Rebecca was still sitting in the chair, her head against a file cabinet, eyes closed. She didn't respond to CJ. Neither did Paddy. He didn't expect a response when he was thinking out loud.
"They managed to pick my pocket after I'd been seen meeting with Douglas, then kill him and drop him and my wallet into the bay together, all in bright daylight without witnesses. That takes a well organized team."
"You don't think it could have been just one man?" Paddy said.
"Possible, but doubtful. Also, I spotted two men following me."
Hannah poked her head in again. "Someone asking for you," she said to Paddy.
"If it's a vendor, get his name and I'll call him back. Now's not a good time."
"Not a vendor, Dad. He didn't show me ID or anything, but he looks like a cop."
"Looks aren't everything, darlin'. Just get his name and tell him I'll..."
"John Taffer," said the man suddenly looming up behind her.
Hannah jumped like she'd been goosed by a ghost.
Taffer stepped next to her and put his hand on her shoulder, ducking slightly under the door frame. "My apologies," he said and presented his ID. "Special Agent John Taffer, FBI." He looked down at CJ. "Mister Washburn. Interesting finding you here. Detective DuPont told me you were leaving town."
"My flight wasn't until tomorrow."
"Wasn't?" Taffer said.
"Sometimes things change," CJ said.
"It's okay, Hannah," Paddy said.
Despite being curious, she turned and rushed off.
"You must be Rebecca O'Reilly," Taffer said to Rebecca. When she nodded he added, "I'm very sorry for your loss."
"Thank you," she whispered, but kept her eyes downcast.
"What can I do for you, Agent?" Paddy said.
"I'd like to talk with you and Mrs. O'Reilly." He tilted his head toward CJ. "In private."
"Mister Washburn is working for me," Rebecca said. "He needs to be here."
"Working for you? In what capacity?"
"I've hired him to find the person who killed my husband."
Taffer looked at CJ for confirmation. CJ raised his eyebrows and tilted his head.
"I really don't think that's a good idea, Mrs. O'Reilly. You should let the local police handle it."
"If I called them up could they tell me anything I don't already know?"
Taffer shook his head. "I doubt it."
"That's probably because they don't know anything."
"I believe they know a lot more than you think, however they will not normally divulge information while in the middle of an investigation."
"What have they got so far?" CJ said. "I was seen with Douglas O'Reilly, then my wallet was found next to his body and a Starbucks coffee was discovered near the scene, which I'm sure, if they haven't run them already, will divulge my fingerprints. Do they have anything that points to anyone besides me?"
Taffer smiled. "I couldn't say."
"How did you find out that I was in St. Petersburg looking for Douglas?"
Taffer just looked at him.
"You sent two men to pick me up last night. I'd only been in town maybe five, six hours and had only talked to Paddy here and he'd only talked to his sister, Mrs. O'Reilly. By deduction we've come to one conclusion. You were listening in on Paddy's call to his sister. That's a wiretap. Don't you need a court order to do a wire tap?"
"Not if we already have permission."
"Permission!" Rebecca suddenly came alert. "Whose phone did you have permission to listen in on?"
CJ noted a brief break in Agent Taffer's façade. Just as quick, he had it back.
"Seeing as your husband owns the account under which both of your phone numbers reside, we had permission to listen in on both."
Rebecca's mouth hung open, not knowing what to say.
CJ stepped in. "Seeing as the account owner is now deceased and the responsibility for the account is naturally passed to the surviving spouse, I would advise that the surviving spouse, my client, revoke permission for said line tapping."
Rebecca glared at Taffer. "Stop it, now!"
"Very well, Mrs. O'Reilly." He turned around and closed the door. "Actually, we've already ceased monitoring your phones."
"Because Doug is dead," she said.
"Yes. However, we do have a situation going on. With great respect for you in your time of grief, we are asking that you allow us, the FBI, and the St. Petersburg Police, to pursue the investigation into your husband's murder in a manner that will not impede an ongoing operation, that is, without a third party to add a level of confusion."
"And what is this operation?" CJ asked.
"That, I am not at liberty to discuss or reveal. I will say that Douglas spent much of his time giving of himself to get to where we are today. He would not want it all to be destroyed when we are this close."
"This close to what?" Paddy said.
"Again, I cannot say."
CJ said, "Who is the man in the Hawaiian shirt?"
Taffer looked at CJ like he didn't know what he was talking about. "What man in a Hawaiian shirt?"
"Several men had been tailing Douglas since he returned from Northern Ireland three days ago. These same men have been tailing me this afternoon. We'd come to the conclusion that they were members of UIRA. Now I'm wondering if they were FBI."
Taffer shook his head again. "No. We are not tailing you. We have no interest in you whatsoever."
"Well you probably should," Paddy said. "He's the only one who appears to be coming up with answers so far. Maybe if you followed him around, you'd find your killer."
"Don't encourage him, Paddy," CJ said.
"How do you know they were tailing Douglas?" Taffer asked.
"Doug told me," Rebecca said. "He pointed out one of them for me yesterday. I saw the same man at Mister Washburn's hotel this afternoon when I went to visit him."
"She warned me and then I was able to confirm it when I left the hotel to come here. They're not very good. I shook them easily. I'm inclined to believe, however, that they may not be your killers."
"Why's that?"
"The man who bumped into me, thus who took my wallet, was not the man in the Hawaiian shirt. Although I hadn't gotten a good look at the other man following me–he has only been in the car, the driver–I did catch a brief glimpse of his profile when I drove by where he was parked. Outside of his clothing, all I got of the man who took my wallet was his facial profile. I was on the phone, a bit distracted."
"Must be why it was so easy to pick your pocket," Paddy said.
"Embarrassing, yes. The point I'm trying to make is that the two profiles don't match."
"Does Detective DuPont know about the tails?" Taffer asked.
"Haven't talked to him since he cut me loose."
"I'll let him know. He'll probably be calling you for descriptions."
CJ didn't say anything and the room suddenly went silent. After a time Agent Taffer said, "Again, I have to ask you to stay out of the investigation unless you are called upon."
"It might be easier to remain away if we had some idea what the operation was all about," CJ said.
Taffer didn't respond.
"You mentioned last night that there were other agencies involved. I'm assuming that would be Homeland Security if, as I suspect, UIRA is on the terrorist list."
Again Taffer said nothing.
"I can assume, then, that UIRA has set up shop in the United States to organize something. Either people or weapons or... explosives."
In addition to CJ, Paddy and Rebecca were staring at Agent Taffer, anticipating some kind of response. When still none came, CJ continued.
"A lengthy undercover leading up to an event as large as you're leaving us to believe would require all three, plus a target."
"Please, in the interest of national security, I ask that you stay out of it. Let us do our work." He looked at Rebecca. "I don't think your husband would want all his effort wasted."
Reb
ecca looked between her brother and CJ, then finally said, "Okay."
CJ said to Taffer. "How do I get rid of my tails?"
"Go home, Mister Washburn. That would certainly do it."
Chapter 12
CJ was again standing at his hotel window, looking out over the bay, his eye on one particular single-masted boat appearing to work its way to the harbor entrance, maybe coming in after a day of fun in the sun. He wasn't thinking about sailing, though, at least not consciously. When he left the pub and made his way back to the parking garage, he didn't see the car that had been following him, nor the Hawaiian shirt guy. Just in case he would need to use the disguise again, he'd stuffed the hat and shirt back into the bag. When he entered the hotel through the main entrance, he was glad he did. There was Hawaiian Shirt, in his place, holding a Gentleman's Quarterly Magazine. He certainly didn't look like a GQ kind of guy, but then CJ had no idea what a GQ kind of guy looked like. He'd never actually seen anyone reading the magazine who wasn't trying to pass time while in a waiting room or a hotel lobby.
In addition to watching the sailboat, CJ had been keeping an eye on the cars on the street below. His attention was drawn to a dark green sedan approaching from the north. It slowed and then parked. From his vantage point he couldn't be sure it was a Chevy Impala, but when no one got out, he could only assume. A minute later Hawaiian Shirt came out and got in the passenger side. The car didn't move. Both of his shadows were back in place.
So why all the manpower to keep him under surveillance? What were they afraid of?
After Taffer left the pub, CJ had stayed around to eat and watch the happy hour crowd trickle, and then flood in. When he'd become aware that he wasn't in a happy hour mood, he paid his tab and made his departure. Now he was getting bored.
He looked at his watch. It was 6:56. He tried to remember what time the sun set the night before, guessed at maybe 8:00 or so, and decided to go for another walk. He pulled his phone off charge and went out the door.
There was still police tape around the crime scene, including the bench where CJ had sat earlier. Also still in residence was one marked and one unmarked police vehicle as well as the dive van. Two men stood at the seawall looking down, one in a wet suit, while a uniformed cop watched the onlookers and rubberneckers. CJ stepped up to where a few other people were watching, some 50 yards north of the tape, and looked toward the activity in the water. There was one man with a tank on his back slowly moving back and forth. Occasionally he'd disappear.
CJ made note that Hawaiian Shirt had also joined the rubberneckers. He had a cell phone pressed to his ear. CJ turned his back to him and the scene and started walking north, along the seawall.
As per her promise to Agent Taffer, Rebecca had withdrawn her request for CJ's services, however, CJ had made no promises and he still retained a client. Until Gianna called and told him otherwise, he was still on her payroll. He had no intention of going home, rather hoped that she would give him more of a reason to stay.
He approached 1st Avenue where turning right would bring him onto Demens Landing Park and access to St. Petersburg Sailing Center or St. Petersburg Marina. He paused to consider if he wanted to go into the park or continue along Bay Shore Drive when Hawaiian Shirt suddenly appeared right next to him.
"Mister Washburn," he said. "I have quick access to a gun." He pointed toward the bridge that fed 1st Avenue into the park. "Please go this way."
CJ looked at the man, two inches shorter then himself, though stocky and muscled. As he considered his options the man took a step away and put his hand behind his back, under his shirt.
"I'm quicker than you are thinking, Mister Washburn," he said.
Apparently CJ's options were slim. "Seeing as you said please," he said and turned toward the bridge. Hawaiian Shirt fell in behind him. The Chevy Impala appeared beside them for a few seconds and then moved on ahead, turning left toward the marina. Following Hawaiian Shirt's instructions, they continued on foot, following the route of the Impala until they stopped at a foot-gate entrance where the driver of the Impala was waiting. He opened the gate with a key and they entered a walk area that provided access to all the covered slips.
They walked along the slips for a time, driver in front, Hawaiian Shirt behind, until they stopped at a boat with a pair of outboard motors. The outboards, each having the number 300 stenciled on the back, seemed a bit much for what appeared to be a small boat, if in fact the 300 stood for horsepower. But then, what did CJ know about boats?
Hawaiian Shirt pointed. "Get in and sit down there."
CJ stepped across and sat. "Where're we going?"
Hawaiian Shirt ignored the question. The driver fired the motors to life. CJ was expecting something a bit louder, with a deep-throated rumble. Instead, they were quiet and smooth. The driver jumped off, threw off the lines and jumped back on. Hawaiian Shirt stayed in place, keeping an eye on CJ, while the driver stowed the lines.
And then they were moving.
Hawaiian Shirt reached into a compartment and came up with a set of handcuffs. He threw them at CJ. "Put these on. Hook up to the rail." With that he pulled out a handgun, a small Colt automatic.
CJ considered the cuffs for a few seconds before attaching them between his right wrist and the four-foot section of rail.
Hawaiian Shirt put his gun away and then seemed to relax.
"Nice boat," CJ said. "I imagine it has some get-up-and-go with 600 horses on the back." He made like changing position and tested the strength of the rail. It moved back and forth about a half inch. He wondered how strong it was. "Where're we going?"
Hawaiian Shirt ignored him.
"What is that?" CJ pointed toward The Pier and its inverted pyramid-shaped building as they slowly motored by.
Hawaiian Shirt continued to ignore him, not even turning his head.
"Why are we going so slow?" CJ sort of knew the answer to that question as he'd read the Manatee Basics for Boaters sign when he was walking around the day before. It said that boat speeds in Manatee waters were restricted to slow or at idle between November and March. This was September so CJ surmised that it was a habit for the locals to travel these waters slow all year round. Then he noticed another boat passing in the opposite direction, two men on board. It had Hillsborough County Sheriff stenciled on the side, and nearly 1000 horses on the back, certainly faster than the one in which he was sitting. His captors were going slow because they didn't want to attract the attention of a few of the counties finest.
Too bad for them, CJ thought and tightened his grip on the rail.
Chapter 13
The timing wasn't perfect, CJ knew, but if these guys were motoring out to deep waters with the intent to shoot him in the head and then leave him for the sharks, there wasn't going to be a better time. With the sheriff within view, now was the best he was going to get.
CJ twisted in his seat, tensed and then delivered a kick aimed for under Hawaiian Shirt's jaw. Hawaiian Shirt, though, was definitely quicker than CJ was thinking. He dodged to the side while reaching back for his gun. CJ's kick caught him on the ear, dazed him for just enough time for CJ to regain his equilibrium. Hawaiian Shirt shook it off and rose to his feet, bringing the gun out. CJ kicked out again, this time straight at the man's chest with all the power he could muster.
At first, like a martial arts kicking bag struck by a young student, nothing appeared to happen. Time stopped. Everything became suspended; CJ's breathing, heartbeat, even his fall. It all seemed to just hang there, until he noticed the gun in Hawaiian Shirt's hand, pointing... and then it went off.
The explosion, the slam to the bench and the deck, the lightning burst of pain and the sight of the back of Hawaiian's Shirt's legs as he flipped backwards off the side of the boat, all came to CJ in the next split second. Trying hard to ignore the burning pain in his side, CJ pulled himself onto the bench and looked up at the other man who was turned and looking at him. Anticipating another physical confrontation, CJ rose to his feet. Th
e driver punched the throttle forward, throwing CJ against the back of the boat. He'd gone completely out if not for his being attached to the rail.
He came to his feet again and looked back, expecting to see the Sheriff's boat in hot pursuit. To his disappointment, however, they were almost at a complete stop, and a lifebuoy ring went flying through the air.
CJ started attacking the rail. He jerked at it, kicked it, did everything he could think to break it from its hold on the boat, but it wouldn't budge. Then he chanced to look at the driver again. He had a gun pointed at CJ and was pulling the trigger, over and over, but nothing was happening. The man looked at the gun as though it had purposely misfired, and then released the clip. It was empty. If not for the burning in his side, CJ would have laughed. The man turned away, to get another clip, CJ assumed, and he had to make a fast decision. Either continue to attack the rail in hopes of breaking free and jumping overboard, or attack the man, though as with Hawaiian Shirt, only with his feet. He was definitely within range. As a matter-of-fact, the area was so small that the man couldn't get far enough away from CJ unless he climbed over the windshield and up onto the bow.
CJ turned, gritted his teeth against the pain, and kicked the man square in the kidney. The man jerked on the wheel as he dropped to one knee. The boat veered port and CJ was again thrown down. As he struggled up he saw that the man still had the gun in one hand and was busy bringing the boat back on a straight course. CJ set himself for another kick, but the man glanced back at him, grinned and then jerked the wheel to the right. CJ hit something and the pain he'd been feeling ignited like fire.
When he was able to clear his head and get his feet back, the man had found the second clip and this one was not empty. As he looked down to slide the clip in CJ turned to kick and then noticed a sailboat just off the starboard bow. It was crossing and by CJ's amateur assessment, they were on a collision course. A woman and a child were looking their way and a man was scrambling for the helm.
Sailing into Death (CJ Washburn, PI Book 2) Page 8