“Goddammit,” Frank said and turned back to attend to Judd, who was now surrounded by many of the tactical officers.
“I’ll be okay,” Judd said. “Just nicked me.”
“Looks like more than a nick,” Frank said. “Let’s get him medical attention, stat. And make sure the officer vest-hit below gets examined too.”
“We scoured the boat,” an officer said, “and found no one else. What do you want to do with the streaker?”
“Mr. Davis?” Frank said. “Take him in for questioning. We have nothing to hold him on other than harboring fugitives before the fact, so he’ll skate if we charge him.”
“Will do, detective.”
“Oh, and I’d put some clothes on him before you take him in.”
“How about that indecent exposure charge?”
“Won’t stick,” Frank said. “Lack of evidence.”
* * *
Frank and three SWAT officers boarded a 45-foot Coast Guard chase boat designed for speed and armed with a bow-mounted machine gun and headed after the first USCG boat pursuing Pinkney and Fisher. The powerful twin outboards roared their horses and shot the rubber-rimmed speedster through the waves, spraying white water like a hydroplane. Frank and his men hung onto anything near them to stay upright in what was the fastest ocean pursuit Frank had ever experienced.
The lieutenant who captained the vessel radioed the first pursuit boat to get a fix on the Zodiac’s position, and bid them success in finding the two men on the run. He signed off and turned to Frank, standing in the cockpit beside him.
“They found the Zodiac beached south of San Diego at Border Field State Park,” the lieutenant said over the engine noise, “about one click from the Playas de Tijuana. The two men were nowhere in sight, but they abandoned their boat. My guess? They’re trying to make it to Mexico across the park.”
“Why did they abandon their boat?” Frank asked. “They were less than a mile from the coast of Mexico.”
“Not without gas, they weren’t.”
“We headed there?” Frank asked.
“Aye, sir, fast as this rubber ducky will go.”
In minutes, the chase boat pulled alongside the first Coast Guard boat, grounded at the shore of the state park. The Zodiac nearby lay on the beach, the skeg of her outboard dug into the sand.
“Any sign?” the lieutenant asked the officer on the primary chase boat.
“Negative. In the park, I suspect,” the officer said.
“We’ll take it from here, lieutenant,” Frank said. “I don’t expect you and your men to hoof it on land.”
“We’ll stand by here for you, sir. If they double back this way, rest assured, they will not like the reception.”
Frank nodded a thank you, jumped into the shallow water, and led the SWAT team toward the wide beach and desert-like ground foliage that extended south to the Mexican border. A SWAT officer handed Frank a vest with a Day-glo yellow cross on its back.
“Figure on a heading south that hugs the coast,” Frank said, “but stay in the cover of the a few dunes. They are probably hung over, short on sleep, and scared. They’re desperate to escape and will fight it out before yielding. Eyes on anything that moves as we go. The good news is that they frantically rushed to escape their yacht and are likely short on ammo and can only hurl a limited amount of fire.”
The SWAT team set their radios to match Frank’s frequency and chose short alert signals and adjusted audio levels to avoid broadcasts carrying outside the group.
The four pursuers went inland and spread out across a jagged line that pushed south. Frank donned the Day-glo vest and struck a fast pace ahead of the others to provide an avant-garde spotter on the beach side.
A hundred yards southward revealed a shred of white cloth clinging to a Spanish bayonet plant’s spike. It was a piece torn from a tee shirt, still wet from perspiration. A spot of blood on it told another tale: one of the two on the run was further annoyed by a cut on his body, maybe a nasty gash, which Spanish bayonets could easily inflict. Frank held the ragged piece high for the men close behind him to see.
Frank plodded south on a sinuous line that tracked within twenty yards of the beach, while the three SWAT officers maintained a moving line that stretched farther inland for over three-hundred feet. Heavy sand and low brush slowed forward progress, but Frank moved rapidly ahead by cutting in and out of the soft sand and onto the firmer wet sand near the water.
Within minutes, the border revealed its high, slatted fence and bilingual signs in the distance. Frank knew a pursuit into Mexico incorporated legal entanglements that could negate an arrest under U. S. jurisdiction. He wanted to get to the escapees before they made it into Tijuana. He increased his speed to double time.
Fifty yards ahead, Frank spotted something unusual lying in the weedy grass above the beach, something that didn’t belong in any botanical family.
Chapter 35
Frank closed on the object partially hidden in the grass and hit the alert button on his radio. He waited until one of the SWAT officers joined him. Frank noted his rank and the name sewn onto his uniform: E. L. Morton. Both men moved closer and could readily see that the object of their curiosity was a Caucasian man, face-down in the tufts of baked green. He wore a blood-stained white tee shirt. A pistol lay near his limp, open hand.
“Looks like Fisher,” Frank said.
“Looks dead,” Sergeant Morton said, “but I’ll keep my sights on him.”
Frank stepped to the body, bent, and checked for any life. He looked back at the officer and shook his head. Lifting the dead man’s shirt revealed a bullet wound in the center of his back between the shoulder blades.
“He’s shot?” Morton said, lowering his rifle. “Who shot him?”
“Apparently, I did,” Frank said. “Took a couple of Hail Mary shots at the Zodiac from the yacht.”
“Nice shooting, detective.”
Frank rolled the body onto its back.
“Lucky shooting,” Frank said, standing. “It’s Fisher, all right, but we have another one to catch.”
Morton radioed the others on the team and updated them on the status of their hunt.
“They’re still in pursuit,” the officer said.
“Tell them the runner is the black man.”
The sergeant complied and plodded back to his position in the search line. Frank continued along the beach, hugging the low foliage. As he neared the border, his radio beeped an alert. He darted toward his team as his radio crackled to life.
“Suspect is right at the border,” the radio voice said.
Rapid shots boomed through the morning air. Sprays of sand exploded near the search line from the bullet divots.
“Taking fire,” the radio voice said.
Frank scrabbled through the tangled ground-hugging flora, falling twice to his knees, as he plodded toward the border.
More shots zipped through the grass, striking plants near him with crisp slaps.
Frank kept low and crept on until he reached one of the officers.
“Where?” Frank asked.
“He’s moved west. One o’clock,” the officer said. “Where the water meets the beach.”
“I’m one step from the border, detective,” Duane Pinkney hollered. “One step and you can’t touch me, you lame-ass flatfoot.”
“Give me your rifle,” Frank said to the officer next to him.
The officer extended his SIG556 rifle to Frank, who jammed it into his shoulder and sighted toward Pinkney, who waded into the lapping waves.
Pinkney moved into the ocean to his waist and appeared to be considering going around the high fence that extended into the Pacific for over two hundred feet. Two of the SWAT team closed in on Pinkney, rifles at eye level.
Pinkney turned back and fired two errant rounds at the officers who approached, but it served to halt their progress. Pinkney changed course and grasped the high vertical slats that comprised the border fence, apparently planning a climb over
the barrier. He scrambled upward for six feet and was succeeding in his struggle to attain the top. A few more scratching and clawing purchases on the weathered wood and Pinkney pulled his head and chest over the top.
A single shot cracked the air. Pinkney’s progress halted, then reversed. He slid downward fast, jarring his chin on the top of the fence as he plummeted into the surf of the USA. Pinkney bobbed face-down in the water and never lifted his head to take a breath.
Frank handed the rifle back to the officer.
“Radio the Coast Guard in the Harbor Patrol to come retrieve these two bodies,” Frank said. “I’ll call the coroner and the morgue. We’ll go back with the Coast Guard and tow the Zodiac in. My thanks to you and your men.”
“We could’ve mailed this one in,” one officer said.
“Having qualified back-up makes any individual confident to contribute.”
Sergeant Morton said, “Appreciate the good thought, but, detective, you’re one dead-eye sonofabitch.”
* * *
Frank looked at the monitors next to Judd Kemp’s hospital bed, keeping a sharp eye for any signs of instability.
“Stop checking my vitals,” Judd said. “They’re kicking me out of here tomorrow. I’m okay.”
“You lost a lot of blood, partner,” Frank said.
“Listen, I’m sure Davis is out of custody by now and is busting his ass to tell Gaither not to return to the Mago. I had a tail put on both of them, so we’ll see where they hole up tonight.”
“I have no case against either of them right now, so what’s the use?’
“Mitch Davis will throw Gaither under the Greyhound if you tighten the screws on him. He’s a punk-ass coward who’ll give up his own mother after one swift kick in his frank and beans.”
“So you think I should go lean on Mitch,” Frank said.
“Duh. Yeah.”
“I don’t know …”
“Look, ideally we want all that remains of the four that came to your home either on their way to the Resort, or on their way to hell. Plus Guzman. We can’t stop our investigation now. I want the whole bunch where they can do no harm to decent people. You think those assholes are going to start doing charity work and attend mass because they skated around the legal system? Give me a break.”
“All right, I’ll see what I can dig up on Davis.”
“If not, make something up. Make it good enough to question him pigeon-in-the-box style. Old school.”
“You’re right,” Frank said as his cell vibrated on his belt.
Frank studied the incoming call, raised an eyebrow, and looked at Judd.
“Detective Dugan,” Frank said.
“Who?” Judd asked in a whisper.
“It’s Errol Malay, detective. I was hoping we could have a chat about the present state of affairs with Mr. Guzman and his associates?”
Frank muted the phone. “Hard to believe. It’s Errol Malay.
“Holy shit. What would he want with you?”
Frank switched the cell to speaker and placed a finger to his lips to silence Judd.
“What’s the catch, Malay?”
“No catch. Rico has reneged on his payment to me for handling his legal mess. Promised me a lot, even if he lost his case and had to go to the Resort.”
“What kind of promises?”
“Well, for openers, what was he going to do with that big yacht he owns? He’s never going to see it again and the money from selling it won’t help him in the least.”
“He promised you El Mago?”
“And his lavish hacienda. He has no relatives that he doesn’t hate, and his loyal idiot boys have outgrown their usefulness to him. I at least tried to save him. I’m the closest thing he has to a friend. So why not put his chattel in the hands of a person he knows and trusts?”
Judd Kemp shook his head.
Frank said, “The money from his estate could buy him a lot of escape attempts from the Resort, futile as they might be. If I were he, I’d put my trust in that money more than a give-away to my attorney who let me get convicted.”
“There was no saving the bastard,” Malay said. “He was up to his eyes in so many mistakes he couldn’t buy his way out of this time. Even he had to know that, delusional as he is.”
“So what do we have to talk about? Going to offer me half interest in the yacht to assuage your conscience about my family?”
“There could be money in it for you. A lot of it.”
“Money you know well I couldn’t accept.”
“We place it in a Swiss bank account. Who has to know? When you get tired of being a lawman, you might like to retire to Barbados or maybe Tahiti.”
Frank chuckled and Judd had to cover his mouth to muffle his laughter.
“Yeah, I have a whole set of videos of me parasailing in my Speedo above the beaches of French Polynesia.”
Judd had to jam his face into his pillow.
“What I want to talk to you about is Ernie Gaither,” Malay said. “I have new evidence that you can use to bring him to justice. Evidence that can send him to join his mentor at the Resort.”
“Aren’t you skirting around client confidentiality?”
“Gaither was never my client, Guzman was. And since guzman wants to welch on his promises, i don’t feel like helping him by supporting his right-hand sycophant so he can dream about getting outside help into prescott island.”
“Where should we meet?” Frank asked.
Judd wagged a cautionary finger at Frank.
“Guzman owns a shipyard warehouse at the south end of the marina. Ernie Gaither is holed up there. A huge painted sign on it says: ‘Seaside Marine.’ The main door has a window in it and a light over the transom. A sign over the door says: ‘Employees Only.’”
“I’ll find it,” Frank said.
“What time will work for you?”
“I’ll be at the range until seven. I can make it by eight.”
“Still working on your craft, even when you’ve proven today that you’re already an expert.”
“The way you get to stay an expert is the same way you get to Carnegie Hall.”
“Ah, so. See you tonight, detective,” Malay said.
“I’ll be there,” Frank said and ended the call.
“You’re not going there without backup …” Judd said.
“Stop with the nagging. I’m a big boy, momma.”
“You’re a big boy idiot.”
Judd pushed the button on his night table for the nurse.
“I’m getting out of here tonight and going with you,” Judd said and reached for his IVs.
Frank grabbed his shoulders and forced him back onto the bed.
“You’re not doing anything of the kind. A lot of help you’d be with one good wing. And the good one’s not even your shooting wing.”
“I feel like I’m partnered with that nutso Riggs from Lethal Weapon, I swear to God.”
Frank left the hospital at 3 PM and drove to the station to catch up on his messages and to file his reports of the morning activities. The paperwork and interviews with the captain and the media would take him into the evening. An hour at the firing range took him to 7:30 with enough time to make his meeting with Errol Malay. As he contemplated the appointment with the underground counselor, he recalled words of caution from then President Ronald Reagan: “Trust but verify.” With an opportunist the likes of Malay, Frank would be going light on the trust, and heavy on the verify.
Chapter 36
The sprawling Seaside Marine warehouse was lit only by a single interior light peeking out of the windowed employees door, the parking lot at the water’s edge of San Diego Bay empty save for two cars bumpered up to the building. Frank eased his Bronco next to the black Mercedes convertible with the California vanity license plate:
CRTKING
Frank had to smile at the cryptic plate’s likely translation: Court King. It contained a double meaning. Malay fancied himself a master in the courtroom and also a
superior tennis player. At his fee level, he could well afford the training it would take for him to be a contender at Wimbledon, but he contented himself with local celebrity matches, which, because of his fondness for media attention, often made the entertainment news. Big wins in court helped his inflated regard of himself and he never failed to grab anyone with notoriety, who happened to be involved in high profile legal snares. An ambulance chaser who chased Rolls Royce ambulances.
The door to the warehouse opened easily and Frank stepped inside and eyed the huge open room from side to side. As his head turned from left to center, he felt something hard pressed against his right side.
“So nice of you to come pay us a visit,” the unforgettable voice of Ernie Gaither said as Frank twisted his neck toward the speaker to confirm his recognition.
“Where’s Malay?” Frank said.
“First we take the gun,” Gaither said and yanked Frank’s pistol from his belt holster and jammed it into his waistband. “Mr. Malay doesn’t like guns in his consultations. Now the other one.”
“What?”
“The piece in your ankle holster,” Gaither said with his palm extended.
Frank bent and removed the .38 revolver and handed it to Gaither.
“Now, then,” Gaither said, “Let’s go over here and you grab a seat there in that nice chair in front of the desk.”
Frank moved as he was directed, Gaither close behind, and sat.
“Here’s a little news flash for you, Mister Gaither. A lot of cops know exactly where I am and are awaiting my call to tell them the highlights of my meeting with your attorney.”
“Ooooh. Then we’d best not muss up your hair or we could get in trouble.”
“So, where’s Malay?”
“Just cool your jets. He’s comin’ soon. Had to take a crap.”
Gaither sat behind the desk, keeping his gun aimed at Frank while he deposited Frank’s pistols on the desk top.
“Going to miss your boss?” Frank asked.
“For a little while maybe.”
Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series) Page 17