“It’ll be midnight by the time we get to Longboat,” Jock said.
“Debbie’s a night owl and if she knows this might tie in somehow to J.D.’s disappearance, she’ll work all night.”
We flew through the night to Sarasota. I asked the pilot if he could wait until he heard from me in the morning to decide whether to go to Jacksonville to pick up Macomber, or to ferry us around some more. He was agreeable. He’d spend the night at the Sarasota Hyatt Regency and talk to me in the morning.
I called Debbie and told her what I wanted. She said to stop by her condo in West Bradenton and she’d take a look at the hard drives.
By the time we got home, it was almost one in the morning. Jock and I were exhausted. It’d been a long day. Jock said goodnight and headed for the guest room. I found my cell phone right where I had left it. I looked at the display. I had a missed call. I didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID. The call had come in at 3:15 that afternoon, just about the time Jock and I were lifting off from the Sarasota airport. Whoever had called left a voice mail. I dialed the message center and punched in the pin number. The voice in the mailbox made my heart sink
“Matt,” said J.D. “I’m scared, but I’m okay. Tell the chief—” The message stopped. Dead. The phone just cut off. I didn’t think she’d hung up. Something or someone had interrupted her cry for help.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Jock was on the phone to Washington. I was pacing. Less than fifteen minutes had elapsed since I’d heard J.D.’s voice. Jock was trying to get a trace on the call that had come in to my phone. The techs at his agency were running it down. They had resources that were beyond anything I’d ever heard of. Jock hung up.
“I don’t know if this is good news or bad news,” he said. “The call bounced off a cell tower in Fort Lauderdale. The phone number is for one of those you buy at convenience stores. It was bought this morning at a store in Sarasota. Yesterday morning now, I guess. It was rung up in the cash register at six twenty-five a.m. Paid cash.”
“Lauderdale’s only a three hour drive from here and the call came in at 3:15. If somebody left here with her before eight this morning, where the hell has she been?”
“Maybe she wasn’t able to call earlier. I don’t like the idea that she was cut off like that. Maybe she got hold of the phone somehow and called and was found out by whoever kidnapped her.”
“Goddammit Jock. We’ve got to do something.”
“We are, podna. I’ve got the address of the convenience store where the phone was bought. Let’s get a couple of cops and go over there. They probably have some kind of security camera.”
I called Chief Bill Lester. I knew he always slept with his cell phone next to his bed. My name would show up on his caller ID.
“This better be good, Royal. I was having a wonderful dream.”
“I heard from J.D.” I told him what we’d found out so far.
“Good ol’ Jock and his resources. I’ll get a couple of Sarasota cops headed to the store. I’ll meet you there.”
The convenience store hunkered on the Tamiami Trail in a forlorn block of buildings near the Ringling School of Art and Design. It was not part of a chain, but an independent store that catered to the people who made their living in the shadows of the night; streetwalkers, drug dealers, pimps, and winos. The cashier stood behind a bulletproof glass. Patrons shoved their worn bills into a tray and the attendant sent back the change. The front door could only be opened when the clerk behind the glass pushed a button releasing an electronic lock. No one could get in without the blessing of the cashier, and no one got out without paying for the beer or cigarettes or chips or whatever small item they needed to see them through another night.
Jock and I pulled into the parking lot just behind Bill Lester. A marked Sarasota Police Department patrol car with two uniformed officers was waiting for us. Everybody climbed out. The cops recognized Lester and he introduced us as his associates. We were buzzed into the store.
The attendant behind the thick glass was tall and thin and wore a scraggly beard that barely covered his chin. His hair was colored some godawful shade of green. A small spike pierced his bottom lip and another went through his right eyebrow. He was probably still in his teens.
“I’m Chief Lester,” Bill said. “We need to see your security tapes from the last twenty-four hours.”
“No can do,” said the skinny kid.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lester asked.
“The owner is the only one who can let you have those.”
“Call the owner,” said Lester.
“No can do.”
“Why not?”
“He’s gone home.”
“Call him at home.”
“No can do.”
“Look, dickhead,” said the chief, “you say that one more time and I’m going to engage in a little police brutality. Why can’t you call him at home?”
“He went to his home in Pakistan for a couple of weeks. Left me in charge.”
“Then you can give us the security tapes.”
“Not without the boss’s okay.”
“What’s your name?” asked Lester.
“Duke.”
“You like to travel, Duke?”
“Can’t say yeah or no. Ain’t never been anywhere.”
“You ever hear of Guantanamo?”
“That place in Cuba where they lock up terrorists?”
“That’s the one,” said Lester. “You’re pretty close to earning yourself a free trip down there.”
“Whoa. What’re you talking about?”
“We’re involved in a national security operation. You’re involved. If you don’t give me that tape right now, you’ll be on your way to Cuba within the hour.”
“Who says?”
“I do,” said Jock. He pulled a leather ID case from his pocket, held it against the glass partition. “Can you read that?”
The kid looked closely, squinted some. “It says you work for the president of the United States and have police power in every jurisdiction. Some other stuff, too.”
“What that means,” says Jock, “is that I can have your ass on a plane to Cuba before the sun comes up. Get the fucking tape.”
“Yes, sir.” He disappeared through a door behind him.
One of the uniformed cops looked at Lester and said, “Where’d he get that?”
“From the president,” said Lester. “Mr. Algren is a federal agent. With more power than any of us ever thought of having.”
“Shit fire,” said the cop.
The kid returned with a compact disc, unlocked the door to his cubicle, and handed it to Lester. “This is the one that started at midnight last night. We put forty-eight hours on each disc, and the boss keeps them for a month or so.”
Lester took the disc. “We’ll bring this back in a few minutes.”
We went to the patrol car, inserted the disc into the computer bolted to the dash and fast forwarded through the time-stamped images until we came to the one showing 6:00 a.m. the day before. The camera was above the cubicle where the clerks worked so we had a pretty good shot of the entrance and the area right in front of the cubicle. We slowed it and watched a man come through the front door. He wore a baseball hat pulled low over his face. He kept his head down. He was aware of the security camera. He went to the counter and said something to the attendant, a different kid with wild hair. The images were in black-and-white, so I couldn’t tell the hair color this one was affecting.
The customer passed some cash through the slot in the window and the clerk sent a phone back. The man tested it and apparently satisfied that it was in working order, turned to leave. “Stop it,” I said. Lester complied. “Now back up slowly.” The images peeled backward. “Freeze it,” I said.
We were looking at a man in profile. The ball cap obscured most of his face from the front, but the angle of the camera as he turned away caught a full right-side likeness.
I said
, “I know that man. He was the copilot on Desmond’s plane last week. Took me to Jacksonville and Charlotte.”
Jock said, “Not the same one we had this morning. That guy was black.”
“Do you know his name?” asked Lester.
“I don’t recall. The pilot introduced me, but I don’t remember his name. Fred Cassidy would know and he’s at the Hyatt Regency.”
“Who’s Cassidy?”
“The pilot,” I said.
“We need a print of that picture,” said Lester. He looked at the uniformed cops. “Can one of you send this to the station and ask them to print it? I’ll stop by on my way to the Hyatt and pick it up.”
Jock and I arrived at the Hyatt Regency at three a.m. and parked in the circular driveway that flanked the entrance. We had come directly to the hotel and were waiting for Bill Lester to arrive with the photograph.
The place was quiet, nobody around. The lobby was empty except for a night clerk behind the registration desk. “Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked.
“We need to see a guest,” I said. “Fred Cassidy. The police will be here in a few minutes to talk to him.”
“Are you police officers?”
“No, but we’re working with them on a case.”
“I think it’d be better to wait for the cops,” he said.
“Okay. The chief will be here soon. You wouldn’t happen to have any coffee around, would you?”
The clerk grinned. “I’ve always got a pot going in the back. You’re welcome to it.”
He returned with two mugs of steaming brew just as Bill Lester entered the lobby. “Did you get Cassidy?” he asked.
I gestured to the young man behind the reception desk. “He wanted to wait for the police,” I said.
“Probably a good idea,” said Lester. “You two don’t exactly look wholesome.” He pulled out his ID and showed it to the clerk.
The clerk gestured toward a phone at the end of the counter. “If you’ll pick up that house phone, I’ll connect you to his room.”
Cassidy answered after several rings, the remains of a deep sleep in his voice. “Fred,” I said, “this is Matt Royal. I’m sorry to bother you, but there have been some developments that we need your help with. Can you come to the lobby?”
“Developments? In the disappearance of Mr. Desmond?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right down.”
We were seated in a group of chairs in the lobby overlooking the swimming pool. Bill Lester showed Fred the picture from the security camera at the convenience store. “Do you know this man?”
Fred took the picture and peered closely at it. “He looks like a guy who flew with me last week for a couple of days.”
“Who is he?” asked Lester.
“His name is Tom Telson.”
“How do I reach him?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t work for our company.”
“Then why was he flying with you?”
“He was a fill-in. My regular copilot, the one upstairs asleep, was out sick and Federal Aviation Regulations require that I have a copilot. I called an agency that supplies pilots and he showed up. Had the proper licenses and type ratings. He just worked with me for two days until my regular guy came back.”
Lester asked, “What’s the name of the agency Telson works for?”
“Pilots on Demand. They’re based in Atlanta. We use them occasionally if one of our regulars is sick or on vacation.”
“How many regular pilots does Desmond have?” I asked.
“Just the two of us. It’s usually not a problem, but we keep a working relationship with Pilots on Demand in case we need a fill-in.”
“Do you have a phone number for Pilots on Demand?”
Cassidy pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through the phone book. He gave us the number. “I doubt anybody’s there this time of the morning,” he said. “There’s an answering service that you can use in emergencies, but it doesn’t work too well. It still takes about three hours to get a pilot out of bed and to the airport. If you need one sooner, you’re screwed.”
The chief said, “I don’t think we can do much more tonight. You guys get some sleep and we’ll start again first thing this morning.”
“Fred,” I said, “what time do you have to let Macomber know whether you’re going to pick him up?”
“No later than nine o’clock.”
“Okay. I may need you to take us to Birmingham. I’ll get back to you before nine.”
“What’s in Birmingham?” the chief asked.
“That’s what I want you to find out,” I said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
“Another one of the Otto Foundation kids was killed a couple of weeks ago in Birmingham,” I explained to the chief. We were standing outside the hotel breathing in the humid air. The traffic on Tamiami Trail a block to the east was light, the city quiet in the wee hours as if resting before plunging into the tumult of another hot day in August. “He was shot in what might have been a bar fight. It’s probably nothing, but I’d like to talk to the detective investigating the case.”
“You think there’s a connection between Desmond’s murder and this boy in Birmingham? Did they know each other?”
“Probably not, on both counts. I doubt there’s a connection and the boys probably didn’t know each other. Jim Desmond was in Laos five years ago and this kid in Birmingham, Andy Fleming, was there last year. He might not even have been in Laos. He could have been in Cambodia or Vietnam. I didn’t think to ask Mrs. Avera about that. But it’s a loose end that I’d like to tie up.”
“I’ll call Birmingham P.D. Nobody’s going to roust the detective from bed this time of morning, so why don’t you guys go home. I’ll call them at eight. They’re an hour behind us, so I’ll probably catch them right at shift change. I’ll let you know. Now go home.”
Much to my surprise, I slept hard. The jangle of the phone brought me out of a deep sleep. I looked at the bedside clock radio as I reached for the phone. It was a little after eight. I’d slept for almost four hours. I looked at the caller ID. A blocked number. I answered.
A man’s voice dripping an Old South accent said, “Matt Royal?”
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Bagger Dobbs, Birmingham P.D. Your chief called mine and mine told me to call you on the Fleming case.”
“I appreciate the call, Detective. Did your chief tell you what our connection is?”
“Only that it might have to do with a kidnapped cop.”
“This may be a wild-goose chase, but what can you tell me about the case?”
“It’s pretty cut and dried. The kid was at a titty bar called The Booby Hatch. It’s a rough place out on the edge of town. Bad neighborhood. He was walking out of the bar when he was shot in the back.”
“I had the impression there was some sort of altercation at the bar.”
“No. Nothing out of the ordinary. It looks like the kid was on his way home. He’d had a couple of drinks, but his blood alcohol was only zero point three. He was shot just as he was opening his car door.”
“What kind of gun?”
“A rifle. Big slug. We think a thirty-caliber.”
“We had a shooting here on the island. Used a thirty-caliber rifle. Did you find the bullet that killed Fleming?”
“Yeah. It was embedded in the front seat of his car. Went clear through him.”
“I’d like to see if the slugs match up as coming from the same weapon,” I said.
“I’ll send the information down to Chief Lester. He’ll have it in the next few minutes.”
“Thanks. Any other leads?”
“We have one witness, but he’s not much help. He was pretty drunk coming out of the bar, but he said he saw a car rushing out of the parking lot right after he heard the shot.”
“I guess he didn’t get a tag number.”
“No,” said the detective, “he didn’t even notice the make of the car. All he could t
ell us was that the driver appeared to be Asian. Maybe a woman.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Jock and I were sitting in a small office in the Birmingham police station at ten o’clock central time, three hours after my telephone call from Bagger Dobbs. I’d called Fred Cassidy and told him we needed to go to Birmingham. We lifted off at nine and landed in the Alabama city an hour later. A rental car took us downtown.
We were sitting on folding chairs that had once been part of a set that likely included a card table. The detective was behind a metal desk painted a pea-soup green. Probably military surplus. There were no windows and no wall decorations. A fan hung from the ceiling, barely turning the air that smelled of old cigarette smoke.
Dobbs was a big man, befitting his voice. He was in his early fifties, burly, brusque, and black. He was intrigued by the possibility that the Fleming and Brewster murders were tied together and that they somehow had a bearing on the disappearance of J. D. Duncan. I told him everything we had unearthed so far.
“I got a call from Chief Lester about the time we landed here,” I said. “The slugs that killed Fleming and Desmond likely came from the same rifle. He also got an address for the copilot who we think bought the phone. The Atlanta police are trying to locate him.”
“Any ideas as to why some Asian dudes would be killing young men who’d helped build schools?”
“Maybe. Did the name Souphanouvong Phomvihana ever come up in your investigation?”
“That’s a mouthful. But, no.”
“How about Soupy?”
“No.”
“What can you tell me about Fleming’s family?”
“His dad’s a big-time lawyer downtown. Mom spends most days playing tennis at a local country club. They show up at charity balls, get their pictures in the papers. Two other kids, both older than Andy. The oldest one is a man who practices law in his dad’s firm. The other one is a woman who is married to a lawyer in the same firm. They kind of keep it in the family. Andy was planning on law school after he finished at Auburn.”
“We need to talk to Andy’s father,” I said. “How can I get hold of him?”
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