by C I Dennis
I entered the house and checked myself out in the bathroom mirror; the wound was little more than a scratch. I washed it out, combed my hair, and decided it would take care of itself as the bleeding had stopped. I gathered up the gear that Roberto and I had set out to dry, and restocked the duffel, including some fresh shells for the Lupo. With any luck I wouldn’t have to use them, but I had decided to drive back to Tampa, and this time I’d be prepared, especially if someone was shooting at me. I packed juices and snacks in a cooler, put several days’ worth of clothes in a gym bag, peeled off a few hundreds from my stash, set the house alarm and took off in the new SHO. The tires squealed on the way out of my driveway like in the movies. I could hardly believe I owned the car. It was beefier than the BMW, and the contoured seat fit my frame perfectly. I was already smitten with it, and even on the boring Florida roads I got a semi-erotic jolt from the precision and power.
Highway 60 is a straight shot west until you get to Twenty Mile Curve, a thirty-degree bend to the northwest that was a familiar spot to EMTs, until they widened the road a few years back. Drivers lulled by the monotony would miss the one-and-only curve, and go flying into the saw grass. The bend was several miles ahead, so I decided it was time to see how fast my new toy would go.
The cruisers at the Sheriff’s department were Crown Vics, and could do an easy one-twenty, but above that they would rattle. In most cases that was plenty of speed as the bad guys didn’t own anything faster—drivers who could afford Ferraris were more likely to be radiologists than crooks. The new SHO breezed past one-twenty like it was just getting warmed up. It had the performance package, which meant that the tires would cost twice as much as normal tires when I replaced them, but the car stuck to the road like gum under a desk. One-thirty, one-thirty-five, still not stressing and the engine seemed to love the high RPMs. The groves and ranches along the highway became a green blur. At one-forty the revs topped out. I took my foot off the accelerator, and eased back to the speed limit—I didn’t need a four hundred dollar speeding ticket.
The adrenaline rush from speeding was preferable to the adrenaline rush from getting shot at. I reviewed my enemy list as I took in the roadside scenery. C.J. Butler, aside from my night with Barbara, had no motive I could think of, and my guilt had subsided. Barbara couldn’t have said anything to him, or there would have been some reaction when we’d met at his door. Le didn’t know I existed. Barbara? I wasn’t sure where Barbara fit in to everything, but she’d have to be a real praying mantis to kill me off after the night we’d had, so I took her off the list. There was a long list of people I’d busted over the years, and maybe one of them had just been paroled. Philip was a possibility, but my intuition on Philip was that he was more likely to be thinking about removing Barbara and getting his father back than killing some tough guy, even if I’d given him the Clint Squint at his house.
But if I didn’t have a motive for Philip, I did have something else—opportunity. It was Saturday, and Philip could be anywhere. He could have boosted a car and driven to Vero. It was possible he had access to the Lexus, or that he just took it whether his parents knew or not. And, he had access to a long-range rifle—D.B.’s, the Browning with the scope that I’d seen in his gun cabinet. If Philip could hotwire my Taurus then he could also pick a simple cabinet lock—I could do both at his age. My brother and I used to pick the lock on our father’s liquor cabinet every week and water down his booze so that he wouldn’t get hammered and smack my mother around. It worked for a while, but eventually he just drank more.
I decided I would stop in Lake Wales and check out the Lexus to see if the engine was warm, which might still be noticeable even if it had an hour to cool off. I breezed through town, and stopped at the self-storage unit. The Lexus was warm, but so was everything else; anything that was stored in a corrugated metal bay would be slow-cooking like a pot roast. I opened the hood and felt the engine, but I couldn’t tell any difference.
I made it to Sunset Park in less than an hour. I stopped the car at a convenience store and checked the listening bugs. According to the program, nothing had been recorded for over two hours, so the family was not in the house unless they were sleeping. I snapped the computer shut. Now was my chance to get into the house before anyone returned.
Hibiscus Pond Drive was dead quiet, and hotter than hell. The temperature was well into the nineties, and tall thunderhead clouds were forming from the evaporation over the bay. A good rain shower would provide some cover, but though it looked like it would rain soon, it was still sunny. I parked the SHO on the street next to the Johannsens’ driveway and looked around. No Hawkeye, for once. Some of those older guys in Florida spent more time outside tending their grass then they did inside, whatever the weather. Growing up in Vermont we used to judge a man by his woodpile—down here we check out his lawn.
I took out my lock tools and walked over to the back of the house. My X10 Blocker was dead, so there was no way I could disable the alarm system except for the old-fashioned method. I found the junction box where the phone line met the building, and snipped it with shielded wire cutters. None of the neighboring houses could see me, which was good, because I had just committed a crime and was about to commit a second one by breaking and entering. That sort of activity is something you generally leave off the application when you renew your P.I. license.
The Medeco lock on the back door was easier this time; I got lucky on our second date. I entered the house without sounding the alarm and went directly to the man-cave. The gun cabinet lock popped open in a few seconds. The hunting rifle was inside, right where it should be.
I tried to work out the timeline, and as far as I could figure, Philip would have had to replace the hunting rifle in the cabinet no longer than an hour ago. But the last recorded sound in the house had been over two hours ago. There was no way he could have entered the house and replaced it without making any sound; I had a microphone right above the cabinet in the man-cave, and it would have picked something up—Philip had no reason to worry about making noise. I still couldn’t quite take him off my list.
I left as unnoticed as I’d come; nobody was around the neighborhood, anywhere. However, this time I’d left a hell of a trail at the house; the first time they picked up the phone or tried the Internet, they’d realize that the line was dead. It might take a while—for all I knew they might only use the phone line for DSL service and the alarm, and use cell phones for everything else. But either way, they’d soon realize they had been burgled.
*
There was a Best Western not far from the Johannsen house on Dale Mabry Avenue, and I turned the Taurus into the driveway. It wasn’t the Hyatt, but the lobby was clean and nice, and I had nobody to impress. A slender blonde woman checked me in—and checked me out at the same time, or so it seemed. I asked her if there was any decent food in the area, and she suggested the Bonefish Grill, right down the road. “It’s a chain, but they have good oysters,” she said. She had a nice Southern accent, which you don’t always hear in Florida. “Ahm very picky about mah oysters. And mah men.” She gave me a wink that would have made Hugh Hefner blush. Maybe getting shot in the head was good for the sex appeal.
I checked into my room and got a quick shower. My plan was to monitor the MacBook, wait for Le and Philip to get home, and then take it from there. I’d eavesdrop on them if they talked, and I also thought I might do a little peeking in the windows after dark, although that might be futile as they probably closed their blinds like most people. I could be surprised though—I’ve seen some amazing displays in my police and P.I. career. Some people either really don’t care or just like to strut their stuff, which a lot of the time ain’t worth strutting.
The Bonefish Grill was noisy with patrons, but the host found me a relatively quiet corner table and I was able to listen to the audio track on my laptop with earbuds. The waitress brought a dozen Apalachicola oysters from the Florida Panhandle, which is one of the few places in the country where they still ha
rvest oysters from small boats. They were briny and sweet, and I dipped them alternately in cocktail sauce and a shallot-and-vinegar mignonette. I tried to pace myself and make them last, but they were gone in a few minutes even though I felt like I’d exercised tremendous restraint. The waitress caught my eye, and I gave her the thumbs up for another dozen.
I was wishing that Barbara was across the table. I had a suspicion that she’d like oysters. I thought about calling her, but that was crazy. She had a lot on her agenda, and I needed to respect her wish to be left alone. If C.J. had promised to keep her safe then he goddamn well better do that, but I felt helpless, and that wasn’t my natural state. The whole situation made me highly anxious, and the sooner I figured out where the bullets were coming from, the better.
My earbuds suddenly crackled with conversation from the Johannsen house—originating from the kitchen, according to the computer. It was in real time, so someone must have just arrived home. Le’s and Philip’s voices were coming in clearly, and I could hear every word. Unfortunately, every word was in Vietnamese.
Philip spoke fluidly and quickly. He must have been speaking Vietnamese with his mother from a young age. Some immigrants avoided their native language, some cherished it, and Le was no doubt of the latter type. Their voices became louder, and Philip’s cracked once or twice. This must be their pattern when D.B. was away, because I had only heard English spoken when he was there. The conversation turned into an argument, and in the heat of it Philip switched to English.
No way, I’m not going! I went last week. You can drive yourself.
It will be dark when we come home. I cannot drive in the dark. Her voice, accented and calm.
Mom, come on. It’s Saturday, that shoots the whole night. This is crazy.
You must respect our customs, Philip. Go change your shirt. We leave in twenty minutes, she said. Bingo.
I called the waitress over and told her I had an emergency and to get me the check. She returned in minutes with the bill and the second dozen Apalachicolas in a Styrofoam box. I told her she was a goddess and gave her cash, with a generous tip.
*
Ten minutes later I was parked at the other end of Hibiscus Pond Drive from the Johannsen house. I’d found a sandy pull-off, out of sight, where anyone who left would have to pass by. I had the Styrofoam box open and was savoring the last of my slippery little bivalves. Someone really ought to invent a drive-through oyster bar. I had the laptop on, and I heard the front door shut as they left. I didn’t have a tracker on their vehicle, so I’d have to just stay back and do my best—the early evening traffic should be about right. When you’re tailing someone you hope for enough traffic to provide cover, but not so much that it gets in your way.
They passed me in the white Ford Transit van, with “Le’s Vending” on it. That should be easy to spot. I pulled out after they had taken a turn and stayed about half a block back as we took a series of turns and finally turned north on South Westshore Boulevard, a leafy residential street with no stop lights, which was good. So far this was easy. Philip was driving, traveling just above the speed limit. I kept him in sight as we traversed the city center, and Philip picked up speed as we passed along the west side of Tampa International Airport. He took an exit, and we ended up going west on the Memorial Highway. I decided to let him get ahead some as the road was mostly clear and straight, and I’d be able to see if he took a turn. The navigation map in the SHO gave me advance notice of any stoplights, but I wasn’t very adept at reading the display and still keeping my eyes on the road. It was no wonder that these distractions caused accidents, although with a navigation system you’d at least know exactly where you crashed, assuming you were still alive.
A white Buick sedan nosed part way into the highway. It paused to let Philip pass, and then lumbered out in front of the traffic, and I had to slow down. The road ahead curved to the right, and I temporarily lost sight of the Transit van. The Buick driver was now taking up both lanes. I could see the outline of two gray-blue heads just barely above the headrests—Grampy and Grammy, out for a spin. They were going twenty, and so was everyone behind them, while Philip lost us. I finally roared past the old couple, and the driver flipped me the bird. I would have flipped one right back, but I was too busy looking for the Transit, which was nowhere in sight.
I could see well down the road ahead—nothing. There were two other choices; Town ‘N Country Boulevard on the right, and Bay Pointe Drive on the left. I made a quick decision and swung left onto Bay Pointe, making the tires squeal as I crossed the highway. I immediately realized it was the wrong choice; there was no sign of the van. I made a fast U-turn, and sped back to the highway. I turned hard onto Town ‘N Country, cutting off a Camaro and earning another digital salute. I punched the SHO, and sped north through a neighborhood of double-wides, pickups, and barking dogs. I followed the road for a half mile until it met West Hillsborough Avenue, a main thoroughfare. No Transit van. Once again it could have gone in three possible directions. Goddamn it. I had become so dependent on my trackers and tech gear I couldn’t even tail someone properly. I pulled the SHO into the parking lot of a dry cleaner to regroup.
When in doubt, Google. I opened the laptop, got Google Maps running and typed in everything I could think of; “Asian”, “restaurant”, “Vietnamese”, and came up with several restaurants, but they were in the wrong direction. Maybe they were going to see friends in the area. Or maybe Philip had spotted me and lost me, on purpose. I tried to think back to what I’d heard on the bug, when they’d spoken in English at the house.
No way. I went last week. You can drive yourself. Respect our Customs.
Went to what? Church? Or a temple, or whatever the Vietnamese called it? Perhaps that was what I was looking for.
It took me one try to find it on Google. “Phap Vien Minh Dang Quang”, a Buddhist temple, was all of three hundred yards north on Town ‘N Country Boulevard, right across Hillsborough Avenue. I started the ignition and drove up the road to a stretch where there was a long parking lot on the right, adjacent to a yellow stucco archway with Spanish tiles on the roof. The name of the temple was written in red letters across the front of the arch, and beyond was a park-like grove of pines, palms, and fruit trees. There were several structures, one of which appeared to be a worship building. I drove slowly past Philip’s van, now parked and vacant, and found a spot at the far end of the row of spaces. Other cars were arriving, and neatly-dressed Asian people got out and entered the temple. Some of them strolled around the grounds, and some entered the building to get out of the late-day heat. I waited with the motor off and my windows down; the heat was breaking and the evening breeze felt good.
The soft ringing of a gong resonated through the park. People who were strolling in the gardens now turned for the largest building, a stucco-and-tile job that looked like a cross between a pagoda and a Taco Bell. I decided to do some strolling myself.
The gardens were a mix of hard sand and patches of Bermuda grass, bordered by concrete walkways. Three enormous sculptures of Buddhas stood outside: one seated behind a fountain, one on a pink shell, and a third that lay on a concrete dais, under a canopy. Pots of colorful flowers were everywhere, and strings of yellow and red flags ran between the pines and palms. I was admiring the big supine Buddha when a short man in a neat white jacket appeared at my side.
“Would you like to join us?” he asked.
“Thanks,” I said, “Maybe later...just enjoying the scenery.”
“You Buddhist?”
“Catholic,” I said. I’d studied a little about Buddhism in school, and it sounded like a lot of sitting around. Not like Catholicism where we were too busy either sinning or atoning for our sins to sit around much.
“Please feel free to join us.”
“Thanks,” I said. The man entered the building.
There wasn’t much else to see outside besides the three Buddhas. I hadn’t been in a church since Glory tried to drag me there a few times right afte
r we were married, and finally gave up. I decided I’d go in, and hoped I could just stay in the back, unnoticed, which was probably not possible as I was about a foot taller than anyone I’d seen except Philip.
It was cool inside, and although the grounds were humble, some real money had been spent on the building. The entry hall was wood-paneled, with flowers in vases and several smaller statues of the Buddha. Two big doors led to an area where worshippers sat on square cushions, with a few rows of folding chairs in the back for the older ones. Three men in robes sat cross-legged on an altar that was covered in a yellow and red carpet with no other decor except for two pots of flowers. The only sound came from the trickling of water over smooth rocks in an artificial waterfall, behind the worshippers. I took a chair in the rearmost row, and watched. One of the priests was chanting, and the congregation chanted in response, all in Vietnamese. Philip and his mother sat on cushions in the front. The kid looked as bored as I was when my mother took me to Mass.
One of the priests said something, and then stood up and pointed directly at me. I froze. The entire congregation turned around, bowed, and greeted me in unison; it sounded like “Ciao, mung bean!” I smiled, and bowed in return. Jeez. I couldn’t have been more conspicuous if I’d been playing the accordion. I briefly caught Philip’s eye, and thought I saw a flicker of recognition. It was only a day before that he’d sighted me down the end of a gun barrel. If he did recognize me, I was fine with that. I wanted him off-balance; maybe I’d learn something.