Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series)

by Paul Sekulich

  “Jump, goddammit!” Berkley screamed through the bullhorn, his voice cracking.

  Frank turned to go back to the helm to shut off the engines when a dull thud sounded on the deck behind him. He turned to face its source and a large blur of a man tackled him and knocked them both over the side and into the churning blue water.

  The Topaz continued on her western course. The helicopter stayed back and hovered over the two men in the water. The Coast Guard patrol boat arrived and two of its crewmen dove in after the struggling men from the cabin cruiser. In seconds, they were alongside Frank and Chief Berkley with tethered flotation devices and towed them to the patrol boat’s stern.

  The Topaz motored on for about another quarter of a mile and then exploded with the force of a bunker buster. The concussive blast was deafening, its shock wave rocked the patrol boat and shuddered the helicopter’s prop wash. Pieces of splintered mahogany fluttered down, splashed, and lay strewn over a hundred-yard radius of ocean swells. White chunks of cabin from skyward plunged into the Pacific in every direction. When the smoke dissipated, the Topaz was no more. The little that remained of what had been a classic ocean traveler was reduced to thousands of pieces of flotsam.

  Crewmen on the patrol boat pulled Frank and Berkley aboard in clutches of strong hands. The Coast Guardsmen propped the rescued men against a gunwale, seawater drained from their drenched clothing.

  “I just can’t keep a boat,” Frank said and blew his nose on his hand.

  * * *

  The Coast Guard boat ride dried Frank somewhat in the warm air as it sped him to Marina del Rey to get his car. As the boat pulled alongside the visitor’s pier, he thanked the Guardsmen aboard and gave Chief Berkley a fist bump.

  “You men are the best,” Frank said and climbed the ladder to the walkway. “When I was in the Marines, we called you guys ‘the Hooligan Navy.’ I’ll shoot the next sonofabitch who says that.”

  “I’ll shoot you, you crazy bastard, if I ever have to beg you off a bomb,” Berkley said. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  “I saw the bomb was set for 900 feet. I believed I had time to ditch the bomb and save the boat.”

  “You can buy a boat, Frank. A life, not so much.”

  Berkley saluted Frank a goodbye and ordered the patrol boat away. Frank marched for the harbor office.

  James Fiske was standing on a step stool, fixing a crooked sign with a hammer and a nail, as Frank sauntered up. Fiske glanced below at his visitor.

  “You look like a drowned rat,” Fiske said.

  “Seen the news, Captain?” Frank asked.

  “Nup. Don’t watch TV ’til evenin’ time. Radio, neither. Got chores to attend to.”

  “Just as well. TV news is mostly not good.”

  “Where’s the Topaz?”

  “All over the Pacific Ocean about now.”

  Fiske stopped his swing to give a nail a whack and turned to Frank, his face dour.

  “Something bad’s happened to my beautiful boat?” Fiske said, stepping off the stool.

  “Someone put a bomb on her. Someone here in this marina.”

  “Bullshit. No one messes with my boats.”

  “Stop defending. The bomb had to come from his marina.”

  “Sweet Mother of God. What’s happened to the world?”

  “Got any video cameras around this place?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah. Plenty of ‘em. These are expensive boats we keep here. Gotta keep watch.”

  Fiske strode for the office door and stopped before going inside, Frank halting behind.

  “When do you figure this happened?” Fiske asked.

  “Well, unless you’ve revived old enemies in the last few days, right after I acquired your boat. I do have enemies, old and new.”

  “The camera recordings go to the main office in that tall building over there,” Fiske said, pointing to a high rise a block inland from where they stood.

  “Will they let me have a look without a warrant?”

  “Hell, yes,” Fiske said. “I’ll call ‘em right now. Go on over there. Top floor. Ask for Maddy Schwartz. She’s head of security.”

  Frank began his trek over to the building and stopped. He looked back at Fiske.

  “I’m sorry, Captain,” Frank said. “I know she was more than just a boat to you.”

  “All things die, lad,” Fiske said. His eyes filled with redness. “I’m glad she didn’t take you down with her, son.”

  * * *

  The video tapes covered every angle where a human could walk or enter the marina on any conveyance. Frank requested the footage from the past three days and paid special attention to the night coverage leading to and around the Topaz. It didn’t take long to see two figures repeatedly in that area with no particular maritime purpose. Two men made constant trips along the boardwalk, in and out of the harbor office, and up and down the pier where the Topaz lay moored. An infrared recording from the night before clearly showed the two slinking onto the Topaz. One of them toted a backpack. Minutes later, the video showed them skulking off the boat and hustling away. A close shot of the duo widened Frank’s eyes. Two faces came sharply into focus, faces burned into Frank’s memory forever.

  Dwayne Pinkney and Scottie Fisher passed within a yard of a security cam.

  Chapter 33

  Frank hit a speed dial on his cell. The phone rang twice.

  “Detective Kemp.”

  “It was Pinkney and Fisher who set the bomb,” Frank said. “I want them picked up for attempted murder and destruction of property.”

  “I’ll put out the word.”

  “Do we know where they hide out these days?”

  “I have a copy of the court transcriptions,” Judd said. “May have an address, but you can’t depend on flaky assholes like them staying steady anywhere.”

  “Pull together what you have and assemble a team. I’ll be there in a couple of hours to join the hunt.”

  Frank ended the call and made tracks for his Bronco.

  The early afternoon traffic on the 405 was moderate, making the trip south faster than usual. Frank pulled into the Central Division’s lot at 3:17 PM and parked in the section reserved for detectives. Inside the station, he marched to Judd Kemp’s desk and found him on the phone. Judd looked up as Frank arrived.

  “He just walked in. We’ll meet you outside in five,” Judd said and placed the receiver in its cradle.

  “Where’re we headed?” Frank asked.

  Judd stood. “Canyon Vista Apartments.”

  “Low rent. May be crowded with nosies and lie-abouts. Have to warn the unies to keep the curious well out of the way.”

  “If the two still live there.”

  “I’d hate to have to throw this into the media to flush them out.”

  “I put out a BOLO for the Mustang GT registered to Pinkney.”

  “Love a good car chase,” Frank said. “Like being in the movies.”

  * * *

  The police caravan of three cruisers and a SWAT van slowed to a stop behind Judd’s unmarked Crown Vic two blocks from the Canyon Vista apartment complex. Frank occupied the passenger seat and two plainclothes officers sat in the back.

  “We park outside the gate and go in alone,” Judd said. “I’ve got my ear radio set to signal the troops if things go sideways inside.”

  Judd talked into the wire mike on his ear.

  “Everybody be cool, keep back out of sight, but eyes and ears on the target. Frank and I are moving in close. You follow us to just outside the gate. The apartment is number 102, terrace level, second building on the left as you go through the gate.”

  Judd eased the Ford sedan up to the gate, entered, and parked outside the first building. All four men slipped silently out of the car. The two plainclothes men skirted the first building and disappeared around its rear.

  Judd and Frank adjusted the Velcro straps on their vests and ambled to the front door of the apartment marked 102. Judd tried to peek inside through a
picture window on the left of the door, but vertical blinds hung across the window, its slats almost closed. Frank gave a nod to Judd and pushed the bell button. The muted sound of a two-tone bell penetrated through the flimsy door. A moment later, Frank caught the faint sound of the cover being slowly slid off the peephole inside.

  “Who is?” a man’s voice from the other side of the door asked.

  “SDPD,” Frank said. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

  When there was no response for more than thirty seconds, Judd signaled the back-up units. In seconds, the SWAT team stormed the complex and rushed for the door on 102. An officer with a Monoshock Ram charged to the door, and with a single swing into its thin wood, splintered the frame and exploded the door inward from the force of the tubular steel weight.

  “Police,” Judd yelled as three SWAT officers flooded the apartment, closely followed by the detectives.

  Inside, an Hispanic man of fifty-plus huddled with a middle-aged woman on the far side of the living room, terror in their eyes.

  “We’re looking for Dwayne Pinkney and Scottie Fisher,” Judd said. “Do they live here?”

  “No intiendo,” the shaken man said. “Solalmente mi esposa y mi vivemos aqui.”

  “Jesus,” Judd said and turned to the officers. “Look around. See if there’s any sign of them.”

  The SWAT trio filtered through the small rooms of the apartment and returned in seconds.

  “They’re not here, sir.” one of the officers said.

  “Stay here with these two people,” Judd said to his men, “while I get a repairman here to replace the door. Manny, you speak Spanish. Tell them we’re very sorry. That we are looking for two extremely dangerous men that had this as their address, yada, yada. You know the drill.”

  Frank’s face said it all as he glared at Judd.

  “It was the best lead we had, Frank,” Judd said as he lumbered out the open doorway.

  * * *

  Back at the station, Frank and Judd stood in front of Captain Jarvis McCann’s desk.

  “Did it occur to you two to go to the rental office and ask if your suspects lived there? And if not, where they may have moved?”

  “They might’ve tipped them. We wanted to catch them off guard, sir,” Judd said, his eyes lowered like those of a bad dog.

  “Well, you sure as shit caught Mr. and Mrs. Cardenza off fucking guard. We’ll be lucky they don’t get one of OJ’s lawyers and end up owning this police station.”

  “It’s my fault, sir,” Frank said. “I wanted grab Pinkney and Fisher before they had time to react to their failed attempt to blow me up. I was impulsive and not thinking clearly. I’m sorry to have caused this trouble.”

  “This is so unlike you two,” McCann said. “You’re my A-team, the best cops in copdom. For God’s sake, think things out before you act, please. I’m sending public relations people over to that apartment to calm this down and maybe give those people some money for their scare. Damn it, if this makes the news tonight, my wife’s going to make me sleep in the yard with Bowser.”

  Frank shifted his eyes to meet Judd’s.

  “Get back to work,” McCann said, “and find those two jackoffs and take them down in a righteous bust so this spectacle today doesn’t look as Darwin dumbass as it does.”

  Frank and Judd filed out of the captain’s office and closed his door.

  “Where do we go from here?” Frank asked.

  “They work for Guzman, who goes to court for sentencing tomorrow. I’m sure he’s going up the river for the drug charges, so he won’t be coming back. My bet is that Pinkney and Fisher’ll be hanging out with Gaither and the fourth musketeer … Mitch Davis. Got to be on Guzman’s yacht. I have a surveillance crew keeping tabs on Rico’s boat. Let’s check their reports.”

  * * *

  The crammed courtroom, where Rico Guzman stood before the bench, looked on in silence as Judge Mario Liberto studied documents before him. Frank Dugan and Judd Kemp, in ties and jackets, sat in the back row of the large room, their faces stern, anticipatory.

  “This court has found you guilty on thirteen counts of extortion and illegal drug trafficking and distribution,” the judge said. “Under the new federal laws of the United States and the Revised Annotated Code of the State of California, I hereby sentence you to Prescott Island where you will spend the remainder of your life. Your sentence is to be carried out forthwith.”

  Guzman spat at the judge and lunged at the bench.

  “Chingate y su nuevo ley,” Guzman said as the bailiff and courtroom guards restrained him and pulled him away, forcing him to move toward the private exit of the courtroom. Many onlookers in the room jumped to their feet.

  “I’ll be back. No coconut shitheap’s gonna hold Rico Guzman. Tell that fuckin’ flatfoot back there who did this to get ready to travel. I’m sendin’ him to see his family. One way.”

  The guards dragged Guzman, yelling expletives and struggling, from the courtroom. Judd turned to Frank.

  “Time to visit El Mago?” Judd asked.

  Frank rose, looked at Judd, and nodded. He knew Guzman’s yacht now housed the nucleus of Rico’s bootlickers. He hoped Pinkney and Fisher were there as he unconsciously adjusted his Browning in its shoulder holster.

  Chapter 34

  The Mago yacht loomed like a mountain among foothills in her 200-foot slip at the San Diego Marina, her ghostly decks deserted in the early morning mist as if she knew in her silence that her master was never coming back. Frank Dugan and Judd Kemp led a squad of special tactics police to the Mago’s gangplank and paused.

  Judd scanned what he could see above the high freeboard of the stark white yacht. “Looks like nobody’s home.”

  “Criminals plunder and plot at night and sleep in late and tight,” Frank said.

  “Was that in the academy manual?”

  “First thing they teach you.” Frank pointed to the boat to alert the uniformed group behind him, then mounted the gangplank and headed upward.

  Judd followed, with the others close behind. The main deck was deserted and no lights shone from within the bridge windows, or those of any of the visible quarters. Once everyone was aboard, Frank pointed to several cabin entrances, which cued the tactical crew to begin their search for the boat’s personnel.

  “I’ll cover the stern and the heliport,” Judd said and ambled aft, his pistol in hand.

  Frank stepped forward, but kept his sights on the main companionway. Three minutes passed before two of the tactical officers emerged from the cabin with a groggy man dressed in only a sleeveless undershirt. Frank moved to the new arrival and studied the bloodshot eyes of Mitch Davis.

  “Rough night, Mr. Davis?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah. I like to party,” Davis said, squinting and rubbing his droopy eyelids.

  “Where are the others?” Frank said.

  “I’m it, man,” Davis said. “I’m the chief cook and bottle washer now that Rico’s in the can. I guess you can say I’m the captain.”

  “Well, captain, where’s Mr. Gaither, and Pinkney and Fisher?”

  “Uh, Ernie’s visiting Rico, I think. I don’t know about the other two. I been drunk since last Tuesday.”

  “Officers, make sure this liar stays put,” Frank said. “Hook him up to the gunwale rail if you need to.”

  “Hey, man, you can’t do that,” Davis said. “I have rights. What’s the charge?”

  “Indecent exposure and environmentally dangerous bad breath,” Frank said and headed for the main companionway to the yacht’s interior.

  Frank had barely penetrated the cabin’s interior when gunshots broke the morning quiet. Frank flew down the stairway toward the sounds and came upon an officer lying on his back clutching his chest.

  “Evans, how bad are you hit?” Frank said, bending over the injured man, while darting looks at every part of the main living salon of the yacht.

  “Two in the vest,” Evans said, his face contorted in pain. “I’ll be
okay. Two men. One black, one white. Armed with semis. Went through there.” Evans pointed to an aft passage. “Go get the bastards, Frank.”

  Frank straightened and bolted for the opening. Inside the next compartment, a spacious bar and game center, he checked every space that could possibly conceal a person, his eyes sweeping with his drawn 9mm raised to face level. Seeing no one, he moved to the next room, his head on a swivel.

  Gun reports sounded from a distance away. Frank scurried for the nearest opening to the sounds. Precious seconds passed before he found the access he needed. More shots popped from above, toward the stern. A stairway on the starboard side of the next room brought him back to the main deck amidships, but he saw no one in either direction. He scrambled to the distant stern where he found Judd Kemp sitting against the transom applying pressure to a bloody wound on his shoulder.

  “Where, Judd?” Frank yelled.

  “Over the side,” Judd said. “Took the Zodiac.”

  Frank sprinted to the port rail in time to see the Zodiac and two men roaring away toward the densest part of the marina at flank speed. Though he was sure it was useless, he fired half a magazine at the departing vessel that had managed to put 300 yards between them and the yacht.

  Frank got on his cell and punched in a number to the Harbor Patrol.

  “Commander Jessop? This is Detective Frank Dugan, SDPD. We have two men in a Zodiac headed toward the main marina. They’re wanted for attempted murder of two of my officers. Can you see if the Coast Guard can round them up? I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  “I’ll dispatch a boat right away, detective.”

  “Sir, be aware, these men are armed and extremely dangerous. Your men are to take every precaution. If they get a clear and safe advantage, take them out with extreme prejudice.”

  “Aye, to that, detective.”

  Frank ended the call and pounded his fists on the helicopter shackled to the fantail heliport.