Deadly Ruse

by E. Michael Helms

  Finally I found the right key and was just about to slip it into the deadbolt when the noise of crunching gravel and a car’s purring engine distracted me. In my peripheral vision I noticed there were no headlights; somebody making their way to their campsite and trying not to disturb the neighbors, I figured. Nice gesture. Just then the keys slipped from my grasp, and as I bent over to retrieve them gunfire erupted!

  Three quick rounds buzzed over my head and slammed into the camper. Instinctively I flattened myself against Mother Earth and rolled under the trailer, using what precious little cover the darkness and metal steps afforded. In a second I had the case unzipped and the Smith & Wesson in hand, pointing at the disappearing vehicle, which was now hauling ass down the gravel road toward the entrance I’d driven through moments before.

  Still no lights on the vehicle, not even a tag light. My combat training kicked in, and my finger tightened on the trigger. At the last possible instant I released the squeeze. No sense taking the chance of putting a round through a tent or RV or somebody out for a late-evening stroll. Taking several deep breaths to squelch the adrenaline rush, I lay there a couple more minutes just in case there might be another shooter nearby waiting to take a crack at me.

  Lights were turning on all around the campground as people stuck their heads out of RVs and tents to see what the hell all the commotion was about. Two men were arguing about whether it was gunshots or fireworks they’d heard. Somebody else said it might’ve been a car backfiring. Nobody seemed to know exactly where the sound had come from.

  I stayed where I was and fished my phone out of the right front pocket of my shorts. I punched J.D.’s personal cell number that I had programmed into my phone. He answered on the second ring. “It’s Mac. Somebody just tried to take me out in front of my camper. Three shots.”

  “I’m on 98 near Gulf Grocery. I’ll be there in five. Are you hurt?”

  “Negative,” I said, just as I noticed a stinging sensation in my front left shoulder, like a pissed-off wasp had nailed me. “Check that. I might’ve taken a fragment in the shoulder. Don’t call the EMTs; it’s nothing but a scratch. Jerry and Donna don’t need this turning into a circus. Just get over here. No flashers or siren, okay?”

  “Okay, but I gotta call it in.”

  “I know. Just say a camper complained about somebody shooting off fireworks close by. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir, on my way.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Several of my temporary neighbors milled around Sergeant J.D. Owens’s cruiser as I explained to the officer that a carload of joyriding kids had hurled cherry bombs toward me from their car and then sped away. Just pranksters out for some Saturday night fun, I said. No damage done, and the kids had been careful to toss them a safe enough distance from me. “Probably just trying to see if they could make some old fart mess his pants,” I said, drawing some laughs from the crowd.

  J.D. had his clipboard out, dutifully writing down the report in the beam of the penlight clenched between his teeth. After a few minutes the people dispersed. J.D. asked Jerry Meadows, who’d walked over from the office to check out the commotion, to stay. “You need to get that light replaced soon, Mr. Meadows,” J.D. said. “It’s a hazard. Any others out that you know of?”

  Jerry nodded. “The one over by 76,” he said, pointing across several rows of sites to the opposite end of the campground. “And the one by 12’s been flickering; I think it’s about ready to go, too. Been meaning to change ’em, but it’s hard to keep up with everything needs doing these days. I’ll get a crew out here first thing Monday.”

  “Yes, sir,” J.D. said, “that’ll do fine.”

  After Jerry left we glanced around to make sure nobody was watching. We approached the camper door, J.D. carrying the clipboard to give the impression he was still filling out his report.

  “There were three quick shots,” I repeated quietly. “Sounded like a large-caliber handgun, maybe a .45 or .357. Whoever it was meant business.”

  A bullet had punched through the door about two-thirds up and near the left edge. Two more, almost side by side and lower, had cut through the camper wall between the door and the window to the left. As I turned the key to open the deadbolt J.D. let out a low whistle. “From that distance you’re lucky to be alive, Mac. You said you were hit?”

  Inside, I switched on a light and pointed to the front of my upper left shoulder where a small irregular patch of blood stained my dark-blue polo shirt. I lifted the short sleeve above my shoulder, exposing a small purplish puncture wound encircled with dried blood. “Fragment from one of the rounds, I guess. Not too deep. I’ll clean it up later.”

  A quick look around showed that the bullet through the door had traveled across the interior and smashed into the cabinet above the kitchen sink, taking out my spice rack and lodging inside a canister filled with sugar. I dug my hand into the sugar, felt around, and retrieved the mangled bullet. “Looks like a .45 to me,” I said, handing it to J.D. “You better hang on to this in case we need it for evidence later.”

  The other two rounds had punched through at just the correct angle to turn the toaster next to the stove into scrap metal. Two jagged holes scarred the wall behind. J.D. took a quick trip out back and reported that both rounds had passed through the outer wall. Good thing there was nothing but pine trees behind my site.

  I unplugged the microwave and toaster to lessen the chance of an electrical fire. All the other lights and sockets in the camper checked out okay. “I’ll patch the holes with caulk first thing in the morning,” I said. “That should take care of any neighbors who might come snooping around.”

  J.D. promised to have a car patrol the campground and Kate’s place several times throughout the night. After he left I poured myself a hefty shot of The Dalmore, the twelve-year-old single-malt I keep on hand for extra-special occasions. Surviving a drive-by ambush sure as hell qualified in my book.

  When I finished the Scotch I poured myself another and headed for the bathroom. I stripped off the shirt and poured rubbing alcohol over the small puncture, then probed the wound with tweezers. It hurt like hell, but I gritted my teeth and kept at it. Finally, I got a firm grip on the fragment and yanked it out.

  It was no larger than a fingernail clipping, but my digging had started the damn thing bleeding again. I stopped the bleeding with a wad of toilet paper, doused the area with more alcohol, squeezed some antibiotic ointment on a thick square of gauze, and pressed it over the wound. Then I secured the bandage with tape. Good as new except for the pain.

  I stayed awake keeping watch and drinking twelve-year-old painkiller in the darkened camper for a couple of hours. I finally allowed myself to stretch out on the sofa, the Smith & Wesson within easy reach, sans zippered case. I’d already decided I wouldn’t be caught with my zipper down again, or in this case, up.

  My thoughts turned to Kate. She wasn’t safe here in St. George. Somebody had screwed with her car and come close to killing her, and now they’d targeted me. Much as I missed her, I had to convince Kate to go back to her parents’ place until this crap was resolved one way or another. I knew she would pitch a fit, but this time The Fabulous Moolah would just have to leave the ring and let somebody else pin the opponent.

  I was up with the sun and had the bullet holes smoothly caulked before the campground began stirring. At seven-thirty I called Kate and invited myself over for breakfast, promising I’d cook up my self-proclaimed world-famous Mexican omelet. Who could resist that offer?

  I was there before eight with all the fixings. Kate had coffee ready when I arrived. She sat at the kitchen table and we made small talk while I concocted my masterpiece. When we’d finished eating we poured ourselves another cup of coffee and sat at the picnic table on the shaded deck out back.

  “What on earth? No way, Mac, I can’t,” Kate said when I brought up the subject of her moving back in with her parents until the case was wrapped. “I’ve got the new CR-V payments and the rent on this plac
e, not to mention my job.”

  “I can help you out if it’s the money you’re worried about.”

  Kate huffed and her eyes bore into mine. “Sorry, Mac, but I’m not playing that game.”

  The Fabulous Moolah was being stubborn. “Look, that wreck you had was no accident. Who’s to say it won’t happen again?”

  Kate looked away and sipped her coffee. “I’ll take my chances.”

  I set my cup on the table, turned on the bench, and lifted my shirtsleeve to reveal the bandage. “Somebody tried to kill me last night outside my trailer. Three shots and I barely got nicked. I’m lucky as hell to be sitting here right now. If I hadn’t dropped my keys just before they fired, I wouldn’t be.”

  The color drained from Kate’s face and her jaw trembled. She sloshed coffee as she set her cup down and covered her face with both hands. “What have I done, Mac?” she said. “What in the world have I done?”

  I slipped my arm around her shoulders. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You just happened to notice Wes Harrison at O’Malley’s that night and reacted to it. What were you supposed to do, pretend you didn’t see somebody who you thought was long dead?”

  “I wish now I had,” she said, sniffling, her face still covered.

  With my free hand I eased Kate’s hands away from her face and kissed her cheek. “It’s too late for wishing. It is what it is. You need to go back home to your parents until this is over. You’ll be safer there, and I won’t have to worry so much.”

  Kate nodded as she wiped at her eyes. “But what about my job?”

  “Give Linda or Gary a call today and tell them you need to take a leave of absence for a while. They’ll understand. School lets out next week. There’ll be plenty of teenagers looking for work.”

  A few tears trickled down Kate’s cheeks. “What if they fire me?”

  Kate had never looked or sounded so vulnerable since I’d known her. I guess this whole mess had caught up to her. I forced a little laugh to lighten the mood. “They won’t fire you. You’re way too valuable to them. That place would fall apart without you. Hundred-to-one odds say I’m right.”

  Even though it was Memorial Day weekend and the official beginning of the marina’s busy season, Linda Gillman told Kate to take all the time she needed and to not worry, just as I’d predicted. Her job would be waiting when she was ready to come back to work. I felt like Nostradamus. That afternoon I helped Kate pack for an extended stay with her parents and spent the night on the sofa at her place just to be on the safe side. We kept the outside floodlights on, I slept with one eye open, and the night passed uneventfully.

  The next day was Memorial Day. Hoping to beat the beach-going traffic, we got up early to load Kate’s new Honda. We were on our way by seven with Kate in the lead and me tailgating her in my Silverado to make sure no vehicles got between us. After stopping in Panama City Beach for breakfast, we hit the road again and arrived at the Bells’ home in Destin around eleven.

  During her previous stay at her parents’ home after leaving the hospital, Kate—with Frank’s support—had informed them about Wes Harrison and the case we were working on. Jim and Mary Bell had tried their best to persuade their hardheaded daughter to stay in Destin, to no avail. They were pleased that I’d had the fortitude and patience to convince Moolah she would be safer at home with them rather than exposing herself to unnecessary risks in St. George. Brownie points for me.

  Pleading that I was still full from breakfast, I declined an invitation to stay for lunch, said my good-byes, and headed for downtown Destin and a meeting I’d arranged with Frank during the drive over. “How quick can you get your hands on the diamonds Kate found?” I said when we were seated inside his office.

  Frank took off the glasses he’d been using to read the newspaper. “Anytime, as long as the bank’s open; meaning tomorrow morning at the soonest. Why?”

  “Spence-Ramey Investments. How would you like to buy your way into the company as an investor?”

  “And just why would I want to do that?”

  “Spence-Ramey is part-owner of the casino and resort. Alice Spence has been seen there at least twice coming out of their offices. If you were an investor you could sit in on the meetings and maybe get some inside info on what they’re up to. You might even run into our elusive Mr. Harrison. My source thinks she may have seen him around there, too.”

  “Just who is this source, Mac?”

  “Will you be pissed if I don’t say? She works at the casino, and I don’t want her to wind up in the grinder if something slips.”

  “No, but how do you know she can be trusted?”

  “My manly intuition says so.”

  Frank’s eyes narrowed. “So I just walk up, knock on Alice Spence’s office door, hand her the bag of diamonds, and say I want in? You know they’ll have me checked out.”

  “How hard would it be for you to assume an alias with the help of your buddies at the sheriff’s department?”

  Frank massaged the bridge of his nose. “It could be arranged. ID, background, the works.”

  “Good. So, you tell Alice Spence you’re a widower who’s retired from the Okaloosa Sheriff’s Department and looking for a way to invest your life’s savings. Once they find that checks out chances are it’ll stop there, especially if you warn your contacts at the department not to mention the PI business.”

  “And what happens if they somehow do find out I’m a PI? You’ve been flashing my card around, remember?”

  “You’ll have an alias. But if they were to find out, my guess is they’ll say, ‘Sorry, Mr. Doe, but we don’t feel you’re a good fit for our company.’ I doubt they’ll want to stir up the shit stew by messing with an ex-cop who’s snooping around.”

  “My life savings can’t be a bagful of diamonds.”

  “No, but I think I know where I can get the money if we put the rocks up as collateral.”

  Frank snorted. “And just where might that be?”

  “Sheriff Bocephus Pickron.”

  “Are you nuts, Mac? Where the hell would a small county sheriff’s office get that kind of money, even if he was to agree to the deal?”

  “Remember the drug bust at Barfield Fisheries last summer? I’d wager after the Feds took their cut on the trucks transporting across state lines, there was enough in confiscated property for the county to more than cover the million you’d need to buy into Spence-Ramey. Besides, Pickron owes me and he knows it. Don’t forget that Maddie Harper was his niece.”

  “What happens to the diamonds if Pickron agrees to put up the million and I do buy in? How are we going to get our hands on the cash to pay Pickron back?”

  “The diamonds are unclaimed property, right? Besides your retired FBI buddy and us, nobody knows they exist except for the old Destin gang, if they’re even still alive. None of them are likely to come forward to make a claim. You might be able to recoup the million by selling your partnership to a third party. If not, Pickron could keep the diamonds. I’m sure he could find a use for them.”

  “You’re forgetting Katie. She might very well have a claim to some of the cut stones eventually.”

  “I’ll have a talk with her. My guess is she’ll be willing to go along with the program if it helps solve this mess.”

  Frank scratched at his chin stubble. “It just might fly. When do we move?”

  I got up to leave. “I’ll let you know after I have a little face-to-face with Bocephus.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Back in St. George and with Kate safely tucked away at her parents’ house, I decided it was time for a little vacation. Bo Pickron could wait a few days. With the huge crowd down for the holiday I knew he’d be busy, and I had other priorities. I leafed through the phone book, found the listings for Palmetto Royale Casino & Resort and called the resort’s reservation desk.

  “Yes, sir, we do have a few rooms still available,” a sweet voice informed me. I damn near dropped the phone when she told me it would cost two hundred and
fifty bucks a night. What the hell; if there was a chance to find out more about Alice Spence and Wes Harrison, and possibly who had tried to take out Kate and me, it was worth it. The cost did include full use of the facilities, a complimentary half-hour massage at the spa, and a continental breakfast each morning. Who could pass up all that for a few measly bucks? Thank the powers that be for plastic.

  I booked the room for that Thursday, Friday, and Saturday under my middle name, Andrew. I’d have to take my chances on McClellan because this little thousand-dollar R&R was going on my Visa card. I made a mental note to enjoy breakfast to the max each morning during my stay.

  I spent the last day of May and the first of June relaxing and fishing off the bay side of Five-Mile Island. Thursday around noon I drove to the airport north of Parkersville, parked the Silverado in the overnight garage, and rented a gray four-door Ford Fusion. With some time to kill I drove around awhile, getting used to the feel of the new wheels, and then headed for the Palmetto Royale.

  Normal check-in time at the resort was two o’clock. I arrived a half-hour early, but my room was already available. I listed my ex-wife’s North Carolina home as my address. What the hell, that was the least Jill could contribute to the cause. After all, the divorce had been her idea, and she’d wound up with what would’ve been our retirement paradise on the New River outside Jacksonville. Not that I’m bitter or anything. At least she’d agreed to keep her slippery paws off my retirement pay.