by Tom Lowe
“I have a better idea. I’ll board the ship with you. We’ll search it together and have each other’s backs.”
“The number one thing we have going right now is the element of surprise. I can move faster and stealthier on foot by myself. Regardless, if all hell breaks loose, I don’t want you going down and being sentenced to prison. You’d never survive it living in a cage.”
“Would you do any better, Sean?”
“I hope I don’t have to find out. The moon’s behind the clouds. Let’s head to Spencer’s play toy.”
With an in-coming tide, it took us less than five minutes to get within one hundred feet of the yacht. The words on the stern read: Sweet Dreams. It was secured to a long concrete dock, soft lights coming from globes at the top of each piling. Ropes coiled to perfection, the hull gleaming in the subdued lights and shadows. The sloping yard leading from the dock to the mansion was dotted with expensive canary date palm trees, each lit from the base. A winding brick path from the waterfront up to the estate was lined with small white lights on both sides of the walkway. The night air carried the fragrance of sweet acacia, lilac and jasmine blossoms.
I heard laughter. Maybe from a woman or a girl.
I signaled for Joe to cut the electric motor, allowing the raft to drift in the last fifteen feet. I whispered, “You can tie up to the platform. It’s in subdued light. If the patrol boat comes by again, just lie down flat. They won’t see you from the distance, and a dinghy tied to the aft of a boat won’t raise suspicions.”
“I still don’t like you going it alone.”
“If I haven’t returned in thirty minutes, you head back and take my Jeep. Go to the rez and just lay low.”
“I don’t like the sound of that. I won’t leave a man behind. I didn’t do it in the military, and I won’t do it here tonight. If you aren’t back in thirty minutes, I’ll come looking for you, Sean. So, don’t screw up.”
“Don’t plan to.” When we were close enough, I jumped from the raft to the swim platform. My Glock wedged under my belt, the ten-inch serrated knife in a sheath strapped to my right leg. I watched Billie tie the raft to the swim platform, and then I spotted trouble. Two men coming down the stone path from the mansion to the yacht. There were dressed in black pants and black polo shirts. Lots of steroid induced muscle. The waddle of gym rats who spent more time lifting than doing cardio exercises. Each wore an earpiece. They were armed. Both men with powerful, tactical flashlights in their hands.
I crouched down on the massive swim platform. Looked at Joe and gave him hand signals, indicating two men were approaching. He nodded, picking up the crossbow. The guards were heading toward the yacht. A sense of urgency in their step. I didn’t know if they’d seen us I arrive. Maybe we triggered some hidden alarm near the yacht. They were less than fifty feet away, and both men were reaching for pistols clipped to their belts.
NINETY-FIVE
They hit their flashlights, the twin beams were powerful searchlights along the perimeter of Sweet Dreams and across the surface of the dark water. I hid in the shadows, near a staircase on the yacht’s transom leading to the deck above me. I watched the shafts of light crisscrossing in the night sky. The men were now within twenty-five feet of reaching the yacht. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Joe aiming the crossbow. He shot the arrow into the limbs of a palm tree, the arrowhead embedding into a coconut knocking it to the ground with a thrashing noise.
The men turned, whispering and walking in the direction of the sound. I climbed off the yacht and followed them, wondering if I was on surveillance cameras and my every move seen in a guardhouse near or on the property. At this point, it didn’t matter. Timothy Spencer didn’t play by the rules. He believed he was entitled to whatever he desired, damn the little people and the collateral damages. I thought about Wynona lying in the hospital bed, now pulling my Glock, less than twenty feet behind the men.
They used the flashlights to scan the area, their talk in brief whispers. “What the hell is that?” asked the taller of the two, a rawboned warrior who looked like he trained Navy Seals. He shone his light on the arrow embedded in the center of a green coconut, the red and yellow feathers like a tiny bird caught in the beam of light.
The other man said, “It’s a damn arrow. We have hostiles on the property!”
Before they could move, I slipped behind the taller of the two and drove my fist into the back of his neck. He collapsed on the spot. The second man reached for his pistol. Before he could pull it from the side holster, I dove into him, grabbing his gun arm and wrenching it behind his back. There was a soft crack of bone. He swung at me with his good arm, the blow hitting me in the mouth. I saw the lights in the distance go off for a half second, the taste of blood instant.
I slammed my forearm into his nose, blood spurting on impact. I released his broken arm, drew back and hit him as hard as I could in his lower right jaw. His eyes dimmed, and he toppled to the ground, his head resting next to the coconut with an arrow dead center in it. I removed the pistols from their holsters and tossed them into the shrubbery. I turned and ran toward the yacht, giving Joe the thumbs up sign, the music from the top deck loud—the song Whipping Post from the Allman Brothers Band in the night air.
I spit a mouthful of blood into the water below the yacht, two teeth loose. I climbed back onto the transom and entered Sweet Dreams. I pulled on rubber gloves, moved through the salon and felt as if I’d walked into a deserted billionaire’s club. It was all light woods, dark leathers, an opulent bar that covered more than twenty feet of one wall. A large saltwater aquarium was behind the bar, exotic fish swimming around pink coral and eel grass. Seven posh seats were in front of the bar. Expensive original paintings hung from two of the walls, the paintings softly lit. I walked through the salon, entering a labyrinth of rooms—mostly guest cabins, all decorated like bedrooms in a Manhattan penthouse. There was no master’s berth on this deck. A blue backpack was on one of the beds.
I found a carpeted stairway and climbed to the second deck, looking for security cameras along the way. This deck was teeming with expensive toys. Two wide-screen TVs, a sunken conversation pit filled with a leather, half-circle couch and wide chairs. A backgammon board was atop a small glass table in the center. A regulation-sized billiard table was near the rear of the room. A chef’s galley at one end with a winding bar. Two empty bottles of champagne were on one of the mahogany dining tables.
I followed a hallway, walking over thick carpet past a head that can only be called a luxurious bathroom. There was no one in it. I moved toward what I assumed was going to be the master berth. The door was closed. I pulled my Glock, using my left hand to test the door. It was unlocked. I slowly turned the handle and opened the door, immediately extending the pistol.
The berth was larger than the master bedroom in many expensive homes. But no one in it. The bed was not disturbed. A small dining area was near a walk-out veranda. A large, polished-brass telescope on a tripod next to one of the windows. A glass-enclosed fireplace stood less than twenty feet from the king-sized bed. There was a massage table adjacent to a private bath, a spa and glassed-in shower at the far end of the room. I approached the balcony, the sliding glass doors open, translucent curtains billowing in the night breeze.
I pulled back the curtains. No one. Only two thick-cushioned chairs, center table, an umbrella that was closed and tied at the base. From the veranda, I could hear the music. It came from the upper deck. I left the master and headed up through a half-circle staircase. As I approached the top couple of steps, I stopped and listened. A man said, “Turn around, I want to see more.”
NINETY-SIX
I slowly rose, keeping to the shadows. A blob of a man sprawled naked in a lounge chair. His walrus skin was pink, and it looked like layers of soft ice cream on a cone. He had little hair on his round head, dark fur across his back. I knew I was looking at Timothy Spencer. In front of him, two young women danced naked to a pulsating beat. There was a swimming pool and hot
spa built into the expansive deck. An outdoor bar. Lots of chairs and colorful umbrellas.
I put the Glock under my belt beneath my shirt and approached them. The girls saw me first, not sure if I was crashing the party or an invited guest. Spencer answered the question on their faces when he looked up under heavy lids and asked, “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the dream-weaver. It’s good to be aboard Sweet Dreams. But in a few minutes, it will become a nightmare.”
The girls both gasped, searching for panties, shorts and tops. I looked at them. “How old are you two?”
“Eighteen,” blurted out the blonde.
“Tell me the truth.”
“Seventeen.”
I eyed the dark-haired girl. “And you?”
“Seventeen.”
“How’d you get here.”
“We were forced to come here. Both of us left bad stuff at our homes. She’s from Atlanta. I’m from Milwaukee. We lived on the streets until … we like can’t get away. One of his men met us at the ferryboat.”
“I will get you help, okay?”
Both girls nodded. “Who owns the blue backpack in one of the state rooms?”
The blonde raised her hand, her lower lip trembling. “It’s mine.”
“I want you and your friend to go back to that room and lock yourself inside. Don’t open the door for anyone but me or the police. I will get you out of here and into a safe place.”
Tears were filling the eyes of both girls. I said, “Go on and get your clothes and stay in that room.” They grabbed their clothes, dressed in seconds and left the top deck. I turned to Spencer. “It’s just you and me now.”
He pulled a white towel over his gut and crotch, looked up at me. “You’ll never get away with this.”
“Wrong. I’ve already gotten away with this. I’m here. And you’re sitting there. I have a nine-millimeter that will blow your head off your hairy shoulders. Two of your guards are sleeping soundly in your yard. It’s just you and me, Timmy. I can find you and penetrate your security anywhere you run, but you won’t run. Not now. Not ever.”
“Who are you? What do you want? Money? How much? Name your price?”
“You can’t afford me.”
“A million? How much?”
“You can’t buy me.”
“If you don’t want money, what do you want?”
“The truth.”
“Truth. What truth?”
“I know the word is hard for you to pronounce. Work on it because your life depends on something called the truth.”
“What are you going to do?”
“That’s up to you. I may kill you.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m going to kill you if you lie to me. You’re going to walk the plank. You have all these nautical toys, but you are deathly afraid of the water. It’s from a near drowning as a child in Lake Michigan.”
He pushed back in his chair. “How do you now this?”
“I know a lot about you, Timothy. I know that you were a trust-fund baby for years until you could leverage your way into a company your grandfather built. Your older brother, Ron, died hunting big game. It was from an apparent stray bullet. Convenient for you, eh? You leveraged full control of Heartland Sugar. From there you used that power to buy and sell people like pawns. And then along came Joe Thaxton, threatening to make a big change in your narcissistic world.”
Spencer’s eyes opened wide. There was a slight twitch from a nerve in his left jowl, his pink face growing hotter. “I had nothing to do with that.”
“You had everything to do with that. Thaxton was an anomaly, a non-politician who amassed a statewide following because he had the balls to stand up to corporate greed. You couldn’t buy him. You couldn’t compromise his ethics. You couldn’t stop him from rocking your boat. Then you killed him. And now your boat is about to really rock. Stand up!” I pulled out my Glock and shoved in under his bulbous, triple chin. “Stand up!”
He grabbed his towel, struggling to stand, his shoulders slouching, his pale blue eyes fearful. I said, “We’re going to go for a little stroll on Sweet Dreams. This yacht draws at least fifteen feet of water, meaning that off the port side it’s very deep. It’s pure Atlantic Ocean on this side of the island, and it’s the season for the bull sharks to come into the channel as the mothers enter Biscayne Bay to birth their young. And those mother sharks have quite an appetite, especially at night. You’re going for a midnight swim.”
“No! I can’t swim.”
“That could be a problem.”
“Please!”
“Let’s go!” I shoved him hard in the center of his back, his towel flapping behind his large butt. “Move!” I pushed him toward the bow and, in less than a minute, we were standing portside, a railing between him and the dark water. I slipped my knife from the leather sheath and touched his stomach. “A quarter-inch cut about here will create a slow bleed. Not enough to kill you, but more than enough to call in the sharks. It’s amazing how far they can smell blood in the water.”
“No! Don’t! I’ll give you ten million. You name the bank account to have it deposited.”
“You and the cronies you hire, people like lobbyist Simon Santiago, just don’t get it. You can’t buy your way in and out of everything. You turn Florida’s beautiful environment into a cesspool, and you couldn’t care less. Chaucer said all things must come to an end. Someone later added the word good, as in all good things must come to an end. But there’s nothing good about you, Timmy. This is one of those life changing events. You tell me the truth, or you tread water. The tide is going out, so I’d expect they’ll never find what’s left of your considerable body.” I held the knife against his gut. “Last chance, Timmy.”
“Okay! I’ll talk. But this will never stick. I’ll never be prosecuted.”
“Don’t bet the yacht on it, pal.”
I lifted my phone from my pocket and hit the live video feed. Detective Ron Hamilton answered. I said, “Detective Hamilton, you can see Timothy Spencer, the CEO of Heartland Sugar Corporation. He’s more than willing for you to question him.”
Hamilton cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Spencer, we’re investigating the murders of Joe Thaxton and Chester Miller as well as the killing of three police officers in Miami yesterday. This video questioning is being recorded. Do you understand that?”
Spencer pursed his lips, goose bumps rising on his hairless, flabby arms. “Yes.”
“And you are willing to speak to us without a lawyer?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Yes, you do. What will it be?”
I looked hard at Spencer. He cleared his throat. “I’ll speak with you.”
“All right. What role, if any, did you play in the death of Joe Thaxton?”
Spencer looked at me and then shifted his eyes to the screen on my phone. He said, “I hired lobbyist Simon Santiago to deal with Thaxton.”
“What do you mean deal with Thaxton?” asked Hamilton.
“To make him go away.”
“As in to kill him, correct?”
“I didn’t specifically order his death.”
“But you knew it was going to happen, right?”
“I assumed they’d do something bad. I don’t like to get into those details.”
“You paid Santiago to hire a hit man, correct?”
“I paid him to hire what he called a fixer.”
“Fixer and assassin are the same in terms of killers. And you knew the money was being used in a murder-for-hire scheme, correct?”
“I assumed, but I never asked or got into the specifics.”
“Who was the hit man hired?”
“I never met him.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t know … Fazio something, I think.”
“Why did you want Joe Thaxton out of the picture?”
“Because he was a threat to our business interests.”
“How about Chester Miller?
Why have him killed?”
“I didn’t want to do that, but Simon insisted that it be done. He said Miller could identify Fazio and the connections could come back to us. I didn’t condone that killing.”
“But you knew it was going to happen, correct?”
“I assumed it would.”
“And you did nothing to stop it, right?”
“I didn’t order it, so I wasn’t going to stop it.”
“Why ambush the police raiding the place where Michael Fazio was staying—a building owned by one of your companies?”
“I had nothing to do with that. I wasn’t aware it was going to happen. That’s the truth.”
Hamilton released a deep breath. “We will have officers at your home in less than thirty minutes. You will be placed under arrest at that time and brought in for further questioning. Is that clear?”
“Yes, and I’ll have my lawyers with me.”
I placed my phone back in my pocket, allowing the audio recording to continue. I stared at Spencer. He crossed his arms and said, “I won’t do a day in jail.”
“No, but you’ll do years in prison.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“You might as well have pulled the trigger. You’re the money guy, the one who hired the people to commit the murders. You’re as complicit, if not more so, because it would never have happened had you not ordered and paid for it. You wanted Joe Thaxton dead. He’s dead. You wanted to have Chester Miller killed because he was an eyewitness, and you were afraid Fazio and Simon Santiago would cop a plea and point their dirty fingers at you.”
He grinned. “Sure, but you’ll never prove that.”
“It’s already happening. You dump on people like you do with the environment. You could care less that those police officers died in the line of duty and one is left in critical condition.”
“I can’t control the actions of a hired hit man. Stuff happens. I’m done talking with you.”
I backhanded him hard across the left side of his face. The blow knocked him to the deck. I pulled Spencer up and propped him against the yacht’s railing. I grabbed him by the back of his thick neck and pushed his head down, the swirling dark water directly below us. “Stuff happens,” I said. “I want to make this clear to you, Timmy. I found you on your big boat. I’ll find you anywhere. You’ll do a lot better serving time than facing me again. Because if you do … there will be no negotiations. No compromises. No second chances for you.” I leaned down toward his ear and whispered. “Do you understand me? Do you understand what will happen to you?”