by D P Lyle
Morgan’s cell chimed. He answered and listened for a minute, concluding with “I’m on the way.” He slipped his phone in his pocket and stood. “We found Darrell’s car. Around the corner from Raul’s place.”
Well, well. The circle gets tighter.
CHAPTER FORTY
PANCAKE RAIDED RAY’S closets for the equipment he needed and then headed out to set up his friend’s boat. Ray said he had some computer work on another case to catch up on but would meet us in Pensacola later, so Nicole and I followed Morgan to check out Darrell’s car. It was indeed parked around the corner and a half block down from Raul’s. The doors and trunk were open and a pair of crime scene techs were dusting every nook and cranny for prints.
Jeremy Starks stood nearby.
“What’ve you got?” Morgan asked when we walked up.
Starks shook his head. “Clean. Been wiped down. The boys dusted everywhere and found nothing.”
“Who found it?” I asked.
“One of the patrol guys,” Starks said. “But it was really Morgan.” He nodded toward his partner.
“I played a hunch,” Morgan said. “After Ray called this morning and told me about the Wilbanks brothers handing off their car to someone from the boat and that jogger described it just as Heather had, gray with a primer fender, I played a hunch. I suggested a unit snoop around Raul’s neighborhood.”
“Good call,” I said.
“I do know how to do this job.”
I raised my hands. “Never said you didn’t.”
“Anyway, I figured the guy used the car to hit Raul and then dumped it nearby. More or less framing the Wilbanks brothers for Raul’s murder. And now the brothers are missing, and, like Ray, I’d bet they’ll never be found, so it seems Borkov tied up all his lose ends.”
“But we don’t know the brothers are dead,” I said.
“They are. And it probably went this way—Borkov lured them out to his yacht on the pretense of some business deal. Money being the great motivator. Then out to sea. Shot them in the head and deep-sixed them. Fish food.”
“That’s cold,” Nicole said
“Sure is,” Morgan said. “But it’s what I’d do—if I were Borkov.”
Nicole wrapped her arms around herself. “This Borkov guy is scary.”
Morgan gave her a half smile. “The scariest kind. Rich, powerful, ruthless, and connected. All the major food groups.”
“One other thing,” Starks said. “Got the ballistics back. Different weapon used on Raul than the one Barbara Plummer caught.”
Morgan nodded. “I suspect Raul and the Wilbanks brothers did Barbara, dumped the gun, and then Borkov disposed of the brothers while he sent another shooter to take out Raul.”
“The pieces do fit,” I said.
“More and more.” Morgan rubbed his neck. “So it’s time to dig deep into Mr. Borkov’s world.”
“Pancake’s on it. He’ll have his buddy’s boat set up in an hour or so, and we’ll have eyes and ears on the yacht.”
Nicole stood and stretched. “Then I guess it’s time for me to go to wardrobe.”
Morgan looked at her.
She laughed. “Rummage through my closet and find an outfit that gets me an invite on board.”
“Not sure that would be safe,” Morgan said.
“No problem,” Nicole said. “Ray and Pancake will be there. Armed and dangerous.”
Morgan nodded.
“And I’ll have Jake with me.”
“What’s he going to do, throw fastballs at them?” Starks asked.
“Only if I have to,” I said. “My speed’s down to only eighty miles an hour so it might not work.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
WHAT AN OUTFIT. Stunning. I checked my chin for drool and shockingly found none.
“You like?” Nicole did a pirouette. The sunlight that filtered through her living room windows highlighted her blond hair and curves. She wore a black string bikini. Micro version. Not enough material to make a hanky. Left little to the imagination. Barely covered her best parts. Well, excluding that face. And those eyes. Those parts were pretty good, too.
“I can’t breathe,” I said.
“Good. That’s the effect I was going for.”
“Not sure you can be in public like that,” I said.
“That’s why I have this.”
She slipped on a thin, woven jacket, more air than material. It hid nothing.
“That helps,” I said, shaking my head.
“You don’t like it?”
“Didn’t say that.”
She laughed. “Bet the boat crew will, too.”
“They’d have to be dead not to.”
She kissed my cheek. “That’s so sweet.” She mussed my hair. “Let’s get going.”
With Nicole driving her SL, we covered the forty miles to Pensacola Harbor in under an hour, despite fairly thick traffic. We arrived just after noon.
The main pier gave off four smaller ones that branched at right angles, each with a dozen slips, most filled with buttoned-down fishing rigs, before it elbowed forty-five degrees to the right and jutted out into the water. Borkov’s yacht was tied to it beyond the angle by thick ropes. It dwarfed the other boats. Hell, it dwarfed the entire marina.
Nicole parked and we climbed out. From the asphalt lot, we walked down the main pier, the wooden planking weather-worn and uneven, the smell of the Gulf thick.
“Wow,” Nicole said. “That looks like a cruise ship.”
“Only better, I suspect.”
“We’re looking for the Storm Shelter,” I said.
“You mean this one?” She indicated the boat we now stood near. “The one that has big blue letters saying, ‘Storm Shelter’?”
She can be a real bitch sometimes.
“Yeah, that’d be it.”
Pancake came up the stairs and onto the rear deck. “It’s about time you guys got here.” Then he saw Nicole. “My, my. Come here, darlin’.”
Nicole climbed on board. Pancake enveloped her in a bear hug.
“I could do this all day,” he said.
“You are kind of comfy,” Nicole said. She pushed him back. “Now get your ass to work.”
“This is one tough lady, Jake.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I said.
“Let’s get to it,” Pancake said and headed below.
We followed. Ray sat at the galley table, laptop before him, a clear image of the Sea Witch filling the screen. I saw two Mac 10s and an assortment of handguns on the galley counter. Ray was ready for anything. I expected nothing less.
“Give me your phones,” Pancake said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I’ll set them up as mics. So we can listen in. That way I won’t have to wire you.” He glanced at Nicole. “Nowhere I can see to wire you anyway.”
“Sit,” Ray said.
We settled across the table from him. He spun the laptop so we could see the screen. He moved the image around, settling it on the rear deck. He zoomed in. Two people, only heads and shoulders visible, appeared to be sitting at an umbrella-shaded table. A girl with large, round sunglasses; a man with a cigar clenched in his teeth.
“That’s Borkov and some young lady,” Ray said.
The angle seemed impossible from where we were. “Where’s the camera?” I asked.
“Pancake strapped it to the top of the radar unit,” Ray said. “Best we could do, so this angle’ll have to work.”
“Here.” Pancake returned our cells. “I downloaded an app to each. I can access them from the computer and hear everything that’s going on.”
“Cool,” Nicole said. “Like a real spy.” She slipped the phone into the pocket of her jacket.
“That’s you,” Pancake said. “A real Mata Hari.”
“Now all you have to do is get on the boat,” Ray said. He looked at me. “Pancake and I’ll stay out of sight. You get up top and act like you belong here.”
“How do I
do that?”
“Swab the decks. Or sit out back with a beer. Either would work.”
I laughed. “I’ll take the beer.”
I wore sandals, a baggy swimsuit, and an oversized t-shirt with a Jack Daniel’s logo on front. I grabbed a beer and a magazine, a two-month old Sports Illustrated, and settled in the rear well of the boat. I positioned myself so I could pretend to be reading while keeping an eye on Nicole as she worked her magic.
“You ready?” I asked.
“Sure am.” She stepped off onto the pier.
“Be cool,” I said.
“Is there any other way?”
She unzipped the front of her cover, exposing . . . well . . . everything, and walked up the pier toward the yacht.
As she approached, a man leaned on the rail and looked down at her. Hispanic, dark hair, and muscles on top of muscles.
Showtime.
“That’s Joe Zuma,” Ray said, his voice coming from below deck. “One of Borkov’s bad boys.”
Nicole was maybe fifty feet away, but I could hear her shout up to Zuma. “Is this your boat?”
“No. Belongs to my boss.”
Nicole laughed that wonderful laugh of hers. “I want your job.”
Now Zuma laughed. “It definitely has its pluses.”
“Here comes Borkov,” Ray said.
Borkov appeared at the railing. I could almost hear his intake of breath when he saw Nicole.
“So you like the Sea Witch?” Borkov said.
“Like hardly covers it. It’s amazing.”
“It is comfortable.”
“More than that, I suspect.”
“Come on board. Take a look around.”
It was just that easy. For Nicole, anyway. Sex sells, no doubt.
“I’m here with my boyfriend,” she said.
“Bring him along,” Borkov said. “If he wants.”
“That’s so kind of you, but we wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“No problem. We were just going to have a bite of lunch. Please join us.”
“I’ll check with Jake and see.”
Borkov nodded. “You do that. We’ll set places for you.”
Five minutes later we met Borkov, Joe Zuma, and Frank Boyd, obviously Borkov’s muscle, and Borkov’s apparent plaything Grace. A beautiful young lady. Borkov had good taste if nothing else.
We spent the next thirty minutes touring the ship. It was like nothing I’d ever seen, and I’ve been on some nice yachts. Not this big and not this expensive, though.
We returned to the rear deck and settled at the table with Borkov and Grace, Zuma, and Boyd disappearing below. I flashed on what Henry had said about the two miscreants who had run off his investors. One tall with shaggy blond hair, the other Hispanic and muscular. Boyd and Zuma definitely fit those roles.
“This ship is amazing,” Nicole said. “I could live here.”
“Seems we practically do,” Grace said. She looked at Borkov. “Victor and I spend as much time here as we do at home in Naples.”
“Naples is pretty nice, too,” I said.
Grace nodded. “Victor has a place there. On the Gulf.”
Two young men appeared, carrying a bowl of salad, another of fresh fruit, a platter of fish tacos, and a sweating pitcher of margaritas.
“Hope this works for you,” Borkov said.
“It sure does,” Nicole said. “I’m starving.”
Borkov laughed. Very casual. He did have charm. “Well, dig in.”
We did.
The conversation mostly revolved around the yacht and how we didn’t own the boat we were using. I explained that it belonged to a friend and we were simply hanging out on it for a few days. Borkov seemed to buy it.
“Where’d you get those shoes?” Nicole asked Grace, indicating the designer sandals she wore.
“I don’t remember.” She looked at Victor. “Didn’t we get these in Nassau?”
“We?” he said with a smile. “Grace likes to use the royal we about her shopping.” He drained his margarita. “Which I guess is true. She shops, I pay.” He reached over and squeezed her hand.
“I wonder if I could find anything like that around here?” Nicole asked.
“Maybe.” Grace glanced at Victor, then back to Nicole. “I need to hit the Cordova Mall later today. Why don’t you come along? I bet they’ll have something similar if not the same shoes. Besides, Victor hates to shop and I hate to go alone.”
“I never knew a man that enjoyed shopping,” Nicole said, catching Victor’s eye, smiling. “I’d bet I could give you the day off.”
“Never a day off, but if I can avoid shopping, you’re on.”
“Great,” Grace said. “It’s a date. When do you want to go?”
“Anytime works for me.”
Grace glanced at Borkov, as if waiting for his permission, or blessing.
“Joe and Frank have some business onshore,” Borkov said. “They’ll leave around three. I’ll have them drop you ladies at the mall and then bring you back after they finish. In time for happy hour.”
“Perfect,” Nicole said.
I started to say that I’d take them or that Nicole could drive. That her car was in the marina lot. No reason to inconvenience Zuma and Boyd. Truth was I didn’t want her in a car with those two. But Nicole had already agreed and balking now might raise Borkov’s eyebrows. Better to let it lie. For now, anyway.
One of the young men who had served lunch cleared the plates and refilled our margaritas; the other appeared with a burled cigar box, flipping it open for Borkov. He selected one and held it up.
“Do you mind?” He asked Nicole.
A real gentleman.
“No problem,” Nicole said. “Enjoy.”
“Jake?” Borkov nodded toward the box.
“Sure. I’d hate for you to smoke alone.”
After the cigars were fired up, Borkov leaned back in his chair, relaxed. He was in his domain. Master of ceremonies.
“Jake Longly?” he said. “You the baseball player?”
I shrugged. “Was. Seems years ago.”
“You were pretty good.”
“I had my days. I guess you follow baseball?”
“He’s a fanatic,” Grace said. “I find it boring, but Victor loves it.”
“The purest of sports,” Borkov said. He turned to the serving table behind him, picked up the phone, and pressed a button. Then said, “Bring up a couple of my baseballs and bats.” He hung up. “You’ll love this.”
One of the young men reappeared, two baseballs in one hand, a bat in the other. He handed them to Borkov.
Borkov passed a ball to Jake. “Two home run balls. That one by Henry Aaron. This one by Willie Mays.” He extended the bat toward me. I took it. “This is the Mick’s bat. He hit an upper deck shot at Yankee Stadium with it.”
The bat not only had Mantle’s signature, it was personalized. To Victor Borkov.
I stood, gripping the bat, and moved onto the deck. Took a couple of cuts. “I can’t believe I’m standing here swinging one of the Mick’s bats.”
“Sweet, isn’t it?” Borkov said.
“Definitely.”
“Of course, you were a pitcher. Not a hitter.”
I sat down again and returned the bat to Borkov. He leaned it against the table to his left.
“When I was young I was a pretty good stick,” I said. “Played shortstop when I wasn’t pitching.”
Borkov smiled. “That’s what I played.” He sighed. “A long time ago.”
“These are impressive,” I said, nodding toward the baseballs on the table.
“Got a couple of hundred of them and too many bats to count.” He held up the May’s ball. “Show me how you threw that sinking fastball of yours.”
I gripped the Aaron one. “I used a cross-stitch grip. Like this.” I held it up so he could see.
He mimicked my grip. “That’s all there is to it.”
I smiled. “That and putting ninety-five mile
s an hour behind it.”
Borkov laughed. “There is that, I guess.”
He set the ball on the table and leaned back again. He held me with his intense blue-eyed gaze and then said, “You Ray Longly’s boy, right?”
“True.” I could feel sweat collect on my scalp. This is not where I wanted the conversation to go.
“He runs a PI firm around here, I understand?”
“That’s true, too.”
“You work for him?”
“Not a chance.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Ray and I don’t always see eye to eye,” I said.
“Father and son war?”
“Maybe not war, but he does what he does and I do what I do.”
“Which is?”
Borkov was like a good attorney. Didn’t ask questions he didn’t already know the answer to. Meant blowing smoke up his ass wouldn’t work. At least mostly not work.
“I own a bar over in Gulf Shores. Captain Rocky’s. Ever heard of it?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“It’s small. Mostly a local following. But it does okay. Drop by sometime and I’ll return the hospitality.”
“I just might do that.” Borkov flicked an ash into the ashtray on the table. “I had a restaurant once. Too much work, so I sold it.”
“It is a lot of work. Never enough hours in the day to get everything done.”
Borkov nodded. “But you don’t work for your dad?”
“Nope. Not that he doesn’t try to lure me into his world.”
Borkov took a couple puffs on his cigar, exhaling upward, waving away the smoke. “I hear he’s investigating that murder that happened over on The Point? The Plummer woman?”
“I wouldn’t know. Like I said, Ray and I don’t run in the same circles.”
“So, the other night. Out on Peppermill Road. Wasn’t that you that got a couple of windows hammered out? Right near the Plummer home?”
This was definitely not going as expected. What exactly did Borkov know? That we were scamming him? That Nicole and I weren’t simply accidental tourists? How the hell did he know about my confrontation with Tammy? Why would he know? He obviously had connections within the Gulf Shores PD, and, if so, did he know we were hooked up with Detective Morgan? That would be a game changer. Was my face as red and sweaty as it felt?