THE PARKING LOT by the Miami Beach marina was dark with shadows from the mangroves. I parked the Jeep in the far corner, where it was all but invisible. The lot was still and silent as the mangroves absorbed wind and sound. The dock master’s office was lit by a solitary spotlight over a glass sliding door. A cheap plastic chair sat by the door.
“So who is this guy?” said Sally, as we walked toward the light. He limped with the weight of his doctor’s bag, but I knew better than to ask if he needed help.
“Lucas? He’s an old friend of Lenny’s. Ex-Australian SAS or something. Lenny saved Lucas’s family back in the day, and Lucas sees it as a debt he owes for life. Somehow that debt got transferred to me.”
I tried the sliding door and found it locked, so we skirted the building and came around to the dockside. The promenade was lit like it was ready for a parade, and each of the docks fed out like fingers, lit by small safety lights into the wood. We stopped and looked around. There was no movement but the tinking of rigging on a handful of masts, but there weren’t many of those. Most of the boats were motor yachts, and most of them were large. I didn’t see Lucas, but he saw me.
“How’s it going?” came the voice from the shadows behind us.
“Jesus, Lucas,” I said. He morphed out of the shadows, his beaming white teeth the first thing I picked up. He stepped forward, tanned, leathery skin darker than the night.
“You boys alright?”
“Been better.” I introduced Lucas to Sally.
“How are ya?” he said to Sally, who shrugged his answer, and then Lucas looked at me. His eyes shone like beacons from his dark features, and he carried the sweet scent of cigar smoke.
“You visited Lenny lately?” he said.
“Not for a while,” I replied.
“I got up there last week, shared a six-pack with him.”
“I need to make some time.”
Lucas nodded. “Well, let’s see this boat.” He ambled away, the clap-clap of flip-flops smacking on the wooden boardwalk. Sally fell in beside me and whispered.
“You were talking about Lenny Cox then?”
“Aha.”
“And he’s still dead, right?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“So is this guy all there?” Sally tapped his head.
“Completely. He likes to visit the cemetery, drink to old times.”
Sally nodded and fell silent.
Lucas used a key card to get through the gate, and then walked us to a boat that must have been a hundred feet long. The name scrawled across the transom was El Jefe.
“El Jefe? Really?” I said.
“Your man Montgomery just bought it a few months back. The last owner called it that, and I guess he likes it.”
“Can we get in?”
“Sure. These guys who want full service have to leave their keys so I can fill ‘er up, get ‘er cleaned and all that.”
“They don’t have a crew? It’s a big boat.”
“Some do, but not this guy. We supply crew with a bit of notice, but most of them pay us to do the maintenance. So who is this joker?”
I gave Lucas the rundown on Angel and Danielle and Jake Turner. He listened and the furrows in his brow deepened.
“Sounds like a nasty piece of work. And a Pom, too. So what’s the plan, mate?”
“I’m going to get on, stow away until they get where they’re going, then if I can get the gun that killed Angel and shot Danielle, I will.”
“And if you can’t?” said Sally. “You need to know how far you’re willing to go before you start. You do not want to be making this up on the fly.”
“I know, Sally. I know what I have to do. I’m just trying not to think about how my life will be different.”
“Kid, every morning when you wake up, you’re a different person, based on the choices you made yesterday. It’s inevitable. But today, your choice is about whether you or your loved ones wake up tomorrow at all. So it’s not a choice. You’re crossing a line, no doubt, and it’s a line best not crossed, but given you have no real option, then the only question is, do you believe that crossing the line is the right thing to do?”
“I do.”
“Then suck it up, and get it done.”
I took a deep breath and nodded. I had taken a life before, that of the person who had killed Lenny Cox. But that had been instantaneous, reflex. This was a considered action. But Sally was right. I may not have to take it all the way, but if I did, I couldn’t flinch.
“Let’s do this,” I said. I pulled on a pair of latex gloves and stepped on to the swimming platform at the rear of the boat.
“You planning on driving this boat back?” said Sally. “Even if things go pear-shaped?”
“That’s a good point,” I said.
“I think I can help you there,” said Lucas. He outlined his proposal and Sally and I listened, and then agreed it was the way to go.
“Is it rough out there?” I said.
“Nah, mate, light onshore breeze, a little chop is all.”
I looked at Sal. “You know where this place is?”
“I’ll be there,” said Sally.
“Take my truck, mate,” said Lucas, pulling keys out of his pocket. “The old red Tacoma in the lot. There’s one of them GPS thingies in the glove box, and behind the seat you’ll find some bolt cutters and a .22.”
“Speaking of which, my gun is in the safe in my office,” I said.
“Are you sure you’ve thought this through?” said Sally. He dropped his bag to the dock, bent down and snapped it open, and then fished out a gun and handed it to me.
“Nine millimeter, and here’s a spare clip. It’s untraceable, but if you use it, don’t bring it home with you.”
“Thanks, Sal. I’ll see you guys later.”
I watched Sally lumber back down the dock toward the parking lot, and Lucas take off in the opposite direction, toward the water. I double-checked the safety on the gun lest I blow part of myself off, then tucked it into my chinos and climbed on board Pistachio’s boat.
Chapter Fifty-Six
THE BOAT HAD two levels above deck, and I was guessing two below. One of those would be the engine room, and I figured a guy who called ahead to get fueled didn’t spend much time down there. The aft deck on the main level was small but led through glass doors to an impressive lounge. I stepped inside and closed the door behind. The lounge had a bar of solid marble that ran its length. In Jane Austen’s day they could have held a ball in the space. Montgomery, or perhaps the doofus who had christened the vessel El Jefe, had filled the space with a pool table, and still had room to disco. At the aft end of the bar was a door of gleaming rosewood that looked like a pantry but led down to the lower level.
At the bottom of the steps I found a small coffee service area with a large box that read PG Tips tea. On the opposite side, reading chairs sat in two groups of four. Beyond the chairs a hallway ran down the side of the boat toward staterooms. There were two that were smaller but still the size of hotel rooms, and at the front a massive master stateroom with private en suite and a walk-in closet. I figured they weren’t going to be having friends over, so I hid inside the stateroom closest to the lounge, and waited.
I waited longer than I wanted, because I could feel my nerve slipping away with every tick of the clock. I closed my eyes and saw Angel, running on a floodlit soccer field, doing sprints and dribbling exercises, breathing hard but full of life. Then I saw Danielle, lying on a stainless steel table under cold light, her lips pale, eyes closed, the life snuffed out of her. I opened my eyes with a start because what I heard was the sound of footsteps on the deck. I stood behind the door and listened but heard nothing. No voices, no more footsteps. The soundproofing in the room was good. But not good enough to mask the sound of the engines starting. A deep rumble came from below my feet. It idled for a few moments, and then I felt a jolt as we pulled away from the dock.
I crossed the room and looked out the window. It was much more than a porthole a
nd offered a panoramic view of the bay and Miami skyline as we motored from the marina. I looked up and saw the MacArthur Causeway, which we left behind as we moved east from the marina, out past Fisher Island. We banked south and kept a slow, steady pace until I saw the lights on Key Biscayne. Then the engines growled and we picked up speed, and I saw the lights along the beaches on Key Biscayne give way to darkness as we headed out to sea.
I wasn’t too sure how far we’d go. If they were just tossing evidence, we might not go much further at all. On the other hand, they might be headed for the Bahamas. The boat was certainly big enough, and it was one way to avoid apprehension at the airport. I cracked the door open and slid out, and then I retraced my steps and checked that the other two staterooms were still empty. I edged back along the hallway and up to the lounge. The light bounced off the polished hardwood floors, but there was no one on them. A spiral staircase shot up onto the upper deck, where I guessed the cockpit to be. If Montgomery was up there he may be standing right at the top of the stairs, and that felt like a rabbit sticking its head up out of its warren, so I strode through the lounge, slid the glass back and stepped out to the small deck I had come in on. There was a set of steps leading up to the next deck. There were no lights on up there. I figured it made navigating easier with all the upper deck in darkness. It definitely made me feel better about sticking my little rabbit head up.
The upper deck was large. A bank of sun loungers sat in the moonlight before a hot tub under a canopy. Opposite the hot tub was another small bar. I pressed against the sliding glass that led to the cabin and saw nothing. No movement, no people. A kaleidoscope of light played on the ceiling, shooting up through the spiral stairs from the lounge below. I crept inside to where a long dining table waited naked for plates and forks and food. Another smaller lounge, with a sofa opposite a flatscreen television. The television hung on a birch paneled wall that looked to separate the living space from the cockpit. On the side of the wall was a glass door, through which glowed a green light. Night light. I pressed myself against the wall and peered through the glass door.
At the helm I could see Nigel, Montgomery’s bodyguard cum driver cum ship captain. He was certainly a very useful guy. His face glowed in the green light being thrown by the instrument panels before him. He stood firm, hands on the wheel, staring out into darkness. Between him and me was a built-in mahogany chart table, and running the length of the back wall of the space was a long bench seat. I saw nothing of Montgomery. It occurred to me that he was not on board, having sent his minion to dispense of the evidence, while Montgomery himself hid somewhere. I figured there was one way to find out. I slid in the door and trained Sally’s gun on Nigel. Two hands, firm footing.
“Don’t move,” I said, which was ridiculous because I startled him and he jerked around. “Hands on the wheel.” He looked at the gun and then did as he was told. I stepped a pace toward him, past the chart table.
“The gun in your holster. Slowly use your right hand. Pull it out by the fingers and drop it.” He moved his right hand off the wheel and tucked it under his right armpit where his holster sat. Where you would house a gun if you were left-handed. Like the shooter that killed Angel. Nigel pulled the gun out between his thumb and forefinger.
“Drop it,” I said, encouraging him not to do anything stupid. He held the gun out and spread his thumb and finger dramatically and let the weapon fall to the floor. He put his hand on the throttle and made to slow the boat down.
“Don’t,” I said. He lifted his hand and placed it back on the wheel. I had him kick the gun toward me, and I picked it up.
“Where’s Montgomery?”
Nigel glanced at me blankly, hesitated, and then gave me a crooked grin.
“In Miami,” he said. I wasn’t going to believe his first answer under any circumstances, but I knew he was lying. The hesitation was enough, but the grin was too much.
“Don’t mess around with me, Nigel.” I said his name in my best Downton Abbey accent. “I am just itching to shoot you. Now be a good fellow, and tell me, where the hell is Alexander Montgomery?”
“He’s standing right behind you.” Nigel grinned again, and I heard the metallic slide of a pistol being cocked.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
I SLOWLY TURNED and saw Montgomery, pointing a Glock at me. He held it sideways with one hand, like some gangbanger from Harlem, and high up, such that he almost had to point it down at me. His other hand held two soda cans.
“Thank you, Jones,” he said.
“For what?”
“For being so daft. And for making my life that little bit easier. Now we can kill two birds with one stone. Get rid of the gun, and you.” He smiled like he’d just thought of something clever.
“It’s ironic, really. You getting offed by the same gun that did that stupid little girl at the college.”
I looked at the weapon in Montgomery’s hand, and he waved it about.
“Not this one, dunce. That one. In your hand.”
My head dropped to look at the gun I had taken off Nigel. I hadn’t realized that I had dropped both hands so I had a gun by each thigh. The one belonging to Nigel suddenly felt heavy.
“Don’t forget, guv—that gun also done his missus,” said Nigel.
“Of course it did. Good memory, Nige. So there you are, Jones. Both your little tarts and you.” He gave me a vicious smirk.
“Danielle’s not dead.”
I had hoped to wipe the smile off his face, but it didn’t work.
“Well, that is good news. I felt that whole thing was rushed. Now we can go back and take our time over it. Give her a right proper send-off.”
Montgomery laughed a mirthless chuckle. “You should have listened and left it alone, but you had to push it. My boys told you to leave it, but you put them in the hospital. Now this is all on you.”
I grimaced at the thought that the weasel spoke the truth. It was on me. All except for the inciting incident.
“Why did you kill Jake? Surely there are plenty of kids to sell your crap.”
“The boy done himself wrong, not me. He was a good little marketer, moved a lot of EPO, steroids, you name it. But he got all high and mighty over our designer party products. We gave him a bunch of Maxx, but he refused to shift it. Even the Liquid X, he wouldn’t do it.”
“So you filled him full of Maxx.”
“You don’t get it, do you, Jones? You couldn’t give Maxx to Jake, he would never take it. Besides, doping is really not our style.”
I stood between them, side on so I could see both their evil grins in my field of vision. I felt sick.
“Now, enough chitchat. Do yourself a favor and drop the guns, nice and easy.”
I let my grip go so Sally’s gun slipped down my hand and I could grab it by the butt between my thumb and forefinger, just as I had instructed Nigel to do. Then I lifted it out toward Montgomery and the Glock he had pointed at me.
“Drop it,” said Montgomery.
So I did.
Everyone who has ever played golf knows how hard it is to not look at a moving ball. It takes a lot of training to perfect the practice of keeping your head down and focusing on the spot where the ball was, rather than the natural inclination to look up and focus on a moving object. Montgomery didn’t play golf, or at least he wasn’t very good at it. His focus was on the gun as I cocked my wrist and flicked it into space between us, rather than focusing on me. So while he was watching my gun gently arc its way to the floor, I fell too. I just let the weight in my hips drop and my knees collapse and my feet push out and I fell like a tree with a mission, down behind the mahogany chart table. As best I knew, Montgomery had a gun but Nigel no longer did, so I wanted to be on Nigel’s side of the table.
I hit the floor a fraction of a second after the gun I had dropped, and simultaneously with Montgomery’s first shot. I wasn’t too concerned about getting shot by Montgomery. Holding the gun the way he did, he would be lucky to hit Yankee Stadium if he wa
s standing at the main gate. So he got his shot away, but I wasn’t there anymore. It was a good shot though, for after passing through vacant space where I had been, the bullet exploded into Nigel’s thigh, halfway between the knee and the hip. Nigel howled and Montgomery kept shooting. His second shot was better. At least it didn’t hit Nigel. Montgomery reacted and aimed his shots where I was going. I lay on the floor and said a prayer for good, thick, expensive mahogany. Montgomery exploded his magazine into the base of the chart desk, pock-marking the beautiful wood but not getting through to me a single time. Once I heard the click-click of an empty clip, it was my turn. I sat up from behind the desk, two hands on the gun that had killed Angel. I pointed it at Montgomery’s head. And I thought about crossing lines and leaking barrels. I took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth.
Montgomery laughed. “You haven’t got the—”
I pulled the trigger. He hadn’t gone for the gun that lay on the floor between us, though I was sure he would have, if given the chance. And I could convince myself on that basis that shooting a now unarmed man was self-defense. But the truth was, I was sick of him. Sick of what he had done, sick of the cancer he was on our paradise. But mostly I was sick of his voice. I didn’t want to hear anything more he had to say. So I shot him. Full on in the face, right smack-bang in the middle of the target. The bullet and the majority of the rear of Montgomery’s head plastered itself all over the wood-paneled wall and the rest of him dropped like an empty suit.
Then I picked up Sally’s gun from the floor and turned my attention on Nigel. He was backed up against the console, whimpering, holding his leg like a smashed chicken wing. Montgomery’s shot had hit something significant because Nigel was spurting a pool of blood across the floor. He was holding his thigh at the top, where the bullet had entered, but the blood seemed to be coming from below, at the back of his leg.
I stood over him. He was in a lot of pain. It was writ across his face, but he was trying not to let it show. He was a tough guy, in every sense of the phrase. He was also an animal. An injured animal. The humane thing to do was to put him down. But I had a question first.
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