“On the bill? Two of my men are dead and you just want me to put them on the bill?”
“Yeah. They’ll be paid for.”
“Both Royal and Hamilton got away without a scratch.”
“I told you to kill them.”
“I tried. Put some of my best men on it. I think Royal got lucky.”
“Where are they now?”
“The county morgue, I guess,” said the man on the phone, mumbling.
“No, you dumbass. Royal and Hamilton.”
“I don’t know. I guess they went back to Longboat Key.”
“You find them. If they’ve gone to ground, get the girl, Marie whatever her name is. Hamilton won’t let anything happen to her.”
“Okay.”
“You’re probably not going to get that bonus for fucking this one up today.”
“But I lost two men.”
“You’ve got others.” He hung up. Sat back in his chair.
God, he was surrounded by stupid people. The Sarasota Police Department’s computer had been easy to crack. He knew from the start that Hamilton was in the hotel hideout, but the cops didn’t know who they were dealing with. He was just smarter than most anybody else in the world. He ought to get a Nobel Prize or something.
Except that nobody knew who he was. He was known throughout the southeast simply as “The Hacker.” Hard men bought his services, paid him in cash or wire transfers to his Cayman Islands bank account. He had never come to the attention of law enforcement. He knew this because he trolled the computers of all the agencies on a regular basis. No one ever knew he had been there.
He’d been contacted by his client in this case in the usual way. An e-mail to an account that went through several foreign servers before landing in the one he used in Germany. It would be almost impossible to trace him. When he finished one job, he waited for the next. He lived simply, didn’t really need money, but enjoyed watching his stash grow. Maybe someday he’d move to an island, maybe buy one for himself and live there alone. He didn’t need people, didn’t really like them much, was uncomfortable in their presence. Yes, an island would do just fine.
Most of his work was simply finding somebody. It was usually someone that some very bad people needed to get rid of. All he had to do was point his client in the direction of the people he found and his job was over. He never knew what happened to those he put the finger on. And he didn’t care.
Sometimes, like in this case, muscle was needed. The Hacker had established a working relationship with a biker gang in Tampa that had affiliates in many places in the world. When he needed to do more than find someone, when his client had the money to pay to get it done, but for some reason didn’t have the resources to take care of it himself, the Hacker would call on the bikers. His anonymity was complete. He bought cell phones at Wal-Mart, paid cash for each phone and a certain number of minutes of talk time. The phone number he used was a one-time thing. When the job was completed, the phone was tossed off a bridge into the Manatee River.
Compartmentalization was the key. The Hacker never let one hand know what the other was doing. The bikers weren’t his only resource for muscle, and sometimes he needed more than one outfit to handle different aspects of the same job. If one of the operatives got caught by the law, the only people he could give up were those in his own group. It was a neat and tidy way of doing business. The Hacker was very pleased with himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Headlights turned into my street. A Longboat Key police cruiser glided to a stop in front of my house, shut down its engine, turned off its lights. I walked out to the curb, leaned down into the passenger window. Officer Steve Carey sat behind the wheel. “Hey Matt. Glad Logan’s okay.”
“Yeah. Me too. Want some coffee? I just put a fresh pot on.”
“Wouldn’t mind if I do. It’s going to be a long night.”
“Come on in. Logan’s brewing the joe.”
I stuck Abraham’s letter in my pocket as we walked to the front door. We sat at the kitchen table and sipped our coffee, talking quietly about the day’s events. Logan and I had known Steve for a long time. The year before, when one of our friends had been ill, Steve had taken vacation days to drive him to the hospital and doctor’s offices for treatment. He was a good cop, a quiet guy, compassionate and helpful to all who knew him. This past fall, the local Kiwanis club had named him officer of the year.
Have you met the new detective?” I asked Steve.
“No, but I hear she’s hot.”
“Pretty much,” said Logan, “but she’s a hard-ass.”
“Well,” said Steve, “I don’t think that’ll be a problem for me. She’s too old.”
I laughed. “It’s all in perspective, Steve. What are you? Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-four. I’d better get back outside. I’m supposed to be keeping you guys safe.”
“You can stay here,” I said.
He laughed. “Not a chance. The chief would bust my balls if he thought I wasn’t out there in the car standing guard. Gotta go.”
After Steve left, I pulled the letter from my pocket. “Logan, I need to bring you up to date on something. Do you remember Abraham Osceola?”
“I never met him, but I know he’s the guy who helped you out down in the Keys last spring. Is that the same one the police talked to at my place on Saturday?”
“That’s him. I talked to Marcia, over at my condo. Abraham came there looking for me on Friday, just before he showed up at your place. Marcia told him that I was out of town, but that you might know how to get in touch with me. She gave him your address. He probably went to your house trying to find me. Later that night, somebody bashed in his head at one of those cheap motels over on the Trail.”
“So you think that’s connected to somebody taking a shot at me?”
“Probably. I’m guessing that the bad guys had your apartment staked out in case you came home. If they figured out you weren’t dead, they’d probably think you might be treated and released. They could have followed Abraham to his hotel.”
“So he never contacted you?”
“No. But tonight I found a letter in my mailbox from him.”
Logan looked at the envelope in my hand. “Open it and let’s see what it says.”
I took the letter out of the envelope. There was one page that looked as if it had come from a copy machine. The writing was in black ink, a tight cursive, very legible. It read:
My dear Matthew,
I hesitate to bring my troubles to you, but I have nowhere else to turn. I tried to retain a lawyer in South Florida to help me, but he seemed baffled by the whole legal process. I hope you can help.
I have discovered a secret that will make my people rich beyond their dreams. As you know, the Seminole tribe is getting wealthy from its gambling enterprises, but we Black Seminoles have no part in those affairs. We are still poor and living mostly on Andros Island in the Bahamas.
I will need legal counsel to perfect our claim. I am in hopes that you will be able to assist me upon your return from holiday. You may reach me at the Jensen Motel on North Tamiami Trail in Sarasota.
Your faithful friend,
Abraham Osceola
“What the hell is that all about?” Logan asked.
I shook my head. “No clue.”
“You don’t think it’s buried treasure?”
“I doubt it. Abraham is a smart, shrewd man. I don’t think he’d go off after some kooky idea of buried treasure.”
“I wonder if this has something to do with the people who’re after us?” Logan asked.
“If it is, then Abraham must have stumbled onto something big.”
“And real.”
“Why are the West Coast Marauders involved?”
“Damned if I know,” Logan said.
“What time does Jock get in?” I asked.
“Early. He’s renting a car and will drive out to the key. He said he’d be here for breakfast.”
&n
bsp; “No surprises there. He always eats the same thing.”
“A bowl of grits with fried eggs on top.”
“Well, he worries about his weight,” I said.
Logan stood, stretched, and yawned. “Been a long day. I’m going to bed. You got your gun handy?”
“Oh yeah. And the M-1 is in the closet in your bedroom. Locked and loaded. See you in the morning.”
I got up and followed him down the hall, turning into my bedroom. I brushed my teeth, undressed, and fell across the bed into a dreamless sleep.
TUESDAY
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I crawled out of bed, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and padded toward the kitchen. Light was just beginning to seep over the bay, a gray false dawn. There were no clouds, so the sun wouldn’t be far behind. I stood for a moment in the living room, staring outward, ever awed by the splendor of the sunrises in our latitudes. In a moment, the first arc of the sun began to peek above the mainland, painting the sky in pastels of gold and yellow and burnt orange. Tuesday, another day born, the sun a happy precursor of what might prove to be a dangerous time for my friends and me.
I put the fixings in the coffee maker, went to get the paper off the front stoop. The police car was disappearing around the corner, headed out of the village. Steve, or somebody, had stayed until dawn.
I went back to the living room to watch the day unfold from the night. I opened the sliding glass door that led to the patio, drank in the light air that blanketed the bay, the scent of the sea tickling my nose. The water was flat, without a ripple, reflecting the pastoral scene of trees that hugged the shore of nearby Jewfish Key. My boat rested in her slip, inviting in her stillness, as if she were beckoning me aboard, needing to run with the dawn, like a good horse in an open pasture, just for the hell of it. I was sorely tempted. But not this morning. Jock would be here soon, and we’d go about the dirty business of ferreting out those who would harm us.
I flopped onto my favorite lounge chair on the patio, read the paper, and sipped at my coffee. A front-page article recounted the deaths on Fruitville Road on Monday. There were few details, and the names of the witnesses, Logan and me, were not printed.
There wasn’t much else to the paper. The usual problems in the Middle East, drought in Africa, floods in Bangladesh, a terrorist cell unearthed in London. I put it down in disgust. Our little island, so isolated from those problems, was in the paper, right beside the tragedies. Sometimes, real life intrudes into our slice of paradise.
I thought about the treasure Abraham had mentioned in his letter. What could it be? Abraham was not one given to flights of fancy. At least that was my impression during our brief meeting. He was a historian of sorts, having absorbed the oral traditions of his people as he grew up on Andros Island among the descendants of the Black Seminoles who had migrated there eight or nine generations ago. He was serious about his heritage and accepting of his people’s fate. They had once, not so many years before, been known among other Bahamians as the “wild Indians of Andros.” They eked out a living fishing the flats that surrounded the northern end of Andros where their settlement, known as Red Bays, hung precariously to the northwest corner of the island.
When Abraham had been a boy, the settlement enjoyed a modicum of prosperity, brought about by the abundance of sponges in their waters. They harvested the creatures and sold them to American buyers who turned them into bathroom sponges. Then, in the 1930s, a fungal infection attacked the sponges and depleted their numbers to the extent that it was no longer feasible to harvest them. The industry died, and with it the prosperity of the Black Seminoles of Andros.
I knew that Abraham had left the island many years before and worked the fishing boats out of Key West. He was now retired and protected the traditions of his people, trying to pass them down to the newer generation. The young people of Andros, even those who still thought of themselves as Seminoles, had become assimilated into the larger Bahamian culture. They did not speak the ancient language and had little use for the ramblings of an old man who would teach them of a people who, in effect, no longer existed. But Abraham persevered.
Had he come across something that could bring prosperity to his people? It sounded that way from his letter, but what could make them rich? He said he would need legal counsel to perfect their claim. But claim to what?
I would have heard from Bill Lester if Abraham had regained consciousness, and I hadn’t. I’d call the hospital later to see if I could get a progress report. I suspected the only way I was going to learn what Abraham had found was if he told me. And he’d have to survive a nasty head wound to do that.
I didn’t practice law anymore. I wasn’t sure that Abraham had understood that. I’d told him in our one meeting that if I could ever be of help to him on Longboat Key, to give me a call. I hadn’t meant legal help. In fact, I don’t think I meant much of anything. My comment was more of an expression of gratitude for the help he’d given me. I had not expected to ever see him again, but I would have gladly entertained him and put him up had he come my way. It never occurred to me that Abraham would need legal help, or that he would think I could provide it.
I heard her before I saw her. A powerful go-fast boat coming up the Intracoastal. She came into view rounding the head of Jewfish Key, not slowing for the no wake signs that guarded our lagoon. She turned north, running in close to shore on my side of the water. A shiver went up my spine, a memory of another go-fast with a rifleman tugging at my consciousness. I’d been here before, a little déjà vu, but in another time and place. That day, I’d been jogging on the beach when somebody took a potshot at me. I’d survived.
Clarity sometimes comes in a flash, quick and bright and serious. I knew in that moment that somebody in that boat was going to try to kill me. I rolled out of the lounge, wishing for the pistol I’d left on my night-stand. But it wouldn’t have helped. The boat slowed, came off plane, settled in the water, making way slowly. A man rose from the passenger seat, stepped back behind the driver. He lifted a weapon to his shoulder. It took me a moment to recognize it. An RPG. Rocket Propelled Grenade. Enough explosive to take out a helicopter, or my house. He was bringing the launcher into position, pointing at my patio, his face split by a grin, ghoulish in its intensity. The driver was giving me the finger. My senses sharpened, as they once did in jungles filled with the enemy. My eyes bored in on the man with the launcher. His finger was tightening on the trigger mechanism. He was about to blow me to hell.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The man was dressed in scrubs, those blue loose fitting clothes that are ubiquitous in hospitals and doctors’ offices. The shirttail was outside his pants, large pockets on either side, a place for stethoscopes and other tools of the medical trade. A gauze mask hung from his neck, a cloth cap the same color as the clothes covered his hair. He wore glasses, was clean shaven, tall, lanky, and nondescript. A name tag pinned to his shirt identified him as Morgan Thomas, M.D.
He walked with purpose through the lobby, took the elevator to the fourth floor. He ducked his head as he passed the nurse’s station. No one paid any attention to him. Just another doctor visiting patients before office hours, a running start on the day.
It was early and the shift change was taking place. The day shift taking over from the night crew. All the floor staff were gathered at the nurse’s station, going over charts, bringing the day people up to date on what had happened overnight. Soon the lab techs would be coming to the floors, taking blood samples, getting ahead of the kitchen personnel who would bring breakfast.
A nursing assistant came out of a room carrying a bedpan, a towel placed discreetly over it, walked toward the doctor, spoke to him. The doctor nodded, a man preoccupied with his mission, bringing his life-saving skills to patients in need. The halls were quiet. A public address system broke the silence, paging Dr. Bromley. Then, quiet again, the only sound that of footsteps on polished floors.
The doctor approached the room in which Abraham Osceola
lay. A Sarasota policeman sat in a chair beside the door. He stood as the doctor approached.
“Good morning,” said the doctor.
“Good morning, sir.”
“I’m here to have a look at the patient.”
“I have to see your ID, sir.”
“ID? I’ve just come from surgery. I don’t carry ID in these clothes. Look at the name tag.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor. I can’t let you in without some identification.”
The doctor exploded. “I’m his fucking doctor, officer. I’m trying to save his life.”
The policeman looked discomfited, indecisive. He didn’t want to get into trouble for keeping a doctor from his patient. Still, rules are rules, and he’d been ordered by his boss to let no one in without ID, and then only those who were on his list. “I’m sorry, sir. I can only let you in if you have identification. Even if you’re on the list.”
The man in scrubs didn’t know about the list. He’d assumed no doctor would be refused admittance to the patient’s room. “Let me see that list, officer.”
The cop turned to pick up his clipboard. The doctor pulled a blackjack from his oversized pocket and hit the officer behind his right ear. The cop went down, lay still. The doctor looked up and down the hall, ready to flee if anyone came around the corner. He was alone. He reached down and grabbed the officer under the arms. He pulled him into Abraham’s room, dropped him on the floor, shut the door.
The doctor, who wasn’t really a doctor, looked around the room. The curtains were drawn, no lights on. The space was dim, silent except for the noise from monitors placed beside the bed. He had to get in and get out quickly. Somebody would be along any minute. If the cop wasn’t at the door, somebody would come into the room, puzzled, wondering why the officer had been pulled off. Then there would be alarms sounding all over the hospital. He moved quickly, taking a small caliber pistol from his pocket. A silencer was affixed to the barrel of the gun. He would finish this quickly. One shot to the head, between the eyes, and the smart-ass Bahamian would be dead. He’d be out of the room before anybody came. If the alarm were raised, he’d keep moving, get lost in the confusion. Just another tired doctor leaving the hospital for home. The man moved toward the bed, the pistol held in front of him, his finger lightly caressing the trigger.
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