by D P Lyle
But here’s the other thing about women and clothes—guys sometimes like watching women get dressed. There’s something sexy about it. Seriously sexy. Like now.
Nicole stepped from the bathroom, clad in black panties that didn’t have enough material to wad a shotgun, those long legs reaching all the way to the floor, no bra. Me likey. Then she slithered—literally—into a pair of frayed jeans, tugged on a black t-shirt, and pulled her hair back into a ponytail, securing it with a dark-green clasp.
I was stretched out on the bed, jeans, no shirt, no shoes. When she turned toward me, she said, “What are you doing?”
“Watching you.”
“You better get your ass dressed. It’s three thirty. We have to leave like right now.”
Last night we had decided that if the jogger Heather had seen was truly hardcore, she probably ran there often. And running out there near the fort at four in the morning had hardcore written all over it. Since most serious runners were creatures of habit, she likely ran around the same time each day. And if she had indeed seen something the morning the Wilbanks brothers hooked up with whoever met them on the beach, we needed to know.
I just hoped this wasn’t one of the days she skipped her morning run.
I rolled off the bed and slipped on my sandals. “Where’s my shirt?”
“Living room. Where I pulled it off you last night.” She laughed.
“How could I forget that?”
“Easy. All your blood was busy elsewhere and your brain wasn’t working.”
I had no comeback for that.
With Nicole piloting her SL it only took us fifteen minutes to reach Highway 180, out near Fort Morgan, where Heather left Darrell and Darnell and had seen the jogger. She parked and we climbed out. The odor of the Gulf was strong, the breeze light and warm, and in the darkness I could just make out the white remnants of the waves that lapped against the sand.
“What if she doesn’t show up?” Nicole asked.
“Think positive.”
“Positively.”
“What?”
“The correct way is positively.”
“You are positively a smart-ass.” I gave her a gentle smack on her rear.
“It’s that writer thing.”
“Maybe someday we could play teacher and student.”
She looked at me. “That could work. I could serve up the appropriate punishment when you misspelled a word.” Now she smacked my butt. “You’d like that.”
“Bet you would, too.”
“Probably.”
I pulled her into my arms and kissed her. When the kiss broke she said, “Shouldn’t we be watching for a jogger?”
“I am. Over your shoulder.”
The smack on my butt was harder this time. “Are you saying I need to kiss better?”
“You couldn’t. You’re perfect as it is.”
Now she kissed me. Long and slow. It was magnificent. Except over her shoulder I saw a form moving toward us. Maybe a hundred yards away, along the road’s sandy shoulder, bobbing like a jogger. I broke the kiss.
“I think we have company.”
Nicole turned and looked up the road. “Better let me handle this.”
“You? Why?”
“Oh, let’s see. Woman on a deserted road, middle of the night, and some pervert approaches her? Hard to imagine she wouldn’t welcome that.”
“So I’m a pervert?”
“That’s one of your better qualities. But I know you. She doesn’t.”
I hated it when she made sense. Which, actually, was often.
As the woman approached, she slowed and moved across the road, wariness creeping into her gait. Nicole gave her a wave and stepped out into the middle of the road. The woman stopped, yanked her earbuds free, and slid a hand into the pocket of her shorts. She came out with a canister. Looked like pepper spray.
“Relax,” Nicole said. “We’re harmless.”
“What do you want?”
“A couple of questions is all.”
“About what?”
“You jogged by here a couple of mornings ago?” I asked.
She took a step to her left. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jake Longly. This is Nicole. We’re private investigators.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“We only want to know if you saw anything unusual.”
“Like what?”
“We have a witness who drove by and saw you. Or someone like you. She was driving along here.”
“I remember. I never see anyone out here so a car was unusual. It was just back that way.” She pointed back up the road. “Around my four-mile mark.”
“Four-mile mark?” Nicole asked.
She seemed to relax a bit. At least her eyes weren’t so wide anymore. “I run here every day. Have for years. I have a ten-mile loop and I know every inch of it.”
I knew that was true of most distance runners. More so than any other athlete, distance runners have an incredible sense of distance and time. Comes from timing their every step. This lady was no different. She wore a thick black watch that I was sure had stopwatch and lap timer functions. Every runner’s favorite toy.
“So seeing a car is out of the norm,” I said. “Anything else strange about that morning?”
She nodded. “Actually, something very odd happened.” She looked around. “It was about right here.” She settled her gaze to her right where several clusters of sea oats dotted low sand dunes. “In fact, it was right here.”
“What was?” I asked.
“I heard a boat motor. Coming toward the beach. Not something you hear this time of the morning. I was maybe fifty yards short of here. When the motor died, I heard voices. Male voices. Several of them. Pretty scary out here in the dark.”
“What’d you do?” Nicole asked.
“I got off the road. Out of sight.” Another wave of her hand. “I ducked behind those dunes to see what was going on. There were five of them.”
“What’d they look like?” I asked.
“I was too far away to make out much. Three were fairly tall. One of them had longish blond hair. The other two were shorter. One slight and the other was muscular. Very muscular. Like a body-builder type.”
“What were they doing?”
“Standing in a cluster, talking. My first reaction was to turn around and head back home but I felt that might leave me exposed.”
“Exposed?”
“Here on the road.”
“Were they threatening?” Nicole asked.
“No. I mean, they didn’t know I was here. But there was a car parked about right where your car is. So I figured a group of men, some in a car, and some in a boat, meet up out here at this hour?” She shrugged. “Must be a drug deal or something like that. And if so, the last thing I wanted was to be seen.”
“Smart move,” I said.
She wiped sweat from her face with one hand. “Is that what this is about? Drug deals?”
“We don’t know yet. Then what happened?”
“Four of the men got in the boat and took off. The last one got in the car and drove that way.” She pointed. “Back toward Gulf Shores.”
“And they never saw you?” Nicole asked.
“No. Scared me shitless, though. I ended up on my belly in the sand. My heart was hammering so hard I thought they might hear it.”
“The car?” I asked. “Did you get a look at it?”
“Briefly. It was dark gray, I think. Best I could tell, anyway. It was small, like a Toyota or Honda. Something like that. And when the guy turned it around to leave I saw it had what looked like primer on one fender.” She hesitated as if thinking. “Left front.”
“You could see that in the dark?” Nicole asked.
“Where I was hiding was only about ten or fifteen feet off the road. Saw it when he drove by.”
“Did you see the driver?”
“Not really. But I think he was the smaller of the two short ones. I co
uld be wrong.”
“Did you see anything else? After they all left?”
“Actually, my route loops around the fort and then back up the other side of this spit. When I got around there the boat—it was like a fishing boat—was approaching a huge boat. Maybe a half mile offshore.”
“How big?”
“Massive. A hundred feet. Sleek, white. One of those that cost more than a house. Maybe more than some neighborhoods.”
I laughed. “A yacht?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“I understand. The problem is that this is also a police matter, and they might need to talk to you.”
“Jesus.”
“Don’t worry. It would all be kept confidential.”
“For now, maybe.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “But if the police do need to talk to you, they’d find you, don’t you think?”
“Shit.” She propped her hands on her hips and looked out toward the beach. “Doesn’t sound like I have many options.”
“Not really.”
She sighed. “I’m Rachel Weber. I live in Orange Beach.”
“Phone number?”
She recited it and Nicole tapped it into her phone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“THAT’S AN UNHAPPY woman,” Nicole said. “Not thrilled with the prospect of talking with the police.”
We were standing in front of her car and watched Rachel fade into the darkness as she continued her jog around the old fort.
“I imagine so. Goes out for a run and gets involved in all this.”
She hooked her arm in mine. “Feed me. I’m hungry.”
“Aren’t you always?”
“Mostly.”
“Not many choices this time of day but I know a place.”
She climbed behind the wheel. “Get in.”
“Need to make a call first.”
“To Detective Morgan?”
“Not at four thirty. Don’t want him pissed at me.”
I punched in Ray’s number. He answered after a single ring. Awake and alert. No morning voice. So Ray. I didn’t think he ever slept. I told him what we had learned, including Rachel’s description of the car she saw.
“Sounds like Darrell’s ride,” Ray said. “Like Heather said.”
“That was my first thought.”
Ray sighed. “Okay. I’ll call Morgan and Pancake and get things rolling. Let’s meet here by eight.”
Next stop, Danny’s Diner, an all-hours greasy spoon in Gulf Shores. I had toast and coffee, Nicole the Trucker’s Special. Eggs, bacon, grits, biscuits, and a pair of pancakes just in case. Nicole didn’t finish it all but she damaged it pretty good.
After the dishes were cleared and our coffee mugs refilled, we sat quietly for several minutes, killing time.
“So what is this?” I asked.
“This case?”
“This me and you? What are we?”
“Two wild and crazy lovers.”
I nodded and took a sip of coffee.
“Oh, you mean, where are we going?”
I shrugged. “Something like that.”
“Courting, proposal, marriage, kids. I want a dozen.”
“You’re a smart-ass.”
“True.” She reached over and took my hand. “Truth?”
“Let’s start there.”
“I’m not really the settling-down type. You aren’t, either. So we keep doing what we’re doing.”
“Fun and games?”
“Why not?” She squeezed my hand. “But I will say this—you’re the most interesting man I’ve met in a long time. Maybe ever.”
“As are you.”
“Interesting man? You better take a closer look.”
“I did. Remember?”
She laughed.
“But I like your take on it,” I said. “Fun and games and see where it goes.”
She looked out the window. The sky had lightened considerably. I glanced at my watch. Six thirty.
“Let’s take a drive,” she said. “Along the beach. We can watch the sun come up.”
We did. Nicole lowered the SL’s top and we were off. She actually stayed below the speed limit. We held hands and gave each other looks. I felt like a teenager. I think she did, too.
We drove nearly to Pensacola before turning around and making our way back to Ray’s. It was right at eight when we parked and climbed the stairs. Out on the deck, Ray, Pancake, and Morgan sat around the table. Nicole and I pulled up chairs and sat.
“I just brought Morgan up to speed on what you guys uncovered,” Ray said. He looked at me. “Good work.”
Did he really say that? The last compliment I remember coming out of Ray’s mouth was when I tossed a one-hitter in Yankee Stadium. That seemed a lifetime ago.
“Borkov has a huge boat,” Morgan said. “Got to be as big as the one your jogger lady saw. Not many that size around here.”
“You’re thinking the Wilbanks brothers were off to hook up with Borkov?” I asked. “He’s the ‘boss man’ Heather talked about?”
Morgan shrugged. “I don’t know. But let’s look at what we have. The dots are a little loose but we have Barbara Plummer murdered. Gangster style. I believe Henry was the real target, though I can’t say that for sure. Henry was locked in some range war with Borkov so money would be the motive. The Wilbanks boys head off to a mysterious yacht in the middle of the night. For some business deal that was going to make them rich. Then their buddy Raul’s print pops up at the murder scene and bad luck of all bad luck he takes a slug. Also gangster style.”
“So we need to find Darrell and Darnell,” I said.
Ray shook his head. “You won’t. Not alive, anyway.”
I looked at him. “How do you know that?”
“I don’t, but it makes sense. I agree with Morgan. All roads seem to head in Borkov’s direction. And miscreants like him don’t leave loose ends.”
“So like Raul, the Wilbanks brothers have become liabilities,” I said.
Ray drained his Dew and tossed the empty in the trash can against the wall behind him. “If I had to guess, Raul and the brothers were the ones that did Barbara Plummer. And since it was botched—Henry wasn’t home—Borkov had to eliminate anyone who could come back on him.”
“He probably would’ve tied up those loose ends, anyway,” Morgan said. “Even if the hit had gone perfectly.”
Pancake grunted his agreement.
“But we still don’t know this Borkov character is involved,” Nicole said.
“Want another connection?” Pancake asked.
Everyone looked his way.
“Raul Gomez definitely had cartel connections. His brother Santiago, too. A cousin who’s way up the food chain with the Sinaloas. Pedro Hidalgo, the cousin, comes to the U.S. about every three months. I suspect he meets up with Cousin Raul during those trips. Anyway, Raul got popped for possession a year or so ago. Down in Naples. Charges were later dropped but his attorney was a guy named Rolando Saurez. A cartel-connected attorney who just happens to show up on Borkov’s payroll, too.”
“Really?” Morgan asked. “How did you dig all that up? I’ve had my guys working on it and they’ve come up with nada.”
Pancake gave him a “get real” look. As if it was a stupid question. And in Pancake’s case, it was. He might look like a big old dumb jock, but he was anything but. He could rummage around inside the computer world with the best of them. Find things that shouldn’t be found.
“You just have to know where to look,” Pancake said.
“And be able to do it outside legal parameters,” Morgan said.
Pancake shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’ll take the Fifth.”
Morgan smiled.
“That tightens up the dots a bit,” I said.
“Sure does,” Pancake said. “And there’s more. We know Walter defended Santiago, Raul’s brother. What I fo
und out, and Walter doesn’t know this, the money Walter made defending Santiago came through Saurez’s firm. Not directly. It went through Santiago’s mother. But if the cash was touched by Saurez, it came from Borkov.”
“Sounds like Borkov owns everyone,” Nicole said.
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” Morgan said.
“And then there’s this,” Ray said. He opened a folder and pulled out a photograph. He slid it toward me.
It was an aerial view of a harbor.
“After you called this morning, I gave a shout-out to a guy I know. Captain Ira Gemmel with the Coast Guard,” Ray said. “Wasn’t happy about a call that early, but he’s a trooper. Anyway, he ran a location on Borkov’s yacht. That’s it.” He pointed to a large boat hanging near the end of a pier. “Pensacola.”
“This is a satellite photo?” I asked.
Ray nodded. “Made about an hour ago.”
I knew Ray had connections within connections but this was amazing.
“He also had tracking data for the vessel,” Ray continued. “It was definitely off the coast here early the morning the Wilbanks brothers were picked up on the beach. Then out to sea overnight and back to Pensacola yesterday morning.” He pointed to the photo again. “Right there.”
Pancake picked up the photo and studied it. “I got a buddy who has a boat there. Been out fishing with him many times. His slip’s just a couple of slots down from where the dock angles. Puts it fairly close to where Borkov’s moored. My buddy’s trout fishing up in Montana. I’ll let him know we’re going to crash on his boat for a day or two.”
Ray nodded. “We can set up some surveillance from there.”
Pancake nodded. “Consider it done.”
“I can do better,” Nicole said. Everyone looked at her. “I can get you on that boat.”
“How do you propose to do that?” Morgan asked.
She stood, did a full turn, and then waved her hands up and down her body. “With this. Babes and boats. Go together like shrimp and grits, don’t they?” No one had a comeback for that so she continued. “I’ll put together the right outfit and we’ll get invited on board.”
“Sure of yourself, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Would you invite me on your boat?”
“Sure.” Actually I’d invite her on anything I had.
She smiled. “Men are all alike.”