Solomon's Compass

by Carol Kilgore

  “Got it.”

  “Same thing on him as on the truck owner. Get me the truck owner first. I’ll call you back sometime later today to get Brady’s.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “I need to know who owns each one of these boats. It’s a long list of registration numbers, mostly Texas. I’ll indicate otherwise.”

  “Go ahead.”

  He read them off. “That’s all. Truck first, then Brady, then the boats. Oh, and a shrimp boat in Rock Harbor named Ladybug. One word. I don’t have any numbers on her.”

  “Okay, bro. I’m on it.”

  “Say hi to Mom and Dad for me.”

  Jake hung up, went inside for a bottle of water, and returned to his car to wait. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “The truck is a 1977 Ford F100. Blue. Registered to Jose Martinez.” Kelly gave him Martinez’s Rock Harbor address and phone.

  Jake copied the information and read it back.

  “I’ll give you more on Martinez if you want, but he reported the truck stolen yesterday morning.”

  Damn it to hell. “If I need more I’ll call you back. Don’t lose it.”

  “It’s saved. By the way, I found a few extra seconds to link my phone to my computer through Compass Points security layers, so I can do simple jobs from the hospital. Some places I have to turn it off, but for the most part, I think we’ll be good to go.”

  “Good. What does Mr. Martinez do?”

  “Old guy. Retired. In his line of work, I think that means cash only now. He’s a handyman.”

  “More power to him.”

  Jake hung up and used his map to find Martinez’s address—he hated the damned condescending voice on the GPS. A manicured lawn with mounds of multi-colored flowers surrounded the small, well-kept house. In the rear, the open door of the garage revealed a new model hybrid and a van, both blue. He rang the doorbell.

  The woman who opened the inner door was Taylor’s size with white hair and bright brown eyes.

  Jake placed his card against the storm door glass for her to read. “I’m not with the police, and you don’t have to tell me anything. My name is Jake Solomon. I understand someone stole your husband’s truck, and I came to talk about it.”

  “Let me get Joe for you. I was in Austin and only got home a few minutes ago.” She turned around. “Joe! A man about your truck.”

  “Okay,” carried from somewhere in the house.

  “Would you like to come in?”

  Jake shook his head. “It’s dangerous to invite strangers into your home, ma’am. I’m in security.”

  “This is Rock Harbor. We hardly ever lock the door.”

  “Maybe you should. Someone stole your truck, remember.”

  “Isn’t that the strangest thing? I mean, who would even want it? Joe keeps it clean, but it’s an eyesore. And falling apart besides. He keeps her together with baling wire and a prayer.”

  A man in plaid shorts and a purple T-shirt appeared behind her, and she pointed to Jake’s card. “Are you talking about Matilda?” The man’s eyes twinkled behind wire rimmed glasses.

  “I’ll leave you two alone.” Joe’s wife left the way Joe had arrived.

  Streaks of silver highlighted the man’s black hair. He glanced at Jake’s card. “Joe Martinez. Mr. Solomon?”

  “Right. If Matilda’s your truck, she’s the one I came to talk to you about.”

  Joe laughed and stepped onto the porch. The sweet aroma of apple pie floated out the open door.

  “I brought my kids home from the hospital in Matilda. And she went to work with me every day. Had to call her something. If I chose a”—he moved his hands to illustrate the shape of a woman—”name, Eva would’ve gone to war.”

  Jake smiled. “You reported Matilda stolen yesterday?”

  “Got up, and she wasn’t in the driveway. We were going fishing, so I had to use the van. I called it in. Kids like the old trucks now, but poor old Matilda is wrinkled and gray, and her heart’s about to give out. I love her, but she won’t be with us long, I’m afraid.” He made the sign of the cross. Then he winked.

  “Any ideas about who might’ve taken her?”

  He shrugged. “People in town know me. I probably did jobs for most of them, one time or another. My son has the business now—a whole fleet of new Matildas. Well, two. Rock Harbor’s small. Nobody I know would’ve taken her. Cops keep a close watch on some gang types living a few blocks over. Matilda’s not much to look at, but I hope someone finds her. How did you find out she was gone?”

  “I met with a detective about another matter. In passing he mentioned your truck. It might be a lead on my case, so I decided to check into it.” Sometimes a lie worked better than the truth. Jake thought of Taylor. Sometimes not. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Martinez.”

  Joe had waved his arm in a general northwesterly direction when he talked about the gang types. When Jake left, he drove around the area. Three blocks from the Martinez house, the neighborhood deteriorated as clearly as if someone had strung yellow crime scene tape across the intersection to mark the dividing line.

  He drove slowly up and down the streets and blocks, but not slowly enough for anyone to think he came to score in any way. He didn’t spy Matilda, but he did spot a man who could’ve been the thug he watched destroy Will’s truck.

  The man wore the same type of coveralls, boots, and ball cap as the hammer-wielding punk. He walked with the same swagger, and his profile matched—the same nose and jaw line.

  Jake cut him off and lowered the passenger window four inches. “Get in.” The man moved so slowly, Jake wasn’t too worried about him sitting in the passenger seat.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Get in or I’ll have every cop in the county here—the first patrol car in under two. I saw what you did.” He held up his phone. “All I do is press send. Now get in.”

  The man glanced around and kept walking, going into a growth of weeds to get around Jake’s bumper. Jake let the vandal get five feet ahead of his bumper—at the point he probably thought he could break away down one of the many driveways that were coming up—then gunned the engine and cut him off again. The passenger mirror came within inches of the man’s midsection.

  “Try it again. Next time, I’ll run you down. In the car or on foot. Doesn’t matter to me. If that’s the way it plays out, your homies won’t recognize you. Your choice.”

  The man searched the area again before reaching for the handle. “Open up, dude.”

  Jake raised the window and clicked the locks open. Before the man’s ass touched the seat, Jake grabbed his wrist and pulled him the rest of the way inside. Sweat beads popped out on the man’s smooth forehead, and with them, the stench of fear.

  Jake applied a slight amount of pressure to the man’s wrist. “Close the door.”

  The man’s eyes went wild, but he pulled the door closed with his right hand.

  Jake locked it but didn’t release the man’s wrist. “Place your right hand on the dashboard.”

  The man didn’t comply.

  Jake shook his head and added pressure to his grip while bending the man’s hand back. “You’re either too fucking stupid to join the gene pool or too son-bitching stubborn to admit when something’s for your own damn good.”

  The man scowled and squirmed in his seat.

  “Hear this. I learned a hell of a lot in sniper school. And survival school. Oh, and in hand-to-hand combat. Plus some other places I can’t talk about. I practice a lot, and I’m damned fast. If you’re carrying, don’t think about trying anything. You’ll lose.” He released his grip. “Fasten your seatbelt and place both hands on the dash.”

  After the man did as he was told, Jake drove to the Martinez home. His passenger kept asking where they were going, but Jake said nothing until he put the car in park and scanned the area for anyone who might be outside. “Where’s this man’s truck?”

  “You’re talking shit.”

  “You stole this man’s
truck. Where is it?” Jake spoke slowly so there would be no misunderstanding.

  “I ain’t stole nothing.”

  “Where’d you get the sledge?”

  Silence.

  “I asked you a question. Did you steal it, too?”

  “Dude, you keep accusing me of shit—”

  Jake took his hands off the wheel, turned them over, studied his nails. Then raised an eyebrow. “Where’s the truck?”

  “What the fu—”

  Jake grabbed the man’s seatbelt with his right hand and yanked it across his throat and around his neck, leaving him barely room to take shallow breaths.

  “The truck?”

  The man waved his arms and shook his head. Jake tightened the belt.

  “I’m going to stop being nice in a minute if you don’t tell me where the truck is.” He tightened it a little more.

  The man’s eyes grew round, and he made a spewing sound.

  “Ready yet?” He pulled it again.

  The man tried to slip his fingers under the belt. He looked like a fish on a boat deck, his mouth gaping wide, eyes round and wild. Jake figured he had ten seconds before the goon passed out, and he counted to himself.

  At eight, the man nodded.

  “Sure?”

  The nod did double time, and the man’s wide eyes pleaded.

  Jake released the pressure but didn’t move the belt. The man took several deep breaths.

  “Careful, you’ll hyperventilate. I don’t have a paper bag.”

  “You’re fucking crazy, dude!”

  Jake gave him a big scary grin. “You ready to take me to this man’s truck?”

  “Motherfucker got two good cars. What he want with that piece-a-shit truck anyway?”

  “Don’t go tough on me. I’m holding the seatbelt.” Not too stubborn. Definitely stupid.

  The man started sliding down in the seat, but the belt caught his chin and he pushed himself up. “Okay, dude. Turn right at the corner and go to the highway.”

  Jake let go of the seatbelt and patted the man’s shoulder. “Hands on the dash. Don’t move them. You do, I consider it a threat.”

  The man put his hands above the glove compartment and nodded.

  “Remember, I’m fast. The seatbelt was nothing.”

  The man’s Adam’s apple bounced up and down.

  Another crazy grin spread across Jake’s face as he put the car in gear.

  Five minutes later, on a snaky back road, the pickup came into view. Several feet behind it, Jake applied the brakes. “Hand me your wallet, then put your hands back. Don’t try anything.”

  The man handed Jake a worn black nylon wallet. “Rafael Barrera. It’s your photo. Maybe your name. What are the odds you really live in Midland? Or ever lived there? I’m guessing pretty long. Put your wallet away, and return your hands to the dash.”

  Again, the man did as told.

  “I’m going to ask you one more question then I’m going to drive you back to the neighborhood. If you don’t give me the answer I want, I hope you told your mama you loved her. Understand?”

  Rafael nodded.

  “Who hired you to bash the truck at the boatyard?”

  Taylor needed time alone to give her nerves a chance to calm down. Not only from being shot at, but from seeing Jake again. Any more stress-filled situations and she might float around the bend screaming and yelling before she sank to the bottom.

  So she drove around Rock Harbor trying to find the library, thinking they would have information on the fishing tournament advertised on the shirt in Randy’s treasure can. If they did, she would get an early start on figuring out the clue. She drove up one block and down the next for about five minutes before spotting the library sign. They were closed. She should’ve guessed. Even in Charleston, just the main branch was open on Sunday—and only for a few hours in the afternoon.

  In the car, Taylor stared through the windshield, not seeing anything except the fishing shirt in her mind. She’d memorized the tournament info on the back, paid attention to the sponsors. Nothing pointed to anyone she knew. Nothing had appeared to inspire Jake either.

  Maybe Randy was right. Maybe someone left the shirt hanging on his door, a discarded garment that held no significance. But the shirt and the belt buckles from Denver were the best clues she had.

  Taylor returned to the hotel. In the lobby, the desk clerk motioned to her. “You’re Commander Campbell?”

  “Yes.”

  “This was delivered for you by a local messenger. Have a nice evening, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” A message from Jake?

  The elevator dinged, and Taylor punched the button for her floor before opening the envelope, careful of the edges. She didn’t want to cut her healing hand or fingers. A single sheet of paper was inside. The words had been cut and pasted from a newspaper—Next time I won’t miss.

  Jake dropped off the truck thief and put in another call to Kelly from under a big tree in Lulu’s parking lot.

  “What’s up, boss man? Did you find Martinez?”

  He smiled. “Of course. Found his truck, too.”

  “Saint Jake of Brooklyn.”

  He envisioned her blessing the phone. “You been getting a drip in that hospital or what?”

  “It’s called ready-to-collapse.”

  “I’ll treat you to a spa day after this is finished. Just be there for Dad.”

  “You’d be here, too, if you could. Mom said to tell you not to forget to eat your spinach.”

  He laughed. Telling him to eat his spinach had long been her shorthand for reminding him to prepare and be ready for whatever came up. “Tell her I had a can this morning.”

  “She’s the strongest one in our little clan. Most of the nurses are afraid of her.”

  “Not surprised. Before I forget—I intend to run into a man named Bill Abbott around nine tomorrow morning.”

  “Important because . . .”

  “He may know who’s been killing the Compass Points.”

  A car door slammed nearby. Jake pinpointed which car when the engine growled to life.

  “Wonderful! Is it him?”

  “Doubtful, from what I hear. I have to convince him to tell me what he knows.” And not send someone after me. “Any news yet on Nate Brady?”

  “Funny about Mr. Brady.”

  Jake sat straighter and flipped open his pad. “How funny?”

  “In a lot of ways funny. His wife died a few years ago. Official cause of death was suicide. Note in her handwriting. She’d been getting treatment for depression for a year or so, ever since she found Nate Baby in bed with a local horse trainer of the female variety. The sheriff’s office didn’t have enough evidence to build a case, but they liked Nate for it. The case is officially closed, but it gets talked about on occasion.”

  “Interesting.” He chewed on his cheek. “Brady still involved with the horse trainer?”

  “She moved on to greener pastures. Pardon the pun.”

  “Left Nate holding an empty feed bag?” Food. Jake’s stomach growled again.

  “Yeah, except it wasn’t empty. Among other things, the guy owns a ranch with more acres than Manhattan. Cattle. Oil.”

  “A money ranch. So what’s wrong with him?”

  “Besides being a possible murderer?”

  “Yeah. Besides that.”

  “He likes rough sex and compliant women, if you get my drift. Hot tempered. Small things set him off. He likes to gamble and doesn’t like to lose. When he does, he pays up and refills his coffers by running drugs for a side-shoot of one of the Mexican cartels. Last year he vowed to stay away from the tables and from private poker games.”

  “Something must’ve spooked him.” Jake frowned. “How do you know he vowed? Did you make that up?”

  “I don’t need to. I don’t even need to speculate. Everything you need to know about everything is out there if you know where to search and how to get in and out without leaving a trail.”

  �
��Orwell had it wrong.”

  “What? Big Brother? He’s been here for a while.”

  “No. He should have named it Little Sister. What happened to spook Brady?”

  “I haven’t ventured farther down that road, but I will. Probably tomorrow, though. I have to grab a few minutes of sleep every once in a while. I wanted to give you an overview. As I was saying, lots of funny things. The wife. The gambling. Flies his own plane, but so far the plane appears normal. Has two boats in Rock Harbor. One is a catamaran. The other is a sportfisher. The registration number of Brady’s sportfisher matches one on your list.”

  Jake zoomed to full alert. “Where is Brady now?”

  “Don’t know. Let me back up. So far I’ve found bare bones on Brady. When I found the matching TX number, I stayed and looked up the rest of them, except for the shrimp boat. It’s on my to-do list. I had to come back to the hospital before I could plug into Brady again.”

  “No sweat.” Kelly would get the answers to him as soon as she could.

  “Let me give you the other owners and their info. Then I need to go back in with Dad.”

  “Dad comes first. Keep remembering.” He wrote down the information Kelly gave him. None of the new names jumped out. “Thanks, Kel. I mean that.”

  “I know. I love you, too.”

  “One more thing.”

  “No problem.”

  He gave her a list of names, including the current players in Taylor’s life, and asked her to check on any connection to Denver or to the fishing contest in Rock Harbor. “Include Brady on the list, too.”

  “Okay. I’ll be in touch.” She hung up.

  Kelly was a genius, not a magician. Jake doubted she’d be in touch until tomorrow. He put the car in gear and drove back to the Martinez home. No one was home. He wrote directions to Matilda on the back of his card and left it in the door.

  On the drive to Lulu’s, his mind strayed to the truck smasher. Chances were he’d spilled the truth, but if Abbott turned out to be a set-up, Jake would handle it and move on. That’s one of the things that made the game exciting—being the first to discover the hole in the maze.

  Dan and A.J.’s house was as easy to find as he’d said. Taylor parked at the curb behind Zia’s car. Damn. She’d hoped to be the first to arrive so she could ask Dan about the names of his shop and gallery and the others. She’d totally forgotten yesterday after he told her about the wedding. Taylor sighed. Tomorrow she’d ask about the signs. For sure.