He looked through the notebook he’d been using to act like an investigator doing his job. Someone had given him Logan’s personal information when he’d called the FBI in Miami to tell them she’d been killed in a shoot-out trying to save a protected witness. Her home number was listed in the information. Moral picked up the phone, like so many dice he’d rolled, and made the call. Maybe he’d get lucky.
‘He … hello?’ came a man’s voice, filled with sadness. A sniffle followed.
‘Mr Logan?’ said Moral. ‘This is Deputy Robert Moral with the US Marshal’s Service. I’m sorry about your loss.’
‘Th … thank you,’ said Logan’s husband, stifling a sob. ‘Did … you know her?’
Moral could hear the tinkling of ice in a rock glass. Poor bastard was probably getting sloshed right about now. ‘I was with her when she died, sir. She was one hell of a woman, and I mean that with all due respect.’
‘Yes, she was,’ said the man on the other end of the line, before he broke down crying, again.
‘I’m so sorry to bother you at this very trying time, sir. As you know, we are still trying to apprehend her killers, and I thought of something you might be able to help with.’
‘Sh … sure,’ said Mr Logan. ‘Whatever I can do.’
‘Okay,’ said Moral, looking around and lowering his voice. ‘One of the men that fled the scene took Agent Logan’s car and I was wondering, is it possible, that her car has a locating device on it?’
‘Yes, sort of. It has the PCM service, sort of an OnStar type thing. If car is stolen or in an accident … ’ he said, his voice slurred, trailing off.
‘Yes, sir. That’s it. Can you give me information on the car, like the VIN number or anything like that? This might be very important, or I might be chasing my own tail, but, if you’ll give me that number, we’ll check it out, you know, just in case.’
‘Of course, Deputy … what did you say your name was?’
‘Moral, sir.’
‘Yes, Deputy Moral, anything that might help. Do you have something to write with?’
‘Yes, go ahead, please.’
Logan’s husband gave Moral the VIN and the phone number for Porsche’s Communication Management programme, then asked one more thing. ‘Deputy Moral, will you make me a promise?’
‘Yes, sir, I’ll do my best.’
‘Will you promise … ’ he said, his voice full of emotions and booze as he broke down again. ‘Promise you’ll kill them when you catch them?’
Moral nodded to himself. ‘Sir,’ he began his answer, ‘ordinarily, I wouldn’t make that kind of promise to a victim’s family. This time, I’m going to. You have my word, sir. I’ll take care of that.’
He heard the man sobbing as he hung up the phone. He called the PCM service, gave them the Porsche’s VIN, and identified himself as a US Marshal hunting a fugitive. The service was able to find the car in Ormond Beach and gladly gave him the address.
Moral excused himself, telling the mass of lawmen in the command vehicle that he needed to go have a smoke. He walked out into the parking lot, stopped, lit a cigarette, continued to his car, got inside. He looked back the way he came, and no one had followed. He called Julio Esperanza as he started the car.
‘Hello, Bobby,’ said Julio, sounding almost happy.
‘Eh, hey Julio. Your father here yet?’
‘Oh, yes. We are together staying at a sweet little hotel we found on the beach at, uh, … hey, Jose, what’s the name of this place? Oh, yeah, Vilano Beach, just north of St Augustine. Did you know St Augustine is the oldest city in the United States?’
‘Uh, yeah, everybody who lives in Florida knows that, but can we skip the history lesson for a minute? Tell me, is your dad going to kill me?’
‘Kill you? No! As a matter of fact, he’s quite pleased with you right now. He’s been watching your interview on THN, and he thinks what you did, throwing the heat toward that Albanian mob, was brilliant, amigo.’
‘Really?’ said Moral, gaining some confidence. He tweaked the rear-view mirror so he could see his face. He saw hope there and managed to smile back at himself.
‘Yeah, man. It’s cool. Everything’s cool. We just need to catch the woman, and that cop that saw us together, too, and take them out.’
Moral switched his phone to speaker and looked up a map of Florida, to see where Crescent Beach was in relation to Ormond Beach. ‘Have I got news for you, Julio; you are practically in the same town.’
‘Same town as what?’
‘Not what,’ he said, ‘who, as in Millie Adkins and the state cop. They’re in Ormond Beach. It’s maybe an hour from you.’
‘No, shit!’
Moral heard Julio speak to someone in Spanish. When he came back on line, he asked, ‘Are you going to meet us there?’
‘That’s what I was thinking,’ Moral answered. ‘I think I can get there quicker. I’m already on the road and headed that way, now. Looks like if you come south on A1A, you’ll run right into it. Why don’t I give you a call when I get there? We’ll meet some place and go in together.’
‘What about cops and the FBI?’
‘Not a problem. Locals are watching the interstate, and the Feds are researching Anichka and De De. They already know the Lopez brothers were hitters and connected somehow with the other two. And the story I told about the Albanian mob, they’re searching for connections there, too. But, like the pirates say, “dead men tell no tales”, right?’
‘Riiiight,’ Julio answered. ‘Okay, mi amigo. We will meet there and end this thing, once and for all.’
Moral hung up and, for the first time in days, began to feel he could win this thing. Yes, some explanation would be required. But, if no one was left to refute what he said, he’d never be more than a suspect. Just like the last time. He’d be done with the Esperanzas, and he could take some vacation time and cool off. Without that debt hanging over his head, like the sword of Damocles, he might actually enjoy some time off. Take a cruise, maybe a little gambling junket, and blow off some steam. Yeah, he thought, I can actually win this thing.
George Dunham sat hunkered down in his unmarked cruiser and watched Moral talking on his phone. He saw him look around, start his engine, and pull out of the parking lot. Dunham thought it was odd, seeing how Moral was the go-to guy for the media, now, spouting his version of what was transpiring and spreading that crap about Agent Thiery. Hell, Dunham knew that wasn’t true. And if that wasn’t true, he wondered, what else about US Marshal Robert Moral was bullshit?
Dunham cranked his car and followed Moral, making sure he stayed several car lengths behind.
THIRTY-THREE
Gail Summer of THN was working overtime. She’d carried her morning broadcast into an afternoon news update, took a couple of hours off for a quick salad and a strong martini, then went back to reporting the news, of which there was seemingly no end to gun-related headlines. Her face was bent over a stack of reports, even as the news director gave the ‘3-2-1, you’re on the air,’ signal. She looked up and appeared to momentarily forget where she was. The pause was tantamount to a death knell on televised air time, but the intrepid anchor used it to dramatize the already dramatic story.
‘Earlier today,’ she began, ‘David Edward Coody, the alleged shooter at Travis Hanks Elementary, was shot dead by one of the school’s surviving victims. Administrative assistant Sally Ravich, who herself had suffered a critical, disfiguring wound, gained access to Coody’s hospital room and shot him, point-blank, while the guard posted outside the room was reportedly preoccupied with a disturbance. A spokesman for the Calusa County Sheriff’s Department said Mrs Ravich was arrested and charged with first-degree murder, though she will be allowed to stay at the hospital pending her own recovery, under an armed deputy guard.
‘The woman said to have initially wounded Coody as he allegedly launched an assault on the school, substitute teacher Erica Weisz, is still missing and now presumed dangerous after she was involved in yet ano
ther shoot-out with law enforcement officers at the Gaylord Palms Hotel in Orlando, Florida. You may recall she is also suspected of participating in a gun battle last night in nearby Lake Wales, Florida, where Ellis Coody, the father of David Edward Coody, was shot to death, along with several others.’
The overworked anchor brushed back a strand of hair from her Botox-filled brow and continued. ‘Also in Florida last night, a self-appointed neighbourhood watchman, twenty-seven-year-old Gary Penn, followed someone he described as “a suspicious black male” in a small residential community in Destin, a town usually known for its attraction to spring breakers. The two men argued and eventually fought. The suspect, a fifteen-year-old student named Chaz Freeman, was shot and killed after Penn pulled his weapon, an FMK 9 mm, semi-automatic pistol.’
She continued, wearily, ‘Sales of guns, particularly, semi-automatic handguns and assault rifles, have skyrocketed since the elementary school shooting in Frosthaven, Florida. Gary Penn purchased the gun he used against Chaz Freeman just yesterday.’
Millie watched the news broadcast from the couch, a gun in her lap and a glass of white wine in her hand. The name Erica Weisz seemed foreign to her now, unreal, as if they were talking about someone else. Could that really have been me that shot those men? She closed her eyes and shook her head in disbelief. It didn’t seem possible. Still, she couldn’t help but feel the world was a hopeless place ruled by violence, and the fact that he who had the biggest weapon, the fastest trigger, and the most common ruthless element of kill or be killed, was always the victor. That included her.
When Thiery returned, Millie looked up at him blankly and asked, ‘Need any help with the groceries?’ It sounded like a rote comment she might have used a thousand times when routines were a comfort to her, when her family was alive.
Thiery smiled, crossed the room, and sat the two bags down on the kitchen counter.
‘Nah,’ he answered, ‘got just the two bags, but thanks.’ He smiled. ‘Can’t remember the last time someone offered to help with bringing in the groceries.’
The comment brought a long stare from Millie. She brought the wine to her lips and sipped it.
‘Did I say something wrong?’ he asked.
Millie shook her head. ‘No. It’s just … I’ve been inside my own head for so long, I … I haven’t thought of other people, you know?’ She paused, then stood to help with storing the provisions. ‘Are you still married?’ she asked, meaning to make light conversation, while simultaneously fearing she’d done the opposite. When Thiery didn’t respond immediately, she grew more convinced of the latter.
They finished unpacking the bags. He’d bought lunch meat and bread, fresh fruit, milk, eggs, beer, bottled water, and steaks for the grill. The refrigerator had been stocked with a few things, like margarine and condiments, and some seasonings were left in the cabinets.
He eventually replied, but only with, ‘That wine cold?’
Millie nodded, opened a cabinet, pulled out a stemmed glass, and poured a drink for him. She opened a window in the kitchen and the scent of ocean air filled the room. She let the slow breeze flow over her face and imagined the waves lapping gently at the nearby shore. It brought her a rare moment of peace.
Thiery sipped and grunted pleasantly. ‘No,’ he finally answered. ‘I’m not married, anymore. My wife skipped a long time ago. She did have the heart, though, to leave our two boys.’
‘You raised them on your own?’ she asked. When he nodded, she added, ‘Wow. That’s tough.’
‘It was a challenge,’ he admitted, ‘especially the teen years. You know how it is …’ he caught himself – recalling she had lost her daughter just as she was entering her teens – but too late. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have … ’
‘’S’okay,’ Millie replied. ‘I asked the question. Go ahead. Please. Unless it’s too much.’ She was standing next to him in the kitchen; his hands were flat on the counter as he leaned against it. Millie placed her hand on top of his to encourage him to talk. She noted how masculine it felt compared to hers, how powerful. It made her feel safe.
‘Her name was Adrienne,’ he continued. ‘She was the daughter of eastern European immigrants who owned a successful dry cleaning business in Brooklyn. She grew up to be an accountant, then moved to Florida. We met when she did my taxes. Dating, marriage, two kids, all seemed great, except my job kept me away from home. It caused … a disconnect between us. When her father died, she started spending more time in Brooklyn, supposedly to help her mother, but sometimes I wondered. Then, one day she dropped the kids off at school and disappeared.’
Thiery looked down into Millie’s face. It was upturned, her eyes focused on his; a look of genuine interest was there, and he pictured that look as she must’ve appeared to her students. It was a caring face, a lovely face, even more so now that she’d rested a little. He pulled a chair out for her at the dining table, then took one for himself.
‘She left me a note,’ he went on. ‘It said she needed time to sort things out, so I gave her time. After two months, I went to New York. When nobody answered at her mother’s apartment, I checked with the police and learned her mother had killed herself several weeks earlier. I knew, then, something had happened to Adrienne. She would’ve called to pass along news that big. I tried to look up an old boyfriend she’d kept in touch with, but he was dead, too. Killed in a restaurant shooting, of all things. I kept looking for Adrienne for two more years. Thought she might have used her maiden name, Manjola, but there was nothing. After a while, I stopped looking.’
Millie sipped her wine and sighed, looking at the floor as if she’d dropped something. ‘I can’t imagine a woman leaving her children,’ she said. ‘How long ago did she leave?’
‘Ten years,’ he answered. ‘The boys are grown, now, becoming who they are going to be. One’s a firefighter and the other is in the Navy; both in California. But, they were at a tough age to lose their mother, especially without a reasonable explanation. I wonder how it’s going to affect them, sometimes, in the long run. I mean, they seem okay. You never know.’
‘Well,’ she smiled and attempted to point out a silver lining, ‘your oldest is getting married, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So, maybe they’re okay. I’m sure you must’ve been, are, a good example for them.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. For a while, I drank too much. I wish I could’ve been more patient, not so … I don’t know. Strict, maybe.’
‘It’s hard to play good cop and bad cop,’ she semi-joked.
‘Hey,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Let’s eat. I’m starving.’
Thiery lit the charcoal outside and grilled the steaks, while Millie made a simple salad. She continued sipping wine, but Thiery decided to lay off. Though he felt safe for now, he knew he should keep watch, just the same.
‘Hope you don’t mind the steak cooked medium,” he said, ‘freaks me out when there’s blood oozing from the meat.’ He immediately wished he hadn’t said that, considering what she’d been through.
‘That’s fine,’ she said, her attention elsewhere.
Thiery was ravenous, but Millie took small bites, conscious of her mending abdomen. He made a pot of coffee after dinner and began to clean up. She tried to help, but, noting the lines of pain tighten around her mouth, he told her to sit down and relax, he would finish up.
He joined her on the couch a few minutes later, a cup of coffee steaming in his hand. They looked, first, for updated news reports. Finding none, they settled into absent-mindedly flicking through the channels, eventually finding the old black-and-white, Bogart–Bacall film, Key Largo.
Millie fell asleep. While Thiery sipped his coffee, he felt her body slowly collapse against his side until her head came to rest upon his shoulder. She felt warm against him as the evening air came in with a slight chill. He turned off the TV and leaned his head back, letting the edge of the couch massage his stiff neck. A creeping melancholy settled over him as
he thought of the times he and Sara had met here. The pang of loss he’d been denying himself grew in the pit of his stomach. He breathed deeply to overcome the feeling.
As if her nursing instinct responded unconsciously to his pain, Millie snuggled in closer. He could smell the scent of shampoo in her hair; feel the soft heat of her breath against his neck. Feeling her shiver, he placed his arm around her shoulders. She snuggled in tighter.
They sat like that for a while, until Thiery leaned his head back again, his breathing slowed, and began to drift off, himself. A dream materialized in his head, or perhaps it was a memory, a jumble of things that either happened or, perhaps, he wanted to happen: he and Sara were driving, coming back from yet another illicit rendezvous. She looked over at him and placed her hand on his leg, moving it up just as the car she was driving sputtered, lost power, and drifted off the side of the road. They should have been upset, but Sara saw it as an opportunity to spend more time together. They were still on A1A, the beach was deserted, and she had a blanket in the trunk of the car.
‘C’mon,’ she summoned.
Thiery got out. ‘But what about the car?’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll call Porsche’s Communication Management system. They’ll send someone out.’
Thiery sat up with a jolt, pushing Millie back and mumbling, ‘P … C … M.’
Millie mumbled, ‘what?’ through sleep-thickened lips.
He gave her a throw pillow and encouraged her to lie back down. ‘I’ve got to check something,’ he said. She could see worry in his eyes. He wasn’t sure if the new Porsche had PCM, specifically. And, sure, it had only been a dream. But, it couldn’t hurt to check. He grabbed the car keys and stepped outside.
Poking around the dash and instrument console, he found the owner’s manual and opened it up. Right away, he found the header, ‘PCM’ and a list of its services. At the top of the list was ‘stolen vehicle recovery.’
‘Shit,’ he said aloud, now fully awake. They can find us.
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