Deadly Ruse

by E. Michael Helms

  “Shit,” Alice hissed between clenched teeth.

  Just then there was a light tapping on the interior door. Alice stomped over and swung it open.

  If I hadn’t been tied to the chair I would’ve fallen out of it when I saw Dr. Lawrence Garrett walk in!

  CHAPTER 29

  “Well, if it isn’t the righteous Reverend Dr. Lawrence Garrett,” I said. “How’s the diamond-smuggling business these days?”

  Garrett stared at me with icy eyes topped by those thick, cottony brows. “Mr. McClellan, I heard you were honoring us with your presence this weekend. To be quite honest with you, the governments have clamped down on the diamond trade the past few years and have made things a bit more difficult. We’ve had to adjust our business model somewhat to accommodate the new circumstances. But thank you for asking.”

  “Hmm, no more diamonds, huh? What’re you swindling the natives out of nowadays?”

  Alice started to chime in, but Garrett raised a hand to stop her. “We’ve managed to make many sound investments with the means the Lord has blessed us with that continue to provide for the well-being of those we’ve been led to serve. I consider it a privilege and honor to be able to continue shepherding these worthy souls with what God has so richly provided, both spiritually and materially.”

  I laughed out loud. “You know, Garrett, you take the proverbial cake, no pun intended. You are by far the most pompous and disgusting hypocrite I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting in my entire life.”

  Garrett reached inside his coat, and for a second I thought he was pulling a weapon. Instead, he produced a pocket-sized Bible. “Are you right with the Lord, Mr. McClellan? I would hate to know you entered eternity with your soul still in the clutches of Satan.”

  This guy was certifiably nuts and belonged in a loony bin, but I didn’t have very many options except to buy more time by keeping him entertained while I hoped for a miracle of my own. “You’ve got a lot of nerve spouting your religious crap to me, Garrett. It’s you who’s exploited the poor people you claim to serve and lined your filthy pockets at their expense, not me.”

  Again Garrett stopped Alice from ramping up her game on me. He pulled a pair of eyeglasses from a front coat pocket and put them on. “Please, allow me to read a passage from God’s sacred Word, Mr. McClellan,” he said, flipping through the pages of the small Bible. “Perhaps it will help you understand God’s will for the people we serve, and why, in the long run, we are helping these poor unfortunates rather than causing them harm.” He stopped flipping and ran a finger down a page. “Hear the words of the Apostle Paul from his epistle to the Ephesians, chapter 6, verses 6 through 8:

  Bondservants, be obedient to those who are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in sincerity of heart, as to Christ; not with eyeservice, as men-pleasers, but as bondservants of Christ, doing the will of God from the heart, with goodwill doing service, as to the Lord, and not to men, knowing that whatever good anyone does, he will receive the same from the Lord, whether he is a slave or free.”

  Garrett finished his rambling and then closed the book and bowed his head for a moment. “Does that not touch your heart, Mr. McClellan?” he said when he looked up. He returned the Bible and glasses to his coat pockets. “Do you now see that we are doing the Lord’s will for these poor creatures, helping them to continue receiving God’s plenty rather than causing them harm?”

  I laughed. “How? By stealing their diamonds?”

  “The diamonds were of no use to them, Mr. McClellan,” Garrett said, “but by using the diamonds for the greater good, we’ve been able to provide for the people’s needs and continue to shower them with the Lord’s blessings. Can you not see the Lord’s hand at work?”

  “What I see is that you’re a damn two-bit thief and a raving lunatic, Garrett. Whatever happened to the Golden Rule?”

  I turned to Alice and Harrison. “Christ on a crutch, you two don’t buy into this crap, do you?”

  Before either one of them bothered to answer there was another knock on the door. Harrison did the honors this time opening the door, but not enough that I could see who stood at the other side. “They’re ready, Mr. Weston.” It was a female’s voice and sounded a lot like Maryann, the masseuse maven. Harrison nodded and closed the door.

  He glanced at Garrett and then turned to Alice. “It’s time.”

  “Okay, untie him from the chair, but before you do, make sure his hands are still tight,” she said to Harrison. She moved back to the desk and reclaimed her perch. “You’ll be taking a little ride in a few minutes, Mac. Be cooperative and behave yourself, and you might just get lucky.”

  I believed that about as much as I believed I could put a quarter in one of the slot machines and win a million-dollar jackpot on my next try. Harrison stepped behind me and started struggling with the ropes while Garrett shuffled to one of the bookcases a few feet from where I sat and leaned against it. Harrison tugged on the ropes and let out a few expletives that I’m sure the good reverend didn’t approve of.

  “Hurry it up, Wes, we—”

  Alice never finished the sentence. With a loud bang and a blinding flash of orange the outside door burst open and something black hurtled through the doorway onto the floor. Other figures dressed in black stormed into the room and along the walls. Alice screamed and bolted for the inside door but found her escape blocked by still more black-clad cops. Garrett slipped a hand inside his coat. My gut told me he wasn’t reaching for his Bible this time. I flung myself headlong into his midsection and heard the air blow from his lungs as he collapsed to the floor with me and the chair falling hard on top of him.

  I glanced across the room just in time to see a prone Dakota roll and come up on her elbows, Glock at the ready. From the corner of my eye I saw Wes Harrison draw a pistol from under his coat and point it at Dakota. His pistol barked, but the Glock beat him by a split second. Harrison missed. Dakota didn’t.

  Harrison dropped his weapon and stumbled back a few feet until the wall stopped him. His eyes were wide with surprise, and both hands clutched his chest. Blood poured through his fingers, dyeing the front of his shirt crimson. His knees buckled, and he sat down hard. His mouth opened, and out came a guttural “uuurrgghhh” along with pinkish, frothy blood. Then his eyes rolled back in their sockets, and he slumped face-first onto the floor.

  In the confusion immediately following I saw that Dakota was still stretched out prone. What the hell was she doing here with busted ribs? The girl was tougher than I thought. I kneed Garrett in the jaw for good measure, then scrambled to my feet and rushed to her side, chair and all. A chill ran through me; maybe Harrison hadn’t missed his target after all. Somebody wearing black stopped me and quickly cut me free of the chair. Alice Spence was already handcuffed and sitting in a chair next to the interior door. Sheriff Pickron sat on the edge of the desk with his arms folded, facing her. A paramedic was attending to Lawrence Garrett. I hoped I’d broken the hypocrite bastard’s jaw and a couple of ribs to boot. Another officer was bent over Wes Harrison checking for a pulse, but I’d seen enough center-chest shots in Iraq to know he’d most likely already bought the farm.

  To my immense relief Dakota moaned and said something, but with all the commotion my name was the only clear word I caught. I knelt down and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Where are you hurt?”

  “Where the hell do you think, McClellan? Every-friggin’-where. Now, would you please help me up like I asked you to? And don’t bleed on me.”

  I looked down and saw that a few drops of blood had dripped from my nose and splattered near Dakota’s face. I grinned. Good old Dakota, back to her sharp-tongued, witty ways. I eased my hands under her shoulders as carefully as I could so she wouldn’t accuse me of sexual assault. “Try to roll and sit up when I lift,” I said.

  She groaned and directed a few choice words at me, but we got the job done. “Now, put your arm around my shoulder and lean into me.” She winced as she sl
id an arm around my neck. I supported her back with one arm and slipped the other underneath her knees. “Ready? Here we go.” I braced my foot against the polished tile and stood, trying to be as smooth and easy as I could as I lifted her off the floor. She grabbed my shoulder and dug her nails hard into it against the pain. I carried her across the room to the desk and eased her down onto the plush swivel chair behind it.

  Dakota’s eyes were shut tight. A single tear leaked from one of them and traced down her cheek. I pretended not to notice and backed away as a female paramedic moved in and began examining her. After several minutes she handed Dakota a couple of pills and a bottle of water, and then turned to me and smiled. “She’s a tough girl. She’ll be fine.”

  I’d seen my share of suffering and death during combat with the Marines, and I considered myself to be pretty damn hard-core. I don’t know what came over me then, but I was suddenly fighting back tears of my own. Just as I was brushing them away, Dakota glanced at me. “Jeez, McClellan, what’re you crying about? We rescued your ass, didn’t we?”

  My throat was tight, and I couldn’t speak right away. In less than a year I’d been saved from impending doom by young J.D. Owens and now his cousin, Dakota. I knelt beside her, swallowed hard, and managed to put on a smile as my throat finally unclenched some. “You Owens kids are something else, you know that? You’ve saved my bacon twice in a year.”

  Dakota gave her head a slight turn, flashed the Elvis snarl, and glared at me. “I am not a frigging’ kid, McClellan!”

  I took a deep breath, let it out slowly and shook my head. “No... no, you sure as hell aren’t a kid, Dakota Blaire Owens. You’re my friggin’ hero.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Over the next few days precious few bits of info leaked out about what had gone down at the Palmetto Royale Casino & Resort. I had Dakota to thank for what I learned that hadn’t been released directly to the media.

  Dillon, last name Drew, had glanced my way just in time to see me being escorted away from the tiki bar by what turned out to be one of the two Atlanta bruisers Alice hired to do her dirty work. Her suspicions aroused by my flirting, Dillon immediately slipped the bill from her pocket and read the note. She then threw caution to the wind and tailed us until she saw me get hammered and dragged through the doorway. She grabbed her cell phone and called 911, who in turn alerted the sheriff’s department.

  Pickron immediately notified Dakota (a promise she’d coerced him into making) to see if she wanted in on the action and then scrambled his forces outside the Palmetto Royale. A squad of investigators dressed in tourist attire targeted the building and the door from the info Dillon had given the 911 dispatcher. Pickron then moved his forces to a staging position while the plainclothes officers sealed and cleared the surrounding area as unobtrusively as possible. When the all-clear was given the cavalry mounted up. They used a shape charge to blow the door. The rest, as they say, is history.

  Wes Harrison was dead, and Alice Spence and Dr. Lawrence Garrett and company weren’t exactly being paragons of cooperation. Alice had quickly contacted her topnotch team of lawyers—longtime friends and business associates of the Ramey family—to do their talking for them. One of the goons had mentioned being hired by “some lady in Atlanta” but then recanted his story and was now claiming that he was tricked into saying it by sheriffs’ investigators. The two men flatly denied any knowledge or involvement in the death of Caitlin Medlin or the disappearances of Whit Coleman and Summer Tyson. They also pleaded innocent to having anything to do with rigging Kate’s car or trying to snuff me with the .45 at the campground.

  As far as Rachel Todd and Eric Kohler were concerned, Alice and Garrett insisted that poor Rachel had perished in the plane crash somewhere in the dense jungles of South America, and Kohler had died with Robert Ramey when the explosion caused Ramey’s vintage Chris Craft to founder and capsize in the heavy seas kicked up by the squall.

  Miraculously, Wes Harrison was blown free of the vessel, and when he came to, found himself clinging to a large ice cooler that had been aboard. Adrift for two days, he was finally rescued by a passing Mexican fishing boat and arrived in the town of Progreso on the Yucatán coast when the vessel returned to port.

  Having suffered a fortuitous loss of memory, and with no identification on his person, Harrison had escaped the questioning and clutches of the authorities. Local doctors did what they could for his mangled face. Harrison eventually made his way to the Cayman Islands where skilled plastic surgeons put the finishing touches on his face in a series of operations. And he assumed the name Russell Weston, a convenient leftover from his memory bank.

  Of course I wasn’t buying any of their BS, and I had one hot ace up my sleeve to prove they were lying. I talked Dakota into showing Sheriff Pickron the satellite photo of the Ramey estate I’d downloaded early in the case. In that photo, dated 2009, there was an outdoor Jacuzzi located a few yards from the swimming pool. When I’d snooped around the back of Alice’s house on my second trip, the fancy statue of Neptune riding his three water-snorting steeds stood where the Jacuzzi had been located.

  “Dig there,” I insisted, “and you’ll find the body of Robert Ramey.”

  To my surprise Pickron was impressed enough to contact the Fulton County authorities, and the statue was removed and the foundation excavated. After digging down several feet past the last traces of concrete, plumbing, and reinforcing steel, nothing was discovered but bucketfuls of red Georgia clay.

  Oops.

  Turns out Alice had been on a business trip to Kansas City, Missouri, and saw the original statue there at some big plaza. She did her research, found where she could buy a smaller replica, and had it shipped and installed. That fiasco did little to enhance my relationship with Sheriff Bocephus Pickron. I started to suggest they contact the proper authorities on Grand Cayman and start digging around Alice and Harrison’s compound. On second thought I decided it would be wiser to keep my trap shut on the matter.

  The diamonds and paperwork Kate had discovered were turned over to the FBI, and it was likely that a decision as to whether or not she had a legal claim to some of them was probably several months if not years away. Oh well, honesty is its own reward, or so they say.

  Because the diamonds were in Kate’s possession via her relationship with Wes Harrison, and because the two had been friends with Eric Kohler at the time of the boating incident, Kate would likely be called as a witness in the case if it went to trial. Money talks, an assistant DA reminded me off the record, and Alice Spence had plenty of it to ply her pack of slick-talking attorneys.

  On a brighter note, I presented Dillon Drew with a check that would more than cover the expenses for her and Tyler’s move back to her parents’ home in California. I didn’t think she was in any real danger around these parts since the raid, but one can never be too sure. At first she balked about taking the money, but I told her it was a reward from the management of Hightower Investigations for helping solve the case and saving the life of its most valued employee.

  I don’t think Dillon bought it, but it did earn me some kind words about there still being decent and trustworthy men in this world, plus another nice kiss on the cheek. All in all, not a bad deal.

  Finally, the Bible-thumping “I told you so!” crowd scored a major victory—at least temporarily—when authorities shut down all operations at the Palmetto Royale Casino & Resort. And with all the brouhaha that followed about the evil sin of gambling for filthy lucre begetting the even more vile sins of drug trafficking and rumored prostitution, it seemed highly unlikely the county fathers would allow the doors to reopen in the foreseeable future. Never mind the loss of thousands of bucks in annual revenue along with a few hundred jobs. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Hallelujah, and pass the bingo cards.

  A few weeks later Kate and I were sitting on a secluded area of beach watching the sun slowly sink toward the horizon. Gulls laughed and wheeled on the late afternoon thermals, and a cool onshore breeze cut the d
ay’s lingering heat.

  It was a celebration of sorts. I’d finally completed all the coursework and passed the required tests with semi-flying colors, and was now the proud holder of an official Class “CC” private investigator’s license from the state of Florida. Which meant that I would have to intern under Frank’s tutelage for two years before being eligible to apply for my own Class “C” license and branch out on my own, if I so chose. To commemorate the auspicious occasion, Frank presented me with a set of my very own business cards. A nice enough gesture, but I was hoping for a case of Dewar’s or at least a gold watch.

  Kate had made small fancy sandwiches and an assortment of raw vegetables, fruits, and dips. Since returning from Destin she’d been on a health kick and was encouraging me to go along with the program. I’d brought a cooler of Michelob, light and regular, and a flask filled with The Dalmore. This was a celebration, after all. When it came down to specifics, liquid bread wasn’t all that lacking in nutrition. That was the reasoning I presented to Kate, and I was sticking to it.

  Kate washed down a bite of cucumber and bean sprouts sandwich with a sip of Michelob Light. “Do you think Eric and Rachel could still be alive?” It was a question she’d brought up more than once as the wheels of justice in the case continued to speed along like a snail through wet concrete.

  “Travis Hurt and Rachel, you mean.” I searched through the sandwiches, looking for one that had anything resembling meat inside. “The real Eric Kohler is buried in Arlington National Cemetery.” The salty breeze caught and lifted Kate’s hair as she stared out toward the west end of Five-Mile Island where the gulf blended into the bay. She bit her lower lip and nodded.

  “Anything’s possible, Kate, but my guess is they’re both dead.”

  I had explained till I was blue in the face how I believed things boiled down. Sometime after Robert Ramey grew suspicious that some type of hanky-panky was going on with his diamonds, he, his lover Eric Kohler (for the sake of keeping things simple), and Wes Harrison set out together for a supposed fishing trip. While at anchor, a strong squall developed, making the premeditated job that much more plausible. Kohler and Harrison killed Ramey, weighted down his body, and sent him to Davy Jones’ Locker. They allowed gasoline fumes to build up in the engine compartment and cut the anchor line. One of them hit the starter and followed the other overboard wearing lifejackets. The fumes ignited with a bang, and the old Chris Craft caught fire, took on water, and eventually capsized in the rough seas.