“Tell your mom…” I didn’t finish the thought. Paige squeezed my hand, absolving me in her mind. Not in mine, though.
“When the cops start asking questions,” I said, “tell your mom not to lie about it. It will only make things worse.”
Paige nodded as she climbed into the cab of the ambulance. She stared down at me with sad, blue eyes.
The door on the rear slammed loudly, and I stepped back as the driver climbed up next to Paige and pulled away. The flashing lights stayed in my view for another fifteen seconds before the van turned at the next block.
The officer that had spoken to us approached me. “Do you know if there was another woman in the car?”
I looked up at him and shook my head. “I just knew her daughter,” I lied as I turned to walk away.
25
Going back to the Tilly Inn wasn’t an option. Letson and his team of Feds would be all over me, if for nothing other than assaulting a Federal agent. It wouldn’t stick, but they could tie my hands for the next 48 to 72 hours–enough time to ensure that I’d never find Lily in time.
Heading north, I walked away from the inn, feeling helpless. Going to the hospital with Missy wasn’t my place, even if I wanted to. She had Michael for that.
I had to hope that Travis could keep his daughter safe; however, that seemed like a dim hope. He had dragged her into this, even if I didn’t know the details. I couldn’t keep her safe. Somewhere along the way, I underestimated Loggins and his men.
The Hyatt Hotel loomed ahead. I didn’t exactly look like the Hyatt’s clientele. My gas station t-shirt suggested I belonged in a motel somewhere several miles from the ocean. Luckily, even first-class tourists, seem to lose any sensibility, wearing outfits that they would never be caught dead in back home.
Nodding to the doorman as I entered the lobby gave off the sense that I belonged. He returned my nod, withholding any visual judgments on my attire.
There was a house phone, and I picked it up. The Tilly’s house phones only dial within the hotel unless the proper code is punched in first. Dial “8-8-8,” and the dial tone sounds. I tried the same thing here.
No dial tone.
It seemed logical. Most phone codes like that are similar. A technician might be working on a phone here, the Tilly, or the Four Seasons. No point in complicating things. Guess logic doesn’t always work.
I dialed “0.”
“Front desk,” a feminine voice answered.
“Can I get a number for a restaurant in Miami?”
“Yes, sir. What is the name of the restaurant?”
“Padrino’s.”
“One moment, sir.” The voice commented, “I can connect you if you prefer.”
“Please,” I answered. That was going to be my next request.
The phone rang.
“Hola,” another female voice answered.
“I’m looking for Julio Moreno.”
“I think you have the wrong number,” she replied in a slightly accented tone.
“Look over at the corner table. Tell him Chase Gordon would like to talk to him.”
The sound became muffled as if she covered the mouthpiece with her hand.
“Mister Gordon,” a man said over the phone.
“Julio,” I greeted. He didn’t like my use of his first name. It denoted a lack of respect for the drug lord, which wasn’t true. Respecting the type of power that someone like Julio Moreno carried was the only intelligent thing to do. Allowing him to think of me as a subordinate might give him the idea that he could control me. That wasn’t an option. I had seen what being under the thumb of Julio Moreno could mean.
Unfortunately, I was about to ask something of Moreno, and that was going to come with strings.
“I see that you have avoided the trouble that was looking for you,” he commented.
“I’m dancing around it.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Joe Loggins.”
Moreno was silent.
“Do you know who Loggins is?” I asked.
“A kingmaker,” he replied.
“I’ve heard that about him. Maybe not in such a succinct way.”
“Is he the man that was looking for you?”
“Yes, but now I want to know where to find him.”
“He is a dangerous man,” Moreno commented. “The most dangerous kind. He appears to be a legitimate businessman, but he is much more. Have you read your Machiavelli, Mr. Gordon?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“You should,” he recommended. “Loggins is the type of man that one cannot ignore. He is known to ask for favors, and refusing them is often bad for business. Bad for everything.”
“You’re scared of him?” I asked, surprised.
His smile could almost be heard over the phone. “In the same sense that you seem to be scared of me.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I lied. “You are fast becoming one of my favorite people.”
“Your sarcasm never tires,” he retorted.
“Loggins kidnapped a girl and her father. The father probably stole a great deal of money from him.”
“If he is not pursuing the man through legal channels, I would assume the money was for nefarious purposes.”
“Likely, but I’m not sure I care. I need to find the girl before he hurts her.”
Moreno mused, “Family is usually a weakness; it is also sacred. One should not fault the child for the father’s sin. However, barbarians have been known to use children and family as leverage. From what I have heard of Loggins, he is a barbarian.”
Hearing Moreno, a drug czar that had no qualms killing and scratching to get to his level, describe Loggins as a barbarian was amusing, as well as frightening.
“Have you ever done business with Loggins?” I asked bluntly.
“My business is my business,” he scolded me.
“My apologies,” I admitted. Asking such a question was disrespectful, and Moreno was offended. “I need to find him.”
“The man is a highly public figure. He has many homes across the country.”
“This would need to be someplace that he could keep two victims.”
“I have heard that he has a place somewhere in central Florida. A farm or something.”
I sighed. “Central Florida is vague.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know more.”
“Thank you, Julio,” I offered graciously. “I appreciate your help.”
“Mr. Gordon, you will, no doubt, have an opportunity to repay me.”
A shiver ran over my spine at the thought of owing Julio Moreno a favor.
Two blocks west of the Hyatt was a public library. It took me a few minutes to find a free computer. Searching for “Joe Loggins” resulted in hundreds of results. News articles about his charitable efforts, business articles about his latest acquisitions, and an occasional societal page photo that seemed to catch him off-guard.
I wasn’t expecting a map to his house, but most of what I found was trite. Skimming over each result, I was hoping to glean something off them. An hour later, I felt like I hadn’t learned much. Loggins invested in a railcar manufacturer in 2012; on October 6, 2014, he was seen at a gala dinner for the Museum of Contemporary Art in Atlanta. In 2018, he was pictured in a yachting magazine that highlighted the features of his Oceanfast.
Something crept through the back of my brain. After a few more articles, I targeted it. A face seemed to show up in several of the candid shots of Loggins. She was always in the background. An Asian woman in her 20s stood in the background. I started scouring the images for her. Often there was a man in his 30s hovering about. He had a distinct military air about him. I guessed he was some of the security that Loggins had on staff. Probably the head of security. Blake was the name the floater used at the marina. “Blake said…”
The man in the lobby yesterday had been a Ranger. It would make a lot of sense if this Blake guy were one too. He’d recruit former Rangers
that he was familiar with–men he trusted to do criminal acts.
If I could identify either the security chief or the Girl Friday, tracking them might prove a lot easier than hunting down someone in Loggins’ position.
Staring at the two individuals on the screen, I wondered how I could go about finding either of them. Every picture of the woman showed a young, professional lady. Her attire was elegantly business. Nothing stood out about her. Despite her meticulous beauty, she could have been a dozen business-school graduates or interns. Given Loggins’ international interests, she could have been a foreign national.
Blake, as I started recognizing him, on the other hand, had a history. The military had precision accuracy in their records. A first name might get me something, but his face was in a file somewhere waiting to be accessed. Unfortunately, that wasn’t a jacket I could get my hands on. The military might keep detailed records, but they are pretty adamant about who can look at them. Former lieutenants don’t get a lot of slack in that regard.
Typing quickly, I searched for “Judith Shaw.” Pages of search results popped up. Most of the Judith Shaws weren’t the colonel.
Colonel Shaw was my former CO. We hadn’t spoken since I was discharged. She wanted to be on the fast track. Shaw had her eye on a star, preferably four of them. She was the type that would die in the uniform, and I didn’t doubt that there would be stars on it. Despite that career-mindedness, Shaw was a born leader. That was going to be the burden that slowed her ascent. She wasn’t going to be some bureaucratic officer that only worried about her position. Shaw had scruples. She had morals, and she had priorities: God, America, the Corps, and her men. Pretty much in that order.
Because she had values, Shaw was one of those officers that Command either despised or respected. She drew an even number of both.
It took some refining of the search to find her. Well, I didn’t find her; I had to be content with finding the Facebook account of her daughter. Smart career-minded women in the Marines don’t use social media. Operational security is a real concern for someone in her position, and Shaw wasn’t going to put any information that could be used against her on a public forum. The ever-connectivity that the world seems to crave only throws red flags at me.
Shaw’s daughter, Emily, though, was a pre-school teacher in Iowa. I sent her a private message asking her to pass a message to her mother with my email. After I hit the send button, I was left staring at the screen. Shaw might be able to help me.
That left me waiting, though. Life in the Corps was often “hurry up and wait,” but with Lily in danger, I didn’t like the idea. There was a survival instinct that was kicking in, even if it wasn’t my own survival that was at stake. Keep moving, it told me. Don’t stop or Lily’s dead, that little voice screamed at me.
Unfortunately, I kept staring at the computer screen. Two minutes after I hit send, Emily’s profile picture popped up next to my message. Three dots formed as she responded.
“You served with my mother?” the response read.
“Yes. Can you pass a message along to her from Lieutenant Chase Gordon?”
Three dots lasted several minutes. Finally, she answered with an anonymous email from a web-based mail service. “You can email her here.”
I thanked her,opened an email and typed. Including the picture of Loggins, I asked her if she could identify his security man, noting that I suspected he had been in the Army. I added the Manta Club’s phone number.
Shaw might respond; she might not. The colonel was the closest thing to a mentor to me. She knew that, which was why I got the contact email so quickly. She was also disappointed in me, which might as well have made her family. Shaw wanted me to advance. Even offered me a position as her deputy. At that point, I was tired. Dreams of blue water, fresh catches, and bikini-clad freedom were edging out her future plans for me.
Refreshing the inbox a few times gave me no replies from Shaw.
The only thing I could do now was wait for her response. Lily might not have time for me to wait.
26
Jay might have been able to pull something about Loggins. Maybe even run these two faces through some facial recognition software. If Loggins had the allies that Moreno and Peterson both suggested, it might paint a target on Jay’s back. Besides, I still wasn’t sure what had become of the agent I laid out in the lobby of the Tilly. Letson might have my face on a wanted poster. Any contact with Jay might put him in an awkward position. Or worse, it might put me in a jailed position. Being incarcerated might inhibit my ability to find Lily.
There seemed to be two options that could keep me moving forward. First, I could revisit Loggins’ yacht. Maybe he would show his face there. Or he could be dumb enough to leave a utility bill lying around with his address on it. That seemed unlikely, and with both the security that Bahia Mar provided as well as that of the Oceanfast’s crew, boarding the vessel unnoticed would not be the easiest task.
The other option was to pay another visit to FC Investments. The Feds, no doubt, have it classified as a crime scene; however, they should have had time to process it. Meaning it might be locked up, but it shouldn’t be occupied. I doubted there would be a utility bill lying around there, either, but there might be something innocuous. It seemed like a long shot, but right now, I was spinning my wheels.
The rental car was still parked at the Tilly, and I took the chance that I could slip in and out unseen. The drive to Tampa only took three hours.
The Pickford Building loomed over me as I stared up at the glassed facade. Wood covered the broken window, and a shiver raced up my spine as I looked at the height of the window. The image of Carl free-falling toward the sidewalk knotted up my stomach.
Entering the building, a security guard, something I hadn’t noticed the other day, eyeballed me. Maybe he was checking out my classy t-shirt. It was a reminder that when I left here, I might need to find something less tacky to wear. Surely there was a Busch Gardens shirt that came across a touch less racist.
Trying not to give the guard any notice, I took the elevator up. Being of a somewhat stealthy and intelligent mind, I pressed the 10th-floor button. Stopping at the 8th floor might have set off the security guards’ alarms. This was the kind of thing a real detective would do.
Once the doors opened on the tenth floor, I randomly pressed six different buttons. It was likely a fruitless feint, but it made me feel smarter. The stairwell was properly situated right around the corner from the elevators. That seemed to be a standard architectural feature. Every elevator warns that in case of an emergency, the stairs should be used. Makes sense to put them close.
Jogging down two flights, I opened the door on the eighth floor. The hallway was empty. In fact, the floor seemed eerily quiet. The boarded-up window left a dark, shadowy feel to the hall. The hairs on my arm tingled as they stood on end.
The door that read FC Investments was locked. There was no crime scene tape. Maybe they don’t do that in real life. I felt some disappointment that I wasn’t going to be breaking the yellow tape in defiance of the sanctity of the investigation.
Picking the lock was an option, but instead, I put my shoulder against the door like a battering ram. The latch cracked, swinging the door ajar.
The office didn’t look much different. The desk where Becky sat was still there. The ficus tree that fell over during my initial contact with Carl was still lying on its side. The whole office felt as if nothing had happened here, much less one of its employees was killed. Life continues.
Becky’s desk was sparse, as if she was simply there to smile at people that came through the door. There was a photograph of Becky holding a little blond-haired girl. The woman and the toddler were on the bow of a runabout. The girl was leaning over the railing with a hand reaching for the surface of the water.
The door to the back office was closed. Pushing it open, I could see the damage that the Feds did. Drawers on the two file cabinets were left pulled out. They appeared to have been emptied,
with only a couple of file folders left intact. The floor was scattered with loose papers that agents had deemed pointless to keep. Moving as if I was crossing a stream one rock at a time, I made my way across the room to one of the two desks overlooking Tampa Bay.
The rent for an office with this kind of real estate should be high. Despite being a small office with the pungent smell of 20-year-old cigarette smoke, the picture that it was supposed to paint was one of success. It was nothing more than a movie set. Don’t lean on the wall because it might topple over.
Much like the office it occupied, FC Investments didn’t seem like it did anything. Finances weren’t in my purview; after all, I’m little more than a glorified beach bum. An investment for me was a cheap bottle of rum and a reef full of fish, but FC Investments didn’t have much presence.
Picking up one of the files left behind, I began leafing through the pages.
“I don’t think you’ll find much in there,” a voice said.
Lifting my head, I saw Agent Letson standing in the middle of Becky’s office. I sucked in a deep breath and waited.
“Besides assaulting a Federal officer, I guess we can add ‘breaking and entering’ to your charges,” he stepped into the office and sat in the chair opposite me.
“Assaulting who?” I played dumb, which was exactly what he expected of me.
“Agent Thompson has a broken nose and a concussion.”
Lifting an eyebrow, I responded, “The guy in the lobby? He never identified himself. He startled me and tried to go for a gun. I’ve already had someone attack me this week. Guess I was on edge.”
Letson leaned back and smirked. “You are a royal pain in the ass.”
Shrugging, I pretended to return to the folder in front of me. “The door was open,” I lied. “I just came in.”
“And what do you need here?” Letson asked.
“I’m looking for Joe Loggins,” I stated matter-of-factly. “He seems to be a hard man to find.”
“Joe Loggins?” His tone was questioning, but maybe he was questioning how I connected the dots.
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