by Jeff Siebold
“After you,” said Harry.
There was one other customer in the shop, apparently negotiating with the clerk about something. The two men wandered around the shop while looking at displayed jewelry and firearms. They walked slowly, from case to case, inspecting the merchandise.
“Be with you in a minute,” the clerk said in a loud voice. Harry waved at him. “No problem.”
A few minutes later the customer left.
“How can I help you, gentlemen?” asked the clerk. He was a rangy guy with long arms and a barrel chest, standing behind a display case counter. He was wearing a .38 Special in a holster on his belt.
“We’re looking for Bryce Carroll,” said Wilbur. “He’s expecting us.” His smile never made it to his eyes.
“Bryce was here, but I think I heard him go out for a minute,” said the man, looking over his shoulder toward the back of the shop. “Hey, Bryce. You there?” he shouted.
There was no answer.
Turning back to the two men, the clerk said, “Yeah, he must’ve gone out the back. He parks back there. I’m sure he’ll be here in a few…”
“That’s fine,” said Henry, bouncing on the balls of his feet. We’ll wait for him.”
“OK with me,” said the clerk.
* * *
The dashboard clock read 2:40 as Zeke pulled the rental car up to the Pawn 4 All pawnshop and parked in the lot. There was one other car in the lot, a silver Aston Martin Rapide S that could only belong to one man. Clive stepped out of the passenger side as Zeke opened his door.
Yellow crime scene tape was pulled across the front door of the shop, and an official-looking notice was attached to the door with gray duct tape. The notice explained the penalties associated with disturbing a crime scene.
“You know, Baltimore feels like a pawnshop city,” said Clive, looking around. “Something about the downtown area.”
“You have access, I assume,” said Zeke.
Clive nodded and held up a key. He unlocked the front door and they stepped inside, careful to pull the door closed and bolt it behind them.
“Where did it happen?” asked Zeke.
“In the office, in the back,” said Clive.
“Was there surveillance in the building?” asked Zeke.
“Yes, but mostly in the front, the customer area.”
“Have you seen it?” Zeke asked.
“Yes,” said Clive. “There wasn’t much there.”
“Was there any traffic just before he died?” asked Zeke.
“Well, yes, it looked like two men entered the shop,” said Clive. “They looked around at the display cases for a while. They spoke to the sales clerk for a moment, then one of them asked him a question, while the other one went to the back of the shop for about fifteen seconds.”
“Providing secondary access?” asked Zeke.
“Unlocking the back door, I’d guess,” said Clive.
“Can we identify them from the video?” asked Zeke.
“No, not really. They were wearing hats, one was a ball cap, and they kept their heads down, as if they were looking for something in the cases.”
“But…?” Zeke asked.
“That’s the thing. Most people go to a pawnshop to sell something or to acquire something specific. A guitar, maybe, or a piece of electronic equipment,” said Clive. “In this case, these two wandered around the store and looked at most everything.”
“You think they were checking for security? Or to be sure the place was fairly empty?” asked Zeke.
“Maybe both. It wasn’t a quiet death, I assure you. There aren’t silencers for shotguns,” said Clive.
* * *
“Actually, there are, now. The Salvo 12 was developed by a Utah firm. It pretty much mutes the sound of a shotgun.”
“Sometimes I forget about your eidetic memory,” said Clive. “Do tell.”
“They’re not cheap. About a thousand dollars,” Zeke continued. “They’re made for 12 gauge shotguns. But that would do the job.”
“I don’t recall that a suppressor was found on the pawnshop premises,” Clive said, mostly to himself. “But the men on the security video didn’t have a shotgun. Surely we would have seen that.”
“They wouldn’t need one. This was a pawnshop, so there were plenty of guns around. They’d just need to bring the suppressor,” said Zeke.
“Hmm,” said Clive.
“Did the video show the visitors with a rifle?” asked Zeke.
“No, but the cameras are mostly focused in the front of the shop. So there are a number of blind spots once you get further into the place,” Clive said.
“They could have wandered for a bit, checking things out, confirmed that Bryce Carroll was in the back, picked up a shotgun, fitted it with their suppressor, loaded it and confronted Carroll. It wouldn’t have taken thirty seconds from the time they finished their browsing to the time Carroll was dead,” Zeke said. “Did they leave through the front door?”
“According to the clerk, they must have exited through the back door. He didn’t see them again after they disappeared,” said Clive. “The sales clerk said he’d heard something by the front of the shop and he looked that way for a second. When he looked back, the men were gone.”
“Did he go after them?” Zeke asked.
“He called after them, but he didn’t want to leave the front of the store empty. He said he went toward the back of the shop and said something along the lines of, ‘Hey, you’re not allowed back there,’” said Clive. “Something innocuous and ineffective.”
“When did they find Carroll’s body?”
“After about ten minutes, the store clerk decided to check on Carroll. When he did, he found the owner dead,” said Clive.
Zeke nodded. “Sounds like it was done by pros,” he said.
* * *
Zeke and Clive spent the next hour in the pawnshop, examining the crime scene. The layout of the building was more conducive to a retail operation than it was to security, with separation between the front and back areas and no line of sight available.
“It seems that Carroll was back here, sitting at this desk,” Clive noted. “The killers, we’re pretty sure it was the two men who’d come into the shop earlier, must have come back from the showroom area, picked up the shotgun, attached the suppressor, loaded it and walked right over to Carroll and shot him. Then they spent a minute or two making it look like a suicide. They put the gun in his hands and staged the scene.”
“What about GSR?” asked Zeke, talking about the gunshot residue that would have been on Carroll’s hands had he pulled the trigger.
“It was there,” said Clive.
“I saw that in the file,” said Zeke. “It was the main reason the M.E. declared it a suicide.”
They must have planted it somehow,” said Clive.
“It can be transferred, actually,” said Zeke. “And fairly easily.”
Clive was listening.
“Say the shooter put gloves on before entering the rear door. Maybe cotton gloves, maybe latex, either would work. After he’s shot the victim, there would be GSR on the gun. When he puts the gun in Carroll’s hands, some of that GSR would be transferred,” said Zeke.
Clive nodded. “But not as much as if he’d shot the gun himself,” he said.
“Right. But then the killer rubs his gloved hands on Carroll’s hands, front and back, furthering the GSR transfer. And suddenly, everyone thinks it’s a suicide.”
“Do we have anything on their business? Revenues, profits, inventory…?” asked Zeke.
“Donovan pulled their financials for me,” said Clive. “It looks like they were fairly profitable, running a franchise that made money.”
Zeke looked around. “This was no suicide,” he said.
Chapter 23
Sally stuck her head in Clive’s office. “Zeke, hey, I’ve got something to share with you.”
“I’ll be right over,” said Zeke. He and Clive had been talking about the
Pawn 4 All operation, deciding on a next step.
“Let me check with Sally, and we’ll pick up here when I get back. Shouldn’t be ten minutes,” said Zeke.
“No worries,” said Clive. “It’ll give me a minute to make a quick call.”
Zeke walked a couple doors down the hall and entered Sally’s office. She was standing at a file cabinet, wearing a yellow high-collar blouse with shoulder pads, a knee-length skirt and seamed stockings. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail with a bright yellow ribbon.
“Knock, knock,” said Zeke.
When she turned to greet him, her skirt twirled. She said, “You were right.”
“I was?” asked Zeke.
Nodding, Sally said, “I talked with a friend at FBI headquarters. He checked with the Florida SAC in Miami, who had someone research it. Turns out your folks were key witnesses in the prosecution of the former sheriff, Billy Forester.”
“I met Billy Forester,” said Zeke.
Sally nodded. “The file says they were eye witnesses to him bringing drugs into the Keys on a Cigarette. One of those Go-Fast boats, I think they call them.”
Zeke nodded. “They used to be called ‘Rum Runners’ a long time ago. Did it say where or when they saw Billy?”
“I have a copy of the file here,” said Sally. “I’ll let you read through it.”
“The FBI file?” asked Zeke.
“It’s amazing what you can get when you ask,” said Sally.
“When you ask,” said Zeke, thoughtfully. “What else is in it?”
“Enough to make you head back to the Keys. I’ll book you a flight.”
* * *
Zeke walked around the house, jumped over a wire fence and stepped onto the wooden dock. He heard metallic clanking sounds coming from the interior of Billy Forester’s moored yacht.
“I’m back, Billy,” he called out.
The noise stopped, and a moment later the former sheriff stepped out on deck. He was sweaty, dressed only in dirty cargo shorts and holding a greasy wrench.
“You again,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” said Zeke. “I was just admiring your boat.”
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” said Forester, looking over his shoulder. “Probably my favorite thing in the world.”
“I know. You always seem to be working on it. Must be your passion.”
“It is that. You let yourself in?”
“The door was open,” Zeke lied.
“I told you there’s nothing to be done about your folks,” said Forester, carefully. “Why’d you come back here?” He was watching Zeke’s hands. Watching for a weapon, thought Zeke.
“Information,” said Zeke. “I got more information.”
Forester looked at Zeke. “I think you’d better leave,” he said.
“I’ll bet you do,” said Zeke. “But not yet. I have a story I know you’ll be interested in.”
Forester shrugged, obviously not concerned. He sat in one of the fighting chairs on the boat’s back deck and nodded slightly. “OK, I’m listening.”
Zeke sat on a small bench on the dock, across from Forester.
“So does the name Pablo Escobar mean anything to you, Billy?”
* * *
“You had your gang of conchs convinced that you were scaring off tourists and fishermen from the mainland. You pushed their buttons, because you knew that would keep them involved and compliant,” said Zeke.
“Why would we care?” asked Forester.
“Your gang of fishermen cared because a few years earlier the State passed a law prohibiting gill fishing. Their catch was suddenly reduced to a tenth of what they’d been bringing in, and they couldn’t pay their bills or feed their families. They were starving,” said Zeke.
“I remember that time, but I had nothing to do with the law being passed,” said Forester.
“That’s true, but it brought you all together against a common cause,” said Zeke. “And your gang was motivated to do something to make some money.”
“So?”
“And you had boats,” said Zeke. “Every one of the conch gang had a fishing boat.”
Forester said, “I’m still listening.”
“So you hooked up with Pablo Escobar, and you started using the fishing boats to bring in his cocaine,” said Zeke. “Much more profitable than fishing, right?”
Forester looked at him and yawned. “I was in law enforcement for a long time. Trouble with this story is that nothing’s been proven.”
“Right,” said Zeke. “So what happened? Did the West Wind spot one of your gang making a run? Did my folks happen across you unloading the cocaine? Or perhaps they accidentally found your warehouse? It could have been anything like that,” said Zeke.
Forester looked at him. “That’s some wild speculation,” he said, sitting forward in his chair.
“It is,” said Zeke. “I’m thinking that my dad saw something having to do with the drugs, and he called the police. But not the Monroe County sheriff’s office. He would have called the DEA. In this case, there was a joint task force of the DEA and FBI working together in the Keys to take down Escobar. It was pretty much at the height of Pablo’s power.”
Billy Forester said nothing.
“Or maybe my dad saw Escobar kill someone. It doesn’t matter, really. So, the way it happened, the Feds had my dad as a witness against Escobar. They kept him a secret, waiting for the trial, but along the way someone told Escobar about my dad and the West Wind. Maybe someone on the task force taking bribes. Or maybe it was you, Billy. That’s the kind of information that you might uncover, right?”
Billy Forester shook his head slightly, dismissing it all.
“My guess is that Escobar told you to get rid of the threat. So you enlisted your gang of conchs to blow up the boat, putting a spin on the bombing, maybe as ‘taking action against the tourists’ that your men were already mad about. And you targeted the West Wind, because Escobar told you to.”
“You have a pretty big imagination,” said Forester. “Did you come up with this all by yourself?”
“I had a little bit of help from Parks and the FBI,” said Zeke. “But I think it’s essentially true. Care to comment on any of it?”
“OK, it’s time for you to go,” said Forester. “You can’t come onto a man’s property and accuse him of something like that. That’s not right.” He was working himself up, showing some outrage, leaning toward anger. “I’ll forgive you because your parents died, but…get your ass off my property!”
* * *
“You know, you’ve seemed distracted lately,” said Tracy. “Which is a shame while we’re together in this great place.”
“I haven’t been much fun, have I?” asked Zeke.
“I wouldn’t say that. But this thing about your parents being killed…”
“Is sort of a damper. I know. And I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
“Somehow I went from needing to know, to needing closure. Once I realized what had happened, that they’d been killed, I had to do something,” he said.
“That’s just who you are, Zeke. It’s why I love you,” said Tracy.
“Hmm,” said Zeke.
“What?”
“You just sort of slipped that in there, didn’t you?” Zeke said, smiling at her.
“I did. It seemed like the right time.”
“Well, I love you, too,” he said quietly. “But you already know that.”
“It’s nice to hear, though,” Tracy said. “What are you going to do now?”
“Well, I’d be a fool not to follow you into the bedroom,” said Zeke.
“You would,” said Tracy. “But I meant, what are you going to do about your parents’ deaths?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Zeke.
* * *
“Zeke, I just received an e-mail file from a friend at the FBI. He sent a link to a live stream. Thought you’d be interested in this one,” said Sally.
> “Are you supposed to have that?” Zeke asked.
“Well, it’s a gray area…” Sally started.
“…but Clive Greene’s name lubricates the wheels of information gathering,” he said.
Sally giggled. “I’m sending it to your e-mail.”
Zeke typed in the web address and the password and opened the live stream on his laptop. The video began with a shot of Billy Forester, who was standing inside the open front door of his waterfront mansion, talking with someone standing outside.
“Look, I was in law enforcement for over thirty years,” said Billy.
The camera must have been on the visitor’s lapel. The visitor turned slightly to include his partner in the recording. Zeke recognized the man as an FBI agent.
“We know,” said the agent. He was large and black and appeared to be fit.
“What’s your name?” Forester asked the agent.
“Agent Williams,” said the large man.
“Did you play ball?” asked Forester.
“What do you think?” Williams responded.
The man with the hidden camera said, “I’m Agent Colfax. We’ll need to come in, now.”
“Well, Civil Rights and all,” said Forester. “You’ll want to get a search warrant, I think.” He smiled easily.
On the live stream, Agent Williams nodded sheepishly.
“That would be good,” said the one who’d introduced himself as Agent Colfax.
“Well, you see, Billy,” said Agent Williams, “the arrest warrant that we have here is actually better. It’s kinda like having a trump card. Open the door.”
* * *
Zeke watched through the one-way glass as Billy Forester shifted in the metal chair. Then he shifted again and smiled toward the mirror behind which there was a video camera, recording away. He yawned and sat back and twiddled his thumbs. The handcuffs made it difficult to look casual.
A few minutes later the door opened and Agents Williams and Colfax crowded into the small room. They were accompanied by a slight, young looking man wearing a white guayabera shirt and beige slacks.