Deep Blue Trouble

by Steph Broadribb

  I looped around the block, deciding my next move. When I slowed down, the SUV slowed, too. I sped up and they kept pace. I could see there was one person inside – a man – but he was too far behind for me to see him clearly.

  I clenched the steering wheel tighter. I was sick of this. Needed to know why they were following me and what they wanted. Pulling my Taser from its holster, I kept it on my lap as I drove to the marina. Decided that when they followed me into the parking lot we were going to have a serious talk.

  But they didn’t turn onto the lot after me. Instead they carried on along the highway, not even glancing in my direction. I braked to a halt. Felt cheated. Angry. I needed to know what the hell these people wanted. Had to know. Especially now they’d targeted someone close to me. The gloves had come off, and I was not going to stand for it.

  *

  Red was up and had lunch waiting when I rolled in. We ate outside, balancing plates of shrimp gumbo on our knees, cold beers sitting by our feet on the scrubbed-clean deck. His face was swollen, bruised, and I could tell from the way he chewed his food that his jaw was real tender.

  ‘Who got to you?’ I asked at last.

  Red shook his head. ‘Can’t say for sure. Young Mob guys, I’d reckon, but they didn’t do any formal introductions. Didn’t say what they wanted either, other than your whereabouts.’

  ‘I had a guy following me again this morning. Sped off before I could challenge him.’ I put my hand on Red’s arm. ‘I’m real sorry I got you involved.’

  He shrugged. ‘Don’t be. This isn’t the first beating I’ve taken.’

  ‘It’s the first you’ve taken because of me.’

  ‘I’ll live.’

  ‘But the next time—’

  ‘I’ll be better prepared.’ He pointed his fork at me. Looked real serious. ‘Don’t you go retiring me off just yet. You need a hand on this.’

  I nodded. Could tell he wasn’t going to budge any. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘I know that.’ Red took a swig of his beer, then changed the subject. ‘So what’s the deal with the brother?’

  I told him about the prison logs showing that Donald had visited Gibson every month on the same day for the same amount of time, and that the day before Gibson had been taken sick he’d visited him on a different day and stayed less time.

  Red ran his hand over his grey stubble. Looked doubtful. ‘And you’re sure it was him?’

  ‘I was. Visitors have to sign in and out. I compared the signatures on the logs with the signature on the package sent by Donald to Southside Storage and they matched. But when I talked to Donald this morning he showed me his driver’s licence – his signature is totally different. Whoever signed the log and sent the package wasn’t Donald, or if it was, he forged a different signature.’ I shook my head. ‘It makes no sense.’

  Red leaned forwards. ‘What’s your feel on him? What does your gut tell you?’

  I didn’t know much about Donald Fletcher aside from him being Gibson’s brother and that they boxed together in their twenties. He had a big fancy home, seemed to live alone, and was real paranoid about his security. ‘It tells me something else is going on between the brothers and I need to know what that is.’

  ‘I’ll add Donald Fletcher to my list.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I took another mouthful of gumbo. Stared out across the ocean. ‘The more I dig into his thing, the bigger the mess I’m trying to unravel.’

  Red let out a long breath. ‘True that. You want me to tell you about your friend Monroe?’

  I nodded. ‘What’d you find?’

  ‘I’m still working on it, but I’ve got some background. He comes from Crestwood, Kentucky. It’s a little town northeast of Louisville. Same as most places out there, but with kinda elevated status due to its good living standard and low crime rate.’

  I’d never visited Kentucky, but I’d seen plenty of pictures. ‘Horse country?’

  ‘Yeah, real close to the home of the Derby and all, not that it seems Monroe’s folks are racing people.’

  ‘What kind of people are they?’

  ‘The political kind. Monroe’s mother – Elizabeth – her family are deep in the system, but through funding rather than acting. Her father is a Republican, just as his father was and his father before him. Their money is from business, but they’ve ploughed a hell of a lot into the political game.’

  ‘And Monroe’s father?’

  ‘Alexander Monroe Senior was the longest-serving mayor of Crestwood. Well respected, from what I can gather, a real man of the people. He’s retired now, but is still on the scene as an adviser to the new mayor.’

  ‘I’m surprised Monroe went into law enforcement. Surely his folks would’ve been pushing him towards politics?’

  Red nodded. ‘I reckon they did, but it didn’t take. He was a good student, graduated high school with top grades and went to Stanford to study political history. Seems the Bureau recruited him while he was there, as the moment he’d graduated he shipped out to Quantico for his twenty-week training. He’s been with the FBI ever since.’

  I frowned. My knowledge on the workings of the FBI was a little rusty, but that didn’t sound quite right to me. ‘I thought you had to have experience in the real world before the Bureau would take you?’

  ‘I guess his daddy pulled a few strings.’

  Made sense. It made sense of Monroe’s manner, too – the self-entitlement and assumption that things would go just as he said; he wasn’t a man used to being told no or having the rules that the rest of us lived by apply to him.

  ‘You know anything about his time at the Bureau?’

  Red shook his head. ‘Not much. I’m still working on that.’

  I put the last forkful of gumbo into my mouth. Chewed slow. From what Red had discovered so far, there was no obvious connection between Monroe and Gibson other than work, but I still felt uneasy about whatever was going on between them, and what Monroe’s intentions might be towards Gibson when I found him.

  ‘I did find some interesting anomalies on Gibson’s arrest record,’ Red said.

  I put my plate down on the deck. ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s like a piece of Swiss. Real holey.’

  I leaned forwards. ‘How so?’

  ‘His custody records don’t make sense, and there are gaps in the evidence I could put my arm through.’

  ‘Yet he was convicted.’

  ‘You could probably explain some of the custody records on sloppy paperwork, but the gaps are what concern me. The biggest thing is that the initial eyewitness statements are missing.’

  ‘From the two girls?’

  ‘Yup.’

  The noise of the water lapping against the sides of the boat seemed to grow louder. ‘A filing error?’

  Red frowned like he was musing on the question, then shook his head. ‘There are second statements taken from each girl thirty-six hours later, and a whole bunch of other addendums, but the initial statements have gone. I checked the legal pack. They weren’t submitted into evidence by either side.’

  ‘How do you know they existed at all? Maybe they gave the girls time. They were so young, and they’d witnessed their parents being butchered—’

  ‘I know because their statements are referenced in the handwritten notes of one of the cops working the case. He’s retired now; that case was his last. I’m trying to speak to him to verify.’

  I drained the last of my beer and put it down on the deck beside my empty plate. ‘You figure it’s deliberate?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Damn.’

  We sat in silence for a moment. Seemed there was nothing straightforward about Gibson Fletcher. Everywhere we looked there were anomalies; no fully accurate picture of his past to help anticipate his future moves. JT’s strategy of three rang in my head like an echo – family, friends, freedom: Donald and Mia; Monroe; Mexico. Each one of them had a stake in Gibson’s past or his future. Each one added another layer of mystery. �
��Any news on the ex-wife?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve been over to her place in Lake County, but wasn’t any sign of her and her new husband. Place looked the same as the last time I checked. I’d say she’s still out of town.’

  That the ex-wife was still missing gave me a real uneasy feeling, and I wondered if foul play was involved, and whether it was connected to Gibson. I looked at Red. ‘Will you stay on it?’

  ‘Sure I will. Donald, Monroe, and Gibson’s arrest record, too.’ He smiled. ‘You’ve given me a puzzle to be solved, Miss Lori, and I do enjoy that.’

  I held his gaze. He was trying to hide it but he looked dog-tired – the drama of the last twenty-four hours, the swelling on his face and the cuts and bruises had aged him dramatically. He’d said he thought young Mob guys were behind his beating, but I remembered how Monroe had told me to stand Red down and how I’d refused.

  I hoped to hell the puzzle and this job wouldn’t be the death of both of us.

  30

  I stayed with Red as long as I could, but by six o’clock I knew I had to get gone. He knew it, too. Near on pushed me off the deck and onto the jetty, grumbling at me to stop fussing over him like he was a goddamn invalid. I was worried about him for sure, but I didn’t argue. I had a job to do and needed it done.

  As I hurried back to the parking lot I scanned the area, looking out for the black SUV and silver sedan. Saw nothing, until I reached my truck.

  I was a couple of yards from it when I spotted the paper under my wiper blade – a single sheet, folded once. Halting, I looked around. My hand instinctively going to the Taser holstered beneath my jacket. But the lot seemed deserted.

  With my heart punching at my ribs I stepped forward, yanked the paper free and read the handwritten note.

  ‘FACE WHAT YOU DID OR YOU’RE NEXT BITCH.’

  My mouth went dry. My stomach flipped. ‘Face what I did’ – what the hell did that mean? Was this about Gibson Fletcher, JT or Monroe? And why were they watching me and leaving threatening notes rather than beating on me the way they had with Red? It didn’t make any kind of sense.

  Shoving the note into my jacket pocket, I jumped into the truck and headed towards the airport. I kept vigilant, but saw no sign of a tail. Leaving the truck in the lot, I headed into the terminal building for my flight. It felt like I was running away.

  *

  Next morning, in San Diego, I tried to put the note out of my mind and concentrate on the job. The way I saw it, if the lines of enquiry me and Red were working had got some folks riled, that could only mean we were on the right track. So I swallowed down my fears and focused on my next move.

  I’d called Bobby, but he said there’d still been no confirmed sighting of Gibson Fletcher in Mexico. McGregor and Jorge were out on another job and I saw no reason to wait around in the bond office – I’d got some leads of my own to follow.

  Top of my list was Marco Searle. All the things Donald and Mia had said about him made it seem he and Gibson were enemies, but as everything about the job was out of whack and so many secrets were being kept, I didn’t want to discount the notion that they were still in contact before checking it out. Given what Red had said about Searle’s violent nature and Mob connections, I couldn’t risk approaching him direct until I had hard evidence. But there was another route I could take to get the information I needed.

  *

  After I’d called her, I waited for Mia in a booth at the back of the fifties-style Hayley’s Diner. It was early afternoon, and aside from a few surfing types, the place was empty, the waiting staff having a breather in the lull between the lunchtime rush and the evening crowd. I ordered a coffee for me and an iced tea for Mia, and sat listening to Elvis playing on the jukebox until she arrived – ‘Hound Dog’, ‘Heartbreak Hotel’, ‘Jailhouse Blues’ – songs about heartbreak and prison that sounded far too happy for their subject matter.

  The bell over the door rang as Mia entered. She wore a simple shift dress with wedge sandals and had her long dark hair pinned up in a messy bun. As she hurried across the diner towards me, she pushed her shades up onto her head. There was no trace of the bruising around her right eye I’d seen a couple of days ago. I figured it’d faded enough for her to cover it with make-up.

  She slid onto the bench opposite me. She looked worried. ‘What’s this about? Is Gibson okay?’

  I remembered his hand around my mouth. The pain of impact as he flung me against the SUV, and the anger in his voice as he’d given me the warning to stay away from him, and for Monroe to leave him be. I thought of the note, telling me to face what I’d done – maybe from Gibson, maybe from someone else.

  Still, I kept my expression neutral as I said, ‘I’m sure he’s just fine.’

  ‘Did you find him?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not yet.’

  She frowned. ‘Then why did you ask me here? I don’t have long, I’m supposed to be at beach yoga.’

  ‘I need your help.’ I pushed a piece of paper across the red vinyl, gingham-print tablecloth towards her. On it I’d written the days Donald Fletcher’s signature had been faked on the prison visitor’s log. ‘Was Marco out of town on these dates?’

  As Mia read the dates she bit her lip and an emotion passed across her face real quick – too fast for me to place it. She looked back at me. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. He’s out of town a lot for business.’ ‘I need to be sure. Can you check?’

  She glanced back at the list. Read it again. ‘I’d have to go through his schedule. It’s on his computer in the study, but he keeps that room locked. If he found out I’d—’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

  She exhaled. ‘Will it help get Gibson safe?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it will help me find out who helped him escape and why.’

  ‘You think he’s running from them?’

  ‘Do you?’

  She stayed silent. Took a sip of the iced tea, then another.

  I bent forwards a little. ‘Tell me what’s going on here, Mia.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. But I think Gibson’s scared, and not just because of the cops and jail.’

  ‘Why did he stage his escape now?’

  Mia shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Who helped him?’

  ‘I don’t know; he never told me. I asked, but he wouldn’t say.’

  ‘And if you had to guess?’

  She held my gaze. ‘I really don’t know. We never talked about business. When we got time together we just … It was our time, not for business or real life. Do you understand?’

  ‘Sure.’ And I did understand. I understood that if all you got with the person you loved was the occasional snatched moment, then talking business would be the last thing on your mind. I got that, but it didn’t mean I believed she knew nothing about Gibson’s business dealings. They’d been together a long time, over twenty years. I was pretty sure she was hiding something. I needed to find a way to get her to tell me the truth.

  *

  Monroe wasn’t happy. As I walked along the beach, away from the diner, I had to hold the burner away from my ear because he was jawing on so loud. ‘What the hell, Lori? You just left San Diego and flew back to Florida? You didn’t think to run it pass me first?’

  ‘I needed answers, and the only way I could get them was from Donald. I thought he’d lied to me. I needed to see his face when I called him on it.’

  ‘You thought he’d lied?’

  ‘Turns out the signatures in the prison visitor’s log were faked. The sender’s signature on the parcel documentation from Southside Storage, too.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s why I need you to get me the CCTV from the prison. If we know who impersonated Donald Fletcher we should be able to connect them to the escape – maybe even the theft of the chess pieces and the murder on the yacht.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’ He didn’t sound happy. ‘Might take a wh
ile.’

  I decided not to tell Monroe what had happened to Red, knowing he’d use it as more ammunition for his argument against me working with him. I didn’t tell him about the note either. ‘I’ll be waiting,’ I said.

  ‘And you’re sure it wasn’t Donald? He could have lied to you about it not being his signature.’

  I stopped. The sand was hot beneath my feet; the heat burning the soles of my feet. ‘Look, I’m not some rookie, tadpole bounty hunter. I checked Donald’s driver’s licence – the signature is totally different. Someone pretended to be him.’

  ‘For two and a half years?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ I carried on walking.

  Monroe was silent. I could hear his breathing; rapid, shallow. I guessed he’d not expected this. When he spoke his cadence was steadier, the volume of his voice more measured. ‘They’ve been planning this from the beginning.’

  I’d been thinking the same. ‘It looks that way.’

  ‘If that package at Southside Suppliers was the chess pieces, could be whoever they were stolen for is helping Gibson now.’

  ‘Yep. So you going to tell me who that is?’

  Monroe exhaled hard. ‘I don’t know for sure.’

  ‘But you’ve got suspicions?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And?’

  There was a pause before Monroe spoke. His voice had a defeated tone; like he was telling me more than he thought was wise. ‘Patrick Walker was a Chicago businessman, an accountant. He had no arrest record, seemed perfectly legal on the face of things, but there had been rumours for a while. Nothing substantiated.’

  ‘You suspect Gibson Fletcher killing him wasn’t just because of a bungled theft.’

  ‘Exactly. I think Walker was a middle man for the theft of the chess set.’

  I remembered what Red told me about Marco Searle – that he had connections to the Chicago Mob. That made two people who Gibson had been in contact with who had links to Chicago and the seedy side of the city. I didn’t believe in coincidence. ‘I’ll look into it.’

  ‘On the quiet though, Lori.’ Monroe’s voice had an urgency to it that I didn’t wholly understand. ‘Don’t tell Dez McGregor about this. He doesn’t need to know.’