by Carl Schmidt
“What the…?” Joe moaned, as he turned his head to locate me and size up his situation.
I was twenty feet away on my knees, pointing my weapon at his chest. His gun lay just beyond his grasp. He’d have to take one or two steps to reach it.
“If you make a move, I’ll shoot to kill,” I said.
Holly suddenly shouted over her intercom and cell phone, “The bomb just went off. Turn those sirens on and close in. Now!”
A moment later, police sirens were blaring on the road above me, one from the north and two from the south. They seemed to be several hundred yards away, but closing fast.
A thought suddenly went through my mind, “If Joe was wearing body armor, he might think his best option was to shoot it out. As he turned to face me, I saw that the paint blast had blown off some of the buttons from his shirt and exposed a bulletproof vest.
Suddenly, he lurched for his weapon, and I fired a shot at his moving thighs. Joe groaned and fell on his side. His weapon was still within reach, and it appeared likely he would grab it, so I shouted, “The next one will go through your brain!”
He grabbed his leg, curled up, and yelled, “Don’t shoot!”
“Roll away from your weapon, face down. Now!” I shouted.
Fortunately, he did exactly that.
Just then, I heard a door slam at the top of the hill and the white Lexus started up.
“One shot has been fired,” Holly announced.
I replied over my intercom, “Sophia is armed, and she’s about to drive away.”
At that moment, Angele drove her car onto the trail and blocked Sophia’s exit. Holly popped out on the passenger side, pointed her Springfield .357 through the V formed by the open door and the side of the car, and shouted, “Sophia Stockbridge, you are under arrest.”
That announcement became official twenty seconds later when the first patrol car arrived, and two armed troopers took charge.
50
Look Out for the Gators
We had a lot of explaining to do, but eventually, Sergeant Withers agreed that the bulk of it could wait until Monday. Five troopers sealed off the area, took preliminary statements from Xavier, Angele, Holly and me, and said we could leave. They did, however, insist that we come to the St. Lucie County Jail at ten o’clock the next morning. We negotiated the time, and they finally agreed that noon was early enough.
An ambulance arrived on the scene to transport Joe Dunham to a hospital. Sophia Stockbridge was handcuffed and stuffed in the back of Withers’ squad car.
Archie had kept in contact with us over his intercom. As we were about to leave the area he said, “The bike at the scene belongs to Elmer Rhodes. He lives in a mobile home park about five miles south of the convenience store along highway 78.”
“We’ll see to it that Elmer gets his bike back,” Withers replied.
“It’s dark, and I don’t know where the hell I am,” Archie responded.
I pointed out that Joe Dunham had been tracking Archie’s bicycle all afternoon, but unfortunately, the item that Joe had thrown into the water was the cell phone he’d used to monitor the GPS signal.
Archie was exhausted. He had stopped pedaling his bike the moment he heard the paint bomb explode. He was probably six or seven miles away, and, by his own account, flat on his back.
“Stick a fork in me,” Archie moaned. “I’m done.”
“That bicycle is evidence,” Withers announced.
“You’re welcome to it,” Archie replied. “You’ll find it right here…wherever that is. I’m not going to set foot—or butt—on it again.”
“Then you’ll probably have to swim across the canal and hike half a mile to the highway,” Withers replied.
“Are there any crocodiles in the water?” Archie asked.
“No sir,” Withers replied. “But look out for the gators.”
• • •
Archie managed to stay out of the canal and avoid reptile encounters. He trekked further along the trail a few more miles until he came to a dirt road with a sign that read, “Indian Prairie.” Holly picked him up in his BMW.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Archie sighed sweetly. Their intercoms rustled with a hug and a kiss.
51
Perks
Monday was full of pleasant surprises.
Just before breakfast, Allan Roth returned Xavier’s phone call. He was more than just happy to testify about his involvement with Nicole Shepard; he was eager. He was still miffed that she had tried to extort money from him. Besides, his career was not going all that well. The publicity from a trial might give it a boost. More importantly, this took Father O’Reilly off the hook. We all agreed not to mention his name to the police.
The St. Lucie County Jail was two hours north of Miami, just west of Fort Pierce. Archie chauffeured us in his BMW. We savored the drive. The sky was overcast with a slight chance of showers. It was a balmy 72 degrees when we left the Marriott. I sat up front, while Angele and Holly wedged Xavier in the middle of the back seat. They chatted about films and movie stars; Archie and I talked shop.
“Jesse, had you ever shot a man before?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
“The first time’s the hardest,” he replied, almost stoically.
“Does it really get any easier?” I asked.
After a pensive silence, Archie began shifting in his seat, seemingly unable to find a comfortable sitting position. He then changed the subject without answering my question.
“The last time I rode a bicycle was twenty years ago. Is your butt sore? Mine is raw.”
“A little,” I chuckled. “But you had to go a lot farther than I did, and I ride my trail bike quite a bit in the summer.”
When Archie and I ran out of things to say, we sat quietly and listened to the Hollywood gossip coming from the backseat.
We arrived at the jail just before noon. A congregation of law enforcement personnel was there to greet us. Well, actually, most of them were there to meet and greet Xavier LaGrange. A female detective took Holly aside, and they chatted for fifteen minutes about women’s issues on the force. Angele, Archie and I sat twiddling our thumbs until the formal interviews got started. All five of us gave our statements independently.
One by one we were escorted into an office and questioned at length about our involvement and what we knew. They interviewed Xavier for almost two hours, and then it was my turn.
Two detectives were assigned to the case. Leroy Chaffee was the lead detective; he did most of the talking. He was a rather large African-American man, probably in his mid forties. His head was clean-shaven, and his eyes were fierce. His partner, Julius Fairchild, had a neatly trimmed mustache, wore thick glasses, and was rather unassuming. My interview was taped, but Fairchild scribbled notes as if outlining the facts of the case.
Their eyes lit up as I described the various sound and video recordings we had made as well as the GPS logs tracking the vehicles of Anthony Doyle and Tina Woodbury. I was not eager to bring up Tina’s name, but there was no way around it. I indicated that she was a client of mine, so there was some privileged information I couldn’t reveal, but none of that was germane to the blackmail of Xavier LaGrange or the murders of Nicole Shepard and Tony Doyle. I agreed to turn over copies of all the recordings and logs as soon as possible.
I pulled out my cell and showed them the exact location of Tina Woodbury’s car at that moment, and indicated that it was very likely that she and Leo Wallace would be dealing cocaine and running extortion scams while they were visiting the Sunshine State. I was careful not to mention Tina’s involvement with Governor Lavoilette. I was saving that as my ace in the hole. I did not want Tina to be in the position to squeeze Xavier LaGrange. Undoubtedly, she knew the information Nicole Shepard was using to blackmail Xavier. She and Nicole were close friends and had been at the opening night party on Cape Cod. At some future point, if she threatened to drag Xavier’s name into the unresolved death of Armando Pere
z, I would push back with the fact that she had extorted a great deal of money from the ex-governor of Maine in a fraudulent paternity shakedown. If push came to shove, Richard Merrill could corroborate most of that story.
It was a little after four o’clock when Detective Chaffee said that he was finished with me.
By the end of the afternoon, the case had burgeoned from one count of extortion and weapons charges to two counts of first-degree murder, organized crime and racketeering. It was almost seven o’clock when we finally had a chance to see each other again and compare notes.
Xavier was beaming.
“I have some great news,” he said. “I’ll share it with you over dinner. I know a wonderful place to eat in Palm Beach.”
He directed us to an elegant restaurant along Ocean Boulevard with a view of the Atlantic, and though it was pitch black outside, we could hear the waves sweeping the shore from our table on the patio. After we had ordered, Xavier shared his good fortune, which turned out to be ours as well.
“During the interview, Detective Chaffee asked me about my relationship with Nicole Shepard,” Xavier said. “I explained to him that she had been blackmailing me for almost three years, and that I paid her $70,000 two weeks ago just before she was strangled in a Portland hotel. He then asked me to describe the money. I told him that I had assembled the entire sum in one-hundred-dollar bills and wrapped them myself.
“He then informed me that $63,000 in one-hundred-dollar bills had been confiscated from Joe and Sophia. The money was found in both of their vehicles and their hotel room in Jupiter, and most of it was still bound together in bank wrappers.
“At that point, he asked his partner, Detective Fairchild, to get a finger-printing kit. When Fairchild returned, he took my prints and then left the room again while Chaffee continued to take my statement.
“About twenty minutes later, Fairchild came back and announced that they had matched my fingerprints with those left on a number of the bills and on the inside of the wrappers. Detective Chaffee then informed me that I would be entitled to recover the full $63,000. They will keep the bills as evidence until their case goes to trial—or is pleaded out—but after that, the money will be returned to me.
“Jesse, you and your team will get every penny of it when this is over. In fact, I will make it an even $100,000 above and beyond your normal fee.”
“Normal fee?” I said, scratching my head. “There’s been nothing normal about this. But I have to say that I am overwhelmed by your generosity.”
“I’m very grateful to all of you,” Xavier replied. “You really came through for me. You put your lives on the line; I can’t thank you enough. I feel as light as a feather.”
“All in a day’s work,” Archie chimed in, trying to conceal a grin.
At which point the ladies groaned, and the men laughed.
“Who’s the designated driver?” Holly asked, eyeballing the waitress who had just dropped off our second round of drinks.
“I am,” Angele said. “We’ll pick up a few bottles of champagne on the way home, and I’ll hold off until we’re back at the hotel.”
When we finished eating, Angele took the scenic route along the shore all the way to Miami. We rolled the windows down and bathed in the warm ambiance. Angele stopped in Hollywood and got five bottles of a medium priced Brut. We shared two of them in Xavier’s suite before retiring to our separate rooms.
• • •
“A hundred thousand dollars! That will pay a lot of bills, Jesse,” Angele said as she opened another bottle. She then added, “Do you remember what you said a couple weeks ago when I returned from Starbucks with croissants?”
“Angele, you look great with a glass of champagne in your hand,” I replied, trying to change the subject. The fact that she was completely naked at the time might have influenced my judgment just a bit, but the truth is…Angele looks good with or without clothes.
Angele eyed me suspiciously and continued, “You said, and I quote, ‘I hope he stays long enough for us to cover our expenses.’ Remember that?”
“You mean after you spent forty-two dollars on coffee and pastries that Xavier never touched?”
“Exactly,” she replied.
“Well, I guess I got what I was hoping for,” I said in a breezy sort of way.
Angele finished her glass of champagne, lay back on the bed expectantly and replied, “Sweetheart, the dividends are just starting to roll in.”
“Peaches, maybe I should call my investment broker. The markets are opening in Hong Kong.”
“Come over here,” she murmured. “I have something you can invest in right now.”