Ending the call, I looked at Savannah. “So, it’s true?” she asked. “She was involved? And that involvement cost Sharlee her life?”
“That’s not proof,” I said, hearing Carl’s Grady start up out on Harbor Channel, “but it does appear that way. A friend who knows more about this than I do told me that the equipment to set up a meth lab would run about a hundred thousand bucks. The man your sister gave the money to had just bought three shrimp boats. I’m sorry, Savannah.”
“Who was that on the phone?” she asked. “How are you able to find these things out even before the police or the Coast Guard?”
While we watched Florence and Finn on the little beach, I told her about Deuce and his team, and how I’d become part of it after the death of my wife. I told her about Chyrel and her hacking skills. I told her about the mission to Cuba, about chasing Smith all over the Caribbean, I told her about Elbow Cay, the Russians down in the Bahamas, and finally the mission in her own hometown.
“That was you that got that rat-bastard?” she asked. “Daddy never trusted that beady-eyed SOB. I was in town when Cross was arrested at Waterfront Park. It happened just before my dad died.”
“Do you still want to go out there?” I asked.
“No,” she said, with a sigh. “I guess not. I loved my sister, but she’d brought everything on herself. Daddy paid for her to go to rehab several times. And each time she’d get out, she’d fall right back into it.”
“Y’all are welcome to stay here tonight,” I said, again unable to control my mouth. “There’s plenty of room.”
She smiled and for a moment, we were back on the deck of her boat, rafted together with my boat and another cruising family’s trawler who we’d met on the way to my hurricane hole.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said. “Besides, I have my boat and Woden to think about.”
She was right, it wasn’t a good idea. But I knew that she was only mentioning her boat and dog to avoid the bigger obstacle. That I was in a relationship with another woman.
“But if there’s food involved,” she said with a smile, “we could stay for a little longer.”
“Mom, look!” Florence shouted, as she ran toward us on the pier.
Savannah turned to her daughter. “What is it?”
“Clams!” Florence exclaimed, holding about a half dozen in her shirt. “Finn gave them to me. I thought you said there weren’t any clams around here.”
“He must really like you,” I said, as the phone in my pocket vibrated intermittently, telling me I had a text message. “He doesn’t usually share his food with just anyone.”
Reaching the landing of the townhouse, Joe and Devon noticed the door was slightly ajar. When there was no response to the doorbell, both detectives drew their weapons and moved to opposite sides of the door frame.
The apartment was part of a group of duplex townhouses built on stilts, located on the Gulf side of Little Torch Key. The two detectives were standing on the landing of the main floor, ten feet above the parking area.
Joe shouted, “Sheriff’s detectives! Open the door!”
Ten slow seconds passed. “No answer, and the door’s open,” Devon whispered, pulling a latex glove from her pocket.
“Textbook entry,” Joe said.
Devon didn’t have to be reminded. Whether serving a warrant or making an entry for probable cause, when it was the home of a person you were absolutely certain had a gun and knew how to use it, the entry had to be made very carefully.
Joe nodded his readiness. Devon used the glove to push the door open. Joe moved in first, fast and low, with his pistol up in front of him. Devon followed, crossing behind him, sweeping the left side of the living room with her Kimber. Joe moved to the right as Devon crossed the room. She crouched by the breakfast bar and covered him as he checked the door to the porch overlooking Big Pine Channel. He shook his head, then pointed toward the kitchen.
Devon waited until Joe was against the far wall in the dining room. Then she rose quickly and looked over the counter, aiming her sidearm down at the floor in the kitchen, sweeping left to right.
Joe moved to his left, checking behind the breakfast bar where Devon couldn’t see. He pointed to his left, then up. Devon nodded, then moved past him to the other side of the kitchen. There was a half-bath there, the door facing the stairway to the bedrooms on the second floor.
The door to the bathroom was partly open, but one of them would have to check inside, exposing themselves to the stairwell. Devon pointed two fingers at her eyes, then pointed up the steps. Joe nodded, and they moved at the same time, Devon stepping into the gap and aiming her Kimber up the steps, while Joe entered the small bathroom covering her six.
Joe came back out and shook his head. Slowly, the two detectives made their way up the steps. They stayed close to both sides to avoid creaking steps.
On the landing at the top of the stairs, there was a closed door and a long hall to another door, which was open, barbells visible on the floor. With Joe covering her from the landing, Devon went down the hall, her back to the wall.
Finding nothing but an orderly exercise room, she looked back and shook her head. Joe moved across the hall, weapon pointed at the closed door. Devon quickly moved to the other side of the door, which was at an angle to the hallway.
Joe turned the knob and went through the door with Devon crossing behind him, fanning out as they entered the master bedroom. A man lay on the floor beside the bed, blood pooling under his prone body.
Both detectives recognized the young man immediately, and holstered their weapons. Devon went to the stricken man’s side, slowly rolling him onto his back.
Joe took his hand-held radio from his belt, keyed the mic, and spoke urgently. “Officer down! Officer down! This is Detective Clark. We need EMT and an ambulance at Little Torch Apartments, number twelve.”
Holstering the radio, Joe knelt next to Devon. “Is he alive?”
“Yeah,” she replied, “but he’s lost a lot of blood.”
The sliding-glass door was open, and Joe went over to check the porch. Across the channel on Big Pine Key, they could hear the sirens from the fire station. Within minutes, emergency personnel and several other deputies arrived.
“Stay here,” Devon said to Joe, as the EMTs loaded the stretcher into the ambulance. “Start processing the scene. I’m going with him to the hospital and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She climbed in the back of the ambulance and one of the other deputies closed the door, slapping the side of the van. The EMTs worked quickly, cutting away the bloody tee shirt. He’d been shot high in the right side of the chest.
Devon moved past them and sat on a small jump seat next to the younger deputy’s head and buckled her seatbelt. He somehow looked smaller, more vulnerable. His eyes fluttered open as she put her hand on his shoulder. They locked on Devon’s.
She leaned closer to him. “We’re taking you to the hospital, Marty. You’re gonna be okay.”
“We’ll have to take him to Fishermen’s,” one of the EMTs told her. “They have a better trauma center.”
Devon nodded and took Marty’s hand, continuing to reassure him, though his eyes were now closed and he was unresponsive.
Crossing Big Pine Key and the Seven Mile Bridge, the ambulance arrived at Fishermen’s Hospital, and Marty was rushed into emergency surgery. Devon waited in the ER lobby. She went into the restroom to wash the blood from her hands. There was a stain on the front of her white shirt that wasn’t going to come out, so she buttoned her suit coat to hide it, then went back and paced the lobby.
Her first instinct was to call Jesse. She took her phone out and instead called Joe. “Find anything yet?”
“No sign of forced entry,” Joe replied.
In Devon’s mind that meant it was probably somebody who Marty knew. “Fingerprints?”
“Still waiting for forensics to get here,” Joe replied. “Maybe the door was unlocked when the killer arri
ved. There’s blood on the bed. It looks like Marty was shot while he was napping. There was a book on the bed, also. It had a little bit of blood on it and what looks like a bullet hole through half of it. Happened maybe two or three hours ago.”
Devon knew that Joe had worked in the forensics lab for some time before becoming a sworn officer up in Palm Bay. He was well versed in blood and spatter analysis. In his mind, Joe could read a crime scene in a matter of minutes, just by observing where the blood was, the shapes of the drops, and how it had congealed over time.
“So if there’s no forced entry,” Devon said, “his being asleep means it could be anybody. Not just someone he might have let in.”
“I’m leaning toward someone he knows,” Joe said. “I mean, it was late morning; in broad daylight. There are quite a few onlookers here, so I’m sure someone saw or heard something. I have deputies taking statements and canvassing the other apartments.”
Devon knew something she hadn’t told Joe yet. She believed Marty when he’d told her about turning over the evidence to Steve Brady. And now Marty was shot. And Jesse also knew about the head.
“Has Marty’s shift supervisor arrived yet?” she asked.
“Phillips was off duty,” Joe replied.
“If it had been you who got shot while taking a nap, where would Ben be right now?”
“Point taken. I’ll find out who Phillips’s shift supervisor is and give them a call, find out what cases Phillips is working, if anything.”
“His name’s Brady,” Devon said. “Sergeant Steve Brady. Let me know what he says, and if forensics finds anything interesting.”
“Got it. Any word on his condition?”
“Nothing,” Devon replied, staring out the window at the ambulance driveway. “They took him into emergency surgery.”
“Hope he makes it,” Joe said. “I only met him once or twice; struck me as a sharp guy. Anything else?”
“Yeah, Joe. What was Marty reading?”
“College textbook, of all things. Oceanology.”
The door they’d taken Marty through to the treatment area opened and a woman in scrubs came out, looking around.
“Thanks, Joe,” she said, ending the call as she approached the woman.
“I’m Detective Evans,” she said. “Deputy Martin Phillips was brought in with a gunshot wound to the chest.”
“He’s being moved to recovery in the Intensive Care Unit,” the woman said, extending her hand. “I’m Doctor Trumble.”
“Will he be okay?”
“Probably,” Doctor Trumble replied. “It was a heavy-caliber bullet, probably shot from long range. The bullet was lodged in his upper chest, barely penetrating his right lung. Had the shooter been closer, the deputy might not have survived.”
“Long range?” Devon asked. “What if it was close range and something shielded him?”
“Like through a wall or something?”
“A college textbook was lying beside him, with what appears to be a bullet hole in it.”
“And they say college learning no longer helps young people,” the doctor said. “Yes, the shooter may have been just feet away in that case. A thick book would slow the bullet enough to cause the type of injuries he sustained.”
“Will he be awake anytime soon?”
“Not for a while. He’s probably out of the woods, but it will be at least nightfall before the anesthesia wears off.”
“Thanks, Doctor,” Devon said, checking her watch. It was after two, so she wouldn’t be able to talk to Marty for at least three hours.
Her phone chirped, still in her hand. It was Joe.
“He’s out of the ER,” she said without preamble. “He’s in ICU recovery.”
“That’s a relief. I’ll let the guys here know. I spoke to his supervisor. Brady said that Phillips wasn’t working on much of anything recently. A couple of boat thefts and an ongoing poaching investigation. That’s about it.”
“Okay, thanks,” Devon said, her mind racing. “I still haven’t called his family.”
“I’ll do it,” Joe offered. “I know his dad.”
“Thanks, again. Keep me posted on anything else you find. I’m going to call Ben and see about posting security here at the hospital.”
There was a pause before Joe said, “I found something else.”
“What?”
“A used condom in the trash can.”
“Okay,” Devon said. “Have forensics bag it, along with any prints they can lift.”
The call to Ben took all of one minute. He said he would be at the hospital in less than an hour and would arrange twenty-four-hour security. Marty wasn’t even part of his section, that’s just the kind of guy Ben was.
Knowing that she needed to let Jesse know, Devon pulled up his number on her contact list. Marty and Jesse’s daughter were dating, and Kim would want to be here. The last time she’d seen Jesse, just a few hours before, he’d been with the sister of one of the explosion victims. A woman with whom he had once had an affair. It hurt to remember the sight of the little girl and how much she resembled Jesse. She somehow knew there was more of a connection there than just a long-ago fling with a tourist woman.
She opened her phone’s text app and sent him a message to call her as soon as possible.
Devon continued her pacing, waiting for Jesse to call. While she waited, she thought about who would know Brady’s whereabouts from mid-morning on. There was a clerk at the Cudjoe substation Marty worked out of. She’d met the woman once earlier in the summer.
What was her name? Devon thought. Beverly something?
Devon called the switchboard and had them connect her to the Cudjoe substation. A woman’s voice answered, identifying herself as Deputy Saint.
“Hi, Beverly,” Devon said. “This is Detective Devon Evans. We met last July at a cookout.”
“Yes, I remember,” the woman said. “What can I do for you?”
“My partner and I are the ones who found Deputy Phillips.”
“I just heard. Is Marty okay?”
Devon needed to keep the conversation short, in case Jesse called. “I just spoke to the doctor. He’s in ICU, but they think he’ll live. I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
“Anything I can do,” Beverly replied.
“My partner already talked to Sergeant Brady, but I thought that you would probably have a better idea of what Marty might have been working on, more than what’s in the official reports.”
“I file the reports for all of them,” she said. “A lot of times, the deputies would talk about their cases. How can I help?”
“Sergeant Brady said that Marty was working a couple of boat thefts and a poaching case. Is that about it?”
The woman recited a few details about the cases Marty was working. Nothing jumped out.
“Maybe something recent?” Devon asked. “Something that came up before Sergeant Brady came on duty this morning or while he was at lunch?”
Over the phone, Devon heard her typing on a keyboard. “Hmm,” Beverly sighed. “I don’t see any updates. Sergeant Brady and I came in at the same time this morning, and he always eats lunch at his desk. I don’t see where he updated anything on Marty’s cases on the computer. We record all radio traffic and the audio files are linked in the daily reports. I don’t see where Marty called anything in at all today.”
Her phone buzzed. It was Jesse. “Thanks, Beverly. I have another call coming in.”
Tapping the screen to end the call and accept Jesse’s, she held the phone to her ear. “Jesse, Marty’s been shot.”
Ignoring the vibrating phone, I walked with Savannah and Florence back to the tables in front of the bunkhouses.
“How does he know where to dig for them?” Florence asked.
I smiled at her inquisitive nature. “That’s the big mystery,” I replied, as we sat at the table. “He wasn’t quite a year old when I got him and the lady I got him from said he just started doing it on his own.”
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Jimmy came over and sat with us. “I never realized you guys had all this going on out here.”
“I never thought it’d get this big,” I said, taking my phone out. I had a text from Devon asking me to call her. Why she hadn’t just called instead of texting, I didn’t know.
“Excuse me a minute,” I said. “I need to make a call.”
Walking over to the fire pit, I called Devon. Her statement hit me like a ton of bricks.
“Is he okay?” I asked, my mind reeling. “How’d it happen?”
“Yes, he’s going to be okay,” Devon said. “He’s at Fishermen’s now and I just talked to the doctor. He’s in intensive care.”
Sitting on the fallen palm trunk, I absently stirred the ashes in the fire ring. “Where did it happen?”
“In his home,” she said. “Was Kim there last night?”
“Whoa! Back the hell up. She didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“I doubt that she did, Jesse, but I need to know if she was there. If she was, we need to get her fingerprints, so we can rule hers out of all the fingerprints collected.”
Standing, I slung the stick sideways into the underbrush. “Yeah, she was there, but there’s no way in hell she had anything to do with his getting shot.”
“Where is she now?”
“Probably halfway back to Gainesville; she left from the Anchor about nine this morning. Marty dropped her off.”
“She’s ruled out as a suspect, Jesse, but I do need to talk to her. And you. Either of you might know something you don’t even know you know. First things first, though. Do you know if your name was on the report that Marty gave to Sergeant Brady?”
“Report?” I asked. Then I made the connection. The missing head.
“The report Marty turned in along with the evidence you and he collected on the wrecked boat.”
“Yeah,” I said, my mind already leaping ahead. “But only my name. He told me he left Kim’s and Carl’s names out of it. Have you found out anything, Devon?”
“Jesse, you need to stay out of this. Let us do our jobs.”
I could feel the anger building inside me. I glanced over at the tables. Jimmy was joking with Florence. Savannah looked at me, concerned. She’d sought me out for a reason. She at least suspected that I had something to do with Earl Hailey’s disappearance and she wanted to find the person responsible for her sister’s death. So she’d come to the only person she knew of who might have a vigilante mentality. Me.
Rising Fury: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 12) Page 18