wouldn't shed a tear over the loss of Ed Perry. But from what I knew of him, he interpreted and applied the law fairly. But he certainly didn't like repeat customers in his courthouse.
The shrimp fettuccine was creamy with a hint of spice. Jack devoured his crab cakes and shrimp tacos. We washed it all down with another glass of whiskey and decided to let Dorothy Perry rest for the evening. She'd been through enough for one day, and I wasn't sure how much she’d be able to tell us, anyway.
A text message from Chloe-C buzzed my phone. [Sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you. It's been crazy with the tour schedule. I just got around to looking at the video for JD's band.]
[And?]
There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
Chloe-C was one of the biggest pop stars on the planet. She had a social media following of 140 million fans. She had agreed to take a look at the video we made for JD's retro rock band Wild Fury. If she liked it, she’d share it with her followers. But Wild Fury's music wasn't exactly in line with her core audience.
I was dying to hear her opinion, and I waited eagerly for her response.
5
Chloe stopped texting and called. “I don't know how to tell you this, but…"
I cringed, fearing the worst.
"I love it! I absolutely positively love it. It's old-school, but in that new kind of way."
I breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm glad you like it. So, you'll share it?"
She hesitated. "That's the thing… I'm not sure."
“Is there something wrong with it?"
JD looked at me with curious eyes, hanging on my every word. He leaned in, trying to hear Chloe’s voice in my ear.
"I love the cinematography and the direction,” Chloe said. “You guys knocked it out of the park. I can't believe you were able to make that for so little. I'm just not sure how my audience is going to react. These are teen girls that love bubblegum pop. I don't know if they’re gonna be into some of the gratuitous visuals. Don’t get me wrong, I think it's great, but I'm just saying…"
"I understand. I don't want you to do anything you don't feel comfortable doing."
“My entire career has been about taking risks. And I wouldn't be where I am today if somebody else hadn’t given me a break.” She paused. “Is it cool if I think about this?"
"Absolutely."
"I need to sit on it and run it past my people."
"You do what you gotta do."
"I knew you'd understand. I'll give you an answer by the end of the day tomorrow. Fair enough?”
"Fair enough."
“On a positive note, I really liked your directing style."
I couldn't help but smile. "Thank you."
"I'm going to need a video for my upcoming single. You may be getting a phone call."
"You know how to get ahold of me."
"Listen
, I gotta go,” she said. "You need to come see me."
"I will."
"Ciao." She ended the call.
I explained the situation to JD.
He shrugged. "She didn't say no yet." He paused. "Either way, it doesn't matter. The song and the video are both great. The music will stand on its own. It will succeed with or without anyone’s help.”
JD always seemed to have an enduring spirit. Nothing would dim his light. The world was his oyster, and he would always make his own destiny. He was the kind of guy that could stumble drunk through a minefield and come out on the other side unscathed.
After a few more drinks, we called it an early night. JD headed home, and I ambled down the dock to the Avventura. There was a cool breeze coming off the water, and the boats gently swayed in their slips. I crossed the passerelle to the aft deck of the super-yacht, and Buddy barked and bounced excitedly in the salon. I slid open the door, knelt down, and petted the little Jack Russell. I could have sworn I saw Fluffy, the aloof white cat, roll her eyes. I grabbed Buddy’s leash and took him out to stretch his legs before returning to the boat for the evening.
Sheriff Daniels called first thing in the morning. I peeled open my eyes and grabbed the phone from the nightstand as it buzzed incessantly. I groaned, “What is it?"
"You're not gonna believe this nonsense," the sheriff said. "It seems like every crackpot in the county called the department last night with theories as to who the bomber is. We got a few more crank calls from people trying to take responsibility. It didn't take too long to figure out they were idiots who couldn't light a firecracker if their lives depended on it."
"Any word from Agent Blake?"
"No. Stay on top of her."
"I'm more than happy to,” I said in a lecherous tone.
"Not in that way."
I chuckled.
"What are your plans for the day?"
"I'd like to talk to Dorothy if she's able. And I figured I'd harass Blake to see what they've learned about the device."
"Keep me posted."
Daniels ended the call, and I crawled out of bed, took a shower, fixed breakfast, and took Buddy out for a morning stroll.
JD picked me up, and we headed to the hospital. Dorothy had been transferred to an intermediate care unit. We walked through the seafoam green halls, past the pastel seascapes painted in watercolor, past the potted ferns. The blip of heart monitors, and the wheeze of ventilators, seeped out of patient rooms.