The bartender grabbed a pen and scribbled something on a cocktail napkin. “I gave this info to that cop fellow, too,” he said. “Before you ask, I don’t know if he went down to Marathon, either.”
“Thanks,” Brad said.
Realizing they were about to return to the limo, June said, “I need to use the bathroom.”
“In the back,” the barkeep said.
Brad knocked on a door with a large-busted female silhouette. “Anyone in there?” When there was no response, he went in and quickly exited. “All clear.”
When safely back in the limo, June removed the vest. “I’m decent,” she said, and her guards lowered the privacy window.
Tony was behind the wheel again, and Brad turned to face her.
“It’s a long drive to Marathon,” Tony said.
“We’d have to spend the night,” Brad added.
“So you’ve already discussed it?” June asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Brad said. “Your uncle has authorized the expense.”
“You were right about Kublin coming to the Keys,” Tony said. “But Marathon is a long way from Miami and not a good base of operation for his mission there.”
“It’s our only lead,” June said.
“That’s a fact,” Brad agreed. “Your decision.”
“I hope we don’t find Kublin’s body,” Tony muttered.
“Let’s go,” she said. Dean thought she was hiding from life? Not this time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DEAN WAITED IMPATIENTLY for the concierge desk to pick up at the Enclave. June hadn’t answered her cell or her home number. He’d texted her three times. She didn’t work on Saturdays. If she’d gone down to the pool for a swim, she’d be back by now.
Where the hell was she? And why wasn’t she answering her phone?
“Concierge,” said a cultured voice. “This is Magda.”
“This is Detective Hammer, Magda. Do you know where June is?”
“She left this morning in a limo,” Magda said. “Her uncle sent the car.”
Dean released a breath. Thank God. “Do you know where she went?”
“Key Largo. Don’t worry. She’ll be home tonight.”
“Thanks.” Dean disconnected, realizing instantly what June was up to. Strange that she wasn’t picking up, but at least she was far away from the sniper.
“Damn, a houseboat,” Sanchez said as he maneuvered the Crown Vic toward five or six other police vehicles at an active scene along Indian Creek. Circulating blue and red lights flashed around them. “I didn’t know there were any houseboats left in South Florida.”
Refocusing on the scene, Dean noted that a crowd of fifty to sixty citizens had gathered, some spilling into the roadway.
“Damn loony lookers,” Sanchez muttered as he braked to a stop.
Dean exited the Crown Vic without speaking. He glanced across Collins Avenue toward the parade of thirty-story buildings looming over this section of Miami Beach.
Each rooftop contained a perfect spot for a sniper to hide.
Midbeach, the department called this section of the city. These oceanfront high-rises began their lives as luxury hotels, but most had now been converted into condominiums. Residents who could afford the expense kept huge yachts docked in protected Indian Creek, a narrow waterway directly across Collins Avenue. Access to the ocean or Biscayne Bay was maybe a thirty-to-forty-minute gas-guzzling journey away.
And yes, a floating home or two still remained here, leftovers from the past. The sniper’s latest victim waited for him inside this faded pink aluminum-sided houseboat swarming with law enforcement. A wooden sign with etched script letters, Casita Rosita, hung over the front door. This square-shaped hunk of junk looked nothing like a boat and probably hadn’t left the dock since the owner tied it up decades ago.
Dean and Sanchez pulled on latex gloves and covered their shoes with paper booties before entering. Dean looked for and didn’t find a bullet hole anywhere in the facade.
Thankful he no longer feared this corpse could be June, he stepped inside the houseboat. Squatting, Dr. Owen Fishman hovered over the body.
“Good morning, Hawk,” Fishman said, turning his head, nodding.
“Morning, Doc,” Dean replied. “What have we got?”
The ME stood and Dean stared into the wide-open but very dead eyes of Al Kublin.
“Damn,” Sanchez muttered. “Isn’t that Kublin?”
“You know our victim?” Fishman asked.
“Been looking for him,” Dean said, still focused on Kublin’s body. The man was thin, almost anorexic. Dark blood spread across his sunken chest. The kill shot had been to the center mass of the body.
“Well, someone else found him first. Single gunshot wound just like the hit on North Beach. Death was immediate.”
Dead nodded. Maybe quick was better than the long, slow, painful demise that Kublin had been up against. The man might even have welcomed it. Had that been the reason for the phone call last night? Had Kublin known the sniper had tracked him down again and wanted to make certain the cops kept digging for the truth?
“Time of death?” Dean asked.
Fishman shook his head. “Hasn’t been long. You’ll have to wait for the exact time.”
“Who found the body?” Dean asked.
A female uniformed officer stepped forward. Her badge read S. Jones. “Dispatch received report of a gunshot around four p.m.,” Officer Jones said. “I was first on the scene and called it in. Looked like he opened the door to exit, got whacked and was thrown back by the impact.”
Dean nodded. The sniper was getting bolder, taking a shot in the afternoon with plenty of civilians around. Desperation? Or maybe once he found his target, he didn’t want to take a chance on losing him again.
“Have you done a canvass?” Dean asked.
“Nobody saw a thing. Anyone who heard the gunshot knew immediately what the sound was.”
“Who owns this boat?”
Jones consulted her notepad. “William Amos, a resident in the Paradise Club, a condo at Fifty-third and Collins. He rents out to tourists weekly.” She looked up. “Amos is nervous because he knows short-term rentals are illegal in the city and now won’t talk to us without his attorney present.”
“We need to set that up immediately,” Dean said. “I want to find out how long Kublin has been here.”
“He probably rented this place after the hit on North Beach,” Sanchez suggested.
“Probably,” Dean said. “Has the body been moved?”
“I turned him over to check for an exit wound,” Fishman said. “But he’s lying where he fell.”
“Just so you know,” Dean said to Fishman, “on autopsy you’ll find this guy has got advanced pancreatic cancer.”
“That explains his weight.” Fishman made a grim face. “Someone did this guy a favor, then.”
“Maybe,” Dean said. “But I sure wanted to talk to him first.”
Whatever Kublin knew had died with him. Dean took a last look at the corpse. It was a damn shame if this man had been set up and wrongly convicted. Had Kublin hastened his death in a last effort to prove his innocence and that of June’s parents?
“I’m sick of this shooter always being one step ahead of me,” Dean murmured.
He moved to the front door and gazed east across Collins to the condo canyon, focusing on roofs, computing the trajectory of the shot. Sanchez joined him.
“I’d say our sniper took his shot from the Alexandrine,” Dean said to his partner, who was also looking up.
“Agreed,” Sanchez said.
“What do you say we mosey over there and take a look?”
Dean ignored the questions thrown at him by journalists as he and Sanchez exited th
e houseboat and hurried across the street. The department’s public relations officer would tell the media anything they needed to know.
On the southbound side of Collins next to the waterway, four lanes of traffic had been funneled to one by the police activity, creating a long line of vehicles full of impatient commuters. Horns blared every few seconds. On the northbound side, curious drivers slowed and ogled the scene.
“Citizens hoping to see some gore,” Sanchez muttered when they reached the east side of Collins.
Dean’s cell rang before he could respond. He answered immediately, not checking the caller ID. This had better be June.
“Hammer,” he barked.
“Well, you’re in a good mood,” Sheila said.
“Sorry.” Dean slowed his steps. “I’m at a new crime scene, a murder.”
“Ouch. I won’t keep you, then. I have the name of that witness you wanted.”
“Go ahead,” Dean said, trying to suppress the excitement churning in his gut, certain of the name Sheila would reveal.
“A state Fish and Wildlife officer, one Donald Gillis, was the primary witness against Al Kublin,” Sheila reported.
Dean realized he was holding his phone tightly enough to break the plastic or a finger. He relaxed his grip. Shit. He’d been right. Gillis, June’s contact at Fish and Wildlife, was the sniper, the dirty cop. Dean’s thoughts swirled around what this meant for his case. For June.
“Gillis testified to seeing Kublin at the scene and found him in possession of the accelerant that the fire marshal proved started the fire,” Sheila continued. “Thanks to Gillis, evidence against Kublin was overwhelming, and his attorney barely mounted a defense. Kublin didn’t even have a lame alibi. The jury returned a guilty verdict in two hours.”
“Thanks, Sheila. I owe you that drink.”
“Don’t worry about it, Hawk. Just solve your new murder so I can convict the asshole, whoever he is.”
“You got it.” Dean disconnected and told Sanchez, “Our shooter is Donald Gillis.”
“The Fish and Wildlife guy?” Sanchez said.
“Bingo. We’ll need hard proof to arrest a fellow law-enforcement officer. We’ll start tailing him when we’re done here.” Dean looked up again. “Which probably won’t take long. If I know Gillis, we won’t find squat on top of that roof.”
* * *
JUNE STEPPED INTO a blast of stale but very cold air when she entered her sparse room in the Marathon Motel behind Tony. While he checked out the bathroom, she tossed a plastic bag from a local drugstore onto the bed and moved to adjust the temperature on the ancient AC unit. The night’s lodging had been chosen with security in mind, not amenities.
Tony opened the closet, then knelt to check beneath the bed. “All clear,” he reported.
“Hard to hide in a room this size,” she said.
“You still want to make a call?”
“I need to let the police officer I’m working with know someone else wants to find Kublin.”
“Does your cop contact know what you’re doing today?”
“No,” she admitted. “He wanted me to hide behind four walls.”
Tony nodded. “To keep you safe.”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like a good man,” Tony said. “Okay. When we’re secure here, I’ll return and give you my cell. Keep this door locked and chained until you hear our knock.”
When Tony left, she pulled back the bedspread, arranged three pillows against the wall and settled herself to wait. She didn’t turn on the television, craving silence to cure a headache caused by heat and frustration.
Once in Marathon, they’d found the houseboats with no problem, but the manager had never seen Kublin. No one in the area had. They’d canvassed other marinas until offices closed. After selecting what her security team determined an easy-to-defend motel, Tony made a quick trip into the drugstore to purchase a few necessities, since none of them had planned for an overnight trip.
June reached for the bag and dumped the contents onto the bed. Tony had bought toothpaste, toothbrush and, thank you very much, aspirin. She held up a blue T-shirt featuring a bright yellow sun with I Heart Florida Keys in the center. She didn’t want to sleep in her clothes, since she had to wear them tomorrow. She only liked to sleep nude when Dean was in the bed with her.
She’d had to argue with Brad and Tony to get her own room, but they’d relented, deciding they could alternate watches outside her door. At least they wouldn’t be hovering over her bed all night.
After she called Dean, she and her guards would share the pizza and pasta Brad ordered in for dinner. The food would be delivered to the office so not even the delivery guy would know where their rooms were. Seemed like overkill to her, but whatever. Her security team was in charge. At least the meal wasn’t a repeat of lunch, fast-food burgers and fries ordered at a drive-in window.
She closed her eyes. The whole trip had been a waste other than learning someone else was looking for Kublin. Had to be the sniper.
When she heard the rhythm of Brad’s special knock, June checked through the peephole. He stood alone, so she opened the door.
“Here’s my phone,” Brad said. “Don’t tell anyone exactly where you are.”
* * *
“THERE HE IS,” Dean said to Sanchez, raising his binoculars.
Agent Gillis emerged from his residence carrying a black duffel bag, one large enough to conceal a sniper rifle. After confirming with a phone call that Gillis was inside, Dean and Sanchez had positioned themselves where they couldn’t be seen and waited. Fortunately it had only taken an hour for their suspect to move.
Gillis strode toward his vehicle as if he had a purpose in mind.
“Brand-new top-of-the-line Lexus,” Sanchez said. “I’m working for the wrong department.”
“He didn’t purchase that luxury sedan based on his salary,” Dean said, eyeballing Gillis’s residence through the binocs. The neighborhood might be middle-class, but the home had been remodeled beyond the median price of other structures. Gillis was too smart to flaunt his illegal profits by moving to an expensive area. Wondering what he’d find on the inside with a warrant, Dean returned his attention to the silver Lexus. “Let him get to the end of the street before you follow.”
The Fish and Wildlife agent placed the duffel in the trunk and backed out of the driveway.
When Gillis turned left at a stop sign, Sanchez accelerated out of their hiding place behind a large live oak. They’d exchanged Dean’s Crown Vic for a different vehicle at the motor pool, one Gillis wouldn’t recognize. Dean had transferred equipment, including his own sniper rifle, from one trunk to the other.
They followed at a safe distance through the residential area in southwest Miami-Dade County to the Palmetto Expressway.
“Whenever you’re tailing a suspect, try to stay at least two cars back,” Dean instructed Sanchez. “Otherwise you take a chance of getting spotted.”
“How long are we going to surveil him?” Sanchez asked.
“Until the phone taps get approved,” Dean said. “We’re lucky he’s on the move. Nothing more boring than a stakeout with the target hunkered down for the evening.”
“Where do you think he’s going?”
“No clue, but my gut tells me that something is about to break.”
Gillis drove a legal speed until taking the turnoff for the Dolphin Expressway. He exited the Dolphin fifteen minutes later and turned in the direction of the Miami River, always staying within the speed limit. The area changed from residential to small businesses and then turned rougher, industrial. Not too many people around, since it was late on a Saturday afternoon, but it wasn’t yet dark. Anything could happen.
“He’s headed to the river,” Sanchez said.
Dean agreed, thinking Gi
llis had either found another shipping company to use or gone into business on his own.
Sanchez stayed out of sight when Gillis parked in front of a two-story building on the south bank of the Miami River. No signage. Dean raised his binoculars, certain the structure had huge doors and loading docks on the other side to off-load cargo from a freighter.
Gillis exited the Lexus without checking his surroundings—obviously not worried about a tail—unlocked the door and stepped inside.
“So we wait?” Sanchez asked.
“You wait. I’ll confirm what I think is on the other side and look for a window to get a glimpse of the interior. If you don’t hear from me in fifteen minutes, call for backup.”
“Got it,” Sanchez said.
Dean jogged toward the river and quickly determined his assumptions correct. Although no boat was tied up at this dock, there were freighters across the water and at neighboring wharfs. He looked cautiously around the corner of the building and spotted the huge roll-up doors he expected.
One of them was partially open at the bottom. No visible light on the inside.
Dean edged along the structure until he reached the opening. He paused and listened. Nothing. He squatted and looked inside. A dark void.
He stared into the interior. Should he chance it? Was this taking an unnecessary risk? He placed his phone on vibrate and secured his weapon. Lying belly down on the asphalt, he rolled inside.
Clear of the door, he leaped to his feet and darted left, keeping his back against the wall. Alert for any sound or sign of Gillis, he waited for his eyes to adjust. Knowing he’d be visible if Gillis turned on a light, Dean crouched behind a forklift.
Light streamed from around a closed door in the opposite corner of the warehouse. Probably the office. Likely where he’d find Gillis.
The room was a huge square containing pallets, machinery and boxes for containerized freight. Dean wiped sweat from his eyes and realized it was damn hot in here, at least ninety-five degrees. Shit, maybe a hundred. Nobody could remain in here long without cooking. That was why the freight door was cracked open.
He heard a rustle to his left deeper in the structure and swiveled his head to look. Not rats. Sound was too high. But something was moving. He edged his way closer and heard a feeble squawk, then another. Sounded like June’s macaw, Lazarus.
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