A man with the pistol stepped out of the shadows. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
“We’re friends of Mr. Jamison,” I said. “Who’re you?”
A flashlight beam suddenly broke the darkness, aimed right at my face. I raised my hand to shield my eyes. “You’re Royal,” said the man with the gun. “I’ve seen you around.”
“Okay. You got me. Now take that light out of my eyes and tell me who the hell you are.”
“I’m a friend of Jimmy DeLuca.”
“Okay, so who’s Jimmy DeLuca?”
“You know him as Tony. You put him in the hospital.”
“Damn. I knew his name wasn’t Tony.”
“Time to pay the piper, smartass. Mr. Bonino don’t like people messing up his guys.”
“Don’t tell me your name is Guido.”
“Fuck you, Royal.”
Suddenly, the flashlight was out of my eyes and rolling on the ground. A terrible scream came from the man who had held it. A shot fired, another scream that became a gurgle. Jock was on the attack, and I could only see shadows as my eyes readjusted to the dark. I bent and picked up the flashlight, shined it at the lump on the ground, and saw Guido or whatever his name was, writhing in pain, holding one arm, blood flowing from his mouth and nose, his eyes wide in terror. Jock was standing over him, not even breathing hard. I picked up the pistol. “Want me to shoot him?”
“Might as well,” said Jock. “He’s not going to be worth much to Mr. Bonino.”
“Tell me, Guido,” I said. “What’s your real name?”
“What the fuck is it to you?” The man still had a little fight left in him.
“I want to put something appropriate on your tombstone.”
“Fuck you.”
“Shoot him,” said Jock.
I put the muzzle of the pistol against Guido’s forehead.
“Wait,” he said. “Bernie Caster.”
“That’s your name?”
“Yeah.”
“I liked Guido better.”
“I’m only Italian on my mother’s side.”
“I guess that explains it.”
“Don’t kill me.” His tone was pleading, the predator brought low, a sudden appreciation for life, at least for his own.
I heard a siren in the distance. The sound of the gunshot probably had the neighbors calling 911. “Okay. I guess the cops will be right along.” I pulled out my cell phone and called J.D. “You might want to get over to Jamison’s,” I said. “Jock beat the hell out of a guy who was trying to kill me and the fuzz is coming. I can hear the sirens.”
“Geez. I can’t leave you guys alone for a minute. I’m on my way.”
“Better put the gun on the ground, podna,” said Jock.
I dropped it and stepped back. The squad car was turning the block, and I could hear another siren in the distance. Jock and I raised our hands as the deputy crawled out of his vehicle, gun in hand.
“Deputy,” I said, “I’m Matt Royal and this is Jock Algren. Detective Duncan is on her way from Longboat. She’ll vouch for us. This man attacked us.”
The deputy kept his gun trained on us as he used the microphone on his epaulet to call for an ambulance. He turned back to us. “How badly is he hurt?”
“Pretty bad,” said Jock, “but he’ll live. Might lose the use of his right arm.”
“What happened here?” the deputy asked.
I filled him in. Told him about my run-in with Tony the day before and what Bernie Caster had told us.
“Did he say Bonino sent him?”
“No. He just said that Bonino didn’t like people messing with his guys.”
Another sheriff’s car, this one unmarked, pulled into the street, blue lights flashing. A man wearing civilian clothes got out of the car. A familiar face. He walked toward us, his gun out. “What’ve we got here, Walt?” he asked the deputy.
“These two said the one on the ground tried to kill them.”
“Actually,” I said, “he was only trying to kill me.”
The flashlight the plainclothes detective was holding whipped up into my face and then to Jock’s. “Shit, shit, shit,” he said. “Put your weapon away, Walt. If either one of these guys decided to take it away from you, you’d be on the ground with that yahoo.”
“You know these guys, Dave?”
“I do. Every time they show up in Manatee County, something goes terribly wrong.”
“Good to see you, too, David,” said Jock.
“Hell, I live in Manatee County,” I said. “Walt, Detective Sims might be putting you on a bit.”
Another car wheeled around the corner, coming fast and braking to a stop in front of the house. Sims looked over his shoulder and said, “And that’ll no doubt be Detective Duncan. My life would be a lot easier if you two would stay in her jurisdiction.”
“We’d miss seeing you, David,” I said. Sims was an old friend who had helped us out in the past.
He gave me the finger and walked over to meet J.D. They talked quietly for a moment. Another siren sounded in the distance. “The ambulance,” said Walt. “Dave, you need me to stick around?”
“Yeah. Get another couple of deputies out here. We’ll probably need them. I’ll take care of these two,” Sims said, motioning to Jock and me.
The ambulance drove up as Walt was calling for more deputies. The medics performed a quick examination of the man on the ground and loaded him onto a gurney. He was still moaning and bleeding as Sims cuffed his good arm to the stretcher.
“Have a nice evening, Bernie,” I said as they wheeled him away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“I wonder how he found me,” I said. We were huddled in J.D.’s car parked in Jamison’s front yard. A light rain was still falling as we watched David Sims give directions to a couple of deputies who had come to help with the investigation. Sims was concerned about Jamison’s absence as well as the attack on me. J.D. had filled him in on her investigation and told him of her fears for Jamison’s safety.
“I don’t think he was after you,” said J.D. “You just turned out to be a target of opportunity.”
“How so?” I asked.
“You said he didn’t know who you were when he first came at you. He got a look at your face and recognized you. I think he was after Jamison and you just happened to show up. He was going to take the opportunity to get a little revenge for the guy you just about killed in your house yesterday.”
I thought about that for a beat. “You may be right,” I said. “We need to know a little more about Caster.”
“As soon as David Sims gets him checked out, he’ll let us know,” said J.D. “Let me talk to him. Make sure we can leave.” She trudged off toward the harried detective.
We were sitting in my living room when Sims called J.D. She listened, thanked him, and hung up. “David said they found Caster’s car a couple of blocks from Jamison’s house. Caster is in the hospital and has asked for a lawyer. He won’t say anything about why he was at Jamison’s. They’ve run his prints and he’s who he says he is. He’s been in prison a couple of times for aggravated assault, but that’s about it. He was a suspect in a murder in New Jersey, but nothing ever came of it. David sent me a picture of Caster. Maybe we ought to show it to Sammy and see if this was the guy talking to Porter King last night.”
“You guys go ahead,” said Jock. “I think I’ll read a bit and call it a day.”
J.D. and I drove the three miles south to Pattigeorge’s, the elegant restaurant on the bay where Sammy ran the bar. The streets were quiet, very little traffic. Even the snowbirds stayed in on wet nights like this one.
There were only a few people at the bar, all regulars and most of them year-rounders, those full-time residents of the key who don’t go north in the summer. We spoke to several and took our seats. Sammy brought me a Miller Lite and a glass of Chardonnay for J.D.
“Sam,” said J.D., “take a look at this picture and see if you recognize the guy.” She ha
nded him a copy of the photo I’d printed of Caster. He took it over to his computer terminal and held it under the light. He brought the picture back and put it on the bar.
“That’s the guy who was talking to King last night,” Sam said.
“You sure?” asked J.D.
“Positive.”
“Will you sign an affidavit to that effect?”
“Sure. What do you need that for?”
“I’ll take it to a judge first thing in the morning and use it to get a warrant to search King’s condo.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I said. “Where are you going to find a judge that isn’t on the golf course?”
“Maybe the rain will keep them home. I know a judge who lives here on the key. He’ll probably sign the warrant for me.”
“What’s ‘first thing?’” Sammy asked.
“I’ll be at your house at seven, you can sign it, and I’ll get it to the judge and get the warrant. I’d like to get to King’s place early.”
“I don’t think my alarm clock will work that early.”
“Sammy, this is important.”
“Okay. I’ll leave the door open. Just come on in and get me out of bed.”
“Sammy,” J.D. said, “I wouldn’t get within a city block of you in bed.”
“Hey,” he said. “I’m harmless. Besides, I’m afraid of Matt, and I wouldn’t want to ruin you for him.”
“I’m not worried about you, Sammy. It’s me. I may not be able to control myself.”
“Well, that happens a lot.”
He moved on down the bar to take care of two strangers who had come in, stopping on the way to refresh Murf Klauber’s drink. We finished our drinks, ordered a couple more, and enjoyed a night of conversation with friends and banter with Sammy about his girlfriends and his beloved University of Florida Gators.
It was still raining when we left the bar. The wind had picked up and was blowing cold air, dropping the temperature several degrees. It was a night when I appreciated the warmth emanating from the Explorer’s heater. Gulf of Mexico Drive was deserted except for a police cruiser sitting in the parking lot of Harry’s Corner Store. The Gulf was a black expanse of nothingness. The wind had kicked up an angry surf that roared onto the beach, reminding me that even our placid Gulf could turn ugly. It was not a good night to be on the water, and I was glad to be going home to a cozy bed that I would share with the beautiful woman sitting quietly next to me.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I awoke on Saturday morning to a crystalline sky so blue and deep that I was sure nobody looking at it could possibly be in a bad mood. My bed was empty. J.D. had left before daylight to get to the station to type the affidavit and the warrant. She was going to call the judge and get the warrant signed so that she could execute it before nine.
I heard Jock moving about the kitchen, the banging of cups and saucers providing a pleasant backdrop to the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifting into my bedroom. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and padded to the kitchen. Jock was sitting on the patio overlooking the bay, bundled up in sweatpants and an old sweatshirt with the Clemson University Tigers logo, the morning newspaper spread on his lap. I went back and put on some heavier clothes and joined him.
We sat quietly in the still air, sipping our coffee, braced by the uncharacteristic cold, the bay calm and tranquil. “J.D. get tired of your snoring?” he asked.
“Maybe, but she left early for work.”
“Was Caster the guy Sam saw talking to King?”
“Yeah. J.D.’s using an affidavit from Sammy to get a warrant to search King’s condo.”
“That’ll be interesting.”
We sat some more. When you’ve been friends as long as we have, you don’t always need a lot of conversation. “Want to go for a jog?” I asked when I had finished my coffee.
“Sure.”
“Better change. We’ll be sweating before we get back.”
We jogged the beach, dodging the clumps of seaweed that had washed up during the night, discussing the murder case. “None of this makes a lot of sense,” Jock said. “Why would a man who legitimately made a lot of money be involved with a snipe like Caster? And why would King want Jamison dead? Was he somehow involved in Goodlow’s murder?”
“Sounds like it. He talked to the murderer just before Goodlow was killed. I’m sure he lied to J.D. about that conversation. Now he’s tied to Caster and Caster was at Jamison’s last night.”
“And Caster is connected in some way to the jerk who tried to clean your clock the other day.”
“And that guy is connected to the local Mafia who are for some reason stalking J.D.”
“But,” said Jock, “I think the Mafia connection might be about your hunt for Katie.”
“Then the fact that Caster is connected to both the murder of Good-low and the people upset about my looking for Katie is just a coincidence.”
“Possibly.”
“I don’t like coincidences. Too unlikely.”
“I agree,” said Jock. “But it’s a possibility we have to consider.”
We reached our turnaround point two miles down the beach and started pounding our way north, picking up speed. The first bars of “The Girl from Ipanema” sounded from my pocket. “Hold up, Jock,” I said. “It’s J.D.”
We slowed to a walk, and I answered the phone. “King’s gone,” said J.D.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Flew the coop. He’s not here.”
“Maybe he’s visiting his girlfriend on the mainland again.”
“When he didn’t answer his door this morning, I got the manager to let me in. The warrant gives me the right to search the premises even if the owner isn’t there. Most of his clothes are gone, the hard drive was stripped out of his desktop computer, no papers to amount to anything left in his desk drawers. Just a few bills.”
“That’s a bit strange,” I said. “Have you talked to any of the neighbors?”
“The manager saw him late last night putting stuff in his car. He said King seemed to be in a hurry, but didn’t think anything of it.”
“Did the manager see King leave?”
“No. He was still carrying stuff out of his condo the last time the manager saw him.”
“What time was that?”
“Near midnight.”
“Something spooked him,” I said.
“Maybe he found out we’d arrested Caster.”
“Could be. What now?”
“I’ve put out a bulletin for his car and Sarasota P.D. is watching his girlfriend’s house. I’m going to talk to her as soon as I finish up here. You want to drive over to Avon Park today?”
“I can. What for?” I asked.
“I got an e-mail from Katie’s dad giving me the name and address of the man who took care of Jim Fredrickson’s property. I’d like you to talk to him.”
“You’re not going with me?”
“I’ve got all I can say grace over right here. Do you mind?”
“No. I’ll see if Jock wants to come along,” I said.
“I’ll text you the name and address. I also got an e-mail this morning from the sheriff’s forensic people. They had translations made of some of those documents we found in the car with the guy who killed Goodlow.”
“Anything useful?” I asked.
“The German one was strange. It was written in an old-fashioned script that went out of fashion after World War II. I’ll have to get you the exact translation, but it said something about the documents containing vital information for the mission and that whoever it was addressed to was supposed to get the courier out of the country. Then there were some numbers that didn’t make any sense. It might be some sort of code. The forensic guys think the page we have might just be one of several pages that originally made up the document.”
“What about the Arabic documents?”
“They look like correspondence between somebody named Hank and somebody else named Al. They were prett
y mundane.”
“Could they be in some kind of code?” I asked.
“They thought about that, but they think it’s just correspondence. They’ve sent all the documents to the National Security Agency to see if it might be a code.”
“I don’t guess you’ve gotten any more information on the identity of the killer.”
“Nada. But it occurred to me that the only indication we have that the killer is an American is what King told us about his accent. If King’s involved, you can bet he lied about that. This guy may be some kind of Arab terrorist. Who knows?”
“You going to be home for dinner?” I asked.
“Probably. Call me when you get back from Avon Park.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“We lost a lot of good groves around here,” Frank Cartwright said. “Got turned into subdivisions. Now a lot of those houses are in foreclosure and the neighborhoods are going to hell.” He was garrulous in the way of old men. He hadn’t stopped talking since Jock and I arrived at the double-wide trailer where he lived with his three dogs. He was tall and spare, his face creased with wrinkles earned by age and hard work in the sun, his white hair mostly hidden by a ball cap with a John Deere logo, his ice-blue eyes rheumy. The jeans he wore were thin with age, his flannel shirt threadbare. His home smelled of unwashed dog and old cigarette butts. He was drinking from a mug half full of coffee that looked as if it had sat in the pot for the last year or two. Jock and I had declined his offer to join him.
“What can you tell me about Jim Fredrickson’s grove?” I asked.
“Wasn’t much to it. His ma and pa eked out a living with it. They couldn’t afford to hire no pickers, so they did it themselves. Little Jimmy filled his share of boxes before he got that scholarship to college down in Miami. Until a couple of years ago, he never came back here after they got killed in that car wreck.”
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