Sandy was still whimpering, almost collapsing in his arms. She was exhausted. She'd almost been raped. Now she was nearly a suspect in the murder of a guy she'd just met that night at a bar. He was a complete jerk. She didn't even like the guy. But she could have been a suspect. Sandy was afraid that Steve was gonna beat her to death for getting him involved, but here he was trying to comfort her. She glanced at the clock through glazed, teary, tired eyes. 6:30 AM. The bright letters hurt her eyes, too. She wanted to go home and sleep. She wasn't sure she could, even if she tried. Her mind was still racing from the events of the evening.
"Let's go, Sandy. I'll buy you breakfast," Steve offered. She looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. He could see that she wasn't up for breakfast. "Forget that. Let's go to my place. I'll make sure you’re not disturbed so you can sleep. Are you supposed to work today?" Sandy shook her head up and down without saying a word. "I'll call in for you from my apartment. You're in no shape to go to work. You can get some sleep and then we can try to figure this out. Sandy . . . this whole deal really pissed me off, but I know it’s not your fault. Let's try to forget about it for now. We both need the rest."
Steve lead Sandy out to the parking lot when he realized that his car was back at the apartment complex where Randy Farley was killed. He went back inside to ask for a ride, and a deputy was assigned.
* * *
It was an eerie feeling seeing the foggy parking lot at the Silver Star Road Apartments at 7:10 in the morning. The fog looked like something out of a horror show scene at a cemetery. What was even worse, the coroner was just getting Randy's body out of the apartment. Sandy, now in the passenger side of Steve's car, began to whimper and cry again. She began to mumble over and over . . . “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to get you involved, I'm sorry . . .”
Francis Marie Berger was confused. Should she call the sheriff about the strange car that she'd seen at Randy Farley's apartment the other night or should she keep it to herself? It was a rental from National Car Rental Service. She knew because she saw the bumper sticker clearly with her binoculars. She saw the car from her balcony through the sliding glass door. She just wasn't sure that she needed the trouble. The last time she reported something odd at the complex, the sheriff had ignored her. They treated her badly. She wasn't just some nosy old snoot. She cared about the people, about her neighbors in the complex. They were her friends. At least she felt that they were.
The phone book was already open to the right page. All she had to do was to look up the number again. This time when she picked up the receiver she would dial that number. That poor Randy Farley. He was such a nice man. He always helped me when I had trouble with my apartment. He'd said to not tell the regular maintenance man because he didn't want to get us in trouble. Who would do such a horrible thing? Certainly not that nice girl that he'd had over. Whoever was in that car, he's the real killer. I've got to tell the sheriff!
She'd finally convinced herself that it was the right thing to do. Call the sheriff and he'd know what to do. It was her duty as a good citizen to turn in criminals and that's exactly what that guy in the rental car was. She just knew it. So she dialed the number for the sheriff's department. When the dispatcher came on she said, "I'd like to speak to a detective about a murder."
Chapter 21
Bobby Acquino had a difficult time sleeping on this hot, muggy night. The windows in his large home were all open which allowed the sticky central Florida air to invade the entire house. The air conditioner was working but was turned of. He wanted to feel the heat and the moisture. He wanted to sweat. He had much weighing on his mind. The episode with Donnie Lee and Jamie was eating away at his insides, tearing at his gut. He had to get out of the organization.
He thought back on how he found himself in a partnership with Jamie and Donnie Lee in the first place and those thoughts didn't comfort him in the least. He'd already been to confession. He’d talked to Father Keifer at St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Church and told him of the terrible deed that he'd done to his best friend. He'd stolen from him and his family. He confessed that all the wealth that he now had was due to that one act against his closest friend. That friend wouldn't even talk to him when he'd tried to apologize to him. He'd told the old priest that he even tried to pay back the money that he'd stolen. He felt terrible and he'd been troubled by this ever since. And he’d witnessed a horrendous crime against his friend’s wife but he didn’t report it to the police because he was afraid.
Bobby didn't tell Father Keifer that it was drugs that he, Jamie, and Donnie Lee had stolen. He only said he had stolen. Bobby's grief was also the motivating factor for his anonymous contribution to the church in excess of $5000.00 each week. Bobby maintained a modest income for himself, $2000.00 a week, but preferred to keep his income and his charitable contributions a secret from his partners. He could already hear Jamie taunting him for being so generous. He knew that if Jamie found out about it and started in on him, they would come to blows.
Bobby wanted none of that. At this point he simply wanted out. Getting out was not going to be an easy task. He suspected that Danny Vallero might have been killed by one of Mr. Roberts' men. He knew that Mr. Roberts was not very fond of Danny, but who was? It was a toss-up as to who was the bigger asshole, Danny or Jamie. Maybe if he stayed with it long enough Mr. Roberts would take care of the problem for him. Jamie was next for sure, that is if Mr. Roberts was taking his problem children out of the picture. But Mr. Roberts seemed genuinely upset that Danny had been hit. It didn't appear that he was faking the grief he'd felt when he'd heard that Danny was dead. But maybe his concern had been more for the loss to his organization.
Bobby knew one thing for certain; the pressure of the organization, and the guilt he held inside for the betrayal of his friend, Mike, were chewing him up inside, and he wanted out. One question remained. How?
* * *
The attempt to reach his wife didn't go well. Karen Grimes told her mom to tell Bill that she wasn't there and that she'd be staying with a friend for a few weeks. Bill knew that Karen’s mom was covering for her daughter. He threatened to come over to the house if she didn't let him talk to his wife. So she coaxed Karen to the phone.
"Listen, Baby, I miss you. Won't you please come home? I've got great news. I finally made it. I've got $9000 in my hand right now and there's more coming. We're gonna be rich, Baby!"
Bill's words were falling short of the mark. Karen had already made up her mind, and no amount of money could change that. Bill just didn't get it. This wasn't about money. This wasn't about love. It was about trust. She just couldn't trust her husband. She was suddenly afraid of and for him. He'd said that he had a lot of money on him and she knew her husband's mind. She knew he was already thinking of ways to keep some of the cash that was supposed to pay for the drugs. With this much money involved, the players were probably big time; bigger than Bill could handle anyway. Bill was so dense that he didn't even realize what he was getting himself into.
"Bill, don't try to call me again. It's over. I called a lawyer this morning. He will have the divorce papers in the mail to you by the end of the week. I'm sorry but I just can't take it anymore."
The phone went dead, then a dial tone. Bill just held the receiver to his ear. His high had just been crushed. This woman, the only woman he'd ever loved, was divorcing him. The excitement of hitting the big time was now obliterated. He was a shattered man. The receiver went back on the cradle and Bill Grimes went to the liquor cabinet, pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam, and proceeded to take healthy gulps straight. He sat down on the couch and finished the last quarter of a bottle. The results were predictable. The fact that there was only a quarter of a bottle left was the only thing that saved him from dying of alcohol poisoning. He would have one whale of a hangover in the morning though. From drug kingpin to abandoned, heart-broken, ex-husband in a matter of minutes. It's enough to get to most men who are legends in their own minds. And Bill was quite a legend.
* * *
Pat sat in the vault and looked around at all the equipment that they had installed years ago. This is where it all began for the McKinney's. The four walls look exactly the same as when the vault was hot with activity. The shielded cameras were still functional and the security system worked fine, too. Patrick realized that they needed some adjustment; a little preventive maintenance as they said in the nuclear navy. The entire setup, including the link to the old house was the same. The orange co-op had taken excellent care of the grove, the house, and the surrounding land. The nursery and warehouse had been leased to a local nurseryman who'd done a little renovation to the greenhouses and heating system, but all-in-all, the McKinney's property looked exactly the same as when the brothers had left town.
Patrick had heard, second-hand, that Jamie and his cohorts were bragging about how they'd run the McKinneys out of town "with their tails between their legs." There were other comments as well. But Patrick gave them little or no credence.
As he sat in the vault, he began to relive the events that brought their business to a halt. How could he not have seen the feeding frenzy on the McKinney family coming? All of the perpetrators were supposedly their closest friends. Were they that poor at judging character that they could not choose honorable people as close associates? Or did the brothers just become so loose with their secrets that their friends saw a clear path to their fortune. After all, when opportunity knocks, one should answer the door. In this case, Patrick reasoned after all these years, that not only did opportunity knock, the McKinney's left the door wide open for anyone who knew their business to take what they wanted. Since being out of the drug business for a number of years, Pat had come to realize that there were no honorable people in this business. Drugs were illegal to possess, sell, take, conspire to distribute, etc. If you were in this business, you were not honorable. Your morals and character were suspect. No, they were not good judges of character because they themselves at that moment had no character. They were pushers; dope dealers. According to every drug education program in America, the McKinneys and everyone in their business were killing the youth of this country. After six years in the nuclear navy and his own school of hard knocks lessons, Patrick could see that these teachings probably had merit. He'd seen otherwise intelligent men ruin their lives by testing positive on urinalysis tests at a time in their lives when they should have known better. They had families to raise and provide for. They had every reason to not ruin their lives by illegal activities, even if it was only the use of a mind altering substance. Hell, everyone he knew drank alcohol. But alcohol was legal wasn't it? And that was the difference in the use of alcohol and other drugs. Marijuana was illegal. It didn't matter that the outward effects of marijuana were not as damaging, not as intoxicating, not as long lasting, as alcohol. It also didn't matter that there were no hangovers, and no substantial long term effects of marijuana that were known. It only mattered that marijuana was illegal and alcohol was not. Because of that simple fact, lives were ruined. His former life had been, well, criminal. He had no idea how many lives he'd ruined, or even if he'd ruined any. He only knew that he'd sold lots and lots of pot. He'd also made lots of money in the process. He tried to process all of these thoughts in his mind as logically as he could. He'd come to hate drugs. The industry that used his consulting firm did not tolerate drug use by its employees. They didn’t tolerate drug use by their contractors either. But somehow he could justify killing the men who helped him get out of the drug trade.
He intended to tell his wife all of the details of his former life including the fact that they were wealthy. Patrick's financial holdings were fairly sizable, as were his brothers'. He had no real need to work, but had to continue building his business to keep up the front of a source of income.
If anything was on the right track, it was the consulting business. It was going well. Patrick McKinney got to know many contacts in the nuclear power industry. He got along well with almost everyone he met. There always seemed to be one jerk in every crowd but Pat didn't let that bother him. His knowledge of commercial nuclear reactor operations was impressive since he’d never worked in a commercial facility. He learned all this by studying in his spare time on the sub. Pat had been pounding the turf for just a few months and he'd already picked up a number of clients and had a growing prospect list. He had to be careful or this was going to become a full time job. When the industry was young, in the early-to-mid 1970's, it was commonplace for a navy nuke to come out of the service, land a job at a power plant, enter the Senior Reactor Operator Program immediately and make big bucks with good bonuses. At that time, at the rate that the United States was building nuclear power plants, operators with good training and experience were in high demand. The Navy's Nuclear Power Program was an excellent pool of talent for the burgeoning commercial nuclear industry.
But when Petty Officer First Class Patrick McKinney was discharged, new commercial nuclear plants were a thing of the past. Only a handful of plants were still under construction and no new plants were ordered. Utilities weren't interested in taking the gamble on a new nuclear plant after the Three Mile Island meltdown. The costs were just too prohibitive; overpriced "quality grade" construction materials, over-regulation by the federal government and over-taxation by state and local governments. All these factors were straining the utility industry when it came to nuclear power. The government had been taking money from each and every operating power plant in the nation to build a centralized spent fuel repository at Yucca Mountain in Nevada, but the money was being used to attempt to balance an out-of-control federal budget. Billions of dollars had been spent at Yucca, but billions more had been diverted to other programs that had nothing to do with nuclear waste disposal. Politicians were afraid to take action on a host of highly charged political problems dealing with low and high level radioactive waste. The issue of waste disposal alone was so controversial that no politician would talk of establishing even a new low level radioactive waste facility in their state, much less in their own district. And that’s just a few of the power industry's problems. All those issues add up to ‘no new nukes.’
So, all of that talent that had come out of the service in the 1970's and early 1980's had glutted the job market. Newly discharged nukes had to wait for a long time to enter the SRO Program. Pat saw that trend and decided to start a computer software consulting business. He’d learned that commercial plants had very little computer expertise and even fewer programs to track and monitor maintenance and operations activities. He’d put together a program that worked well for those two key areas of a power plant.
Not only did Pat have the computer skills, he had a special talent. He knew how to deal with people. When he talked to people, even in casual conversation, he made an impression. Not in a cocky way. In a way that made people feel good about themselves and those they were with. One day, one of his contacts remarked in an offhanded way that maybe Patrick should enter politics . . . maybe run for the Florida State House. In his usual politically correct style Pat remarked, "No way. There’s too much dirt in that pit. It’s like wrestling with a pig. You both get muddy but the pig likes it. Wouldn’t you be better suited?” He waited for a second or two to see if he’d get a chuckle. When none came, he said, “I didn’t mean that you’re a pig. I just meant that you'd just be better at it than me. Really.”
In fact, Patrick had thought about running for city council in Dunnellon. Their house was located in the city limits and he'd have enough time living in the city within the next year and a half to meet the minimum time requirements.
But right now getting his business up and running, even on a part time basis, was the only task he could handle with the extra added burden of taking care of his past problems. He certainly didn't need the added aggravation of a political career. The spotlight tended to be a bit bright on local politicians. That would only add to the tension that he already felt. In fact, his nerves were starting to show the signs of the added stress. His temper
was getting short and he had very little patience, especially with his son, Sean. It seemed that no matter what his son did, it wasn't right. Even Sean brought it to his dad's attention that he didn't deserve the verbal abuse. And that's what brought Pat to the vault this evening. Earlier in the evening, Patrick had yelled at his son at the dinner table for talking with a mouth full. He'd yelled so loud that Sean complained that his ears hurt. Diane jumped to his side and told Patrick to back off because his screaming wasn't helping. That only served to anger Patrick more. "You have no business correcting me in front of him," he'd hollered at his wife. "He won't listen to anything that I tell him now. It undermines my authority."
Diane was in no mood to hear this from Patrick. She'd practically raised these children alone while Pat was out to sea. Sean was a good kid. He didn't deserve what his father was giving him. The punishment didn't fit the crime.
"When you apologize to your son and stop acting like a two year old yourself, then we'll talk about 'undermining your authority!' I will not stand by while you brow-beat your children. They don't deserve it." She then turned to Sean who was looking down at his half empty plate, tears streaming down his face, and said, "Sean, apologize to your father for talking with your mouth full."
Sean looked up at Diane as if to ask, 'Do I have to?' She nodded towards Patrick. Then Sean, with his eyes still looking down said in a quiet voice, "Sorry Dad."
A Lifetime of Vengeance Page 14