Should I stay, or should I go now?
There was no doubt that a security camera filmed me coming into the building—more than just one.
If I go, there will be trouble.
My fingerprints were all over the mop handle, but who knows what else I touched. It wouldn’t take them long to find me.
And if I stay, it will be double.
Better to wait. Besides, Carl whipped me. My head was beginning to throb as the adrenaline receded.
The wailing of sirens bounced between the buildings. So far, my trip across the state had done nothing to garner any worthwhile information. Instead, what I found was more trouble than I thought I wanted.
There are two sides to everyone; each person is different. The self-preservation alert was sounding in my subconscious.
Cut bait and run, it told me. You don’t owe the Porters a damned thing.
My mind imagined the little voice like Bugs Bunny saw the little devil. It was outside of myself, something foreign. I couldn’t leave it alone. Not now. Somehow, in saving Lily, I owed her something. As if my interfering in her kidnapping was something she would live to regret. Maybe I just like the kid. Or I just don’t like what is happening to her.
Whatever the reason, the option to leave her to the wolves wasn’t an option.
The elevator dinged again. Placing my hands on top of my head, I remained seated on the floor.
Two uniformed officers came around the hallway with their service revolvers out.
“Don’t move!” one of them shouted.
“I’m not moving,” I confirmed.
The other policeman spotted Carl’s gun lying on the floor. He stepped between it and me.
“Are you armed?” the first officer asked.
“No, sir.”
“Are you injured?” he followed up.
“I don’t think it’s life-threatening,” I answered.
“I’m going to need you to get to your feet slowly.”
The second officer spoke into his radio. “We have a suspect on the eighth floor.”
Keeping my hands on my head, I rolled off my butt and onto my knees. Facing the officers, I rose onto my feet.
“Is that your weapon?” inquired the first officer, whose badge read Clark.
I shook my head. “It was his.”
“The man that fell out of the window?”
I nodded.
“Alright, we are taking you into custody right now,” he explained. It wasn’t a surprise to me. They had a pile of Carl on the sidewalk and me up top. They couldn’t tell if he was shot, stabbed, or mauled by a panther at this point. Someone had to put the puzzle pieces together. The only witness was Becky, and I’m betting she wasn’t about to come forward to aid in my defense.
Clark gave me the rundown of my rights. I barely listened as I turned around and rotated my arms behind my back. The metal cuffs tightened around me.
“Want to tell me what happened?” Clark asked after he made sure I was secured.
“I came to the office of FC Investments looking for a guy that I thought worked there. They didn’t like my line of questioning. The guy out there, I think his name is Carl, tried to pull a gun on me.” I indicated the piece on the floor. “That gun.”
I continued, “I disarmed him and tried to run; he shot at me and hit the window. I was able to fight him off. In the process, he hit the broken window. It didn’t stop him.”
Clark nodded. He lifted the sleeve on my arm. “You in the service?”
“Not anymore.”
The officer asked, “The Corps?”
I nodded.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Chase Gordon.”
The elevator dinged again. More uniformed officers came onto the floor.
“Mr. Gordon, was anyone else here?”
“A woman in the office. Becky.”
“Alright, we are going to take you to the precinct. I’m sure that there will be more questions as we clean this up.”
Two of the officers that just arrived escorted me down the elevator. The lobby was cleared, only official personnel were around. The two officers walked me out the front doors. A tarp covered what had been Carl. He landed three feet short of the curb in the middle of the sidewalk.
The ride to the precinct was very short. I was dropped in a holding cell with four other despondent guys. The cuffs I had been wearing left an indent on my wrists. My left index finger traced along the grooved skin.
The bench that ran down the middle of the cell was occupied by three of the occupants that arrived before me. I pressed my back against the wall and slid my ass onto the floor before I crossed my legs.
My face was swollen from the blows Carl inflicted on me. Every muscle was stiffening with each passing minute. My head lolled back as I attempted to doze. Even with the ache that permeated my body from the waist up, I found a few minutes of sleep. Slumber rarely eluded me; I have slept in the midst of a firefight once.
The catnap left me out of sync. I lost track of how long I had been in the cell.
“Gordon!” an officer shouted, jerking me awake.
The rotund jailer stared at me through the bars.
“Up!” he snapped.
Standing up, I faced the door. The officer made a motion for me to turn around. Obeying, I placed my wrists at the small of my back. The lock clicked a few seconds before the handcuffs snapped, securing my arms.
The officer guided me through a door. There wasn’t a lot of point in asking where we were going. Most likely, he wouldn’t answer. One way or the other, I would find out very soon.
He pushed me through a door into a sterile room with a table in the middle. A black man in plainclothes sat at the table. He leaned back in his chair and studied me as I came in.
“Have a seat,” the officer ordered.
My eyes stayed on the other man. There was an air of disdain in the room. The officer that escorted me didn’t acknowledge the other guy.
“Do you think someone could bring us a couple cups of coffee?” the plain-clothed man asked.
The jailer bristled but nodded.
“How do you take yours, Mr. Gordon?” the black man asked.
“Straight.”
The man looked at the officer and said, “Same for me, please.”
The officer left with a sigh.
“Mr. Gordon,” the man across from me started, “I’m Agent Letson with the F.B.I.”
“Ah,” I blurted out, “that makes sense.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. I pointed at the door. “He didn’t like you,” I explained.
Letson shrugged. “Comes with the territory. I want to know what you were doing in the offices of FC Investment?”
“Bad luck,” I retorted. “I was interested in investing.”
“The police said you were looking for a friend that worked there.”
“Not really a friend,” I answered. “Look, I haven’t gotten to call a lawyer yet.”
“Do you need one?” Letson asked.
Smirking at him, I lifted my cuffed wrists in response.
“I want to know what you know about Travis Porter.”
Keeping my face blank, I stared at him.
Letson smiled. “You think you’re a tough nut, huh?”
Before I responded, the door opened, and the officer entered with two Styrofoam cups. He placed them on the table and left.
Letson took a sip out of his.
“I think given how much that guy doesn’t like you,” I commented, “I’d make my own coffee.”
He stared into the cup with his mouth on the rim before he set it back on the table. He glared at me. “I need to know where Travis Porter is.”
“I don’t know Travis Porter,” I answered.
The agent leaned back and watched me.
“Yesterday, a Detective Delp from the Palm County Sheriff’s Department made inquiries about Porter.”
Shrugging, I lifted my cup and took a drink of my
coffee.
Letson continued, “I know that you and Delp served together.”
“I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Most people’s idea of wrong place, wrong time doesn’t end in a guy being thrown from an eighth story window.”
“He attacked me. I was just trying to defend myself.”
His face was skeptical. “You could be facing pretty severe charges here. Work with me, and I’ll see what I can do.”
I rolled my eyes. “Seriously, it was clearly self-defense. The gun is going to have Carl’s fingerprints on it. I never touched it. Whatever FC Investments was up to, the F.B.I. has taken this opportunity to go through their office, what with it being a crime scene now. Even if I was charged, a mediocre defense attorney would get it thrown out. So don’t threaten me with that bullshit.”
He scowled at me, but he wasn’t surprised. He was making a stab in the dark.
I asked, “Who is Travis Porter?”
“He is a person of interest.”
“I don’t know him,” I said. “What does the F.B.I. think FC Investments was up to?”
Letson stood up. “I can’t say. Obviously, Mr. Gordon, you don’t want to cooperate. There’s nothing I can do.”
It felt like a Hail-Mary effort. A tactic that might work on some. He was willing to walk away from the deal, and if I wanted something bad enough, I might give in. I wasn’t about to fall for it.
“I’ll take my chances,” I smiled. “If you want to charge me, do it. I’m still going to wait for my attorney.”
16
For twelve hours, I was a guest of the Tampa Police Department. No charges were ever filed, but they shuffled me back to the holding cell. They didn’t forget me. The move was intentional, no doubt orchestrated by Letson out of spite.
The holding cell was a tight 200-foot-square concrete room with two benches down the longer walls. I know the size because I counted the painted cement blocks on each side of the cell. Nine men sat on the two benches, leaving two to either stand up or risk sitting on the urine-stained floor. I was lucky enough not to be one of those two. They were both clean-cut, college boys reeking of whiskey with faraway eyes and moronic grins that faded quickly after the first half-hour they were forced to stand. After an hour, one slid to the floor with resignation. The other held out almost two before surrendering to his whiskey knees.
Despite my luck at staying off the floor, the air in the room left my skin feeling grimy and sticky. The smell of the other eleven was musky and putrid, and I was feeling that the condition was contagious.
“Gordon!” a voice called from the side of the bars that didn’t have names on the wall written in fecal matter.
My head popped up from a slight doze. I wasn’t about to relinquish my spot just yet.
“Come on, Gordon,” the officer said. “You get to go.”
My release wasn’t fast, and another hour passed before I was allowed to walk out of the jail-house. I hoofed it two miles back downtown where my rental car was parked. The meter expired hours earlier; another insult from the Tampa PD was stuck under the windshield wiper.
I was tired and felt like that layer of inmate crud was stuck to me. In the rear-view mirror, I could see what my grandmother referred to as “granny beads” around my collar.
The Tampa Police would have to come looking for me if they thought I was going to pay this fine. I wadded up the ticket and tossed it into the passenger seat.
My stomach growled. It was a quarter till one in the morning; I hadn’t eaten since the little diner.
Heading south out of Tampa, I found a 24-hour Waffle House. The woman behind the counter gave me a black coffee, three scrambled eggs, two slices of bacon, and a waffle, all of which I wolfed down like a rescued sailor. While she was scrambling my eggs, I used the sink in the restroom to clean up a little. The clothes still smelled, but at least my face and hands felt clean. Small victories.
The swelling in my face had receded some. The Waffle House had a vending machine offering aspirin powder. I got two of them and downed them with the first cup of coffee.
With my hunger sated, I took a cup of coffee for the road. One of the things that the service conditioned me for was erratic sleeping patterns. Despite my fatigue, I drove through the night without too much fear of falling asleep at the wheel. The longest I went without sleep was 43 hours; even that time, it was technically broken by a short 45-minute respite before I had to go another 12 hours awake. The 27 hours I was clocking now was no big deal.
FC Investments had some connection to Travis Porter. There wasn’t much chance I would ever find out what was in the office, but Letson’s guys must have scored when it became an active crime scene. No need for surveillance or warrants. Whatever was there, I stirred the pot pretty well.
The first bits of daylight were just coming over the horizon when I pulled into the parking lot of the Tilly Marina. The fishermen were filtering into the parking lot. Several boats were already motoring out of the inlet to hunt the catch of the day.
I slammed the rental car’s door and walked across the parking lot. The trudge felt like a walk of shame without all the glory of getting laid. Instead, I was treated to the sound of the window shattering as Carl tumbled through it.
My body was ready for sleep. It screamed at me. A shower seemed like such a good idea, but the v-berth was arguing for me to just wait until I woke up. It was a close race, but the shower was going to win. At this point, what were another 15 minutes? Besides, I knew how much better I would sleep once I didn’t smell like urine and prison sweat.
The concrete tiles on the main walkway clicked and rocked as I crossed them toward the F dock. The yachties on this side of the marina avoided these early mornings. Most of them were the type to stay up late sipping cold beer and swapping stories. No fish was about to get them up before daylight.
The dock creaked behind me. I glanced back to see someone else heading toward the big boat docks.
My skin tingled. It wasn’t impossible that they were just heading back to their boat, but I didn’t think so. Increasing my pace, I hurried toward the F Dock. There wasn’t a lot of places for me to go, but I pressed on.
A figure appeared ahead of me at the walkway to the F Dock. Carina was sitting six slips down.
I cursed at myself. Moreno warned me that they were looking for me. It was inevitable that whoever they were would find where I generally docked Carina. I should have been expecting something. My guard was down.
Stopping in my tracks, I faced the figure. Like a sheriff caught between two rogues on the dusty streets of some Western town, I stood motionless, waiting on something.
The man standing 30 feet in front of me was only a silhouette against the graying sky. He wasn’t as big as Carl. His posture was ominous; there was a sense of preparedness. The stance was a fighting one, ready for me to make a move. He might have heard about Carl. He wasn’t going to make it easy on me.
The footsteps behind me sounded closer. Maybe half the distance. I glanced over my shoulder. He was marching forward.
Basically surrounded, I needed to make a quick decision. They wanted Lily, and I was the only way to her. As long as they hadn’t already found her. Maybe this was just a clean-up. J.J.’s lifeless body flashed through the screen in my mind. Would they do the same to Lily? Or worse? They needed her to make Travis talk or suffer. Either one was unacceptable.
Unfortunately, there was no decision to make. These two had the advantage.
The silhouette in front of me made the first move toward me. A flash of something appeared at his waist. The barrel of the gun wasn’t distinguishable in the dark, but I knew it was there.
“Walk,” he ordered, motioning me off the main walkway onto the H Dock.
“What do you want?” I demanded.
The gunman moved closer, but not within an arm’s length. The old halogen lights buzzing and beaming down from the roof of the dock barely illuminated his face. His cheeks were
misshapen in the yellow glow as if his severe pubescent acne scarred him for life.
Over my shoulder, the other man closed in behind me.
“Just move!” the one behind me barked. He held a small revolver, maybe a .38. It was hard to make out in the short glimpse I got.
“Where?” I asked, somewhat defiantly.
He nodded toward H dock. That finger of the marina extended north, away from Carina floating on F dock. H dock was the covered section for trawlers, houseboats, and powerboats. There were only one or two liveaboards at the far end, and at this time of the morning, they were likely good and asleep.
“Look, guys,” I reasoned aloud, “this isn’t necessary. Why don’t you tell me what you want?”
“Here,” the second man ordered. He was closer now, and I could make out a neatly trimmed goatee. He was about the same size as the first guy, but he had fiery eyes like he was ready to punch the world.
I watched the pocked-face man snarl in the shadows. The top of the sun was cresting over the ocean. Daylight was coming fast.
The second man put his hand to my back and pushed me alongside a 52-foot Gibson houseboat. The boat was lifeless, its owners no doubt were not onboard. The thin layer of dirt left by the sea air indicated the boat hadn’t been tended to recently.
“Get on board,” the bearded man demanded.
“Yeah,” I responded, “that’s not going to happen.”
The pocked-faced man raised his gun, silently ordering me to obey.
“Are you the guys that slaughtered that kid over in St. Pete?”
Goatee stepped forward and snapped, “Get on the damned boat!”
The sun was more than halfway above the horizon. The dock was brightening.
“You don’t have time,” I told him. “I’m not some helpless kid you can scare. Either shoot me in daylight with all the security cameras or get the hell out.”
Goatee fumed. “Shoot him!” he barked.
“What?” Pockmark blurted, his eyes shifting toward his partner. “We have to find the girl.”
“He ain’t going to tell us anyway.”
“Blake said…” the gunman started before Goatee’s glare stopped him.
“That’s what I thought,” I quipped, pointing at Goatee. “The little man here can only take on defenseless kids.”
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