“Missing. Not in his office, his apartment, or his car.”
“How convenient. What about Turbot?”
“Missing also.”
“What about Turbot’s wife?”
“As far as I know, she’s okay, bubalah. I have no report on her.”
“If she’s still around, it means that the cops haven’t found his body yet. So that leaves us with Wallace. I’ll bet you’re going to make my day with the news on her.”
“Yeah. We gave her stuff a colonoscopy. There’s nothing incriminating anywhere: computer, files, brokerage accounts, the whole magilla. She’s either clean, or she’s a freaking genius at covering her tracks. Plus she’s lawyered up. Won’t give us the time of day.”
###
Clicks and buzzes as the satellite phone system found Simonetti. Then four rings. “Hello.”
“Ike, Chuck McCrary here.”
“Chuck, you have news?”
“Yeah, and it’s bad news. But you weren’t expecting good news.” I told him about my return from Mexico City with Gloria, my encounter with Wallace in her office, and the search warrant results.
“So the arsonist is missing, and the attorney who hired him is dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Do the police know what happened to that arsonist—what’s his name?”
“Hopper,” I answered.
“Hopper.”
“They’re investigating.”
“Any leads?”
“Don’t know, Ike. They’re in Houston and I’m in Port City. I told them everything I know, so they don’t need to talk to me anymore.”
“And Turbot is missing too?”
“Yeah. I think he’s dead and they just haven’t found his body.”
“You know Lorraine invited him to our wedding.”
“Yeah, you told me.”
“Frank was a nice guy—not the sort to have mob contacts. Of course people can change in ten years.”
“Lawyers meet all kinds in their practice.”
“So Lorraine denies she hired Turbot to find an arsonist?”
“She insists she had nothing to do with the arson. She says there must be another explanation for Turbot’s involvement. And she’s retained an attorney and threatened to sue me if I make the accusations public, which I had no intention of doing anyway. And there’s more bad news, Ike.”
“How much worse can it be?”
“We got the autopsy results on your father.” I waited. I hoped that my hesitating would help break the news gently.
“What were the results?”
I paused for a few more seconds. “Someone injected him with Fentanyl, which caused the final heart attack.”
There was a long silence on the line.
“So it was murder.”
“Yes.”
“Who did it, Chuck?”
“Lots of people were in and out of your Dad’s room, including Ramona and Lorraine.”
“Who do you think did it?”
“Lorraine would know how to find Fentanyl and how to use it. And Ramona has a history of husbands dying.”
“At least the cat’s out of the bag. Lorraine knows we’re onto her. So, no more secrecy.”
“Yeah, you can come home and take care of Gloria.”
“This tanks my marriage, of course.”
“Yeah.”
“I can’t go back to our house. Lorraine’ll be there. I need another place to live.”
“Doesn’t Ramona’s house belong to your dad’s estate?”
“I forgot about that. I guess I can move there. Have you told Howley and the nanny what’s going on?”
“Not yet. I told you first. What do you want me to do about them?”
“Tell them everything. Tell them I’ll be back in a couple of days. Get someone to pack up Ramona’s personal stuff and donate it to charity.”
“Some of it could be evidence the Mexican police could use.”
“Okay. You look through it and send them anything that helps their case.”
“I’d planned to invite my contact with the Mexican Police to come up here and look at her stuff.”
“Whatever.”
“What about your personal stuff at your house?”
“Forget it. I’ll buy new stuff. I don’t want to talk to Lorraine about getting it.”
“Including your hunting and fishing gear?”
“The gear will wait until the situation with Lorraine is resolved, one way or another. I’ll leave everything and buy new clothes and stuff.”
“What about your guns?”
“They’re in the gun safe, and Tom and I are the only ones with the combination. And Lorraine has no interest in my fishing gear. Look, it’s getting late, but it’ll be light until ten p.m.. I’ll have my guide fly me back to Anchorage today, but we might not arrive in time to catch tonight’s flight. A flight at 8:42 p.m. connects in Houston and gets into Port City around noon tomorrow, if I make it. If not, I’ll be back the next day.”
“Okay. I’ll see you when you get here.”
Chapter 63
I was halfway across the parking lot on my way to the Silver Ghost when the bullet whizzed past my head. I leapt sideways and sprinted to the dumpster enclosure at the far end of the lot. I felt the wind from another round pass near my neck. The concrete chips flew where it shattered against the wall of my building.
The shots had come at a downward angle and hit the wall a foot above the pavement. Only one place the shooter could be—the roof of the parking garage across the street. I dived behind the dumpster corral. Its concrete walls should offer some protection. I peeked out from near the bottom of the wall. If the garage was as empty as my own lot, there would be few places for the shooter to hide. I glimpsed a rifle barrel and a faint reflection from a telescopic sight on the top floor. I pulled my head back as another shot rang out, and a bullet whanged off the asphalt where my head had been.
Accuracy from that distance meant his rifle was probably bolt-action. That worked to my advantage. He had to work the bolt between shots, at least one second. No more than five rounds plus one in the chamber, say six shots before he reloaded, maybe four. He had either one or three rounds left.
He was a hundred yards away—too far to hit with my Glock 17. I bounded around the trash enclosure and sprinted across the parking lot. He didn’t shoot, which meant that he was conserving his final round until he had a better shot. Forty-foot Royal palms lined the median and both sides of Bayfront Boulevard. They would disrupt his line of sight. So would the shadows from the sun setting behind me. He was shooting into that sun.
I counted the time it would take him to draw a bead on a moving target and lead me by the right amount. I juked at a forty-five degree angle as a fourth shot sprayed dirt and grass in the direction where I had been running.
I zigzagged across the boulevard to the garage, but heard no more shots. The gun barrel I’d seen had disappeared. Four shots and he had to reload. Reload takes thirty seconds.
The shots had come from the northwest corner, but that didn’t mean he was still there. Still, that was the place to look first.
I made a beeline for the garage entrance at the southwest corner. I hit the exit door and pounded full speed up the fire stairs to the top.
There were fire escapes and elevators in the northeast and southwest corners of the building. I was at the southwest corner, sixty yards from where the shooter had been. The shooter had picked a nest where he had the best angle at my parking lot. If it had been me, I would have picked a spot near one of the fire stairs for easy exit in case things went wrong. In the Special Forces we learned to plan for contingencies. This shooter had to be overconfident of his aim or he was an amateur. Not likely. So far, the guys sent to kill me had been professionals.
I eased open the steel door at the top of the stairs and looked across the darkening parking roof. A bullet ricocheted off the door at head height. I dropped to the floor and crawled out into the twilight. I l
ay in the shadows behind the car parked there. I studied the length of the garage from under the car. The parking spots between the shooter and me were empty. The shooter squatted behind a dark SUV backed into the northwest corner space.
Another shot hit the pavement under the car. I closed my eyes against the concrete dust. Smart. He’d figured out I was behind the car and tried to hit me with a ricochet. I crabbed back adjacent to the front wheels and squatted behind the hood. I took a quick look over the hood and dropped as I saw the muzzle flash. The third bullet smashed into the wall behind me. I used a hand mirror from my jacket and looked around the front of car. The sniper raised his rifle and disappeared behind the SUV. He was down to one bullet. I’d bet he didn’t like the odds.
The SUV rocked as someone got in on the driver side. The engine roared to life. Wheels screamed. The SUV sprang from its parking spot.
I rose from behind the car and steadied my Glock on the hood. I squeezed off four rounds before the SUV reached the exit ramp. My rounds shattered all four rear windows. The SUV hurtled down the ramp without pause.
I jerked open the fire door and raced down two flights to the third floor. I hit the crash bar on the stair door and ran out onto the parking deck. The SUV’s tires squealed above me. I was fast enough to intercept the SUV on the fourth floor, but I wanted time to prepare.
The floor shook as the concrete flexed from the two-ton vehicle racing down the ramp above. I heard it hit bottom on the fourth floor and felt the building quiver through my feet. I jogged to the bottom of the ramp and picked a spot behind the last pillar on the east side. I watched the ramp, took a deep breath, and slowed my breathing.
I braced my forearm against the pillar and aimed up the ramp, slowing my breathing further. Easy squeezy, nice and easy.
The next turn he’d be heading straight for me. I had thirteen rounds left—plenty to put this guy away, even if he wasn’t alone.
The deck shook harder, the SUV pounding the length of the fourth floor to the top of the next ramp. It screeched around the left turn and raced toward where I stood in the shadows. Focused on his breakneck race, the driver would be unlikely to see me behind the pillar. But I couldn’t see his face either. The garage lights reflected off his tinted windshield and he was moving too fast.
I put three rounds into the windshield as the SUV approached. Spider webs appeared on the safety glass. Ten rounds left. I don’t think the driver knew where the shots came from.
The SUV braked hard and fish-tailed around the pillar where I stood. I saw the driver’s outline in the dim light, but I couldn’t see his face. I aimed with two hands and squeezed off three rounds at his head and three more through the driver door. The SUV swerved right, bounced off a parked car and accelerated north toward the next down ramp.
Four rounds left.
I raced to the stairs and pounded down two flights to the ground floor, bolted out the exit, and ran toward the empty cashier booths. I switched out the magazine for the spare in my jacket.
I listened at the bottom of the ramp. No squealing tires, no shaking floor, but an engine raced up above. The SUV wasn’t moving.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone had called the cops.
There were five ways to leave the garage, and I covered only three: the ramp, the southwest elevator, and the southwest fire stairs. No way I could cover the northeast elevator and stairs. Nothing I could do about that, so I did what I could.
I jogged back to the southwest elevator lobby and punched the call button. I watched the ramp as I waited. The elevator doors opened. I glanced again at the exit ramp, leaned into the elevator, and pushed the emergency stop button. Then I opened the door to the stairway and listened.
The shooter’s rifle was accurate to hundreds of yards. My Glock was accurate to forty yards or less. Even with a full magazine, I didn’t like the odds. Besides, the sirens meant help was on the way. Glancing back at the deserted ramp, I stood in the open fire door and waited for the cavalry. No need to be a hero.
With the pause in the action, I felt sick to my stomach. I fought the urge to vomit.
The sirens got louder, then stopped in mid-wail as the cars arrived. Red and blue lights swirled across the walls and ramp. It was the SWAT truck and two black-and-whites.
The first two cops approached the garage with guns drawn. I held up my hands, my Glock in one and my open wallet with my PI license in the other. I called out, “Over here in the stairway door. I’m Carlos McCrary. I’m a PI.”
I held the Glock by the barrel so they could see it. “I’m placing this on the ground so you can search me.” I placed the pistol on the floor with the barrel pointed to the wall and stepped back. “There’s at least one shooter on the floor above me. I got off several rounds into the SUV’s windshield. I hit the driver. The northeast elevator and fire stairs are not covered. I’d send a team over there.”
Four SWAT cops approached behind shields, followed by four more uniforms. I recognized one of the uniforms. “Gracie, good to see you.”
Sergeant Graciela Garcia waved the SWAT team to a halt. “You two cover the northeast elevator and stairs.” She turned to her partner. “He’s okay.” She pointed at my pistol. “You can pick that up, Chuck. What do we have?”
When I bent over to retrieve my pistol, my queasy stomach almost betrayed me. I shook like a tambourine at a Baptist revival. I leaned against a wall and slid down to sit on the concrete fire stairs.
Gracie put a hand on my shoulder. “You all right?”
I breathed slowly until I could answer without throwing up. I didn’t want to barf in front of Gracie. Bad for my image. I holstered my pistol. “I’ve just run up and down four flights of stairs in the middle of a gunfight. Let me catch my breath.”
I updated Gracie. “The SUV has stopped moving, but I hear the engine racing.” I pointed up the ramp. “I think they crashed, Gracie. I saw one guy in the front seat. I couldn’t see the other seats. Last time they came after me with three guys.”
Gracie looked around at the scene. “Okay, Chuck. We’ll take it from here.” She looked back at two more uniforms that had arrived. “You two make sure no one comes down these stairs. And you two go with the SWAT guys to the northeast corner.” She motioned the remaining SWAT team members to proceed and then turned to her partner. “You come with me.”
I felt a little better, so I started after the SWAT team with Gracie and her partner. She glanced my way. “Chuck, this is a crime scene; you can’t be here.”
“Gracie, the only way to keep me out of there is to shoot me.” I kept walking after the SWAT team.
She shrugged, but she didn’t say anything. The six cops advanced up the ramp to the second floor with me behind them. From the top of the ramp we looked south where the SUV had crashed against a pillar. Smoke escaped from under the hood as the engine roared.
The SWAT team took the point down the east side. Gracie motioned to her partner. “You and I go up the other side.”
I let the SWAT team walk ahead and then followed across the deserted deck. They had body armor. I didn’t.
The engine back-fired twice, clattered, and stopped. The silence sounded ominous after the scream of the racing engine. The loudest noise was the garble of police radios from the vehicles on the deck below.
Gracie and her partner reached the SUV right after the SWAT team. The SWAT team had formed a semicircle around the wrecked vehicle. The only sign of life from the vehicle was a faint wisp of steam leaking from the crumpled hood.
A man dressed in black lay motionless on the concrete, right foot still inside the driver’s footwell. My gorge rose again.
As Gracie approached the body, I took a Weaver stance opposite the open door where I could cover the shooter.
“Doesn’t look like any survivors,” Gracie said.
A rifle lay on the deck near the driver’s outstretched left hand. Gracie lifted the firearm from the pavement. It was a Ruger Model 77 Standard Hawkeye 7 mm rifle with a Leupold 3x9
telescopic sight. My stomach churned as I remembered a similar weapon displayed in a gun case in Simonetti’s office.
Gracie laid the weapon out of reach on the deck and frisked the driver. Nada. She checked his pulse and shook her head. The she rolled the driver onto his back. The dim light revealed a large blood stain spread across his chest. “You know him?”
“Too dark to see his face. Use the flashlight.”
She pulled a Maglite off her belt and shined it on the dead man’s face.
In the stark bluish light, I recognized the face of the man I’d killed. My queasy stomach caught up with me, I stepped away from the crime scene and threw up on the parking deck. So much for my tough-guy image.
When I finished tossing my cookies, I walked back to the SUV. Gracie had put on rubber gloves and was holding the dead man’s wallet and cellphone.
I stared down at the corpse. “Yeah, I know him. It’s Tom Collins, Ike Simonetti’s personal assistant.”
Chapter 64
As I stood over Collins’s body, thoughts surged through my mind like stampeding buffalo. Things I’d seen, but not noticed. Stray thoughts I’d pushed aside, because they didn’t fit my preconceived theories.
Snoop would’ve said I’d been wearing blinders—so intent on Wallace that I hadn’t considered other possibilities. He would’ve been right.
I mentally head-slapped myself for not running a background check on Tom Collins. It hadn’t occurred to me to check out a personal assistant, anymore than I would’ve checked out a secretary. But a personal assistant often has a much closer relationship to his boss than a secretary, and Simonetti had told me he had no secrets from Collins.
Learn from your mistakes and don’t repeat them, dummy.
I pulled Gracie to one side. “Gracie, whoever hired Collins to kill me is going to expect him to call and confirm the kill, wouldn’t you think?”
“That’s logical.”
“And when Collins doesn’t call, the guy that wants me dead should call that cellphone, wouldn’t you think?”
She glanced at the phone in her hand. “Again, that’s logical. Where you going with this, Chuck?”
Six Murders Too Many (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 1) Page 21