Dead Wrong (Jason Justice Mystery Book 2)

by Ralph Zeta

  The attack was an indication something had changed. The public daylight attempt on Gabriela’s life had been a bold, risky move that reeked of desperation. It didn’t make sense unless something had forced them to act. But what? Was it our visit with Paula Jumper?

  Fortunately, the failed attempt also served to expose their real objective. My hunch had been spot-on. Gabriela Lowry was the target and Milton and Lisel, nothing but expendable pawns. But their failed move had cost them dearly. I had seen the killer’s face. And he knew I recognized him. The gloves were off, and, I suspected, the clock had begun its final countdown.

  The detective who had been talking to Gabriela approached me. “Tell me everything you remember about the attacker, Mr. Justice. Anything you remember, no matter how insignificant.”

  “He was a slender man of about thirty,”

  I said. “Six feet. Dark beanie, dark-green windbreaker. Dark jeans. Long, wavy black hair. Dark-skinned. His moves were precise, practiced. Perhaps ex-military.”

  “You serve?”

  “I did.”

  “Saw combat?”

  “I did.”

  He nodded sagely as if my answers somehow fell in line with some preconceived notion about combat veterans. When he was done with me he walked back toward Gabriela.

  “You need stitches,” the paramedic said to me.

  He was right. The gash on my arm was a good five inches long. The paramedic did a superb job of cleaning up the wound and bandaging my arm, and the local anesthetic helped with the throbbing pain.

  “What’s the closest emergency room,” I asked.

  “Mercy Hospital.” He pointed south. “About three miles that way.”

  I thanked the paramedic and stood up. He handed me a cold orange drink from an ice chest in the ambulance, insisting it would help with the effects of blood loss. I thanked him and chugged it. Before leaving, the detective handed me a card and asked me to call if I remembered anything else.

  * * *

  When we were alone, Gabriela gave me a once-over, then said, “You don’t look so well.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  The dubious glance said she wasn’t buying it. “Mr. Justice, I can smell a lie.”

  “That knife was aimed at you,” I said, ignoring the slight.

  “Well, you have more than earned your fee.”

  “This isn’t over.”

  A flicker of concern crossed her immaculate eyebrows. “You think they’ll keep trying?”

  “I don’t think. I know.”

  Reggae from a nearby bar mixed with the sweet smell of garlic, onions and grilled meat permeated the air.

  “Did you see the man’s face?”

  “Not really,” I said. I wasn’t being entirely truthful, but I didn’t see the point in telling her it was the guy at the farmhouse, garroting her husband.

  “Neither did I,” she said.

  “Call Spencer Tillman. Now.”

  “I don’t like the idea of being surrounded by people I don’t know. Men with guns.”

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  She finally nodded. “Would you mind calling him? I don’t think I can.”

  I studied her and she studied me back. There was something different about her. It was in the eyes, the way her brow arched. For the first time, I caught the glimmer of fear in those hard, unyielding eyes. Not something a casual observer might notice, but it was there. I even sensed a certain degree of vulnerability creeping into her. Perhaps this version was a more accurate reflection of the real Gabriela Lowry, the person she kept hidden behind that hard outer shell.

  I smiled in understanding. “You have his number?”

  She checked her cell phone found what she was looking for, then offered it to me.

  A flicker of relief crossed her eyes as I took her cell phone and pressed the call button.

  He answered quickly. I identified myself and told him of the attempt on Mrs. Lowry’s life. He asked for our location. I told him to meet us at Mercy Hospital and ended the call.

  By the time Spencer Tillman arrived at the hospital, Dr. Marcos Degetau, the emergency resident in charge, had finished stitching up my arm. Spencer Tillman wasn’t alone. Four beefy men in dark suits that matched their dark glares of distrust trailed behind him.

  Tillman and his men exuded an air of competence and wariness that was reassuring. Gabriela would be in capable hands.

  Twenty-Two

  I made it home by ten o’clock that night. Driving a manual-transmission automobile in traffic, with one arm held in a sling, was challenging enough that I shed the sling. The strain of blood loss combined with the fading anesthetic made a difficult task even more cumbersome. The wound started throbbing again, and my stomach wanted food. I killed the engine and called Sammy and brought him up to speed. When he heard about my injury courtesy of Grinning Man, AKA Beanie Man, he volunteered to come over. “Just in case they are stupid enough to try again, J.J.,” he said.

  I turned him down. The guy wanted Gabriela, not me. I was just a speed bump. Sammy said he had made progress tracking down Paula’s offspring.

  “It wasn’t easy,” he admitted. “Although they have extensive rap sheets, there’s little recent history on them boys. They’ve been off the grid for some time. Typical for hard-core ex-cons. One thing. I rang their parole officer. He wasn’t happy camper. The Jumper boys are MIA. PO thinks they may be down here. So I expanded the search. Started looking for anyone they might go to for help. Distant relatives or known acquaintances. If they’re in Florida, someone’s helping them.”

  “Paula?”

  “Possible,” Sammy said. “Shithouse Martha’s keeping an eye on her.”

  “Does this mean we get to hang out with the lovely Martha again?”

  Sammy ignored my remark, said he would check back with me in the morning, and clicked off.

  I crawled out of my car, locked the door, and headed toward Bold Ambition II. I was in dire need of animal protein and a stiff drink or two and a bed.

  Twenty-Three

  I bypassed the cabin light switches and locked the door behind me. In almost complete darkness, I peeled off what was left of my ripped and bloodstained shirt and tossed it in the trash bin. Then I creaked over to the fridge, popped open two beers and sank onto the couch. I slurped down both beers and closed my eyes for a while. I lingered without movement in the still cabin, listening to the gentle lap of water against the hull, and the occasional muted whirr of the bilge pumps doing their duty.

  Sometime later, I pried myself off the couch and moved toward the galley. Flicking on the lights, I took casual inventory of my living space: the stacked boxes of tax files I had yet to return to the office, on the floor by the galley counter; the mound of unopened mail occupying a corner of the dining table; the same untidy gathering of unfinished novels cluttering the shelves above the dinette; the half dozen DVD folders scattered on the coffee table. As if the untidiness weren’t enough, my nose picked up a faint scent in the cool cabin air. It was a familiar odor, but not in a good way, not in my home. It was the vaguely bitter, musty scent of the lone aging male. That’s when I realized my life was in dire need of adjustment.

  But, before I allowed myself to get too far down the dark path of self-pity and regret, I dug into my pockets. My fingers found the medicines I was given at the hospital: an antibiotic and a prescription painkiller. I got a fresh beer from the fridge and washed down the antibiotic with a long pull, but passed on the painkiller. I had a better idea. I fished a bottle of tequila from the liquor cabinet and filled a shot glass. No lime, no salt. Raw. I felt the burn as it scoured the length of my esophagus. Then I repeated the process. And for good measure, I did it one more time. For the pain, I told myself.

  I decided against eating. For some reason, my appetite had waned. I slipped off my shoes, padded to my room and, without bothering to shed my slacks, collapsed on the bed and instantly regretted it. I had landed on my injured arm. A spike of pain shot
from up from my elbow to the base of my skull, and immediately the bump on the back of my head began throbbing in sympathy. I held my breath and uttered a few colorful words as I waited for the pain to subside. But even after the throbbing in my arm had died down, the pain wouldn’t stop. I wondered whether I would be able to sleep at all. I briefly considered the risks of mixing prescription painkillers with alcohol, thought better of it. At forty-one years, with a little luck, I still had some good years ahead. A mostly healthy liver was an integral part of that plan.

  I turned on my good side and tried to sleep.

  Twenty-Four

  My cell phone shattered a perfectly good dream. I turned over in bed. A stab of pain made me go still. I cursed under my breath for not bothering to turn off the phone before falling asleep. I searched for the source of the annoyance. As my good arm hunted for the cell, it shrilled again. I found it in my trouser pockets. It was an unfamiliar Miami number. I routinely ignore calls from unknown numbers in the middle of the night, but for some reason, I felt compelled to answer.

  “Yeah?”

  Silence first, then breathing.

  “Wrong number, asshole,” I said. I was in no mood.

  As I was about to click off, a female voice said, “Jason?”

  I sat up in bed. More pain made me cringe. “Lola?”

  “I’m so sorry to wake you, Jason.”

  “You all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You at home?”

  “No.”

  “Oh?”

  “I couldn’t stand being alone in the house.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I don’t know. Near you, I think.”

  “Here?” I said and slid off the bed. “Where?”

  “I’m at a twenty-four-hour gas station on PGA Boulevard. Near the Intracoastal.”

  “Stay where you are,” I said as I searched for a shirt. “I’ll be there in ten.”

  I pulled into the gas station. Even at that early hour, customers were fueling up their vehicles. I found her SUV wedged between two sizable pickup trucks. I parked a few spaces over and walked over to her. I peered in the driver’s-side window. Her eyes were closed and her head was leaned against the headrest. I rapped the window. It startled her. Her wary eyes seized on to mine. After the flicker of relief and recognition came a weak smile.

  The window lowered, and she said, “I’m so sorry I got you out of bed, Jason.”

  I studied her face. In the harsh fluorescent light, I could see the swollen eyes and red nose.

  “No worries,” I said. “You okay?”

  She nodded. “There must be something seriously wrong with me. I didn’t mean to trouble you.”

  “No trouble. I’m glad you called. How are you?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Lola would never be much good at poker. Her face couldn’t mask the turmoil inside.

  “What made you come this far north?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, rolling the window the rest of the way down. “I couldn’t stand sitting around alone anymore, so I got in the car and started driving. Next thing I know, I’m passing the Palm Beach airport exit. I was getting low on gas and searched my phone for a gas station. Came here. Called you. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Did you get gas?”

  “I did.”

  Her eyes settled on the bandage on my left arm. “Looks worse than it is,” I said with a smile designed to allay any concerns.

  “What happened?”

  “Work-related injury.” I wanted to avoid discussing the attempt on Gabriela’s life. She didn’t need another worry on her plate. “A cut. Got a few stitches and a couple of shots. It’s all good.”

  “Looks painful.”

  “Not too bad.” We drifted into silence.

  “You feel like talking?”

  Her eyes shifted away from me, toward the windshield as if she was mulling the answer.

  “I realize how pathetic I must seem right now. I mean, this—getting in the car and driving aimlessly. Showing up here in the middle of the night, calling you—that’s not me.”

  “Stop,” I said. “No explanation needed. You’ve been through a lot. I won’t insult your intelligence and tell you I understand. But I know we all mourn differently. For you, maybe getting in your car and driving is part of that process.”

  She smiled meekly; then her eyes wandered away again. We drifted into silence.

  “It’s late,” I said. We couldn’t stay here the rest of the night. “You must be tired of sitting in the car. Why don’t we go to my place? We can talk, maybe have some coffee?”

  A hesitant look. “That’s very kind of you, Jason. But I don’t know. I feel like I’m imposing.”

  “No imposition at all,” I said. “I live two miles north. Just follow me.”

  She parked in an empty space in the marina and killed the headlights, got out, and locked her car. I watched her turn around, taking in the view of the marina and the multitude of boats bobbing ever so slightly in the still of night.

  She glanced at me with a look of mild amusement. “This is where you live?”

  “I think I may have failed to mention, my boat doubles as my home.”

  “Your father’s boat, isn’t it?”

  I smiled. “It is.” I remembered telling her about Bold Ambition II on our drive to Naples.

  We stepped off the dock and onto the aft deck. I unlocked the door, and we went inside. Immediately I felt the urge to apologize for the untidiness.

  “Welcome to my barge,” I said, moving the stack of mail from the table to the counter.

  “Hardly what I’d call a barge.” Her eyes took in the paneled ceiling, the gleaming teak walls, the galley, the full-size fridge, the Oriental carpet at the center of the living space.

  “This is really nice. Spacious. I like it.”

  “Thank you,” I said as I stuffed the pile of mail into a drawer. “Please ignore the mess. I wasn’t expecting company. I’m usually better than this.”

  A wave of the hand. “Not at all.”

  “Would you like coffee or something?”

  “Maybe a little wine if you have it.”

  “Sorry,” I said. I made a mental note to keep a few bottles of wine around. “I’m out of wine. Beer or cocktail?”

  She made a face. “Thank you. I don’t drink. Water?”

  “Sure.” I took a water bottle from the fridge and poured it into a tall glass.

  “Thank you,” she said. “What about you?”

  “Tequila,” I said, reaching for the bottle on the counter. I filled a shot glass. “Sure you’re not interested?”

  She cringed, made a funny face. I downed the shot.

  We spent some time talking in the relative comfort of the main cabin. Eventually, she suggested we go outside to the flying bridge. She had never been in a sportfishing vessel with a flying bridge and a tall tuna tower before and was curious. Surprisingly, the weather had remained fair and balmy and the skies clear. There was a slight hint of fall in the gentle breeze. A nascent sliver of moon hung in the northwest. Lola stood before the captain’s chair and contemplated the view in silence. My slip was at the far end of the pier, close to the wide cut that connected the boat basin to the Intracoastal Waterway.

  “I love how peaceful it is,” she said to the night air. “How high are we?”

  “About fifteen feet.”

  Lola took a seat on the guest bench to the left of the helm and crossed her legs under her. Gazing out beyond the bridge windshield, she said, “I love it.”

  “It’s even better under a full moon.”

  She sat up straight and said, “Is that why you live on the boat?”

  I smiled. If she only knew.

  “Not really,” I admitted. It was a difficult subject for me. Many aspects of my private life were unknown even to the most important women in my life: Rene Encantos, my reception
ist, and Consuelo, my bat-crazy office manager and guru of all needful things. Relationships with the random women I encounter, the ones who take me into their bedrooms or whom I take into mine, never last long enough for things to get complicated. The fleeting nature tends to keep things simple. No need to reveal feelings in a passing fling. Perhaps it was a highly entrenched defense mechanism I had developed. Or maybe my need to keep people at bay grew out of some deeply buried experience I had blocked from memory. Be that as it may, even to a neo-Neanderthal such as me, women represent an alluring and existential incongruence of strength and fragility that can be perfection itself. I had no issues with perfection, as long as perfection came and went.

  “According to my father’s will, the boat was to be sold. After a lot of thought and a fair amount of wrangling, I sold my place, bought the boat and moved in.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Going on five years.”

  She stiffened.

  “What is it?”

  “Is my being here an issue?”

  “Such as?”

  “A significant other. If you’re seeing anyone, my being here in the middle of the night might be tricky to explain.”

  I smiled. “Not seeing anyone.”

  She brought a hand to her chest and smiled weakly.

  “You?”

  She shook her head then looked away into the distance. “Don’t date much. Too busy with the business.” After a beat of silence, she said, “Ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “Engaged?”

  I sipped some beer. “Came close once.”

  “What happened?”

  “It wouldn’t have worked out.”

  “Was she not marriage material?” she asked, then reddened. “I’m sorry. That’s not my business.”