Black Point

by Sam Cade

  “And you as well, JD. Basically, like a beachcombing billionaire.”

  JD wore a linen shirt with the top two buttons open over dark loose-fitting drawstring pants and leather sandals. And J.D did have money. Trained as a surgeon, he part-timed himself into becoming a real estate developer after selling thousands of acres of family farmland in the middle 1980s. He started developing beachfront condos from Panama City to Gulf Shores and hasn’t slowed down. He threw some early profits into emerging biotech stocks in the early 1990’s and became magnificently wealthy.

  “Come around here, Jake,” said Kimbo. “Take a look at these sketches. Dad and I have a little project going, a nine-room boutique hotel downtown at the main intersection by the clock.”

  Jake’s eyes scanned the renderings, hand drawn and in color. Facades, lobby, rooftop deck and bar. “Wow!” Jake looked back at Kimbo. “You come up with this?”

  “To a degree. It’s a little quirky, a little bohemian. We’re putting a seafood restaurant on the ground floor. I’m liberally borrowing ideas from three of my favorite beach spots. Mozambique, Mallorca, Spain, and Bali, Indonesia. Gonna call the hotel Breeze. Dad pried his way in to make it a family joint venture. Mom’s doing the interior design. She’s doing some research in a couple of South American countries right now.”

  JD put his hand on Kimbo’s shoulder. “It looks great, son, very chic. I’ve got to bug off. I have three surgeries this morning. How about dinner this weekend, Jake? Marin will be home Saturday.”

  “I would love it.”

  LESLIE, A VET TECH, CUT ROWDY’S CAST OFF and helped Kimbo shoot an x-ray. Kimbo wore a sunshine yellow Reno Abellira Surfboards tee shirt over floppy corduroy shorts.

  Jake studied the black and white image on a large digital screen when he felt an arm go around his waist.

  “Hey, big guy.”

  “Oh, my goodness, Babette. Great to see you.” Jake gave her a hug. “Check out Rowdy’s x-ray.” Dr. Babette Dixon was two years ahead of Jake in school. She ached with love for her animals since she was a little girl. She studied the film, nodded. “Looks great.”

  “I agree,” said Kimbo. “Now you have to slowly rehab him back into the full use of the leg.”

  “Got it.”

  “Let’s go back to the office for a minute.”

  Jake spotted a man in an exam room wearing a big smile. He had dark eyebrows, dark hair edging into gray on the sides, and sleepy eyes.

  “Dr. Bill. Anybody ever told you that you look like Titus Welliver?”

  “Who?”

  “Bosch. On Amazon.”

  “Yeah, but they say I’m better looking.”

  “Goes without saying, Bill. Good to see you.”

  Jake took a seat in Kimbo’s office. “You’ve got a full plate, don’t you? Vet medicine, Big Jake Grills, construction, music, design.”

  “Well, that’s why I have to go surfing a week every month. I need some time for my imagination, otherwise my creativity steers into a rut. But there’s a couple things concerning for us as manufacturing titans.”

  Jake laughed. “Shoot.”

  Kimbo shot his thumb over his shoulder. “That gorgeous beauty back there is the 250,000th grill we’ve made. Polling says sixty-three percent of America knows what a Big Jake is. That’s crazy stupid. And you’re funny as hell in the commercials. Like it or not, you’re the face and image of the business. In thirty days we’re putting four spices on the market. Our food broker has already gotten letters of intent from all the major grocers. He says it’s all you. YOU are the brand. He wants us to double down on football advertising this fall. Blitz the NFL.”

  Jake sat listening with his chin resting on steepled hands.

  “Final thing,” said Kimbo. “And, I’m serious, this is close to my heart. But I think you’ll like it.”

  “I better hold on here.”

  “Hope Hiassen called me yesterday after you bamboozled that prize Land Cruiser out of her. Actually, she talked to Jan first, then me. Hope’s been tuning up Jan’s tennis game and they’ve struck up a friendship.”

  “Ahhhhh, gosh.” Jake slunk down in his chair.

  “I told her you’re a decent guy, well kind of. Told her you used to date my sister.”

  “Please, let’s don’t go there. I don’t think either of us can deal with Sunshine’s memory.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I still tiptoe around mom and dad with that. It almost destroyed them.”

  “Nothing about it was almost. It destroyed all of us. Let’s just be honest about it. Now, what’d you want to discuss?”

  “Business. Hope wants to start an animal haven.”

  “She told me. Sounds pretty cool.”

  “She’s got big ideas, Jake. She also wants to start an ancillary animal nutrients company. Dog food, cat food, anything else you can throw under that umbrella. Wants to call it Jeep and Arlo’s after her two Goldens. She’s doing fine for money personally, so she wants all profits to support her animal haven and others like it. But she needs investors.”

  “Okay.”

  “If it’s animals you know I’m in. Dad said he’ll toss some money at it. Here’s my question. What would you think of taking some of the profits from Big Jake’s and throwing it in for some initial seed capital and an ownership stake in the nutrients outfit?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Awesome. We’ll have some fun with this thing. But, something else.”

  “Shoot.”

  A serious look crept over Kimbo’s face. He looked down then back at Jake. His voice softened.

  “Why don’t you give it up, Jake? The FBI. That shootout in Virginia scared the hell out of everybody. I drove over to the plant when I heard and wanted to see if your mother was okay cause I knew people would call her. She was shaking, Jake, cried on my shoulder. You know, after Chuck got killed...and Ed’s gone. If something happened to you...” Kimbo let it trail off, looked away.

  He turned back to Jake. “Life’s good here, man. Black Point is growing with interesting people moving in. We’ve got a great business going here...just think about it, okay?”

  Too much heavy talk this early in the morning, thought Jake. “I’ll leave it at this for now. It feels good to have you thinking about me. I mean that.” Jake looked down at Rowdy. “Ready to go, boy?”

  He reached the doorframe, turned back. “You know, Kimbo, there are two very deep scars from Black Point that I haven’t been able to shake for decades, Chuck’s accident and Sunshine’s murder. I see their faces all over this town.”

  Kimbo’s eyes went back to the floor. “Same here. And that will never change. Never.”

  70

  JAKE WALKED INTO PIKE TATUM’S office as the chief was speaking on the phone. Pike pointed at a chair.

  “Okay, so Tuesday you think...uh huh...okay, great, thanks, Tommy. Talk next week.”

  Pike hung up. “That was Tommy Markham from the ABI lab. Said he should have the signature on Shedd’s Semtex next week. Hell, it’s gotta be the same stuff that blew the Rolls. How could it not be?”

  Jake shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s hope so, it’d sure clear some things up. I’ve run through all of Bill’s cases, but nothing in-depth. Washington has all the info, they’ll put a team on it. But nothing jumped out at me.”

  “What’d you think about that bus crash Bill handled? He got his biggest payday yet and the rest of the town was torn apart in grief over the whole thing, the crash I mean.”

  “What bus crash? I didn’t see it.”

  “Couple years ago. February, ice on the road, woman driving a school bus with her three kids on board, no other students. Skidded off 98 down by Oak Hollow Farm and ran straight into a tractor trailer parked on the side of the road. Killed the woman and two kids. One kid was in a vegetative state for months before dying.”

  Jake pointed at Pike. “Yep, my mother mentioned it back when it happened, but I’d forgotten. I had no clue Bill was in on that. I didn’t see it in th
e records.”

  “Good old Bill sued the bus company and the company that owned the truck parked on the side of the road. The final dollar amount was sealed but whispers on the street say seventy-something million. That’d likely cut Bill a check for twenty plus mil or so.”

  Jake scrunched his eyebrows, blew out through pursed lips. “Holy smokes.”

  “The trucking company went belly-up after that, but here’s something else interesting. The woman’s husband, I’m talking about the woman driving the bus, her husband, a guy named Dude Codger, has not been seen since three days prior to the accident. Completely different set of circumstances. Codger was the manager at the Rusty Anchor, the little roadhouse a few miles south of the high school across from the polo fields. We got a call about it from Alonzo Bacon, the assistant manager.

  “I know Alonzo. We played ball in high school.”

  “Anyway, on a Friday, a few days before the crash there was a break-in at the Anchor. Could have been early on the Saturday morning. Back door smashed in, place ransacked, money missing.”

  “So, where’s Codger?”

  “Don’t know. But get this. A few days after the crash we got an anonymous call from a man. He said somebody ran Dude Codger’s car down the boat ramp near Mullet Point. We got a diver on it. It was Codger’s Camry, windows down, trunk open, but no Codger. We’ve run down everything and we’ve got nothing, no body, no workable evidence.”

  “Interesting.”

  “The owner of the Anchor, a guy who lives over in Grayton Beach, says he thinks it’s an inside job by Codger himself. Vic Stapleton, that’s the owner, had suspicions that Codger was skimming, and that Codger knew the end was near. Twelve big flat screen TVs were smashed as well as every bottle of liquor. Stapleton thinks that Codger was being vindictive. He could have just taken the money and split. Stapleton has accounting evidence of theft. So, there’s a pending warrant out on Codger. He might pop up one day on a traffic stop in Peoria, you never know, but, seriously, I doubt it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I think Stapleton’s wrong. Well, he might be right about Codger ripping him off. You know as well as I do there ain’t too many bartenders who deal in cash all night who don’t slip a few bucks in their pocket. There just ain’t.”

  “And?”

  “Okay, here’s what I think happened. Assholes broke into the Anchor, probably sometime early Saturday morning. Watched the place, it’s dark, figured nobody’s there. But Codger is there. He slept there sometimes. He sees their faces, maybe knows them. They shoot him, tie him up, whatever, after he hands over the money. They smash the place apart, throw Codger in a vehicle, dump the body God knows where, then run Codger’s Camry into the bay.”

  Jake nodded at the scenario, thinking. “Been a couple years, nobody’s seen Codger. Definitely sounds plausible.”

  “But here’s why I’d stake my life on the theory that Codger's dead. He would have been sitting on a gold mine in the lawsuit on the bus crash. He’d be a big ass multi-multi-millionaire right this very minute. He could have squared anything with Vic Stapleton, paid him off a hundred times over. I asked Stapleton about that. This is his exact quote. ‘I just want my money back. I got too much fishin’ to do to get into some legal shit.’” Pike laughed. “Too much fishin’...”

  “That’s hilarious. Well, gotta run.”

  “You bet. I’ll let you know immediately after I hear about the plastics.”

  Jake started the Land Cruiser, stared through the windshield, thinking.

  Bill’s biggest case.

  How could Theo leave that out?

  71

  Telluride, Colorado

  Wednesday June 19, 2019

  JAKE AND SHERIFF MITCH HIGGINS loaded up in the county four-wheel drive SUV for the drive to Clemmons’ ranch. Higgins placed a large, hot coffee in a cup holder. Jake had a cup in his hand. Higgins turned west on 145 and kicked it.

  Eighteen miles later, Higgins punched four digits in a keypad and the ranch gate swung open. A gravel drive wound through a pasture blooming with vivid yellow mule’s ears, blue columbines, and paintbrush. A half mile in they arrived at the home, situated below a mountain covered with ponderosas.

  “Nice set up, here,” said Jake.

  “Yep. Suing folks is good money. I got a key.”

  The sheriff took him in the home straight to the sliding glass door overlooking the pool.

  “This glass is new. When we got here one of Clemmons’ guards was on the floor where you’re standing, the whole sliding door shattered. One slug through the head, two in the chest. We speculate he may have been looking out at the pool when he was shot, probably eyeing Clemmons and the other guard.”

  Higgins slid open the door, walked out by the pool. Crime scene markings were still evident identifying the body locations.

  “Clemmons was sunning, reading a novel...written by? Yes, another damn lawyer. The bodyguard’s laptop was on the table. Last website he looked at was something about an Alaskan cruise. He wasn’t married, had a girlfriend. She told us the cruise was in the makings.”

  “So, where do you think the shots came from?”

  “The mountain. Had to. M.E.’s report on all three men say the head shot trajectory is high to low.”

  Jake studied the vista of the mountain rising just past the pool. “Did you isolate the shooter’s location?”

  “Feel like we narrowed it down in about a seventy-yard by two hundred-yard patch of land.”

  “That’s a pretty big area, Mitch.” Jake chuckled.

  “You’re right. So, the answer is we don’t know exactly where the shots came from.”

  “Let’s take a walk up and look around.”

  “Too steep, that incline drops fast from the peak. Gotta approach it from the other side. Come on, let’s drive around, ten minutes to get there.”

  HIGGINS PULLED THE SUV UP THE SAME FIRE ROAD that Lucky used and came to a stop within seventy feet of where Lucky parked.

  “Check the soil, Jake. Sandy, rocky. We couldn’t find any tracks. It’s all sand and gravel back to the highway, as you just saw.”

  Jake looked up at the incline, saw yellow flags on some trees.

  “Start marching, son. Just follow the flags, the best way to make the summit. I’ve done it five times already, just slow. You certified in CPR?”

  “My card expired last month. But I think it’s something about pushing on the chest. We’ll figure it out.”

  Higgins laughed. Jake hung tight by the sheriff, didn’t want to march ahead like some fit asshole. Scaled it in twenty minutes. They were looking down from at least a forty-five-degree angle.

  “Great view, but this is a hell of a long ways out.”

  “Sure is.” Higgins was breathing hard, sweat running down his face. “This is 850 yards, right here. We’ve checked everything with rangefinders.”

  Higgins sat on a large rock. “Need a break. We had fifteen guys combing this area inch-by-inch over three days. Nothing. No brass, no gum wrappers, nothing.”

  Jake folded his arms and scanned the area. “Anybody hear anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ya’ll have a lot of big game hunters out here. Lot of them could make the shots.”

  “You hunt?” said the sheriff.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, I do. And I wanted to go over this with you. Nothing in the reports about this. I didn’t even discuss it with Christy Darnell, that damn officious FBI know-it-all in Denver. But you mentioned game hunters. First, I wondered if anyone locally might have a grudge with Clemmons. But the guy kept a low profile, haven’t heard of anyone he’s pissed off. Then, of course, there’s the whole extortion deal. Then him mouthing off in the papers like he’s Rambo. I’ve got some basic thoughts. They might not get you anywhere, though.”

  “I would love to hear ‘em.”

  “Number one. Hunters rarely shoot over two hundred yards. I mean two football fields is a long way. Especially since yo
u want to hump out some large animal if you can even make the shot.”

  “Number two. The shell is a .338 magnum. I don’t know one single hunter that uses that. Many use the .300 Winchester magnum. Some use the 7mm Remington, some the .270, some the .308, a few outliers firing the 6.5 Creedmoor.”

  “Okay, so who uses the .338?”

  “Go online and look at the book cover of American Sniper. Chris Kyle’s rifle is right there. He’s that SEAL badass. That wicked gun he uses fires the .338. I understand that round is popular with all the special forces and marine snipers, probably other law enforcement, too.”

  “Interesting.” Jake flared his eyebrows. “Keep going.”

  “Number three. Even if you did get down on this mountain to around two hundred yards out, you’re on a steep face. Nothing about that is conducive to accurate shooting.”

  “Sounds right.”

  “Number four. And pay attention here. We scanned this mountain and tried to find as many good shooting locations as possible, taking in natural cover and distance to target. We couldn’t find one we liked closer than 500 yards. Five football fields, now, got that?”

  Jake whistled. “Yep.”

  “Now. Picture the scene. Clemmons reading a book. Guard checking out cruise shit on his laptop. Pow. Shot one goes right through Clemmons skull. Guard probably jumps up like he was electrocuted, gun in hand, wondering what the fuck. Pow. Shot two. But where? The guard’s skull or Clemmons through the back? Don’t know. Either way it was fast. Pow. Pow. Shot three and four. The guard’s head has disintegrated. Two in Clemmons, two in the guard. Now, here’s a question. How much time elapsed before the second guard looked out the glass door?”

  “Good question.”

  “Well, I think it was quick. I think he heard something, maybe heard the long gun, ran to the window. Pow. Right in the noggin. Pow. Pow. Two rounds through his body into the oak flooring. We found his cell phone right next to him on the floor.”

  “Okay, it was quick. Why do you think so?”