Loitering with Intent sb-16

by Woods, Stuart

32

  STONE SAT THINKING , picking at his enormous breakfast. Dino, untroubled, was stuffing his down.

  “All right,” Dino said, pausing for a sip of coffee, “what’s on your mind?”

  “Doesn’t it bother you that it was real hard for us to find Evan in Key West, but an assassin found him from a standing start in less than twenty-four hours?”

  “It’s certainly interesting.”

  “I mean, you and I were pretty good cops, weren’t we?”

  “I still am. I’m not so sure about you.”

  “Tommy bothers me, too.”

  “Tommy?”

  “A cop like Tommy in a town this size ought to know everybody moving, but he had a hard time with Evan.”

  “Have you forgotten that Tommy put a finger on Evan fi ve seconds after you mentioned his name? At the Marquesa restaurant?”

  “Oh, yeah. I take it back.”

  “And he’s been nothing but helpful ever since.”

  “You’re right; Tommy’s a great guy, and he’s been nothing but helpful. My mind’s a little fuzzy, that’s all. Lack of sleep.”

  “Too much sex,” Dino said. “It always wears you down.”

  “It does not,” Stone protested. “I thrive on it.”

  “You’ve been eating like a pig ever since we got here. Gained any weight?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’d say you’ve lost a couple of pounds,” Dino said. “It’s the Swede; she’s sapping your life force.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Otherwise, why would you let Evan Keating hire you in about a second?”

  “An excuse to stay here for a few days. The money’s good, too.”

  “It smells funny,” Dino said, and he took a big bite of an English muffin.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “What could he possibly have for you to negotiate?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s buying a house or something.”

  “He’d hire Jack Spottswood if he were buying a house, or somebody else local who knows the market. You’d be useless.”

  “I can read a contract.”

  “But what’s to negotiate? And why the hell isn’t Evan getting his ass out of Key West? He didn’t go when you warned him, and now he’s been shot, nearly killed, and he’s still hanging around. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I guess he has some unfi nished business.”

  “The guy is in line for whatever a third of eight hundred million bucks is, and he’s got business in Key West? What does he need with business here?”

  “All right, it’s screwy. I’ll give you that.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “It’s also intriguing, and I want to see how it plays out.”

  “Well, while it’s playing out, I hope you don’t end up between Evan and whoever took that shot. From what Tommy says, it was a damn fine shot, and if the guy left the rifle there, it only means that he’s got something else to shoot with.”

  “I like the private airplane thing,” Stone said.

  “It’s one way to travel.”

  “It’s an ideal way to travel, if you don’t want your luggage X-rayed or searched,” Stone pointed out. “After all, it’s how you and I got here armed.”

  Dino stuffed the last piece of sausage in his mouth. “Okay, you want to go to the airport, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then let’s do it; we’ll sleep later.”

  STONE AND DINO walked into Island City Flying Service, the fixed base operator for private aircraft at Key West International. Stone could see his own airplane through the window. They found Paul DePoo, who ran the place, and introduced themselves.

  “What can I do for you?” DePoo asked.

  “Can I see a list of all the private airplanes that’ve landed here in the past twenty-four hours?” Stone asked.

  DePoo handed him a clipboard that held two sheets of paper.

  “That’s yesterday’s landings,” he said. “We haven’t had anything today yet; it’s still early.”

  Stone looked through the list slowly, eliminating the jets and big twins.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “One guy in a light aircraft, probably a single, some luggage, maybe something like a shotgun case.”

  “Nobody comes to Key West to hunt,” DePoo said.

  “Then a shotgun or rifle case would make him stand out, wouldn’t it?”

  DePoo picked up a phone and punched in an extension. “You see anybody come in here from an airplane yesterday carrying something like a rifle or shotgun case?” He laughed. “You’re kidding!

  What’s the tail number?” He jotted something down and hung up.

  “How about that? There was such a guy.” He ran a finger down the list on the clipboard. “There’s his tail number; he’s one Ted Larson, from Fort Lauderdale.”

  Stone looked at the clipboard. “Can you access the FAA list of registered aircraft from your computer?”

  “Sure,” DePoo said. He went to the website and typed in the tail number. “Cessna 182 RG, 1984 vintage, registered to a Frank G. Harmon, Sarasota.”

  “Can we take a look at it?” Stone asked.

  DePoo looked at the clipboard. “We hangared it for him, come on.” He got up and led Stone and Dino out of the building and across the tarmac to a big hangar containing half a dozen airplanes of different types.

  “That’s it,” Dino said, pointing to a red Cessna parked in a corner, behind two other airplanes. The three men approached the airplane.

  “Nice paint,” DePoo said. “Couldn’t be more than a year old.”

  Stone looked in the pilot’s window. “Nice interior, too—all leather. Hey, nice panel!”

  “Glass cockpit,” DePoo said. “You don’t see that on old Cessnas. This guy has spent a hundred and fifty grand on a twenty-fi ve-year old airplane.”

  “Yeah,” Stone said, “but even if he stripped it and replaced the engine and everything else, he probably only has two-fifty or three hundred in it, and a new one would cost, what, double that?”

  “About that,” DePoo said.

  “Does your clipboard say when he plans to leave?”

  “Ten o’clock this morning.”

  Dino was looking through the window into the rear seat. “Have a look at this,” he said.

  Stone looked through the window and saw an aluminum briefcase on the rear floor. “He could get four guns in there.”

  “And a silencer or two as well,” Dino said.

  “Hey, you guys,” DePoo said, “are you cops?”

  “He is,” Stone said, jerking a thumb at Dino, “and I used to be, but we’re going to need some local talent for this. Dino, will you call Tommy and tell him we think we’ve got a lock on his shooter.” Stone tried the airplane door, but it was locked. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a Cessna passkey?”

  DePoo shook his head. “No, and I’m not in the habit of breaking into customers’ airplanes.”

  “I understand,” Stone said. “Let’s wait for the local cops.”

  33

  THEY HUNG AROUND the hangar looking at airplanes for the half hour it took Tommy to get there.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  Stone crooked a finger. “This way.” He led Tommy to the corner of the hangar and the bright red Cessna. “The guy who flew this in yesterday carried a shotgun or rifle case and gave a name different from the registered owner of the airplane. Also, if you’ll cast your eye toward the rear floor, there’s an aluminum case commonly used to carry handguns.”

  “Okay,” Tommy said, “now what?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought you might like to get a search warrant.”

  “On what evidence?” Tommy asked. “The guy hasn’t done anything illegal.”

  “Maybe he stole the airplane, since it isn’t registered in his name, which he gave as Ted Larson, of Fort Lauderdale. The registered owner is one Frank G. Harmon, of Sarasota.”

&nbs
p; “Maybe he borrowed it or rented it.”

  “This airplane has had a ton of money spent on it; it’s not the kind of thing an owner would lend to a friend, let alone rent out.”

  “Come on, Stone, how many times have you stood in front of a judge and been told to take a hike? I don’t like to do that around here, because I get the same judge or two every time I go for a warrant, and I want to protect my reputation for having real evidence.”

  “Tommy, you’ve got an assassin in your town.”

  “Yeah, and if I arrest him, I want to get a conviction, not get the case thrown out for an illegal search.”

  “He’s scheduled to leave at ten this morning,” Stone said. “You want to stick around and see what he has to say for himself?”

  “Sure, I’ll do that.”

  “You fellows want some coffee?” Paul DePoo asked.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Tell you what,” Paul said, “I won’t pull his airplane out of the hangar; that’ll delay him for half an hour while we move the two others blocking him.”

  They all walked back into the air-conditioned building and got coffee.

  “Are you guys always this lucky?” Tommy asked. “’Cause I’m not. You stroll into an airport hangar a few hours after a shooting and find a guy who landed with a rifle case and a handgun case in his backseat? That never happens to me.”

  “Then you’re not working hard enough, Tommy,” Dino said. “I find that the harder I work, the luckier I get.”

  “Just how much work have you done this morning, Dino? You and Stone had a chat over breakfast and decided to amble out here? That kind of work?”

  “There’s a certain amount of instinct involved, too,” Dino said, blandly.

  Tommy burst out laughing. “It’s a pity vaudeville is dead,” he said. “You’d make a great duo on the stage.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Stone pointed out.

  “You didn’t need to; I was supplying all the straight lines.”

  DePoo’s desk phone rang. “Yes? Did he mention what hotel he’s in? Okay, thanks.” He hung up. “This Ted Larson, or whoever he is, just called and said he’d be staying a day or two longer.”

  “Please ask her to describe the man,” Stone said. DePoo called back to the desk, asked and hung up. “White guy, middle-aged, medium height and weight, wearing a yellow baseball cap.”

  “Well,” Tommy said, “I choose not to wait for him to show up or to institute a manhunt for a guy answering that description. Paul, will you call me the minute he shows up?”

  “Sure,” DePoo answered. He wrote down Tommy’s cell number.

  “Take mine, too,” Stone said, handing him a card. The three men walked outside to the parking lot.

  “You two sticking around?” Tommy asked.

  “Yeah, for a few days,” Stone said.

  “You really think you’re on to something here?”

  “Well, I guess we’ll have to wait until Evan Keating gets shot at again before we’ll know for sure. I hope he doesn’t get dead in the process.”

  “I’d put a police guard on him, if he didn’t have the lovely Gigi to watch his back,” Tommy said.

  “At least she knows how to shoot back,” Dino said.

  “Tommy,” Stone said, “do you know if Evan is being discharged this morning?”

  “Looks like he’s going to be there another day,” Tommy replied.

  “Apparently, he’s running a fever, and they’ve got him on intravenous antibiotics. Best guess now is tomorrow. My uniformed guy is still on him, though, so he’ll be okay.”

  “See you later, then,” Stone said, and they went to their respective cars.

  “So you want to go looking for Ted Larson or Frank Harmon or whatever his name is?”

  “What’s the point? If I were a hit man, I’d fly in here and give a false name, then register in a hotel under another false name and give anybody I met another false name.”

  “I’m glad he doesn’t know who we are,” Dino said.

  34

  STONE AND DINO went back to the Marquesa, and Stone got into a shower, thinking about the events of that morning. When he came out onto the porch, Dino was at the pool with a vividly colored drink in his hand, chatting with two young women. Stone was about to join him when his cell phone buzzed.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Eggers.”

  “Good morning. How’s it going up there? And by ‘up there’ I mean Connecticut.”

  “Well, let’s see: Eli has filed a lawsuit against Warren Keating, asking that he be barred from any participation in the sale of the company and that the disposition of the proceeds be put in Eli’s hands. That ought to keep Warren busy for a while, I guess. What’s going on down there?”

  “Warren has been busier than you think. The day before yesterday he apparently called a Miami P.I. of my acquaintance and inquired about having some slightly illegal work done.”

  “What kind of slightly illegal work?”

  “My acquaintance hung up on him before he could spit it all out, but the trend of the conversation seemed toward the hiring of somebody to kill his son.”

  “C’mon, Warren’s not that stupid.”

  “No? He’s not only stupid but fast-acting. Last night Evan Keating was shot while sitting in his boat, anchored off Key West.”

  Eggers made an odd noise.

  “That was pretty much my reaction, too.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No, just shot through a shoulder. He’s in the local hospital under police guard, in case the hit guy tries again. He should be out tomorrow, if his fever goes away.”

  “I’m having a pretty hard time getting my mind around this,”

  Eggers said. “I can’t believe Warren is that evil.”

  “You can’t? The man is under suspicion for having murdered his brother by poisoning, he locked up his healthy father in a nursing home on phony grounds, and he’s tried to cheat both his father and his son out of their rightful share of the proceeds of the business sale. Isn’t that evil enough for you?”

  “Okay, I’ll admit it. I misjudged the man. Even when I was prying Eli out of that home, I never thought Warren had poisoned his brother, but now I’ve reconsidered. I think I should go to the police.”

  “I understand the Connecticut State Police are already investigating him, and I’m sure they’ll get around to you eventually. Just sit tight.”

  “Are you coming back to New York soon?”

  “No, not for a few days. Evan has hired me.”

  “For what?”

  “He says for a negotiation, but I have no idea what that means. I intend to ask him again as soon as he’s out of the hospital.”

  “Well, I guess we’re enough legally clear of Warren for that to be all right.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Stone said.

  “Can you find out how the investigation of Warren is going?”

  Eggers asked. “You seem to have an in.”

  “I’ll ask questions of somebody who can ask questions, that’s all I can do.”

  “Keep me posted,” Eggers said, then he hung up. Stone strolled over to where Dino was sitting. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but can you call your guy in Connecticut and fi nd out what’s happening?”

  “I guess,” Dino said. “Excuse me a minute, ladies.”

  The girls tittered and wandered away.

  Dino dialed the number and put his phone on speaker.

  “Robbery Homicide.”

  “Lieutenant Dan Hotchkiss, please.”

  “This is Lieutenant Hotchkiss.”

  “Hey, Dan, it’s Dino.”

  “I could have predicted that.”

  “What did you find out about the Warren Keating thing?”

  “I found out that it’s hard to analyze the ashes of a corpse for traces of poison.”

  “You ever heard that tale about there being three common household substances—or maybe it’s two—that, when
combined, make an unanalyzable poison?”

  “Dino, how am I going to look for an unanalyzable poison?”

  “You can get a search warrant for Keating’s house and look for the ingredients.”

  “What are the ingredients?”

  “I told you, two or three common household substances.”

  “You’re a big fucking help, Dino.”

  “Well, the people who know about these things don’t like to mention the names of the substances, for fear of setting off a nationwide epidemic of dead husbands, but Warren Keating has a chemistry degree, and you know what college kids are like: Something of that sort would be talked about in lab classes.”

  “So what do I do, ask a college chemistry major?”

  “Why don’t you ask the FBI lab? If anybody knows about this poison, they would.”

  “Okay, say I call the FBI lab, or get somebody at our lab to do it, and they tell me that the three secret ingredients are toilet cleaner, bug spray and a decent Scotch. Half the people in the state have those things in their houses, so they’d be just as good for the crime as Warren Keating, wouldn’t they?”

  “Dan . . .”

  “You think a judge, a sober one anyway, would give me a warrant to search for those three items? I’ll bet the judge has them at home, too.”

  “I take your point, Dan. Now, can you tell me what, if anything, is being done in this investigation?”

  “Right now, it’s in the hands of the lab, and they won’t give me an ETA for their results.”

  “They’ve probably laid it off on the FBI lab, anyway,” Dino said.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Anything else, before I go back to fi ghting crime?”

  “There has been a development. Warren Keating may have hired a hit man to kill his son.”

  “Have you got anything more than three secret ingredients to back that up?”

  “Well, his son is in a Key West hospital with a bullet wound to the shoulder.”

  “That’s certainly an interesting development, Dino, but how do I tie that to Warren?”

  “A guy with a New England accent, like Warren’s, called a Miami P.I. I know and made inquiries.”

  “Did the P.I. recommend anybody?”