“Please send a unit to his house,” Charly said. “He’s got to be in trouble or else he’d be here. Call me here as soon as you know something. Anything.”
She hung up the phone and cast worried looks toward the office door as a tremendous cheer roared outside. Charly grabbed her purse and headed for the noise.
* * *
Charly jostled her way through the crowd to the elevated podium with its nest of microphones. An illuminated election results board provided the backdrop for the stage. The vote tally next to Dimino’s name flashed, indicating the projected winner. He’d been elected by a considerable margin. A clock on the board indicated the time of 10:08 PM. Charly raised her arms to quiet the cheering throng of supporters. The noises gradually subsided enough for her to approach the mikes .
“It looks like we’ve done it,” she said.
The crowd roared its approval.
“Our man of the hour, Martin Dimino, Senator Martin Dimino, will be here momentarily. Please enjoy the champagne that’s being uncorked in the East Room. It’s a celebration of the members of our society who want law and order. We celebrate you ... all of you.”
The crowd reacted again with generous applause and whistles.
“Enjoy our victory. Thank you all for your support, your faith, and, most of all, your money.”
The crowd laughed, then converged on the opening to the East Room as Marty Dimino entered the room. The throng applauded throughout his march to the stage where he embraced Charly, then faced the spacious hall, filled to capacity.
“The victory this night belongs to every person who wants real justice for the victims of crime. This victory belongs to you, and I will thank you every day as I vote your will on the issues that come before me in Congress. Tonight we will celebrate, tomorrow we go to work. Tomorrow it will be time to get tough.”
Marty pointed to the East Room and the mass of people migrated in that direction.
A campaign official in the crowd caught Charly’s eye and in pantomime asked her: "Where’s Frank?" Charly forced a smile and shrugged.
* * *
Charly impatiently pressed buttons on a desk phone and waited for a connection. She glanced at a wall clock in the office. It indicated 11:25. Loud crowd noises erupted outside the office. She jammed the receiver onto its cradle and hurried toward the commotion.
In the main hall, Charly panned the mob flowing toward the entrance, but she couldn’t see what had captivated their interest. She dragged a chair from a banquet table and stood on the seat to improve her view. From her higher perspective, she stared at the subject of the hubbub. Frank Dugan stood in the doorway. He looked like he’d been caught in a downpour and rolled in sand. His dirty clothes clung to him like wet toilet tissue and his tousled hair spiked out in all directions. The crowd cheered wildly and rushed to him as if he’d just pitched the winning game of the World Series.
Frank struggled through the hugs and fist bumps and inched his way to the podium as people shook his hands and clapped him on the back. A teary‑eyed Barbara Chalmers embraced him motherly.
“I’ve got news for you,” Barbara said. “About the house. I’ll call you tomorrow. Promise.”
At the podium, he turned to take a good look at the election results board. It showed the time as nearly 11:45 and Dimino’s winning margin with 95% of the precincts tallied. He turned back to the crowd. The cheering subsided as he docked himself into the array of microphones.
“We began this campaign those many weeks ago with a single voice; a single theme: there’s too much crime in America. We wanted to stop it before it smothered all of us and our children. Enough is enough, we said. Well, I’m not as well dressed as I would’ve liked to be, but I’m living proof that crime will no longer prevail against us. They’ve taken their best shots and now it’s our turn.”
The crowd reaction was deafening.
“You guys with the black hats? You’d better saddle up and get out of Dodge. The good guys are pouring through the passes of America.”
The crowd responded with thunderous applause and cheers. Frank held his arms high in a gesture of profound victory.
Charly stood in the opening of a side entrance to the hall. She stared at Frank, whose eyes ultimately locked on hers. Frank dropped his arms, beamed a broad smile her way, and winked.
* * *
Marty Dimino and Charly Stone got chauffeured to Marty’s beach house in an unmarked sedan. Police cars and policemen surrounded the house. Two official‑looking men in suits greeted and escorted them into the house.
“I appreciate all this, gentlemen, I really do,” Marty said to the two men, “but I can handle things from here.”
“I’m Special Agent Balfour,” the taller suit said, then directed a hand toward the man with him. “This is Special Agent Collins. We have orders to stay with you, senator.”
“Whose orders?” Marty asked.
“High up, sir,” Balfour said.
“The director?”
Balfour paused and glanced briefly at his partner before speaking.
“The president, sir.”
Chapter 19
Frank and Judd sat across from each other in a booth at a coffee shop. Judd stared out the window at the first evidence of morning light, while Frank stirred his coffee more than necessary.
“I can’t figure why I haven’t heard from Barbara,” Frank said. “Said she’d call. About my house.”
“Your house?”
“It’s listed for sale. Barbara’s handling it.”
“She an agent?”
“Used to be. Still licensed, so I’d like her to get the commission.”
“It’s barely daybreak. She’ll call. She was there last night well past midnight. We talked for a while. God, how she loves you. Like she loved Amy. Man, the campaigning she did for you and Dimino. Nothing short of amazing. She’s probably exhausted from all the excitement and went home to bed like a normal person. While we’re on the subject, “Iron Frank,” you’ve got to get more sleep.”
“Iron Frank. Sounds like a rusty hot dog,” Frank said and sipped his coffee. “I guess my official duties as campaign manager are over. Now you’re tucking me in?”
“When’s the last time you got seven hours sleep?”
Frank stared out the window at a truck collecting the trash at the curb.
“Just like that. It’s over. Like yesterday’s news.”
“Far from it. I’m anxious to hear the plan you and Marty want to hatch in the penal system.”
“Yeah, that’s going to be a tough one to pull off.”
“An island? Really?” Judd said, raising an eyebrow.
“A rather special island.”
“Didn’t Gilligan try that?”
“Not like this one, he didn’t.”
“You know, if this crazy idea fails, you might have to update your résumé.”
“Then I’ll be dead too. Professional death is scarier to me than any other variety. All I ever wanted to be was a good cop.”
Frank watched the pick-up man at the back of the garbage truck jump on the bumper and signal the driver with a wave of his hand.
“Wonder what garbage men get paid,” Frank said.
Judd added and stirred more cream in his coffee.
“Think guards are going to want to commute to an island?”
“The guards I have in mind will work cheap and love their job.”
* * *
Frank poured himself a scotch from the beach house bar and hit a button on the remote, making the TV come to life. His cell rang and he muted the TV and looked at the caller ID on the tiny screen. It was coming from the phone in his rancher in Coronado Estates.
“Hello, Barb. Been waiting for your call,” Frank said, swirling the scotch in his glass.
“An eye for an eye, detective. An eye for an eye,” the voice of Rico Guzman said.
The phone went dead.
Frank set his drink on the bar and bolted for the door.
While driving, he called both of Barbara’s phone numbers, but got no answer at either. In thirty minutes he pulled in front of his house, jumped from the car, and ran to the front door. He pulled out the Browning Hi-Power automatic he’d switched for the Glock, turned the doorknob, and the door swung open. Inside, he scanned the rooms, one by one, but encountered nothing out of place. He holstered his gun and punched a button on his cell.
“I’m at my rancher,” Frank said. “Got a call from Guzman. It came from the phone in this house.”
“Why didn’t you call me before you barged over there into God knows what?” Judd Kemp said.
“I wanted to save time in case the bastard was still here.”
“How’s the place?”
“Nothing’s been disturbed, but the front door was unlocked. Not like Barbara to leave the place like that. I tried to call her. Got nothing.”
“See if she’s next door,” Judd said. “Maybe she knows something. What did Guzman say?”
“He said, ‘An eye for an eye, detective. An eye for an eye.’ And hung up.”
“Want me to send over my guys?”
“No. I’ll lock up and go, and I’ll check with Barbara right now.”
“Let’s get together later for a drink,” Judd said. “The Shamrock.”
Frank ended the call and plodded to the hall bathroom. He gazed at his weary face in the vanity mirror and contorted and pulled at his face to flatten the puffiness under his eyes. He stepped to the toilet, poised to unzip, but something caught his attention on the far side of the room. A dark pattern didn’t seem normal behind the translucent shower curtain. He withdrew his automatic, snicked off the safety, and moved slowly toward the shower, never taking his eyes off the image inside that he couldn’t identify through the blurry plastic. He slid the shower curtain aside with a rapid sweep of his hand. Frank pointed the gun directly at the dark shape.
“Oh, God. No,” Frank murmured as he sank to his knees, clinging to the top of the bathtub.
The body of Barbara Chalmers hung from the showerhead, her Nile green dress covered in blood coming from the deep gash across her throat. Her eyes stared blankly at Frank, her hands turned palm out like the painting of a Michelangelo saint.
Chapter 20
A gathering of people surrounded an open gravesite. Frank, Charly, and Marty stood prominently among those in attendance. A minister read from a Bible.
“None that go unto her return again, neither take they hold of the paths of life. That thou mayest walk in the way of good men, and keep the paths of the righteous. For the upright shall dwell in the land, and the perfect shall remain in it. But the wicked shall be cut off from the earth, and the transgressors shall be rooted out of it.”
The minister closed the Bible.
“And so take peace, dearly beloved Barbara, in the knowledge that your life was upright and good. And that now you walk with Him that knew no evil, but only good, in fields of peace and through gardens where even the flowers never die nor depart.”
The minister made a gesture for the casket to be lowered, and then to Frank, who came forward to the grave’s edge and scooped a handful of the newly turned earth.
“They can’t take any more away from me, Barbara. You were the last and the best I had to give. ‘Get along witchya now, love.’”
Frank spilled earth onto the casket, the remainder he tucked into the side pocket of his black suit.
The people slowly dispersed. Frank walked away from the gravesite and strolled up one of the roads running through the cemetery. Charly watched him, but didn’t follow. Marty Dimino strode after Frank. They walked together quietly for a moment, then Marty broke the silence.
“Aren’t Amy and the children buried up this way?” Marty asked, pointing ahead on the tree-lined lane.
“Yeah.”
Marty stopped their walk with a hand on Frank’s coat sleeve. Frank halted but held his forward direction.
“I’m your friend, Frank. Friends see things in others that they can’t see themselves. Let me tell you what I see. You can walk over that rise ahead and step forever back into the past, or you can turn around and go back and walk into the future with folks who care about you. Your life’s not over. It’ll never be over ‘til you say it is.”
Frank turned to his friend.
“Let’s go home, Marty.”
* * *
The Shamrock bar hosted a drinker on almost every stool and the lounge area teemed with patrons, mostly men. Frank, Charly, and Marty occupied the same booth where they originally had discussed Marty’s senate campaign.
“You know what?” Frank said. “You two should formally celebrate our victory by taking a well-earned vacation.”
“I’ve got to get ready for the United States Senate,” Marty said.
“You don’t have to post there for three more weeks. Grab a plane. Get outa here. Enjoy yourselves.”
“I’ll think about it,” Marty said.
“What about Guzman?” Frank said.
“Got nothing on him. He’s insulated like the Pentagon.”
“A guy can go around killing people while we sit and suck eggs. My aunt was put in a cold, dark hole in the ground today while her killers laugh and scratch.”
“We promised we wouldn’t do this tonight,” Charly said.
“She’s right,” Marty said, raising his drink. “To better times ... and justice.”
* * *
Marty Dimino freshened his coffee at the beach house with a hot pour from the kitchen pot. Frank sat on the sofa gazing out at a fishing trawler chugging south across the beachfront outside.
“Just a few miles out that window is what we need,” Marty said, taking a seat in a recliner near the sofa.
“Tell me about it,” Frank said.
“Back in the thirties, a millionaire named Sanford Prescott claimed and purchased an island directly off Santa Barbara. Maybe a hundred miles west.”
“Who owned it?”
“Mexico, originally, but in 1850, when California became a state, it was ceded to the U. S. The government was too busy with more important matters than fooling with a speck of sand way the hell out in the Pacific. Like getting fresh water to our big new state, among other pressing issues. After Pearl Harbor, the military toyed with the idea of making it an ordnance testing site, but it was too remote, too hard to protect and supply, and too overgrown with jungle. And so it sat for years blowing in the currents, sprouting coconut palms, and baking in the sun.”
Frank sipped his coffee and leaned closer to Marty.
“Then this Prescott guy comes along. A Howard Hughes type. More money than brains, self-indulgent, and loving the ladies.”
“He wanted the island for sexual getaways?”
“Not exactly. He wanted to make it into a resort. Build a hotel, put in swimming pools, staff it, and make money while he scheduled a tryst or two every few weeks.”
“This guy married?” Frank asked.
“Oh, yes. Very married. Unfortunately to the source of most of his income. A Vanderbilt girl, with a jealous streak you could land a jumbo jet on.”
“I never heard of a resort island off our coast.”
“Because the resort never happened. Sanford Prescott settled for building a villa and using it himself for entertaining. He did, however, put in a large salt water swimming pool.”
“With a whole ocean to swim in?” Frank said.
“Ah, there is the exact reason it was bad for his resort, but could be ideal for our proposal. The waters around that island happen to be a mating and feeding area for the fiercest sharks known to ichthyology.”
“Could reduce overhead for guards.”
“A human can be compromised and bribed. Try that with a hungry hammerhead or a peckish great white,” Marty said.
“So what became of Prescott’s villa?”
“A lot of interesting incidents occurred there in the 1940s. We have a strong hunch as to what may have happened at the place.
”
Marty rose from his chair and paced the room.
“The bodies of two people were found on the island. Decomposed badly, but identifiable. A woman named Rose Elmont, found shot in the head in a bedroom, and a man dead on the beach from a gunshot to his chest.”
“Prescott?” Frank said.
Marty nodded.
“Been dead for over a week. When relatives on the mainland expected them back, and they were days overdue, they called the Coast Guard and the police.”
“Who killed them?”
“Good question. Mary Prescott was among the missing, and so was Rose Elmont’s husband, Stanley. Certainly people of interest.”
“Where was their boat?”
“Their sixty-foot mahogany cabin cruiser was found in fifty feet of water west of the island. A large caliber revolver was on the boat with two spent cartridges. There was evidence of a fire onboard. She sunk and its two survivors tried to launch the dinghy, but couldn’t get it free from the stern davit. It was still connected by a single line to the big boat on the bottom. Best guess? Since their bodies were never found, Rose Prescott and Stan Elmont likely drowned and were later eaten by sharks. Hopefully in that order.”
“What happened to the island?”
“The inheritors of it wanted nothing to do with it and donated it to the state of California. Other than being an occasional curiosity to blood-lusting visitors, nothing has ever been done with the place. The villa is still there, although in serious disrepair and missing parts from the weather, vandals, and souvenir collectors.”
“Any squatters?”
“Insatiable sharks have a way of discouraging that.”
Frank pushed off from the sofa and ambled over to the picture window facing the Pacific.
“Will it be big enough?” Frank asked.
“I’ve been there. I surveyed it to see if there was any evidence I could use to reopen the case for murder. The island is over thirty-two square miles. Four miles by eight in aspect. Shaped like a fat boomerang. Plenty large enough for our prototype.”
Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series) Page 8