by Scott Cook
“We need help,” Otter replied. “Me and Big Top ain’t no softies… but we’re two guys, and we gotta run the joint, too.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You callin’ us liars?” Big Top menaced.
“You two guys drive around in a black German car?” I asked out of nowhere.
That totally derailed Big Top. He blinked and looked to Otter. Otter stared at me, paused and then shook his head.
“No… why?”
I laughed, “You two have to be the clumsiest operators I’ve seen in a while. You sachet into my office bedazzled in your Tommy Hilfiger’s and with your transparent yarn about hotels and gangs and talk to me like a couple of leg breakers. Why don’t you drop the routine and tell me what you’re really here for? Or is your clever plan to get me out of town and out of the way? Clear the path to a certain young lady, perhaps?”
There was no doubt I hit the nail on the head. Whatever these two assholes were, they weren’t part of a brain trust, and they certainly weren’t good actors. They were, at least, pragmatic. They didn’t try to argue, and their laughable mask of civility finally dropped… well, Otter’s did. Big Top hadn’t exactly started out coquettish.
“Okay, Jarvis,” Otter said. “We tried it nice. What we heard of you we figured that wouldn’t play, but gave it a shot.”
“Heard you was a hard-on,” Big Top sneered.
“And who’d know better about hard-ons, huh, Big Top?” I asked.
Big Top leapt to his feet. He moved well for such a burly squat guy, “You callin’ me a faggot? You wanna go, Jarvis? You wanna fuckin’ go!?”
“Jesus…” I muttered, not in any way discommoded.
“We tried it nice, so now we’ll try it the hard way,” Otter said, getting to his own feet. “Forget you ever met that Bradford woman. Walk away from this, Jarvis. This is the only time we’re gonna say it.”
“Nope,” I said cheerfully.
Big Top grinned, “You want us to fuck you up?”
“You two against me?” I asked. “Hardly seems fair. You want to get another guy or two just to make things even-like?”
“You don’t know who you’re fuckin’ with,” Otter warned. “Why don’t you—“
He stopped when he saw the barrel of my colt aimed for his face. I stood up and moved around the side of my desk, “Let’s go, shit for brains. About face and move out.”
Otter scoffed and Big Top flipped me off.
“Think I won’t shoot you?” I asked casually. “Just for fun?”
Otter chuckled, “We came here unarmed, Jarvis. Tried to be reasonable. Remember that… cuz the next time we meet—“
“Otter,” I said, waving them toward the outer office. “If I see you two peanut grifters again. You or your BMW… I’ll be the one fuckin’ you up. I’ll shoot you first and ask questions later. Consider this your one and only warning. You so much as look at Veronica Bradford, and I’ll burn you both to the ground.”
They both sneered and went out. I knew they didn’t take my threat seriously. Their kind never did. They couldn’t, really. You can’t make a living as a wrong-G if you scare easily. But they also didn’t respect anything. They were stupid, sloppy, and I’d have to deal with them again.
I sighed and went back to my desk, “And so it begins, Ferny…”
Ferny never doubted me for a second.
5
Traffic on the drive west toward Tampa was fairly moderate on I-4. At least until I reached Tampa and the interchange between I-4 and 275, colloquially and appropriately known as “Malfunction Junction.” There was the usual slow-down and then stop and go for a good ten minutes. Thankfully my Spotify playlist Aquatopia: The Official Scott Jarvis Playlist was streaming over the Jeep’s stereo and Don’t Make Me Wait was playing. A great song from a collaborative album between Sting and Shaggy, no less.
Eventually, I made it past the cluster-fudge and the airport and was hurtling across Tampa Bay on the Howard Franklin Bridge. Known to the coolest locals as the H-Frank, of course. 275 curved south once in Saint Pete proper and within only a few minutes, I exited downtown and made my way down First Avenue South and over the little bridge to Demens Landing, where the Municipal Marina and the Saint Petersburg Sailing Center were located. I parked near the north docks and was met by my friend Lieutenant Alex Muñoz. Alex is a short and stocky man with a round and almost cherubic face. Although nearing his middle-forties, Alex had something of a boyish look about him that he tried to compensate for with a mustache and goatee. His curly black hair was lightly salted, and his brown eyes were friendly.
“Come all this way for a boat ride?” he asked as we shook hands.
“Sure, more water here than in O-town,” I said.
Alex led me through the gate and down the long pier to the slip occupied by the city’s police launch. The boat, a thirty-two-foot center console, was painted navy blue on her exterior hull with large letters proclaiming it to be the police stenciled on either side. Two powerful Yamaha three-hundred outboards would certainly give her a pretty turn of speed. The boat featured a small cuddy cabin forward but was mostly open space except for the bench seat behind the helm console and the stainless and fiberglass hardtop over it. A uniformed patrolman stood at the wheel and waited patiently as Alex and I climbed aboard, and I began to untie the lines. Alex had a little trouble looking graceful climbing into the boat in his slacks and sport jacket. Not that he was much of a seadog to begin with.
“Scott, this is Officer Danny Toast,” Alex introduced me to the tall and wiry black man at the wheel.
I shook his hand, “Nice to meet you, officer.”
“Go ahead, I’m used to it,” Toast said with a wry grin showing under a classic fluffy cop stash.
I cocked an eyebrow.
“Burnt Toast,” he said and shrugged.
I grinned, “Hell, I got that beat. In an organization I’m involved with, there are two pilots, both named Travis. They call themselves the Travis brothers… but one’s white and one’s black.”
Toast chuckled as he fired up the two big outboards, “Love that.”
“So, what’s the sitch?” I asked Alex as Toast guided us out into the south basin.
“We’ve got a salvage barge anchored over the wreck. Private contractor with a Department of Environmental Protection rep aboard as well as a guy from the Coasties overseeing things too,” Alex stated. “We’ve already had our divers do an inspection. The boat’s mostly in one piece, although part of the stern’s blown off. We’ve erected oil booms around the site and are in the process of collecting what’s left of the diesel. We’ll haul the pieces up tomorrow and hopefully be off-site by the end of the day tomorrow.”
“Damn,” I said appreciatively. “Pretty serious operation. Oil booms and everything?”
Toast nodded, “Borrowed from Port Manatee across the bay. There was some leakage from the fuel tanks, and this way we can collect it and keep most of it out of the environment.”
“Nice,” I observed. “Good thinking.”
“Thanks,” toast said with a grin. “But I know you’re just tryin’ to butter me up.”
“Oh, for christ’s sake…” Alex groaned.
We exited the basin and I saw the salvage setup immediately. It was perhaps a quarter-mile from the end of the Saint Pete pier and a little to the south. The barge must’ve been over a hundred feet long and half that in width, its rusting iron deck half a dozen feet over the water. At its center, a forty-foot-tall derrick rose, and there were also several storage tanks on the deck as well as a small deck house. The pontoons of the oil booms were connected to the barge and ran out in a two-hundred-foot by two-hundred-foot square around the patch of water under which the Rampage must be resting.
As we pulled alongside, several men handed down lines, and the three of us went up the short ladder and onto the metal deck of the barge. We were met by a craggy-faced man in his early sixties with an old and somewhat worse for wear Navy chief’s billed cap perche
d rakishly on his silver-haired head.
“Hiya, Ned,” Alex said and introduced me. “Ned Benderson, Scott Jarvis.”
I shook the grizzled sailor’s rough hand, “Nice to meet you, Chief.”
Benderson eyed me thoughtfully, and in a gravelly voice as weathered as his features, he asked: “You ever in the Navy, son?”
“Am now,” I said. “Lieutenant Commander, X113.”
Benderson grinned, “A SEAL, huh? Well, I’ll be Goddamned. Was in UD myself back in the day.”
“You the skipper of this barge?” I asked.
“Barge my fat ass,” Benderson said good-naturedly. “She’s powered. But yeah, I’m in charge, so watch your ass… sir.”
We chuckled together before Alex broke in, “How’s it going anyway, Ned?”
“Got the fuel oil tanks opened up and collecting it,” Benderson reported as he led us to the other side of the barge. “Should all float up ‘fore dark, I reckon. Then we’ll emulsify whatever’s left and we can then start haulin’ shit up.”
“What do you do with the fuel?” I asked.
“Keep it,” Benderson stated. “Pump it into holding tanks. Diesel is lighter than water, so it floats, and we can siphon it off, run it through a water separator and pump it into our own tanks.”
“Just like the old WW2 subs used to do,” I mused.
Benderson smiled, “That’s right. We can get about ninety-six percent. Whatever’s left will come up with the wreck. Nothing is a hundred percent, but the emulsification process helps to break the oil down and disperse it.”
“Impressive,” I said. “Anything related to the cause that your inspection dive might have shown, Alex?”
Alex frowned, “Not sure. They took a bunch of photos… but nothing definitive.”
Benderson harrumphed, “I seen them pictures. Was definitely a bomb.”
I looked at Alex and he shrugged, “Can we see them?”
“Come this way,” Benderson stated, leading us into what was apparently the wheelhouse. The structure had a large conference room and a couple of offices, and the actual wheelhouse was mounted above. Benderson led us into the conference room where a series of eight by ten glossies were set out on a table, and a tall, athletic blonde man in his early twenties was sipping coffee.
“One of our divers, Brad Raker,” Alex said. “Brad, Ned here agrees with you about the bomb.”
“Well, it had to be,” Raker said and pointed at a photo. “Even without these pics. Boat doesn’t just explode like that.”
“You can see it plain,” Benderson added, tapping one of the pictures. “By this blast pattern here.”
“Well, you guys would know best,” Alex stated.
“Any idea yet what kind of explosive?” I asked.
“That, we don’t know,” Raker said and frowned. “May never know that, not with a fire, explosion, more fire and a dunking.”
Benderson joined him in the frown, “My guess’d be there was an accelerant used as well. Something to make sure the burn got hot and got hot fast. Enough heat to ignite the fuel and maybe even erase any traces of the ignition source.”
“We’ll know more when we haul the boat up tomorrow,” Raker opined, “but I wouldn’t get my hopes up…”
Benderson harrumphed, “I don’t agree, kid. We’ll find somethin’, you can bet your ass on it.”
I drove over to Palms at Pasadena Hospital and arrived just before six. The hospital was located in the South Pasadena area of Saint Pete, not far from the section of intracoastal that ran between the mainland and Saint Pete Beach and Treasure Island. Alex had called ahead, and I was given permission to go straight to Ted Whittaker’s room on the third floor. I knocked perfunctorily on the open doorframe and went in.
Whittaker was sitting up in his bed watching the Rays game on the small flat-panel TV mounted high up on the wall in front of him. When he saw me enter, he picked up the remote and muted the sound.
“Evening, Mr. Whittaker,” I said disarmingly. “Who’s winning?”
“Rays up by a run,” Whittaker, a forty-ish man with a handsome face framed by short curly brown hair, replied. “We’re already in the sixth… think they’re gonna shut the Blue jays out.”
“Scott Jarvis,” I said, moving over to shake his hand. “Mind if we talk for a few minutes?”
“I already told you guys all I know,” Whittaker said. “Not sure I can add anything. Least not until my memory comes back.”
I pulled up a chair and sat a few feet away, “I’m not a cop, Mr. Whittaker. I’m a private investigator. Veronica hired me to find out what happened and who’s after her.”
“Oh!” he emoted. “Christ… how is she? I didn’t come out of it until last night. They told me she was okay, thank God… but…”
“She’s up and about,” I said. “Bit of a cough from the smoke, but otherwise okay. She says the last thing she remembers is going below to get more champagne, and then everything went black. How about you?”
He sighed and frowned, “Damned if I know. I remember meeting her at the boat… remember going under the Skyway… and the rest is a blank.”
I could see that a heavy bandage was wrapped around Whittaker’s head like a tennis headband. I nodded at it, “Head injury?”
“Temporary amnesia,” Whittaker said with a sigh. “Or at least I hope so. It’s… frustrating not knowing.”
“I’m sure,” I empathized. “How’d you get here, anyway?”
He snorted, “No clue. I just woke up in this bed. The doc says I was brought in, though.”
“That’s got to be driving you nuts,” I commiserated. “I know it would me… but okay, you don’t remember much about the boating trip. How about before? Anything suspicious happen beforehand? Anybody approach you? Ask you about Veronica?”
He shrugged, “No. We’ve only known each other a couple of weeks.”
“How’d you meet?”
“At a charity function sponsored by Bradford Avionics,” he replied. “I’m an attorney in Sarasota.”
“So you guys just hit it off at random, huh?” I asked with a smile.
“Yeah, was at the Vanoy,” he said. “About… three weeks back? Just one of those things, you know? Started chatting, had a drink, took a walk by the water… she’s a terrific woman. Smart and beautiful.”
“I noticed,” I said.
He sighed heavily, “I’m sure glad she’s okay… maybe I should give her a call? Where is she?”
I grinned, “I’m afraid that’s classified.”
He cocked an eyebrow at me, “Classified?”
I drew in a breath. It was time to talk about the hard things, “Mr. Whittaker… an attempt was made on her life. She doesn’t know by whom, and she’s hired me to find out. Very recently, her boat was set afire and a bomb placed on board. She might have died from the smoke alone, but certainly from the explosion if my friend and I hadn’t jumped aboard. You, sir, seem conspicuous by your absence.”
He scowled, “You saying I’m responsible? That could be considered liable, Jarvis.”
I shrugged, “Theodore… let’s look at it. Your story is that at some point on Sunday, some people boarded your boat. You don’t remember that. Veronica doesn’t remember that, but she’s not suffering from hysterical amnesia.”
“You saying it couldn’t have happened that way?”
I sighed, “Okay, sure. Maybe you saw a couple of dudes trying to fix their outboard and stopped to offer some help. They pull guns and come aboard. Then they force you and your girlfriend to drink doped Champagne… they set a bomb up on the boat and set it on fire. That’s after they point it toward the pier. Then they leave Veronica to her fate and hand-deliver you to a hospital? Story’s got more holes than a Walmart pool raft, my friend.”
“I don’t like what you’re implying,” Whittaker snapped.
I leaned forward and speared him with a cold gaze, “And I don’t like your story, Ted. First of all, she passed out before anybody got aboard you
r boat. Which means the only person who could’ve drugged her is you. From where I sit, it looks bad for you. Real bad, pal.”
“Hey, go to hell!” Whittaker snapped. “You can’t prove any of this, Jarvis. Your accusation is groundless, and it’s slander. I was brought in here with a head wound. My doctor will testify to that in court.”
As if conjured by his words, a tall, lean man in his middle fifties stepped into the room. He wore a physician’s smock over his shirt and tie and a pair of rimless cheaters over a somewhat hawkish nose. He eyed the two of us, picked up the chart hanging on the end of Whittaker’s bed and examined it. Then he nodded and cleared his throat.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this visit short,” The doctor said. “I’m Doctor Felix Campbell, the attending physician.”
“Doc, this guy is harassing me,” Whittaker complained.
The doctor frowned a doctorly frown at me, “That so, sir? Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Doctor,” I said, getting to my feet. “This man is a suspect in an attempted murder.”
“Are you a policeman?” The doctor inquired.
“No, he’s a damned keyhole peeper,” Whittaker jeered.
The doctor frowned again, “A private investigator? Well, in any case, Mr. Whittaker needs his rest, sir.”
“Doc,” I said evenly but firmly. “I don’t believe his story.”
“I can attest at the very least that his injuries are legitimate,” the doctor said, sounding a bit piqued now himself. “Mr. Whittaker was subjected to some form of blunt-force trauma. Enough force was used to produce a rather substantial skull fracture and to send him into a coma, from which he only emerged late yesterday evening.”
“Enough trauma to cause temporary hysterical amnesia?” I asked.
“Evidently so,” Campbell replied. “I personally had to remove several blood clots and bone splinters from his meninges. As to anything else, I can’t say. Except that he was brought to the hospital by two men who did not identify themselves.”
“Can you describe the men?” I asked.