Wild Spring

by Tripp Ellis

  Jack's face soured at the news.

  We were officially getting nowhere.

  My phone buzzed with a call from Brock. I wasn’t expecting to hear from him. I swiped the screen and held the phone to my ear.

  “Tyson?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I’ve been thinking... I can go 55K if you’re still interested.”

  I paused. “52K, and you got yourself a deal.”

  Brock was silent for a long moment. “You drive a hard bargain. I’m gonna let you steal it from me on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you ever sell it, you let me make an offer first.”

  “You got it.” I couldn’t help but grin. “If you’ve got time, I'll take it off your hands today."

  "I'm ready when you are."

  I told Brock to meet me at the motor vehicle service center, and we’d do the deal.

  I hung up and gave JD an astonished look. “Looks like I’m about to own a Trans Am.”

  Jack grinned. “Told you he’d call.”

  JD and I drove to the Bank of Coconut Key, and I got a cashier’s check for fifty grand. I was pretty flush with cash from the TV deal, and Diver Down was pulling in steady money. It was a lot of cash for a grocery-getter, but I knew if I maintained it well, I’d be able to flip it for much more. They weren’t making them like this anymore, and every year there would be less on the roadways due to accidents and disrepair.

  We headed to the service center and pulled into the parking lot. The growl of the Trans Am echoed from a block away. The black beast whipped into the lot and pulled into the space next to the red Boxster.

  Brock killed the engine, climbed out of the car, and closed the door. The torment on his face was obvious. It wasn’t a car that was easily parted with.

  I surveyed the vehicle one last time, looking for any scratches or dents since I had last inspected the car. She was in pristine condition—a thing of beauty. A classic '70s muscle car. A slice of Americana that begged for loud music and bikini-clad beauties.

  We went inside, transferred the title, and I handed him the check. Brock handed me the keys.

  His eyes brimmed when we shook hands. “Take good care of her.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  “Can I trouble you for a ride home?”

  I smiled. “Sure thing.”

  We stepped outside, and I marveled at the magnificent muscle car. I put on the temporary plates, then pulled open the door and slid into the leather seats.

  Brock climbed into the passenger seat.

  JD said he'd meet me back at Diver Down.

  I twisted the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life. I gave it a little gas, and a throaty growl ripped from the exhaust. The car quaked, and the gauges came to life. It etched a smile on my face that wouldn’t fade for a long time.

  I put it into gear, backed out of the spot, then eased out of the lot. I gave it a little gas as I turned onto the street, and the tires barked. The blip of acceleration threw us both against the seat-backs for an instant until I let off.

  Brock soaked in the last ride in the car, a tight frown on his face. I dropped him off in front of his house, and we shook hands one last time.

  “Lots of memories in this car,” he said in a solemn tone, surveying the pristine interior. “I’m sure you’ll make plenty more.”

  “Indeed,” I said.

  He climbed out of the car and watched me drive away.

  I felt sorry for Brock. I could tell how much he cared about the car, but he obviously needed the cash.

  When I got back to Diver Down, JD and I pulled off the T-tops and decided to cruise around the island. The traffic was thick, but that didn't matter. We didn't have anywhere to be. This was a pure joyride.

  I blasted ’70s rock 'n' roll, and we drove around the island, wind swirling through the open T-tops. It was a perfect Spring Break car. It drew envious stares, and girls in passing cars hollered at us.

  We may have done a few burnouts, filling the wheel wells with white smoke, leaving dark streaks of rubber on the road.

  JD and I couldn't stop grinning. We were like two high school kids—though he had a better connection to the era than I did. I'm surprised he didn't purchase the car himself.

  We had an absolute blast cruising around the island. It was a great distraction from all the insanity we had been dealing with. The thirsty 6.6L sucked gas, and the needle dropped like a lead balloon. A small price to pay. This was a car measured in smiles per mile.

  JD had band practice in the afternoon. I must admit, I was a little leery about leaving the car in the parking lot. Suddenly, I had a whole new understanding of JD's paranoia.

  I pulled into a space near the front, killed the engine, and we hopped out and strolled toward the main entrance. The usual group of miscreants crowded around the door.

  "Dude, sweet ride," one of them said, offering his palm to high-five as we passed.

  I felt like I was in the cool club.

  We stepped inside and strolled through the dim, hazy hall and found the guys tuning up in the practice room. A few groupies lingered. The band ran through their set, and when it was over, we were all ready for the obligatory after-party.

  There were rumblings about an impromptu party on the boat. The guys wanted to go out, stir up interest, and bring a bevy of beauties back to the Avventura. But a call from Sheriff Daniels would scuttle the evening's plans.

  32

  “There was a robbery at the quick mart on Ocean Avenue,” the sheriff said. “You boys need to get over there.”

  I grimaced. “On our way!”

  JD told the guys in the band we’d catch up with them later.

  "Dude, we’ll start the party without you," Styxx said. He smiled. “It'll be in full swing by the time you wrap up."

  JD regarded the drummer with a healthy dose of skepticism.

  "Come on, Bro. Give us the keys. We're not gonna fuck shit up."

  The band excelled at causing mayhem. Though, in their defense, apart from a mess of empty beer cans, they never trashed the boat. They'd always disappear when it came time to clean up, but windows didn't get broken, and furniture didn't get torn out and tossed overboard. The band hadn't achieved that level of fame yet. Though I had no doubt if they ever embarked on a world tour, there would be all kinds of shenanigans. As their new manager, I would have to deal with it all.

  JD looked at me for approval.

  I shrugged. The forward momentum of a party was inevitable.

  JD tossed Styxx his keys, and the guys in the band cheered. So did the groupies. There were smiles all around.

  There was a large part of me that dreaded what I would return home to.

  We left the practice studio and hustled across the parking lot to the Trans Am. I climbed in and cranked up the engine. The pistons pinged, and the exhaust roared. I put the beast into gear and rolled out of the parking lot, then smoked the tires as we turned onto the road. I could hear the metalheads by the entrance holler with approval.

  The Surf & Sand quick mart on Ocean Avenue was your typical convenience store—rows and rows of snacks, chips, candy bars, sodas, toiletries, feminine hygiene products, canned food, and a variety of beer. This time of year, there was a constant flow of traffic in and out, grabbing cases of beer from the coolers. Usually, the biggest problem was underage alcohol purchases with fake IDs.

  The medical examiner's van was parked out front. Lights flashed atop two patrol cars, bathing the area in red and blue. The deputies had cordoned off the scene, and curious onlookers gawked at the carnage.

  A few paces from the door, a body lay on the concrete, surrounded by a pool of blood. The motionless remains were dressed in a long-sleeve black T-shirt and jeans. The man's face was covered by a ski mask.

  There were smears of blood splatter on the glass doors to the convenience store, and it was webbed with cracks from two bullets. A crimson trail led down the sidewalk to the body.

&n
bsp; I noticed drops of blood leading farther away from the body. I followed the speckles of blood spatter on the concrete. Bystanders had trampled the sidewalk, making it difficult to see. I shouted for them to move out of the way.

  The trail of blood led down the sidewalk into an alleyway. I followed through the narrow passage, moving past a dumpster and bags of foul trash. The drops continued to the next street, flowing down the sidewalk.

  They ended abruptly.

  I figured dead man’s accomplice got away by car. Was a getaway driver waiting for them, or had they parked a vehicle?

  I asked around if anyone had seen the perp get into a car, but no one recalled seeing anything unusual. A bleeding, masked figure should have drawn attention. But since most people walk around with their heads buried in their phones, the lack of witnesses was not surprising. Plus, people just don’t want to get involved.

  I jogged back to the crime scene.

  Brenda wore a pair of pink nitrile gloves, hovering over the remains. The forensics photographer snapped photos from all angles, and camera flashes illuminated the faces of the onlookers.

  Brenda pulled back the dead man’s ski mask. "You recognize this guy?"

  I nodded. “Mario Rivera. What happened?”

  "He made poor life decisions," Brenda quipped, deadpan.

  We left her on the sidewalk to finish her work and pushed into the convenience store. Deputy Faulkner spoke with Dustin, the clerk. He was a nerdy guy in his late-20s with greasy hair and a thin mustache. He had a few blemishes on his oily skin, and his narrow chin disappeared into his neck. He looked frazzled. His eyes flicked to us as we entered, and concern tensed his face. We had interviewed him once before in connection with another case.

  Dustin raised his hands innocently. "I swear to God, I shot him in self-defense. I'm totally justified in doing that, right?"

  "Tell me what happened?”

  "There were two of them," Dustin said. “They came in, and one stuck a gun in my face, and the other watched the door. They demanded the cash from the drawer. I wasn't going to give them any trouble. It's not my money. I'm not gonna take a bullet for $12 an hour."

  "Then what happened?" I asked.

  "I opened the drawer, emptied the cash, and handed it to the guy with the gun in my face. I was freaking out, man. After that liquor store clerk got shot, I’ve been a little paranoid. So, I started bringing a gun to work.”

  “How did things escalate?”

  “The thug kept the weapon aimed at my face long after I'd given him the money. I thought he was gonna fucking shoot me. I saw my whole life flash in front of me. Then he lowered the gun and backed away toward the door. His accomplice ran out. Just about the time the thug got to the door, he changed his mind and started coming back my way. I could see it in his eyes. He was gonna kill me. He lifted his pistol, and I drew mine. He fired two shots and missed. I fired back twice. He tumbled back into the door, then staggered out and collapsed. I nearly pissed myself. I just stood there trembling for a moment. It was loud. I mean loud, loud. My ears still ring.”

  The smell of gunpowder lingered in the air.

  "I don't know how he missed, but he did. The bullets hit the cigarettes behind me," he said, pointing.

  "What happened next?"

  "I ran around the counter to the door. I pushed it open and looked on the sidewalk and saw him lying there. That’s when his accomplice shot at me. You can see the bullet hits in the glass. I fired back, then ducked inside. I rushed back to the register and called 911. I sat there with my pistol aimed at the door just in case that bastard came back." Dustin still trembled. "I'm not in trouble, am I? Like, I’m not going to get charged with murder or anything, am I?"

  "Relax, Dustin. You acted in self-defense. You have security footage?"

  He nodded.

  “I need to take a look at it."

  He led me to the back office and pulled up the footage on the computer screen. The incident went down just as he described.

  I had him export the footage and send a download link to my phone.

  There was no doubt in my mind that Mario’s accomplice was his brother Luis. And I knew exactly where we could find him.

  33

  We raced to Jamaica Village, deputies Erickson and Faulkner following close behind. We pulled to the curb at the house next door to Mario’s mother’s, then hopped out and advanced toward the porch. Erickson and Faulkner rushed up the driveway and covered the back door.

  When they were in position, I rang the bell and shouted, "Coconut County. Open up!"

  A few moments later, Mrs. Rivera shouted through the door. "Do you have a warrant?"

  "Mrs. Rivera, there's been an incident involving your son, and we need to speak with you. It's urgent."

  She pulled open the door with a worried look on her face. The locked security gate separated us.

  "Is Luis here?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure about that?"

  "I'm positive. What's going on?"

  "I'm very sorry to inform you that Mario has been killed during an armed robbery.”

  Her jaw dropped, and her eyes widened. She trembled, and her eyes brimmed. Pure anguish contorted her face.

  "He was shot while in the process of robbing a convenience store. If you know where Luis is, you need to tell us before things escalate."

  Mrs. Rivera wobbled, and her eyes rolled back into her head. As she fainted, I reached my hand through the bars and grabbed her before she smacked the tile. I let her down gently.

  "Call the EMTs," I shouted to JD.

  The key to the security gate was in the lock on the inside. A convenient, but not secure, place to leave it. I reached my hand through the bars, twisted the key, and swung the bars open.

  Mrs. Rivera came to a few moments later, looking dazed. She sat there and sobbed. She took short, shallow breaths, the color draining from her skin.

  “Just take slow deep breaths, Mrs. Rivera. Try not to hyperventilate. Paramedics are on the way."

  Her chest heaved, and tears streamed from her eyes. Wretched wails escaped her lungs. It was brutal to watch.

  The distant siren of the ambulance warbled.

  I held Mrs. Rivera's hand and tried to keep her calm until the EMTs arrived.

  They checked her vitals. Her heartbeat and blood pressure were slightly elevated——nothing unusual, given the circumstances.

  “Luis is probably at his girlfriend's house," she finally squeaked. “Her name is Melissa Williams. She lives in the Windswept Apartments." She paused, then cried, “Please don’t hurt Luis.”

  It was a promise I couldn't make. It was all up to Luis. If he didn't resist, he’d be just fine. But from the security footage, I knew he was armed. He was in a highly emotional state. Anything could happen.

  “We’ll do everything possible to ensure his safety,” I assured.

  We left Mrs. Rivera in the capable hands of the emergency personnel.

  Erickson looked up Melissa’s information, and we followed them a few blocks over to the Windswept Apartments.

  The complex consisted of two concrete buildings in parallel. Each had eight units, four on top, four on the bottom. They were painted in a dingy flamingo pink. Between the two buildings was a courtyard where clothes hung on lines to dry. The only parking available was on the street.

  We pulled to the curb, hopped out, and advanced to the stairs with Erickson and Faulkner. I picked up the trail of blood splatter on the steps leading up to the second-floor walkway. The drops continued all the way to apartment #203. Crusted blood stained the door where Luis had knocked.

  The door was the only way in or out, except for the windows. Our team took a position on either side of the door, and I banged a heavy fist. "Coconut County! Open up!"

  Commotion inside filtered through the door. I nodded to Erickson and Faulkner, and the two deputies kicked the door as hard as they could. It ripped open, splintering the frame, and we advanced into the unit.

  W
e were in fresh pursuit and had a reasonable suspicion to believe that a fugitive was inside. Our suspicions were confirmed as Luis tried to climb out the living room window.

  His girlfriend shrieked in horror as we stormed in, weapons in the firing position.

  Luis lowered himself down from the windowsill, but he didn’t have the strength in his arm. He’d taken a bullet to the right shoulder, and his shirt was soaked red. He fell to the ground.

  I rushed to the window and peered out. Luis took off running across the courtyard, plowing through the hanging clothes that blew in the breeze like sails.

  We raced out of the apartment, plunged down the steps, and gave chase after him.

  As I hit the ground and rounded the building, I saw Luis dart across the street and disappear down Buttonwood Avenue.

  I sprinted after him, my legs driving me forward. I rounded the corner and raced down the block that was lined with palm trees and white picket fences. There were cars parked at the curb. My heart pounded, and blood pumped through my veins.

  Luis turned at the next street and raced down the sidewalk.

  I followed around the corner, and Luis twisted back and took aim with his left hand. Muzzle flash flickered from the barrel, and two shots rocketed toward me.

  I ducked for cover, and the punk kept running. He sprinted across the street and tried to hop over a picket fence by a large green trash can. But he got tripped up and smacked the concrete driveway on the other side. His weapon clattered to the ground as he tried to brace his fall.

  I hurtled the picket fence and tackled him to the ground as he staggered to his feet. I decked him hard, and the punk groaned as I crushed him against the concrete. I pummeled him twice in the face to subdue him, then grabbed hold of his wrist and wrenched it behind his back.

  He groaned in agony, the bullet wound in his shoulder searing with pain.

  JD arrived a moment later with his weapon drawn and kept it aimed at the perp while I slapped the cuffs around his wrists, then yanked him to his feet.