by Stuart Woods
“I’m afraid it’s all a blur,” she said. “I just pointed and pulled the trigger. I don’t feel I really had much effect on where the bullets went.”
The lawyer spoke up. “Do you have anything else of substance to ask, Detective?”
“I think that’ll be all,” Tommy said. He, the chief, and Daryl all stood as Clare got up and was escorted back to her bedroom by the lawyer.
A criminalist from the crime scene team came out the back door. He walked over to the table and placed a zippered plastic bag containing a number of items on the table. “This is all they had,” he said. “Neither of them had any of the usual things you’d expect a person to be carrying. Neither had a wallet. Each of them had one credit card; the big one’s said Mark N. Jefferson, and the younger one’s said John H. Williamson.”
“They’re stolen, you can bet on that,” Tommy said.
“The big one had a handkerchief, dirty; they both had sunglasses.”
“Oh, there’s a Lincoln Town Car out on the street that’ll have their luggage in it,” Tommy said. “But I don’t think you’re going to find any ID. Let’s just run the credit cards and run their prints and see what we come up with.”
The chief nodded to the man. “Let’s get it done. Is the ME ready to move the bodies?”
“Yes, sir; it’s being done now.”
“Get on with it, then.”
The three men sat back down at the table.
“I didn’t think she’d give you anything else,” the chief said.
“Neither did I,” Tommy replied.
Tommy waited until late that night before making two phone calls. He found the home telephone number of Barton Winfield, the Los Angeles lawyer, and dialed it. He figured it would be about dinnertime in L.A.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Winfield?”
“Yes?”
“This is Detective Sculley of the Key West Police Department, do you remember me? You and I and Rita Cortez had a meeting a while back.”
“Yes, I remember you. Why are you calling me at this hour?”
“I told you I’d let you know if I learned anything else about the Marin/Marinello incident.”
“Yes? What have you learned?”
“I’ve learned all sorts of things about you and your business connections,” Tommy said, “and I’ve turned over what I know to the Organized Crime Division of the Los Angeles Police Department.”
“What?”
This was a lie, but he wanted to make the man sweat. “I expect you’ll be hearing from them in due course,” Tommy said. “You’ll be hearing from me again in due course, too.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“When you put your two thugs on to Rita Cortez, you made a very big mistake, Mr. Winfield, if that is your name. You made an even bigger mistake when you let them hurt her. I’m going to see that you pay for that.”
“Now, listen here,” Winfield began.
“Your two hoods are dead, pal, and I’m going to see that they’re traced back to you.”
“Dead? I mean, I don’t have the slightest…”
“She took them both out, like a pro. You’re going to have to send better talent next time.”
“Detective, this conversation is over,” Winfield sputtered.
“It ain’t over ‘til it’s over,” Tommy said, then hung up.
He had one more call to make; he dialed Clare Carras’s number.
“Hello?”
“It’s Tommy Sculley, Clare.”
“My lawyer says I’m not to talk to you anymore,” she said.
“You don’t have to say a word; just listen.”
She was silent for a moment. “All right, I’m listening.”
“I know what happened at your house this morning, and I know why it happened. I know that you murdered Harry, and that you had help. I know you’re responsible, somehow, for your ex-husband’s death, too.”
“Can you prove any of this?” she asked.
“I don’t have to, not anymore. When you killed Harry, Clare, you grabbed a tiger by the tail, and you can’t let go now. The people Harry stole the money from know he’s dead, and they know you’ve got the money. And, as I think was demonstrated this morning, they know exactly where to find you. Now you can only do two things: you can run, and if you do I’ll be on you like a pack of bloodhounds; or you can come in from the cold and try to cut a deal. I’ll work with you on that, Clare. It’s your last, best chance, believe me. If you don’t play ball, you’ll have me nipping at your ass, and the colleagues of the two men you killed this morning will be waiting for you at every turn.
“You’re not Harry, remember; you don’t know how to disappear and make money disappear. Without Merk’s help, you’re alone now, and you’re in way over your head. I’ve already seen to it that the dead men’s friends in L.A. know what happened. All I have to do now is wait. You got that?”
There was a brief silence, then Clare hung up.
Tommy called Daryl on his portable. “Hey,” he said.
“What’s up?”
“She knows the worst now; she’ll probably bolt. You stick to her, you hear?”
“Like a limpet.”
“Good kid. See you in the morning.”
Tommy turned in, snuggled up to Rosie, and slept like a baby.
56
Clare Carras moved at a little after 6:00 A.M. Daryl sat straight up in his car and watched her open the trunk to the Mercedes and toss in a small piece of luggage, then get into the car and back out of the driveway. Daryl waited until she was around the corner, then started his car and drove after her. He picked up his portable phone and started to call Tommy, then thought better of it. This might be a false alarm, and he didn’t want to make a fool of himself.
She turned onto Roosevelt Boulevard and headed toward the end of the island and U.S. 1, but to his surprise, she turned into a large shopping center and went into an all-night supermarket. He parked at the other end of the lot and watched the Mercedes.
Twenty minutes passed, then Clare came out of the market pushing a shopping cart laden with grocery bags. An awful lot of groceries for one woman living alone, Daryl thought. She loaded the groceries into the trunk and returned the cart to the store, then got in and drove back toward Roosevelt. Rush hour traffic, such as it was in Key West, was beginning, and she had to wait for nearly a minute before she could turn left across traffic and onto the Boulevard. Daryl had to wait, too.
Finally, he was able to accelerate through a left turn, ending up in the right-hand lane. He figured she would take a right on Palm Avenue and cross Garrison Bight Bridge on her way home. There were at least fifteen cars between Daryl and the Mercedes now, and he kept an eye on the bridge to his right, waiting to pick her up after her turn. But she never appeared.
Suddenly, Daryl was aware of the Mercedes headed in the opposite direction on Roosevelt. She had made a U-turn and was headed north again, and he was in the right-hand lane. Traffic was solid, and he had to wait until the light ahead of him changed before he was able to get into the left-hand lane for a turn. It took another few seconds for him to bully his way into the northbound traffic. He began weaving in and out of traffic, changing lanes at every opportunity to make some headway, but still the Mercedes was not in sight ahead of him.
When he reached the bridge to Stock Island and U.S. 1 North, he crossed the bridge and looked out at the straight stretch ahead of him. No Mercedes. She had doubled back on him. Shit!
Daryl put the red light on top of the car and tore into another U-turn, startling other drivers and creating a racket of screeching tires. Once headed south again, he brought the light inside; he didn’t want her to see that in her rearview mirror. He looked as far ahead as he could, searching the distance for the Mercedes, but he saw nothing but the usual early-morning stream of traffic. He was abreast of the Key West Yacht Club, moving fast, when he caught sight of the Mercedes out of the corner of his eye, parked behind the yacht club. He
slammed on his brakes, switched lanes, and made yet another U-turn. If he kept driving like this, he thought, he’d get himself arrested.
He managed a left turn into the yacht club parking lot and screeched to a halt behind the car. It was parked as far as possible from the clubhouse, alongside a little canal that ran inland from Garrison Bight. The canal wasn’t yacht club territory; the boats there mostly belonged to the houses that backed up onto the canal. He got out of the car and looked around. The trunk lid was ajar on the Mercedes, and he looked inside. Empty.
Then he looked up and saw a small cabin cruiser two hundred yards away, making a right turn out of Garrison Bight, toward the open sea. Clare Carras was at the wheel.
“Oh, my God,” he moaned. He ran back to his car, got it started, stuck the red light on top again, and entered Roosevelt Boulevard at a high rate of speed, scattering traffic in his path. Once out of Garrison Bight, she could go anywhere, and by now she was invisible behind the arms of land that formed the entrance to the Bight.
Daryl swung right into Palm Avenue, his siren going, the red light flashing, overtook half a dozen cars, started up the bridge, and, at its highest point, slammed on the brakes. He opened the door and, oblivious of traffic backing up behind him, climbed on top of the car and stood up. He was ten feet higher than the bridge, and he could just see over the land to the dredged channel beyond. He caught sight of the little cruiser heading west just as she motored under a bridge, steaming along slowly, mindful of the posted order not to create a wake in the channel. He grabbed for his phone and dialed Tommy.
“Yeah?” A sleepy voice.
“Hit the deck, Tommy, she’s on the move!”
“Where?”
“She had a boat we didn’t know about, and right now she’s headed toward the western end of the island. She’ll go right past Key West Bight, and then she could go anywhere.”
“Where is the police boat docked?”
“Stock Island. Not even remotely useful.”
Tommy was quiet, seemed to be thinking. “Where are you? Can you see her boat now?”
“I’m at the top of the Garrison Bight Bridge, standing on top of my car. I can see the boat moving past the Coast Guard Station and on toward Key West Bight. Shall I call the Coast Guard?”
“No, no, we want to follow her if we can, not bust her. Not yet, anyway. Here’s what you do.”
Daryl listened to the instructions. “Right,” he said. He broke the connection and jumped down from the car.
Chuck was sleeping soundly when suddenly there was a loud thump aft, and Choke rocked in the water.
“What was that?” Meg said sleepily.
“Somebody on the afterdeck,” Chuck replied, sitting up on an elbow. Now whoever it was was banging on the hatchway and shouting something. Chuck struggled out of bed, grabbed a nearby pair of tennis shorts, slipped into them, and went aft. “All right!” he yelled, “I’m coming.” He got the hatch open, and Daryl Haynes spilled into the boat.
“Chuck, sorry to wake you,” Daryl panted, “but Clare Carras is on the run, and Tommy said for you to get your engines started and get ready to let go your lines. He’s on his way.”
“What do you mean she’s on the run?” Chuck asked, still sleepy.
“Just do it; Tommy will explain when he gets here.”
“Oh, all right.”
Meg stepped out of the forward cabin, dressed only in a T-shirt. “What’s happening?”
“It appears we’re going out for a boat ride,” Chuck replied. “Better get some clothes on.”
Chuck stepped up into the cockpit, switched on the ignition, and started both engines. After a moment they were idling smoothly. “Meg,” he called below, “will you make some coffee, please? I need it bad.”
“The water’s already on,” she called back.
“Daryl, you go forward and let go the springs; just toss the lines aft to me. I’ll get the gangplank in.” Daryl followed his instructions, and just as Chuck got the gangplank stowed, Tommy appeared on the run and leaped aboard. Chuck brought in the stern lines and went to the pilot’s seat. “Here we go,” he said. “Fend off on both sides, Tommy, Daryl.” In a moment they were free of their mooring and heading toward the little harbor’s entrance.
“I guess you’d like to know what’s going on,” Tommy said.
“I guess I would,” Chuck replied.
“Clare is running.”
“From what?”
“From me.”
“In what?”
Tommy turned to his partner. “In what, Daryl?”
“In a little cabin cruiser, maybe twenty-two feet, outboard engine, looked about forty horsepower from the size of it.”
“Color?”
“White.”
“Swell, everything’s white around here.”
“It has a light blue cabin top.” Daryl was standing high on the cockpit rim, looking dead ahead. “Nothing out that way; better turn left once you’re through the entrance.”
Choke cleared the harbor entrance, and Chuck swung the helm left. “See anything?” he called to Daryl.
“Not much on the move this early,” Daryl replied. “We ought to be able to pick her up; she can’t be all that far ahead.”
Clear of the Bight, Chuck applied more power, and shortly they were doing fifteen knots.
“We’ve got to find her,” Tommy said quietly, almost to himself. “If she gives us the slip now, she’s gone forever, you can believe that.”
57
Chuck handed his binoculars to Daryl. “Use these,” he said. “She can go one of three ways: straight ahead to Sand Key, where the channel runs through the reef; left and up the east side of the Keys or to the Bahamas; or to the right.”
“What’s to the right?” Tommy asked. “I’m new here.”
“A bunch of small, uninhabited islands with various names, then the Marquesas, which are another bunch of uninhabited islands with shallow water all around, and finally, about seventy, eighty miles out, the Dry Tortugas and Fort Jefferson.”
“What’s Fort Jefferson?”
“It’s an island with a fortress on it, built during the Civil War. Remember Dr. Samuel Mudd, the guy who set John Wilkes Booth’s broken leg after he assassinated Lincoln?”
“Yeah, vaguely.”
“He was convicted as a conspirator in the assassination, although he was innocent, and he was imprisoned in Fort Jefferson, where he became a hero during a yellow fever epidemic.”
“What’s your best guess on which way Clare will go?” Tommy asked.
“Well, straight ahead is Cuba; I don’t think she’ll want to go there. My guess is she’ll turn east and go up the Keys or to the Bahamas, maybe even the Turks and Caicos. I don’t know how much fuel she’s carrying.”
“East, huh?”
“That’s my best guess.”
“There she is!” Daryl yelled, pointing west. “I can just barely see her in the distance.”
“So much for my predictions,” Chuck said.
Meg brought up coffee on a tray, and everybody had some. Chuck kept an eye on the speck in the distance that was their prey.
“This bothers me,” Chuck said.
“What bothers you?” Tommy asked.
“That she’s going west. Like I said, it’s nothing but small, uninhabited islands, with no water. They’re not called the Dry Tortugas for nothing. Even if she goes all the way to Fort Jefferson, where boats sometimes tie up and the sightseeing seaplanes land, it’s a dead end. It must be four hundred miles to Cancun, in Mexico, and nearly as much to the Gulf Coast. If she were going up the Keys, she sure wouldn’t go to the Marquesas or the Dry Tortugas first; there’s no reason to.”
“She’s got a reason,” Tommy said. “The lady knows what she’s doing.”
“Do you want me to try and close in on her? She seems to be doing about twenty knots, and Choke can do thirty on a good day.”
“No, just keep her in sight,” Tommy replied.
/> “Hey,” Daryl said, “I forgot to tell you; she went to the grocery store this morning and loaded up with food. The trunk of her car was empty when I found it.”
“Maybe she is headed for Mexico,” Chuck said. “She’s got the reef to the south, so she can’t turn left.”
“Could a boat that little make it to Mexico?”
“If she’s got enough fuel, and if the weather holds. This time of year, she’d have a good chance.”
“Is she alone, Daryl?”
“I didn’t see anybody else, Tommy.”
“Can you see anybody else now, through the binoculars?”
“Nope, she’s too far away.”
“Are you sure we’re following the right boat?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Swell. How much fuel we got, Chuck?”
“Nearly full tanks; we could run until midnight, at least.”
Two hours passed, with Choke keeping pace with the little cruiser. Tommy looked at his watch. “I didn’t think we’d be going this far,” he said. “I think we’d better ask the Coast Guard for some surveillance, just in case.”
Chuck pointed to an empty hole in the instrument panel. “Sorry, my VHF radio is in the shop.”
“Swell.”
Daryl produced his portable phone and switched it on. “No signal,” he groaned. “We’re too far from Key West.”
Tommy pulled out his pistol and checked it. “One clip,” he said to Daryl. “How about you?”
“The same.”
“Chuck, you still got that shotgun aboard?”
“Yeah.”
“Meg, would you bring it into the cockpit?”
Meg disappeared below and came back with the weapon.
“How much ammo you got?” Tommy asked.
“Just what’s in the gun-four rounds, and it’s birdshot.”
“Swell,” Tommy said.
“Well, I never wanted to kill anybody, just scare them if I had to. Do you think we’re going to get into a shooting war?”
“She’s going somewhere,” Tommy said, “and if she’s alone, she’s meeting somebody, and you can bet she’s got that nine-millimeter automatic with her, the one she used yesterday.”