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

by Paul Sekulich

  “Is this Daley?” Malay asked.

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “I’m Robert Platt, a friend of Mitch’s. I haven’t seen him lately and was a little concerned about him. We had plans to meet for dinner tonight and he never called to confirm.”

  “I haven’t heard from him lately, either.”

  “Maybe you and I can figure out where he might be. Can we meet somewhere?”

  “I’m on my way to the police. Mitch left me instructions to contact them if I didn’t hear from him for several days.”

  “The San Diego police? Who are you seeing there?”

  “His name is Detective Kem─”

  “Who?”

  “Look mister, I don’t know who you are. Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  “I have a video tape he gave me,” Malay said, his mind racing to say what he needed to find out where this girl was. “I’m supposed to contact the police too, but I don’t think Mitch is in any trouble. His uncle told me he was there last night at his house for dinner.”

  “So you feel giving this video to the police is premature?’

  “Exactly. It could cause Mitch a lot of trouble.”

  “I don’t know …”

  “Look, why don’t you meet me at the police station and we’ll go over things and decide whether to give the detective the tape or not.”

  “At the station … ?”

  “Which one?” Malay asked, certain it was Judd Kemp’s and that was the name she’d left unfinished.

  “The central station on Imperial.”

  “Be there in ten minutes,” Malay said. “How will I recognize you?”

  “I’m driving a white Mazda 6.”

  “I’ll find you.”

  Malay raced from the country club parking lot and tore toward downtown San Diego. From Chula Vista to Imperial Avenue should only take him a few minutes in midday traffic.

  * * *

  The mansion looked dilapidated and unoccupied, but Rico Guzman didn’t trust such an unconfirmed assessment without proof. He drew the machete from its scabbard and mounted the porch steps, stopping on each tread to listen for any suspicious sound.

  At the front door he peeked inside through the broken window lights that framed the entrance. He saw nothing but an open, dirt-swept space. Inside, he crept through the hall and checked each room as they passed his view. The inspection of the house gave him a few clues regarding human occupancy. An unopened bottle of French wine sat on the mantelpiece, ashes in the fireplace looked new, and the fresh evergreen boughs on the floor were matted in places, as if recently slept on. That recent occupant had to be the man he sought. The question now was should he wait in the house to ambush him on his return, or venture outside and hunt him down?

  The house smelled of bad air. Guzman stepped outside and made a careful survey of the grounds. Gnarring sounds rose from the earth in the back yard. He took wary steps to where they emanated and ended at what appeared to be a deep hole in the overgrown weeds. Blood trails streamed from the hole, two sets of them. Looking down, he could see the remains of many dead chickens below, but nothing to which to attribute the sounds, so he bent lower and tried to see into the covered passage on the right. Nothing but darkness. As he cocked his head to the left, a huge set of vicious jaws leapt upward at his face and snapped, falling short of their mark by inches. Guzman reeled and stumbled onto the prickly ground. The Komodo dragon jumped to the upper edge of the ditch, his head and front legs chinning and clawing to escape and get at the fallen Cuban. Rico sprang to his feet and retreated several feet and held his machete high. The dragon soon tired and resigned itself to sliding back into its earthen jail.

  * * *

  Frank heard the commotion in the yard and spied out from the ajar door of the cabana. It was Rico Guzman, all right. He had to give him credit for making it all the way across the island and homing in on the likely spot where he’d find his nemesis. Frank watched Guzman as he brandished his machete and glared at the ditch. The dragons had missed him. It was time to come out and go on the attack.

  Frank loaded one of his hickory shaft arrows he’d sharpened to a scratch awl point. Its three peacock fletchings shone bright in color near the wire bowstring. He stepped out from the cabana and fully drew back the wire. The oak bed slat creaked as the arrow’s point lay on the knuckle of his left index finger. Guzman turned toward the tiny sound as the arrow flew from the bow and punctured his right side below the ribs, its point protruding from his back.

  “God damn you,” Guzman hollered as he staggered from the hit.

  Frank abandoned the bow, withdrew his machete, and charged toward the wounded man, who ripped out the arrow and raised his machete. The two men left ten feet between them, their weapons in hand and at the ready.

  “Worse things than arrows have hit me, Dugan,” Guzman said. “Let’s dance.”

  “Pulling out that arrow may make you bleed out, Rico.”

  “That little hole will heal as we fight.”

  Guzman lunged at Frank, slashing with his weapon. Frank side-stepped the attack, but Guzman managed to strike Frank’s machete a prodigious blow, sending it whirling into the pool.

  “Now what ya got, flatfoot?” Guzman said and prepared another assault.

  Frank dove into the pool and disappeared beneath the surface. He descended to the open concrete pipe and swam into it. Thirty feet later, he came out of the pipe and broke into the afternoon sun atop the surf. He was in the ocean near the beach and in a handful of strokes later, was on the sand. He stood and took his knife from his belt and opened the main cutting blade. The dilapidated pier was a few yards to his left. There was an item there that he desperately needed.

  * * *

  Guzman watched the sloshing water in the pool for several moments.

  Did the crazy bastard drown?

  He searched the water as it cleared enough to make out an object on the bottom, an object like a body, but there was none. He considered going into the pool himself to see how his enemy escaped. Not such a good idea, he judged, and the wound in his side wouldn’t benefit from bacteria in the water nor strenuous swimming. Dugan could be down there with a breathing device, maybe a hose to the outside air, just waiting to attack me and get the upper hand.

  No, Rico Guzman was no fish. He would wait out Mr. Amphibious Dugan until he came back onto the land, and kill him like a man.

  * * *

  Errol Malay screeched into the Central Division of the SDPD and swept the public parking area with his eyes searching for the white Mazda. In less than thirty seconds, he found the vehicle and parked next to it. He saw the pretty brunette behind the wheel, left the Mercedes, and approached her driver’s door. The woman stared at him through the glass .

  “I’m Robert,” Malay said. “Are you Daley?”

  The woman rolled down her window.

  “Yes,” she said. “Where should we talk?”

  “Here would be fine.”

  “Out there or in my car?”

  “In the car would be better. More private. I mean, this is a police station.”

  Malay circled the Mazda and opened the passenger door. Daley had to move her purse and a manila envelope so he could sit. Malay got in and closed the door.

  “Is the tape in the envelope?” Malay asked.

  “Yes.”

  Daley let Malay feel what was inside the envelope, then held it on her lap..

  “Seems like the one I got from Mitch.”

  “Where is yours?”

  “In my car.”

  “I’d like to see yours,” Daley said.

  “Is this a ‘you show me yours, I show you mine’ kinda thing?” Malay said and chuckled.

  “It really needs to be that way. You know, mutual trust and all.”

  Malay was prepared to snatch the manila envelope from Daley’s lap, if he had to. Once he controlled all the tapes, anything else would be academic or, at worst, a matter of “he said, she said.”

/>   “The important thing is, Daley, we don’t want to set the cops off on a witch hunt that could seriously harm Mitch. Even get him arrested.”

  Daley stared straight ahead out the windshield. The slight shake of her head unnerved Malay. It was the trait all court witnesses went through when they wanted to recant their testimony. Daley wasn’t going to cooperate willingly. He’d have to do whatever it took to protect himself.

  Malay struck like a rattlesnake and grabbed the manila envelope from Daley and moved to exit the Mazda, but stopped. Her car was surrounded by police officers. In the forefront was Detective Judd Kemp.

  Kemp opened the Mazda’s passenger door.

  “Well, good afternoon, counselor,” Kemp said. “Working your clients in parking lots these days?”

  “Ambulances are so hard to catch,” Malay said. “We were having a private meeting concerning one of my clients.”

  “Ms. Foster here says you’re Robert Platt. I seem to remember you as Errol Malay.”

  “I didn’t want to influence her by presenting myself as an attorney.”

  “I’m presenting myself as Detective Judd Kemp. Step out of the car,” Kemp said.

  Malay slowly got out and faced the detective.

  “When you called Ms. Foster, she was already here. We listened in on the conversation and knew something wrong was about to take place. We asked her to play along so we could see this mysterious Mr. Platt. It was a real surprise to discover it was the most famous defense attorney in California.”

  “So now what?” Malay said. “I’ve done nothing criminal.”

  “You just stole that envelope from Ms. Foster,” Kemp said. “We call that theft.”

  “I fully intended to return it to her after I saw what was in it.”

  “We did see what was in it. The real tape is in the station, locked in our evidence room.”

  “What’s in this envelope?” Malay asked.

  “A small pack of sticky notes,” Kemp said and took the envelope from Malay. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Ernest Gaither.”

  Kemp nodded at one of the several officers surrounding the Mazda. The officer handcuffed Malay and guided him toward the station.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” the officer said. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law …”

  Malay and the contingent of policemen marched into the station as the rest of his Miranda Rights were given.

  * * *

  Judd Kemp stuck his head in the door of Daley Foster’s car.

  “You did great, young lady,” Kemp said. “We’re all proud of you. Now I have to try to save a man who’s been wrongfully sent to a penal island with men who want to kill him.”

  “You believe you can save him?” Daley asked.

  “That is a most excellent question.”

  Chapter 45

  Frank found the twenty-foot length of hemp rope he’d tossed under the pier. He hadn’t figured on needing it since he’d used it to wrangle the two Komodo dragons into the ditch. He’d been confident that he could take out Guzman with the bow and arrow. At least that was the battle plan. But, as he well knew, the first thing to go when the fight begins is the battle plan. Now he scrambled to set his new offense into action.

  He hoped he had enough time.

  * * *

  Dan Crawford finished sending the last cart of supplies to the warehouse and sat out on the wood pier as the overcast day was finally going home. He was concerned about Frank. Wondered how he was faring. Hoped and prayed he wasn’t dead. He had always despised cops, but Frank was different. Reverent, respectful, and honest to a fault. He never made a claim or a promise that was a come-on to achieve an advantage or get a leg up on anyone. Crawford liked that and felt that there was something purely good about the man the day he met him at Pelican Bay.

  Three of the community, besides Guzman and Frank, were missing. He found out who they were and wasn’t surprised since they epitomized the worst of hardened criminals. All three were murderers several times over with nothing to lose by trying to escape. But escape to what? The sharks? The naval guns? There was never going to be any escape from the Resort. So where were these men and what were they up to?

  Crawford was determined to find out.

  * * *

  Rico Guzman treated his seeping wounds with wine he’d found in the mansion’s cellar. It was still drinkable and a bottle or two made his pain abate dramatically. He shredded part of his tee shirt and strapped it around his body to compress the open holes and stem the bleeding. So far, he was doing okay. Now he needed rest. Tomorrow he’s go look for Dugan or, better yet, his dead body. He had to have drowned. There was a kind of culvert, a narrow tunnel at one end of the swimming pool. If Frank swam into that and got stuck, game over. If it took him out to the ocean, the sharks would dine on his black liver, also game over. But he needed to confirm the death to be able to return to the community. Going back without knowing for sure, and then have Dugan show up alive and well? That would be a shameful embarrassment Rico Guzman’s pride wasn’t willing to chance.

  Tomorrow he’d find that bastard’s body or finish him and bring back his bloody head. Either way, he’d claim the kill and the victory.

  Rico Guzman would again be king of the hill.

  * * *

  Morning. The waves at the beach rolled in gently in three to five inch laps upon the shore. Frank concealed himself under the pier by arranging a few of the loose walkway boards around him, and waited. Rico would have to at least search for him back at the beach. If Guzman followed the pool flow pipe he’d know it led to the ocean.

  He’ll be here, Frank thought. He’s not leaving until I’m dead.

  Three hours passed. Frank took brief cat naps and was getting cramps from bunching himself into his hiding place. If he didn’t show soon, Frank was going to go looking for him and perhaps lose the advantage he had at the beach. Frank cursed the wait. Patience wasn’t his long suit.

  The moment Frank prepared to cast off the boards hiding him, something stirred on the paved walk coming from the mansion. It was Guzman, machete in hand, and bandaged about the torso. Frank waited until the Cuban stepped onto the soft sand of the beach and moved to within six feet of the water. Then he stepped out from under the pier, gently, so as not to scare his enemy from where he stood.

  “So, you are not dead … yet,” Guzman said.

  Frank eased into the water, thigh deep, and stared at Guzman.

  “What? Do we mud wrestle in the surf now?” Guzman said and laughed.

  Frank bent low and scooped up water and washed his arms. Guzman watched Frank’s ocean bathing with amusement. Frank prayed Guzman wouldn’t move from where he was.

  “Maybe I can get you a nice bar of soap,” Guzman said. “Clean soap for a filthy fucking cop.”

  Frank squatted in the three feet water until he was almost submerged and grabbed the rope hidden in the sand. He burst upward and yanked hard toward the deeper ocean. A large loop of the hemp surrounding Guzman’s feet gathered around his ankles and tightened as Frank turned, set the rope over his shoulder, and pulled seaward. Guzman fell backward and Frank continued to pull him into the water. Guzman tried to loosen the heavy hemp ligature binding his legs, but the pressure from Frank’s tugging defied his every effort. In seconds, Guzman was dragged into deeper water and now was fighting just to keep from going under where he’d be fighting for air.

  Frank reached water over his head and had to resort to swimming to tow his captive into greater depths. Guzman flipped himself onto his stomach and tried to Australian crawl his way to freedom, but Frank’s consistent tension on the rope made escape impossible.

  It was then that Frank saw the fins of the gathering sharks arriving at their favorite dining time in the moderate shallows. But today, they would find more than grouper and jack crevalle on the menu.

  The sharks moved in and brushed Frank with their fine sandpaper skin. They showed no interest in him, b
ut the man in tow was apparently putting out a scent to them that was like pork barbeque to a country boy. The sharks tore into Rico Guzman, so fast he barely got out two screams before he went silent. The water around Guzman was white with froth and razor-toothed heads shot out of the water and dove below the surface again and again. Water and blood sprayed into the air as each shark ripped off a trophy arm or a hunk of calf meat until all went calm except for an occasional last snap at a remaining shred of tattered flesh.

  The sharks departed as fast as they arrived and moved on to other feeding pools. Frank swam back to shore, still towing the rope. When he tugged the rope fully back onto the beach, the only parts left of Rico Guzman were his shins and ankles and half of a bloody foot.

  Frank squatted on the sand and stared out to sea. It was over. He had won. The monster was dead, but he didn’t feel any sense of celebratory victory. There would be no oo-rahs, no drunken dancing in the streets. Killing Guzman would never bring back Amy or Debbie or Billy. Frank almost wished the sharks had found him as appetizing as the Cuban.

  Frank had to find one last thing before he gave it all up.

  He needed to find a reason to go on living.

  * * *

  Judd Kemp had the video tape copied and converted to the more stable digital media that a DVD would provide. He called a meeting and showed everyone at the station the torture and murder of Ernie Gaither, which also showed the innocence of Frank Dugan, who was trapped in a deep pit during Gaither’s bizarre demise.

  Next, he would be showing the video to the court and perhaps the jurors who convicted Frank. Once Frank’s sentence was overturned, Judd would take the lead in the rescue of his friend and partner from Prescott Island. There was no precedent for this rescue. Folks who were sent to the Resort weren’t ever supposed to come back to civilization. By the time the navy got through the government red tape and obtained official approval for his release, Frank could be killed by any of the many inmates who hated him. No. Judd would go in with documents in hand, backed by lawmen, and get the job done.