CHAPTER THIRTY
I was pinned to the deck of my patio, like a fly caught in the stickiness of flypaper. I couldn’t move, couldn’t defend myself, couldn’t ward off the death that was coming for me on a peaceful morning beside a calm bay. I watched the launcher, waiting for the shot, the rocket coming my way, bringing death. I was watching a world in slow motion, the finger still squeezing the trigger on the launcher, the rocket head glinting in the morning sun, ready to launch, a look of readiness about it, a look of evil.
A rifle cracked. Close by. The man with the launcher went over backward, blood creating a Rorschach-like blot in the middle of his chest, staining the white T-shirt he wore under a black leather jacket. The launcher went over the side of the boat.
Another crack. The boat driver had begun to turn, to look for the trouble behind him, to figure out why his buddy had fallen. The bullet caught him in the neck. A look of surprise spread over his face, blood spurted rhythmically, an arterial flow that would kill him in less than a minute. He had reflexively pulled the wheel of the boat to his right when he heard the first shot. The second shot, the one that killed him, was a second later, and the man had no time to correct his course.
I watched the blood spurt from the driver’s neck wound. He flopped over against the throttle assembly, his face now devoid of any expression, his mouth slack, eyes closed. He was dead, not a condition he had contemplated that day.
I looked behind me. Logan was standing in the open doorway to the patio, the M-1 still at his shoulder, a wisp of smoke escaping the barrel of the weapon. He took it from his shoulder, cradled it in his arms, looked at me and said, “pissants.”
Only a few seconds had elapsed since I first saw the go-fast approaching. The M-1 was a weapon I’d bought at a gun show. I’d take it to the range and fire it sometimes, zero it in, shoot at the targets, get the kick in the shoulder and remember another time when I’d gone nowhere without an M-16. The M-1 was the weapon of the Cold War, replaced as the war in Vietnam cranked up by the M-14, which was soon replaced by the M-16, the weapon I’d carried at the end of the war.
I’d kept the old rifle in the closet of my guest room, standing in the corner, the clips on the shelf. On Saturday, after Bill Lester told me somebody had tried to kill Logan, I had inserted the clip with eight .30-caliber rounds. One of the rounds automatically chambered. The weapon was ready to fire. I engaged the safety and left the rifle in the closet.
“Logan,” I said, my voice shaking with the nervous aftermath of a near death experience. “Where the hell did you come from?”
“I was bringing the rifle out to the patio. I saw it in the closet this morning and was going to ask you if I could use it at the range the next time we go. It’s in pristine condition. I saw the go-fast, the idiot with the launcher, and did what they taught me to do in the infantry.”
“You saved my life, old friend.”
“Man, this is getting to be a habit.” He laughed.
The boat was still moving slowly toward Jewfish Key. Suddenly it came to a stop. The bow had found the large sandbar that lurks off the northwestern tip of the island. The twin props were straining to push the boat farther, but it wasn’t moving. It was hard aground.
I went inside to call the police. I told the dispatcher what had happened, and in a few minutes I heard the wail of a police siren, getting louder as the cruiser neared my house. I went around front to meet the officer: Steve Carey, looking tired, haggard after a long night sitting in his car.
“I was just checking out, on my way home to get some sleep. What the hell happened?”
I told him as we walked around to the back of the house. The go-fast was still straining to push over the sandbar. It wasn’t going anywhere.
“I’ve got the boat cop on his way,” said Steve. “And I alerted the chief.”
“The rifle that Logan shot them with is in my living room. If you need it.”
“The lab guys will probably want to take a look at it. How’s Logan holding up?”
“He’s okay. He just killed two men, so he’s not exactly ecstatic, but he knew he didn’t have a choice. Had to do it.”
We walked through the patio door. “Hey Logan,” said Steve. “You okay?”
“I will be.”
“From what Matt says, you did the right thing. That RPG would’ve taken out this house and maybe a couple of others. You saved some lives today.”
“Yeah. And I also took a couple.”
“Had to be done,” said Steve.
“I know. I’ll be okay.”
Steve’s radio announced that the boat cop was coming around Jewfish and would be at our location in a couple of minutes. The chief was on his way.
We went back to the patio and watched the police boat idle up to the go-fast. A rigid-hull inflatable from the Coast Guard station at Cortez arrived at the same moment, coming from the north, skirting the sandbar. There were four Coastguardsmen aboard, weapons at the ready. They pulled in next to the police boat, looked at the bodies, and put their weapons away. The officer talked to the Coastie in charge and then gunned his boat toward my dock. The three of us went to meet him.
“Hey Matt, Logan,” the officer called as he idled into my dock. “You guys okay?”
“We’re fine,” I said. “Any idea who those guys are?”
“No, but we’d like for you to come out and see if you can identify either of them. We’ve got the CSI guy on the way, and we’ll have the meat wagon at Moore’s dock in about half an hour.”
“You guys go ahead,” said Steve. “I’d better wait for the chief.”
Logan and I clambered down into the police boat and chugged across to the go-fast. The bodies were still, one in the driver’s seat and the other slumped on the sole of the boat. The driver was a big man, totally bald, wearing black pants, black T-shirt, and black biker boots. The shooter was a smaller man wearing a scraggly beard, a diamond stud in his left ear, hair in a ponytail. He wore black trousers, a white T-shirt, black leather jacket, and white sneakers. The T-shirt bore a large read splotch of blood. His eyes were not quite closed, as if he were trying to see through slits meant to keep us from knowing he was watching.
“Do you know either of these guys?” the boat cop asked.
“No,” I said. “But the driver fits the description of a guy who hired one of the fisherman over in Cortez to abduct me on Sunday. The chief knows about that.”
“The lab guys will figure it out. You ready to go back home?”
“Let’s go,” I said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The boat cop moored his craft to my dock. I saw Detective John Kintz standing on my patio talking to J. D. Duncan.
“Logan,” said J.D., “we’d like a minute for a statement. Then we’ll need to talk to Matt.”
“Let’s go inside,” said Logan. “I never did get my coffee this morning.”
I walked around to the front of the house. There were three police cars parked in the street. Three uniformed officers were standing in a semicircle around Chief Bill Lester, the shade of an ancient Banyan tree protecting them from the sun. Bill was talking in low tones, the officers listening intently. Several neighbors stood near the street, watching, probably wondering what had happened. Cotty Johnson saw me and shuffled over, wearing the same housecoat she’d had on the last time I’d seen her.
“Matt,” she said, “I think I’m beginning to understand why you had to give up your condo. Trouble seems to follow you.” She was smiling, taking the sting out of her words.
“I hope you’re not going to insist that I move again, Cotty. I’m just getting settled in.”
“Ah, you can stay. I kinda like having you around.”
A white Pontiac turned into our street and came to a stop behind the police cruisers. The driver’s-side door opened and Jock Algren got out. He stood for a moment, surveying the crowd, a look of disquiet on his face, a man used to trouble and always ready to deal with it.
“Hey,” said
one of the officers standing near the chief. “This is a crime scene.”
Bill looked up, grinned. “It’s all right, Biggs.”
“Hey, Chief,” said Jock. “I don’t think a uniformed greeting ceremony was necessary.”
“Don’t push your luck,” Lester said. “I may have to run you off my island, yet.”
Jock laughed. I walked up and grabbed him in a bear hug. He was six feet tall, rangy the way a marathon runner is. He had a perpetual tan, a craggy face, a bald head with a fringe of black hair. He was wearing a black silk T-shirt, black slacks, black Italian loafers, black socks, and a black leather jacket. He liked to travel in black for some reason. I think he had been taken by the hero Paladin of the TV show of our childhood Have Gun-Will Travel, the one in which the lead character always dressed in black.
“I’m glad you’re here, Jock,” I said. “We’re going to need you.”
“What’s going on, podner?” he asked, his eyes sweeping the people standing around.
“Come on inside. Logan’s here. He just pulled my fat out of the fire.”
“What happened?”
“Logan killed two men who were trying to take me out.”
“Shit. Is he okay?”
“He will be. He’s inside giving a statement to the law.”
Jock stopped. “Talk to me, Matt. What happened?”
I told him the whole story, standing in the sunshine near a bougainvillea bush, its red flowers gleaming like blood. A quiet neighborhood, filled with people I knew and liked didn’t seem like a place that death would stalk on a bright spring morning. But it had. And death had come to some very bad people. It could have been me. And it would have been me if Logan hadn’t picked that very moment to walk out onto the patio armed with a fully loaded M-1 rifle.
His shots had been deadly accurate, the muscle memory of the infantry sharpshooter kicking in. I doubt that he knew he still had the ability to ping a target at thirty yards. But it was there, that ability buried somewhere like a bad memory that popped up unexpectedly. In this case, just when he needed it. When I needed it.
I talked for ten minutes while Jock listened, never interrupting. I knew he was storing it all away in his prodigious brain, sorting the facts, trying to piece together the puzzle, isolating the unknowns, and deciding how we would get the information we needed.
Bill Lester walked up as I was finishing. “Bill,” said Jock, “Good to see you.”
“You too, Jock. I’m glad you’re here.”
Jock nodded his head. “Thanks. Do you know anything about this biker gang, the West Coast Marauders?”
“Some. They’re based in Tampa, but they deal drugs all along the southwest coast. We’ve never had any problem with them on Longboat, but Manatee County has had some extensive involvement. I heard a vague rumor that they may have set up an undercover operation to infiltrate the gang last year. They rolled up a number of the members in raids, but I think the big guys stayed out of it. It might not have been an undercover thing. Maybe the cops just got lucky and I assumed it was an operation going down.”
Jock thought for a moment. “Could you get me in touch with somebody at Manatee County who would know about the operation or know something about the Marauders?”
“Big question, Jock. I can try. Matt, do you remember Detective David Sims?”
“Sure.”
“He knows all about Jock from that mess in the Keys last year. Let’s talk to him. Maybe with Jock’s government credentials they’ll loosen up enough for a conversation.”
“Will you set it up?” Jock asked.
“I’ll get back to you as soon as I talk to Sims. But I don’t want you starting a war on my island. And if you do, I don’t want to know about it.” He walked off.
“What are you thinking?” I asked Jock.
“We need to find the leader and cut him out of the pack. Maybe we can persuade him to help us find out what’s going on and why they’re trying to kill you.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said.
J.D. came out the front door and down the sidewalk toward us. She was wearing jeans and a white golf shirt. Beige boat shoes. No socks. Her Sig and her badge were on her belt, a serious look on her face, her hair in a ponytail. “Morning Matt,” she said. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Detective J. D. Duncan, this is Jock Algren, an old friend.”
They shook hands.
“Do you live here on the island, Mr. Algren?” she asked.
“I live in Houston.”
“What brings you to our key?”
“Somebody’s trying to kill Matt. I didn’t want to miss that.”
A momentary look of surprise crossed her face before she got the joke. She laughed. “You almost did. They came close this morning.”
“So I heard.”
She turned to me. “You ready for that statement?”
“Sure. You want some coffee, Jock?”
The three of us walked back toward the house just as Logan was coming out the door. He greeted Jock with a handshake and a bear hug. “Good to see you, Jock. The detective here is about to grill Matt’s ass off. Let’s go to the Market for coffee.”
Detective Kintz was waiting for us in the living room, a tape recorder on the coffee table. He stood and shook hands and we got down to the statement. J.D. was very detailed and pointed with her questions. She caught nuances and followed up on them, backtracked, asked the same question different ways at different times. She reminded me of a good lawyer boring into a hostile witness, quietly determined, searching for the truth, ferreting out the little inconsistencies that color every tale. She went over all the details of the morning’s events and of the mess out on Fruitville Road. Finally she was satisfied. Kintz followed up with a few questions and we were through.
“Any luck on identifying the dead men yet?” I asked when they’d finished with me.
Kintz shook his head. “It’s probably too early. The Coast Guard boat took the bodies over to the Moore’s restaurant dock and the coroner’s van picked them up.”
“I might know who the bald guy is,” I said. “If you can find Jube Smith over in Cortez, he might be able to identify him.”
“We’ll check it out.”
J.D. stood as I got out of my chair. She shook my hand. “Thanks, Matt. I hope I didn’t take too much time. I’m glad you’re okay.”
I held her hand for a moment longer than I should have. I tried to think of something funny to say. I wanted to hear that laugh again. Nothing came to me. It hadn’t been a funny morning.
“No problem, J.D. I’ll see you later.”
I turned and walked out of the house. I was headed to the Market.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
A uniformed Sarasota police officer walked down the hospital corridor, sipping on a cup of Starbucks coffee. He spoke to the people crowded into the nurse’s station and moved on. They were too busy for idle chitchat. The cop wasn’t looking forward to the day. Four hours of boredom, sitting outside the hospital room of a comatose man with no visitors. He was part of a rotation of officers who had drawn this duty. He would be relieved at eleven o’clock and would go back to patrol. Twenty-four hours of guard duty. Each officer assigned for four of those hours, the shifts juggled so that each cop only had to pull one hospital shift per day.
He raised the cup to his lips again, thankful for the caffeine jolt. He carried a paperback book in his other hand, a way to pass the time while he sat on the hard chair in the hospital corridor. He turned the corner into the hallway on which the comatose man’s room was located. Something was wrong. The chair beside the door was empty, a clipboard lay on the floor. No cop in sight. He checked his watch. He was right on time. No reason for the door to be unguarded. Even if the officer needed a bathroom break, a hospital security guard would be by the door. An inviolate rule. Never leave the patient unguarded. Not even for a minute.
The man in scrubs walked toward the patient in the bed, gun ready, his cold heart pumping quickly.
He’d do this fast and get out, leaving a dead body and an unconscious cop. He knew a nurse would come as soon as the briefing at the nurse’s station was finished. Come to check on the guy in the bed. He wanted to be on the move by then, blending in with the night shift as they left the hospital.
He’d planned this operation with care. The timing was careful, the plan was to get into the hospital when the employees were occupied with their duties, execute the patient, and get out. He hadn’t expected the cop at the door to ask for ID. His plan called for a quiet exit, the policeman ignorant of what had just happened in the room. He’d chuckled with delight at the thought of the hell the cop would pay for allowing the person he guarded to be murdered. God, he hated the pigs. He stood there for a moment, over the black man in the bed, satisfied with himself. He’d handled the officer, his quick thinking neutralizing a bad situation.
The relief officer stood at the door, his nerves beginning to agitate, sending signals to his brain. The adrenal glands sitting atop his kidneys kicked in, flooding his system with the hormone that activated the ancient flight-or-fight response. He became instantly aware of his surroundings, thought about calling for backup, realized he didn’t have time. He dropped his book and his coffee. He pulled his pistol, a department issued nine-millimeter Glock, a round in the chamber. He pushed the door open with his foot, his gun held in both hands in a shooting position.
The man in scrubs heard a noise at the door, a swooshing as it opened. He turned quickly, expecting to see a nurse or an assistant or maybe a doctor. He’d have to take him out, whoever he was. He’d only been paid to kill the patient, but he guessed he could throw a little pro bono work into the bargain. He turned toward the intruder, pistol held in front of him, ready to fire. But it wasn’t a nurse. It was a large man in a police uniform.
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