by Tripp Ellis
They stuffed me in the back of the patrol car and took me downtown where I was processed, printed, and stuffed into a holding cell with a bunch of lowlifes. The place smelled like body odor and piss. The only thing that ever came out of my mouth was, "I want to speak with an attorney."
I spent the night in that shit-hole, and was arraigned in the morning. Joel contacted my entertainment attorney—the one that had looked over the contract with the studio for the sale of the Bree Taylor story. He was present during the arraignment, and Joel coordinated bail.
By the time I was released, a sea of reporters were waiting. Cameras flashed and news crews shoved microphones in my face. My attorney, Ari Bernstein, said, "Mr. Wild has no comment at this time."
My two representatives ushered me into a limousine, and I slid across the posh leather seats, still wreaking of prison odor. The opulent vehicle was a stark contrast to how I had spent the last 20 hours.
"Easton is saying you pulled a gun on him and threatened to kill him," Ari said.
"I did no such thing!"
"This really isn't my area. I handle contracts. You need to get yourself a good criminal defense attorney. Your next court date is scheduled for the 27th."
I groaned. "You have any recommendations?"
"I can put you in touch with someone," Ari said. “You’re lucky, though. Based on your history, the judge will let you return to Florida as a condition of your bond. That doesn’t always happen in felony cases.”
The wheels were turning behind Joel's eyes. "This isn’t the end of the world. I think I can spin this. It does play into your bad boy persona. I've retained a PR firm. BRTW is the best in town. They're not cheap, but they're worth every penny."
"It's his word against my word," I said.
"He's got a witness," Ari added. "One of the students. She corroborates the whole story."
My jaw dropped. "She's lying."
"I don't doubt it," Joel said. "But you picked a fight with a very powerful person. His protégés worship him like he's a cult leader. Nobody in this town will do anything to screw up their career."
I frowned. "Trust me, he has no idea who he just picked a fight with."
Joel's eyes widened. "Okay, now that scares me."
“I suggest we file a suit for defamation against Easton. Come out swinging.”
“I like swinging.”
30
Hot, soothing water sprayed on my skin as I scrubbed the whole experience away in the shower. I stayed in for way too long, thinking about how I would handle the situation.
When the hot water ran out, I stepped out of the steamy shower, toweled off, and got dressed.
“I feel like this is all my fault,” Scarlett said as I stepped into the living room. "Maybe it was a mistake coming out here?"
"You didn't make a mistake. This is just a little bump in the road. I'll get things sorted out, I promise."
She sat on the couch, a somber frown tugging her lips.
A moment later, Sheriff Daniels called. "Am I to understand that you assaulted someone and threatened to kill them?"
“Lies and misunderstandings.”
“That’s not what LAPD says.”
I grumbled under my breath, then gave Daniels a brief overview of the situation.
"You know, I have to put you on administrative leave while this is under investigation? This couldn't happen at a worse time. I'm leaving for Texas soon, and the Russell case is turning into a nightmare."
"What's going on?"
"You know the kid we brought in? Davon Jones. He's dead. Somebody stabbed him in the day-room with a shiv."
"Who?"
"Prison officials are reviewing the footage now to determine that."
I grimaced. "I get the feeling somebody didn't want him talking."
"I'm sure whoever he was hustling for was afraid he might rat them out," Daniels said. "I don’t know if he killed Warren or not, but I want this thing sorted out, pronto. When are you coming back to Coconut Key?"
"I'll see if I can get a flight out today."
"Try to stay out of trouble," Daniels said before hanging up.
I called Isabella. I hated to ask for another favor, but she was my best option. As my former handler at Cobra Company, she had unmatched resources. "I need you to dig up dirt on Easton Carter.”
"What kind of dirt?" Isabella asked.
"Anything that could be used as leverage." I told her about Easton's pattern of behavior and the situation with Scarlett.
"I'll find something," she assured. "But it's payback time."
"What do you need?"
"It's a simple job. Won't take much time, and you get to kill two birds with one stone."
"I'm listening.”
“Relax. You’ll like this. It will put you closer to Esteban Rivera."
I perked up. Esteban Rivera was indirectly responsible for my parents murder. Catching up with him was high on my priority list.
“Standard protection detail. I’ll give you more info later."
Isabella hung up, and I made arrangements to return to Coconut Key.
Scarlett moped about the apartment. She seemed hopeless.
Joel called. "I've got bad news. Ari is on the line with me."
"Hello, Tyson," Ari said.
I knew when I heard his voice it wasn’t going to be good.
Joel continued. "Seems like this is a bigger problem than I anticipated. It's all over the trades. Every industry website is covering it. The studio has lost interest in the TV show, and they are shelving the Bree Taylor project because of your association with it."
My jaw dropped. "Are you serious?"
"It gets worse,” Joel said.
"How much worse?"
Ari took over. "There is a morals clause in your contract. If you do anything that can reflect negatively on the studio, you can be held liable for the repercussions. I would expect the studio to file suit soon. They'll be looking to recover damages."
"What damages?" I asked.
"The costs associated with developing the project," Ari said. “That means the advance they paid you, and any fees they paid to screenwriters that have worked on the project, plus other miscellaneous expenses."
"How can they do that?"
"Because it's in the contract which you signed."
"I thought you looked over the contract for me?"
"I did. But I didn't expect you to assault a power player in Hollywood."
I wanted to scream, but I contained my anger. My cheeks flushed with heat. "How much are we talking about?"
"The million dollar advance they paid you. The million dollars they paid the writer. Probably another 500,000 in miscellaneous expenses."
I swallowed hard. "They can file suit, but do you think they'll actually win?"
"Hard to say. You're in clear breach of contract. Anything can happen in a courtroom."
In the blink of an eye, I had gone from financially secure to flat broke if this lawsuit materialized.
31
After nearly 16 hours of travel, I was back in Coconut Key. Jack picked me up in the lizard-green Porsche, and I stuffed my suitcase in the tiny compartment that masqueraded as a trunk.
"What the hell is going on with you?" JD asked. "Daniels says you got suspended because you assaulted someone. What the hell were you doing out there?"
I figured I would have to come clean sooner or later. "Don't get mad."
"You go to Los Angeles, you get arrested, and you tell me not to get mad. Why do I feel like I'm gonna get mad when you tell me? You didn't…"
"No, I didn't," I said, knowing exactly what he was asking.
"If you're lying to me, I'll bust your ass."
I raised my hands, innocently.
Jack dropped the car into gear and lurched away from the curb. The big orange ball that hung in the sky plummeted toward the horizon. The wind whipped through my hair as we raced across the island with the top down. I told him everything that had happened in LA whil
e we drove back to the marina.
We pulled into the parking lot, and Jack stopped by the dock. The car idled, the flat six rumbling. Jack took a deep breath, and his eyes misted just slightly. “Shit, man. You’d do that for me?”
“You’re family, Jack. Besides, you’d do the same for me.”
“Damn straight!”
I told him about my legal troubles, and the fact that we might have to sell the boat.
JD scowled at me. "That boat’s not going anywhere! I don’t care how broke you end up."
I gave him an uncertain look.
"On the bright side, I've been doing some digging while you were gone," Jack said. “I interrogated the inmate that killed Davon Jones. He was sitting in a county holding unit waiting to be transferred to the penitentiary after getting handed a life sentence. Of course, he denied any involvement in the killing, despite the fact that he was caught on video. He's not saying a word, but I can almost guarantee he was hired to do it."
"That doesn't really get us anywhere."
"Just wait, there's more… I found out who Davon Jones was working for—mid-level dealer named Bam Bam."
I arched a curious eyebrow. “Bam Bam?”
"He's got several kids that work the streets for him. He's pretty savvy about his business. He's got these little punks on the street corners hustling. They carry just under the amount of a third-degree felony. That way if they get popped, the state has less leverage against them. When they have sold all their merchandise, they return to his stash house to resupply. The stash house is run by an underling, and Bam Bam never touches the operation. DEA has been trying to take the guy down for years. They can't get anything on him. He doesn't talk about it on the phone, or in text. In the grand scheme of things, he's relatively small time, so nobody has put an inordinate amount of effort into taking him down."
"So, Warren threatens his business model. Bam Bam orders Davon Jones to get rid of the problem. But Warren is dead when Davon arrives. So he says."
"This is where things get complicated," Jack said. "I think Davon is telling the truth. He couldn’t have done it. There is security footage of him knocking off a convenience store at the time of the murder."
"So why was Davon shanked in prison?"
"I think Bam Bam was afraid the kid was gonna roll over."
I sighed. "So, who killed Warren?"
Jack shrugged. "I don't know." He paused. “Either way, Bam Bam needs to go down.”A sparkle glimmered in Jack’s eyes. “I gotta run. Plans with Sasha and Tasha.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The roommates. They are teaching me to speak Russian!”
“This sounds like it’s getting serious. How many times have you seen them?”
Jack shrugged and flashed a grin. “As often as I can.”
I climbed out of the car and grabbed my roller-bag from under the hood. I waved as he peeled from the lot, then strolled into Diver Down and took a seat at the bar.
Harlan was in his usual spot.
"How was your trip?" Madison asked in a cheery tone.
"It was great." There was no sense in burdening her with my drama.
"Have you figured out who killed Warren yet?" Harlan asked.
I frowned. "Not yet. Getting closer."
"At this rate, I'm going to die of natural causes before you dingleberries figure it out. In the meantime, there are plenty of old folks on the island that are terrified."
I assured Harlan that the Sheriff’s Department was on top of things.
It had been a long day of traveling, and my stomach rumbled. I ordered a cheeseburger and sweet potato fries, then washed it all down with a beer. Afterward, I collected Buddy and Fluffy, and strolled to the Vivere.
It was good to be home.
Buddy was excited to see me, and Fluffy didn’t care.
I settled in, unpacked my suitcase, and poured a glass of whiskey. The events of the last few days filled my mind. I sure had gotten myself into a mess—one I wasn’t sure I could get out of.
I went to the aft deck and took a seat on the lounge. Buddy climbed into my lap, and I stroked his fur. For a moment, he took away all of my stress. I sat there, enjoying the breeze, listening to the waves lap against the hull, sipping my whiskey.
When my glass was empty, I went back inside, took a shower, and climbed into bed. I watched a little TV, and an hour later, the phone rang as I was dozing off.
"You need to get to the hospital, ASAP," Denise said.
I sat up, eyes wide. "Why? What's wrong?"
32
“Somebody beat Jack with a crowbar," Denise said.
"What?" I exclaimed in disbelief.
"He got jumped in his driveway. Two girls found him. Sasha and Tasha. Do you know them?"
"They’re Jack's Russian playthings."
"It's a good thing they found him when they did."
"Is he okay?"
"Not really. He's in a medically induced coma. I’m here with him at the Neurologic Intensive Care Unit. I heard the emergency dispatch come across the radio, and I came straight here."
"Why didn't you call me?"
"I'm calling you!”
"I'll see you there," I stammered.
The news hit me like a sledgehammer to the gut.
Buddy looked at me with sad eyes. He could tell something was wrong.
I grabbed my helmet and gloves and raced to the parking lot. I hopped on my Yamazuki X6, and the engine rattled as I cranked it up. I twisted the throttle and launched out of the parking lot, racing across town like a demon possessed. My heart pounded with nervous anticipation. In my mind, I imagined the worst.
My imagination wasn't far off.
I stormed into the ER and flashed my badge. “Looking for Jack Donovan in Neuro ICU?”
The receptionist pointed the way and gave me the room number.
I raced through the hallways to Jack's room.
Denise ran into my arms with wet eyes and gave me a hug. She was in her duty uniform.
Sasha and Tasha sat in chairs beside the bed with misty eyes and worried faces.
Jack had been beaten to a pulp.
He had multiple lacerations and bruises across his face and body. His skin was several shades of purple, yellow, blue, and red. A ventilator gasped and wheezed, breathing for Jack. Tubes were stuffed down his throat, and a feeding cannula went up his nose. He looked just barely this side of the living.
The monitor by the bed displayed vitals, and his heartbeat blipped, making craggy peaks on the screen.
I'd seen Jack in pretty bad shape before, but never anything like this. My throat tightened, and I scratched out the words, "How's he doing?"
"The doctor said he has severe brain trauma,” Denise said. “They put him into a medically induced coma to reduce swelling, and they’re inducing hypothermia to keep body temperature down which will help with swelling as well.”
My stomach twisted. Seeing him like that was difficult. I swallowed hard, and a nervous sweat coated my body. My throat was so dry, I could hardly ask the question, "Is he going to make it?"
Denise bit her lip, then shrugged. A grim look washed over her face.
Rage boiled within me. I wanted to find who did this and put them in worse shape.
I re-introduced myself to the girls. We had met once on the boat. They wiped the tears from their eyes.
"Do you know who might have done this?" I asked.
The girls shook their heads.
“Jack was going to cook us dinner," Sasha said. “We found him when we walked up the driveway. He was on the ground beside his car. We called 911 right away."
“Did you see anyone in the area?”
They both shook their heads.
"I don't think this was a random mugging," Denise said. "Too violent."
“Jack had been looking into a local dealer named Bam Bam. I think this was a message to back off."
I stayed in the Neuro ICU with Jack for another hour, listening to the drone of the ve
ntilator. I hesitated to call Scarlett. I didn't want to upset her, but I thought she might want to come back for a visit, just in case.
She burst into tears when I told her.
"I can get a flight out in the morning,” Scarlett said. “It will probably be the evening before I get there. Please tell me he's going to be okay?"
"I hope so,” I said. "There's nothing you can really do here."
"It doesn't matter. I'm coming! Can you pick me up from the airport?"
"Sure thing."
"I'll text you when I have my itinerary."
I hung up the phone, and the nurse came in to do a routine check. "You're more than welcome to stay here all night, but there's nothing you can do for him. I promise, he's in good hands, and we’ll look after him."
Jack wasn’t coming out of the medically induced coma anytime soon. And sitting in that room wasn't bringing me any closer to Jack's attacker, or Warren’s killer.
I said goodbye to Sasha and Tasha, then Denise and I left the hospital and strolled to the parking lot.
News reporters swarmed us as we exited. Camera lights squinted my eyes, and microphones hovered overhead on boom poles.
"What can you tell us about the attack?" a reporter asked.
"Does this have anything to do with the Warren Russell murder?"
"Can you confirm the identity of the injured deputy?"
I extended my hand, stiff arming reporters as I pushed through the small crowd. "No comment at this time!"
An overhead light flickered, bathing the lot in long shadows. The reporters followed us as we strolled toward Denise’s SUV. I climbed into the passenger seat so we could talk in private. The reporters hovered outside the windows, aiming their lenses inside. They kept shouting questions.
We tried to ignore them.
I grabbed a magazine from the floorboard and flattened it against the window, trying to obscure the cameras’ view.
"What are you going to do?" Denise asked.
"Whatever I have to."
"You're still on leave. I can't technically discuss anything with you."
"You don't have to."
"Don't go do anything stupid," she said, staring into me. "I know how you are. You're not going to let this go."