Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5)

by Dallas Gorham

  Tank walked in with two crystal goblets of iced tea. He set one by Al and carried the other to the foot of the table, where he sat.

  Al sipped, nodded his thanks at Tank, and took a long drink. “I’ve been walking.”

  I waited.

  Tank opened his mouth.

  I cut my eyes toward him and raised a hand. Tank sat back.

  “Walking where?” I asked.

  “Why, to here.”

  Tank pointed a finger at Al. “You mean you walked all the way from where you abandoned your car to here? That must be fifteen miles.”

  I frowned at Tank. “Let’s you and I help Doraleen with the chili.”

  “I’ll be back,” I said to Al as I headed toward the hall door.

  “Hey,” said Al, gesturing. “Kitchen’s through that door.”

  “I know. I need to talk to Tank for a minute.”

  When I had Tank in the hallway, I closed the dining room door. “Let me handle this interview alone. This is what I do for a living.”

  “Sorry, Chuck. I didn’t realize it was important. I’ll only listen; I promise not to interrupt.”

  “Sorry, pal; that’s not good enough. I may probe old wounds. It’s like picking at a scab and it hurts. Al won’t want his mother or his best friend to see that, but he might tell me things he won’t tell you or Doraleen. Come with me.” I led him into the kitchen. “Doraleen, is the chili ready?”

  She leaned over and sniffed the aroma. “It’s almost finished simmering. I’ll bring three bowls into the dining room in five minutes.”

  “If you don’t mind, Doraleen, I’ll talk to Al alone. You and Tank eat here in the kitchen. When the chili is ready, bring two bowls to the dining room for Al and me. You and Tank hang out here or in the living room. Anywhere but in the dining room.”

  Doraleen stirred the pot. “Al is my son. I have a right to know.”

  “Of course you do, but this type of interview is what I’m trained to do. Al will be more inclined to talk if you and Tank aren’t there.”

  She turned to Tank. “Are you okay with this? He’s your best friend.”

  “Momma Dora, I’d love to know what’s going on too, but Chuck’s the expert. That’s why I hired him. He’s the best in the business. Let’s do what he says.” Tank sat at the kitchen table and gestured for Doraleen to take another chair. He waved me on. “Go get ‘em, bro.”

  Chapter 22

  I returned to the dining room and sat on Al’s right. “So you left your car at 11:20 this morning. Take me step by step from there to now.”

  Al had in fact walked the fifteen miles from his abandoned car to Doraleen’s house. It took twelve hours because he was terrified Moffett would capture him. He stopped several times to rest. He hadn’t eaten that day, but had drunk at water fountains in convenience stores and fast food places on the way.

  Doraleen backed through the swinging door, carrying two bowls of chili on a lacquered tray. “Here’s a sleeve of saltines. You can’t eat chili without crackers, fellows. I put grated cheese on top but I left off the onions. Either of you want onions?” She opened the crackers and arrayed them on a China serving platter.

  “I’m good, Momma.”

  “No thanks, Doraleen. Grated cheese is good enough.”

  “Chuck you want more coffee?”

  “I’d like to switch to iced tea, Doraleen, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble. I’ll be right back.”

  Al shoveled chili into his mouth. His cast let his fingers stick through, but he gripped the cracker awkwardly. He bit off half a saltine and washed it down with iced tea. He pulled a napkin from its ring and wiped a cheese string off his chin.

  I waited until Doraleen let the door swing shut behind her. “How did you incur the debt to Moffett to begin with?”

  Al swallowed. “I refinanced an earlier loan and added a new loan for another, uh, investment I wanted to make.”

  I ate a bite of chili. Tank was right. It was delicious. “How much was the earlier loan?”

  “Eighty thousand plus twenty thousand interest.”

  “So the new loan was for one hundred thousand?”

  “No, it was for sixty thousand.” He wiped another cheese string off his chin.

  “I see. The principal was one hundred sixty, plus forty thousand more interest on the new loan.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was the new investment you made?”

  Al ate more chili, wiped more cheese from his chin. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday. This is outstanding, in spite of the mess I make eating with one hand.”

  “Right. I’ll repeat the question: What was this new investment?”

  Al looked down at his bowl. “That doesn’t matter. It didn’t pan out.”

  “Is that your way to tell me that you lost the money?”

  He scooped another spoon of chili, held it above the bowl, and managed to scrape off the cheese strings with a cracker held in his left hand. His hand shook. “Yeah, I lost it. So what? It’s ancient history. Can’t turn back the clock.”

  “No, but maybe we keep history from repeating itself. What was the investment?”

  He shoved the chili in his mouth. “The investment was, uh, illegal.”

  “I figured that.” I swallowed another bite. “What was it? Cocaine?”

  Al nodded. “Four kilos. Prime grade.”

  “How’d you lose it?”

  He didn’t say anything, just stared into his bowl and moved the pungent chili around with his spoon. His hand shook again, and he dropped the spoon on the edge of the bowl. His voice was so low I barely heard him. “I got ripped off, okay?”

  Doraleen tapped twice on the door and carried in a goblet of iced tea. “Here you go, Chuck. Al, honey, you ready for more chili?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Doraleen took the empty bowl. “How about you, Chuck?”

  “Yes, please, and more iced tea if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Be right back.”

  I waited until she left. “Not the first time somebody got ripped off. How’d it happen?”

  “Only one of the packages was cocaine. The bastards switched out the other three for packages of powdered sugar.”

  “And you didn’t find out until later. After they took off with your money.”

  Al nodded. “I sold the one package for fifty thousand. I paid Monster his interest on the loan with a little left over to live on.”

  “When was that?”

  “Maybe six weeks ago.”

  “So the loan was due again when Moffett smashed your hand.”

  Al stared at his bandaged hand.

  I waited for a reaction.

  He put both hands on the table. The cast clunked when it hit the top. He made smoothing motions on the already smooth tablecloth. Tears welled up in his eyes.

  Chapter 23

  Ngombo called a number. “Teddy Ngombo is here. I have two license plate numbers for you, Bones. Please to get Monster’s pet cop to run the plates.” He recited the license numbers.

  “It’s after midnight, Teddy,” Bones answered.

  “I need to know who owns these two vehicles. I do not care what time it is.The computers never sleep. Monster told me that.”

  “Where are you?” asked Bones.

  “I am parked a hundred meters from Doraleen Rice’s house. The vehicles of which I speak are parked in front. I need to know if either of them is connected to Al Rice.”

  “Keep your shirt on, Teddy. I’ll get back to you.”

  While he waited, Ngombo checked the tracker app for Rice’s phone. Still nothing. One more instance of Rice’s irresponsibility. He had not yet charged his battery.

  Ngombo’s phone rang. “Teddy Ngombo is here.”

  “I got the info on those two cars.”

  “One is a minivan.”

  “Excuse my freaking ass. ‘…those two vehicles’ you wanted, your freaking majesty.”

  “To communica
te well, one must be precise.”

  “You want this shit or not?”

  “To whom do they belong?”

  “I emailed the info to your phone.”

  “Tell me the information,” said Ngombo. “I have trouble with some features of this super phone that Monster gave me.”

  “I can relate to that, Teddy.” Bones laughed. “The Porsche belongs to Tank Tyler. Lives at 96 Pink Coral Way, and, just so’s you’ll know, that’s on a private island in the middle of Seeti Bay.”

  “I understand. And who is this Tank Tyler? Tank is an unusual name, even for America. Do you have any information on him?”

  “Don’t need it,” Bones said. “He’s famous.”

  “Then why do I not know of this man?”

  “Cause you’re from Africa and you don’t know shit about football.”

  “I know a great deal about football, but here in America you misuse the word. Your barbaric sport should be called American football. I am not interested in this Tyler person’s prowess at American football except as it relates to capturing Al Rice. Please tell me those relevant facts.”

  “His full name is Thomas Tyler. He played defensive end for the Port City Pelicans for a few years. The guy’s bigger than Monster, if you can believe it. He’s six-foot-six and weighs close to three hundred pounds. And he’s rich. Not a little rich, you understand, but so freakin’ rich that he paid cash when he bought his new mansion last year.”

  “He is black, this rich American football player?”

  “Yeah. Not as black as you, but he’s black enough.” Bones laughed. “I’d be real careful with this guy if I was you. Newspaper article I read in the sports section says he goes to a shooting range for fun. He’s a dead shot with a rifle or a pistol, and he has a concealed weapon permit.”

  “I am afraid of no man. What about the license plate for the minivan?”

  “The minivan is registered to some corporation. Only address is a post office box. It’s a dead end.”

  “Do you have any information on this Carlos McCrary whom I asked you about a few hours ago?” asked Ngombo.

  “I sent that to your phone hours ago.”

  “As I told you, I have trouble accessing—"

  “Yeah, yeah. Spare me the song and dance. I’ll just tell you. McCrary is trouble. Worse than Tank Tyler. Hotshot private detective who’s solved some high-profile cases. Former Special Forces.”

  “Special forces,” said Ngombo. “What is that?”

  “The freakin’ Green Berets.”

  “McCrary wears a green beret?”

  “Not any more, hot shot. You never watch a freakin’ John Wayne movie in Africa?”

  “Who is John Wayne?”

  “Forget it. The Green Berets are the army guys who kick ass and take names. McCrary’s got a few medals; guy’s a freaking hero. If you come acrost him, don’t mess around with a guy like that, Teddy. Not without backup.”

  “I am a warrior. My name, Tegumetosa, means ‘walks with lions.’ I have yet to meet my match.”

  “Yeah, sure. I’m just saying. Call me or Turk if you need backup.”

  “Could the minivan belong to this McCrary? Such a man might take pains to hide the ownership of his vehicles.”

  “Who knows?”

  “Is there any connection between the American football player and the detective?”

  “None that I found.”

  Chapter 24

  Doraleen came into the living room. “He’s asleep.” She flopped onto the sofa and patted Tank on the knee. “You’re so good to us, Tank. There’s no way I can repay you.”

  Tank put his hand on hers. “Momma Dora, it’s I who can never repay you.” He turned to me. “When I arrived at UAC, I was a farm boy from rural Alabama. I couldn’t put two sentences together without three grammar mistakes. If I hadn’t been a football player, the teachers at my dinky little high school wouldn’t have taken the time to tutor me so I could graduate.”

  “As long as I’ve known you,” I said, “you’ve talked like a television news anchor.”

  “You’ve only known me a couple years.” He pointed at Doraleen. “Momma Dora taught me how to speak proper English. She taught me the joy of reading for pleasure. She taught me how to study at a college level and apply myself to get good grades. I skated through high school on my football ability. Barely did enough to pass. I started the same way at UAC. When Momma Dora saw my first test grades my freshman year…”

  “I cracked the whip on him,” Doraleen said, “that’s what I did. Like I did for my own son.” She stood. “Do either of you need more coffee or iced tea?”

  “Please sit down, Momma Dora,” Tank said. “I’ve had enough coffee.”

  I lifted my half-full cup. “I have some left.”

  Doraleen sat. “I’m glad. I’m tired. I’m too old for these late hours.”

  “As I was saying,” Tank continued. “If it hadn’t been for Momma Dora and Mr. William, I might’ve flunked out my first semester.”

  Doraleen raised her hand. “You’re too modest, Tank. Your parents raised a bright God-fearing young man with the tools necessary to succeed.” She smiled at me. “Tank was a little rough around the edges. He was in a college environment in which he had no experience. I pointed him in the right direction; he made the journey.”

  “You mean you can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear?”

  She chuckled. “Right. Tank was raw silk that I helped turn into a fancy purse.”

  “And here Tank is trying to do the same thing for Al.”

  Doraleen considered Tank. “When I see how you turned out, and I see how Albert turned out, at least so far…” Her eyes misted. “I could never say it to his face, but I wonder in my heart of hearts if Albert is really a sow’s ear. My William used to ask my advice about the boys he coached and some of the troubles these high-spirited kids got into. He’d carry on about some young man or other who screwed up with one bad decision after another. You remember what my William said?”

  “It was unsuitable for tender young ears, but it sure as hell got the point across.” Tank grinned at me. “Mr. William said ‘You can’t shine shit.’ But Mr. William never gave up on any of his players. I refuse to believe Al is irredeemable.” Tank patted her hand. “That’s why we’re here, but we don’t know how to do it. We have the will, and I have the financial resources if it were only a matter of money… But neither Chuck nor I know how to cause a… a rebirth in Al to rekindle his self-respect. Maybe it takes a saint. I don’t know. But we’re here to make the attempt. Maybe you can give us some guidance?”

  Doraleen pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “Albert was all right until his father died. I know that he’d lost Janice, but I thought he’d recovered from that. Then, that day in New Orleans… It was only a couple months later that he got kicked off the team. His life has spiraled downward ever since.”

  “What did he do to get kicked off the team?”

  “That was over ten years ago,” Tank said. “It doesn’t matter anymore. For now, let’s get Al into rehab. Maybe this time it will work.” He stood. “We’ll start by getting rid of the alcohol in the house so Al doesn’t get into it. Momma Dora, we should dispose of your sherry too. Can I pour it out with the other stuff?”

  “If you think that’s best, Tank, go ahead.”

  Tank left the room.

  I finished my coffee. “Doraleen, every time I broach the subject of Al’s getting kicked off the team, Tank changes the subject. Was Tank involved?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What did Al do to get kicked out?”

  “I thought Tank told you.” She twisted her handkerchief. “Albert was one of three UAC football players accused of gang-raping a freshman girl.”

  Chapter 25

  Ngombo pulled his last GPS tracker and a magnetic case from his Cherokee’s console. He strolled up the sidewalk across from the minivan, looking to insure the street was deserted. Tw
o men, one black and one white, sat in the living room with the old woman. The black man was not Al Rice, therefore he must be Tank Tyler. He checked both directions once more and darted across the street to click the magnetic tracker under the rear bumper. Who was the white man with Doraleen Rice?

  He went back to his Cherokee, moved it a block further up the street. He plugged his tablet into the cigarette lighter to charge it.

  A half hour later, the white minivan’s dot began to move on the tablet. Ngombo cranked the Jeep. He hung back three blocks. At two in the morning there was little traffic to hide him as he followed the vehicle, but there was no danger of losing the trail. The GPS dot glowed on the tablet screen.

  Ngombo followed the white minivan onto the Beachline Causeway as his quarry headed across Seeti Bay to Port City Beach. The vehicle turned onto a residential street on the west side of the barrier islands. Ngombo closed the gap so he could see which address it pulled into. He watched it turn into the driveway of a high-rise condo building and ascend the ramp to the gated garage. He noted the address and returned to Doraleen Rice’s house, stopping at an all-night coffee shop for a sandwich and coffee to go.

  The Porsche was still there. Tank Tyler was spending the night. Was he there as a bodyguard for Rice? Or for the old woman?

  Ngombo parked fifty yards down the block where he could see the darkened windows. He unwrapped his sandwich and lowered the windows in the humid darkness.

  He had finished his sandwich and coffee when the lights came on in the old woman’s house. Ngombo sat straighter. Unconsciously, he fondled the handle of his knife. Maybe Tyler was about to leave. If so, no doubt Ngombo could break down the old woman’s front door and search her home. If Rice were there, Ngombo the African warrior would find him and capture him like an animal.

  Chapter 26

  Rice woke in a cold sweat, his whole body shaking like leaves in a storm. He rolled out of bed and staggered toward the nightlight in the bathroom. He grabbed the door jamb to regain his balance. He swiped his hand at the light switch and lurched to the toilet. He threw up and collapsed on the tile floor. I’ve gotta have a drink; I can’t take this anymore. He grabbed the countertop and pulled himself upright. His mouth tasted like bile. The tile felt cool against his bare feet. He leaned his forehead on the medicine cabinet beside the lavatory. The cool mirror made his head feel better. He leaned over to get a drink from the faucet but that made him nauseous again. He filled the bathroom glass to rinse the vomit taste from his mouth. That’s better. Looking in the mirror, he saw that his pajama top was stained with vomit. Just like my goddamn jacket. He leaned both hands on the countertop and laughed at the irony.