by Don Travis
“Impossible!” His ruddy expression turned even ruddier.
I reached into my attaché case and pulled out a folder. “Here is a transcript of the recording of Acosta’s offer and a photocopy of your vet’s report.”
“And are you recording our meeting too?”
I indicated the small recorder on my belt. “I am.”
He gave a cold smile. “That’s okay. I am too. All of this means nothing, Mr. Vinson. My Thunder Duck will be there on the day of the race—two days hence, as a matter of fact. If Quacky is not, that means the bet is forfeit. End of discussion.”
He made as if to rise, but I held up a hand. “I met your man last night.”
“What man?”
“The man who tailed me to Club Sugar. I hope he delivered my message.”
“What message?”
“That I won’t be blackmailed because I visited a gay club.”
“Mr. Vinson, I set no one on your trail and have no interest in attempting to blackmail you. Why would I?”
“To keep this meeting from happening.”
Even as I uttered the words, a light went off in my head. Perhaps it did in his as well, because he appeared a little more interested.
“Describe the man.”
I did and provided the name Carlos as well. He rocked his chair back and stared at the ceiling a moment.
“I have lived here my entire life, Mr. Vinson. And during that time I’ve learned a few things about pressure and intimidation. I will even admit to having resorted to them over the years. But let me tell you one thing. Before I go after someone, I do my homework. Then I use people who are professional at that sort of thing. What you have described seems very heavy-handed.”
“And I haven’t even told you the worst of it yet.” I went on to describe the attack outside the club.
“Gay bashing, perhaps? It does happen, you know.” He thought over what he’d said. “Knives? Both of them had knives?”
“Not only had them, they were seriously trying to use them.”
“Let me assure you I arranged no such reception, but I can tell you one thing with certainty. That was no attempted gay bashing. People like that get their satisfaction from beatings and humiliation. They are attacking something they fear or don’t understand, trying to prove their superiority. But a knife attack is something entirely different.”
“My sentiments exactly. Give me another ten minutes, Mr. Hammond. I think you’re entitled to know what my investigation has uncovered.”
Actually it took more like fifteen minutes to go through the entire thing. I gave it to him in greater detail than usual because I wanted him to understand what was really going on. By the time I finished, I understood Carlos and the two hoods weren’t his. It wasn’t only his reaction to my story. His earlier question rang in my ears. Why would Hammond go to such lengths to avoid a meeting he could have refused to attend in the first place?
“If what you say is true,” he said at length, “then I’m not certain it is in my best interest to cancel the bet with Millicent. Perhaps it’s healthier for me to ensure it remains in play.”
“Can you tell me how much of the bet Acosta holds?”
He cleared his throat. “Forty percent. He started out at ten but bought out the other stakeholders.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Now he’s pressing me for the sixty percent I hold.”
“And that’s what caused the rift the construction community is talking about.” The more he thought I knew, the better off I was.
“So there’s talk of that, is there? Well, frankly, yes. Heck’s being rather persistent.”
“Let’s count the bodies again, Mr. Hammond. The Brazilian miner’s son, his killer, Martinson, Lopez. All dead.”
“You’re making my argument for me.”
“Not quite. A couple of things appear obvious to me. One, you’re perfectly willing to accept your partner’s perfidy. Two, with nothing more than what I have at present, I could make a very good argument that a conspiracy exists between you and Hector Acosta. It might not rise to the level of criminal proof, but it’s a good civil case, which will get Mrs. Muldren off the hook in the matter of the wager. I haven’t even begun to investigate you or Hector Acosta, not seriously. And guess what? It’s going to be much easier to gather information on you than it is him—except, of course, to link you together.”
“I believe that was a threat. One that I have on tape.”
“No threat, simply a notification of how we intend to proceed. And we both have it on tape, remember? Mine will not be electronically altered, and I trust yours will not be either. That’s rather easy to prove with today’s technology, by the way.”
Hammond flushed, but he controlled his anger. “If I agree to cancel the wager, Heck will be on my back to proceed. And even if I refuse, he can still demand payment of his forty percent share.”
“Not if your racer doesn’t appear at the prescribed place on Thursday.”
“Now you’re attempting to involve me in a conspiracy on the other side of the equation.”
“Not at all. Criminal acts have been committed, and you were intending to commit one yourself by substituting your racer until Millicent discovered your intent.”
“She can claim that, but proving it will be difficult.”
“I think you’ve just put your finger on the solution. Make the vet’s report on Thunder Duck public—at least in the racing world—and declare that since neither of the ducks can race, the bet is moot, canceled. If anyone wants to put another interpretation on it, proving it will be difficult.”
“But Thunder Duck can finish the race,” he protested. “Not in very good time, I’ll admit, but she can cross the finish line.”
“Simply say it’s a matter of honor. Your opponent’s racer was mysteriously stolen, and the man who took her was killed. You cannot take advantage of a situation like that, so you do the honorable thing and tear up the wager agreement.”
He wiped his mouth with a palm. “That would satisfy Mud but anger Heck Acosta. And it appears to me he’s the one I need to pacify.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“I grew up in the construction business. I can take care of myself. And I don’t believe he would come after me for forty percent of a quarter of a million.”
“The stakes are much greater than that. He wants the bet to force Millicent to sell him the Lazy M for something other than ranching.”
“For his drug-running activities, you mean. Providing your assumptions are correct, of course.”
“That makes perfect sense to me. Do you find it so hard to believe?”
He leaned forward and straightened his spine as if it were cramping. “Frankly, no. There have been rumors for years. But rumors aren’t proof, and he has good contacts inside the government down there. Our association has been profitable.”
“And now it’s dangerous.”
“So you claim. But I will give your proposal some thought. I assume you will be returning home, so how do I reach you?”
“I’m remaining in Miami for the next two days, at least. You can reach me on my cell phone.” I handed over my business card.
“Very well, I’ll give you a call. Probably tomorrow.”
I FOUND Paul with his arms hooked over the edge of the pool, talking to a young couple on nearby lounges. I chuckled inwardly. Paul projected interest in the world, and the world returned his attention.
He waved me over. “Hey, Vince, this is Sam and Suzie.” We managed to nod to one another as he rushed on. “They tell me there’s a great public beach out on Key Biscayne. It’s called Crandon Park Beach. You can drive there from here. Over a causeway, I guess.”
Judging from his enthusiasm, that was where we would spend the afternoon.
Paul got out of the water and headed to the room to shower and get ready for the excursion. I checked my laptop for e-mail messages and tried to reach Cohen to brief him on the meeting. He was out.
During a quick seaf
ood lunch at the hotel’s lobby lounge, Bob Cohen returned my call. As Paul and I were in a secluded corner booth, I put the phone on speaker and filled both of them in on the Hammond interview. Cohen had no feedback from Jackman yet.
By the time we finished eating, the rental company delivered a car. I’d requested an Impala because the automobile was familiar to me, and they brought a silver one with all the bells and whistles.
Dressed in casual clothes and bearing totes full of swim gear we’d bought at a local shop, we pulled away from the hotel. I drove while Paul fired up the navigation system and got directions to the Rickenbacker Causeway and thence to Key Biscayne. After we were well on the way, he brought up my meeting with Hammond.
“Do you believe him? About having nothing to do with the ducknapping?” Curious how that word was no longer funny.
“I don’t believe he had a hand in it, but he’s bound to have figured out Acosta was behind it all, especially when his partner started buying up pieces of the bet.”
“And you don’t think he orchestrated what happened last night?”
I automatically checked the rearview mirror at the mention of the attack, but a horde of vehicles trailed behind us, any one of which could be full of men bent on revenge for being taken down by two queers—which is the way they would frame it.
“No, that was Acosta too. But now that Hammond and I have talked, Acosta may not feel the need to try anything like that again. Whatever threat such a meeting represented is over now. There’s nothing to gain by trying it again.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Absolutely. So watch my back, and I’ll watch yours.”
He gave his golden laugh and settled back in his seat to take in the scenery as we approached the causeway.
I’m a good, careful driver, but I’m not accustomed to narrow bridges spanning long, open stretches of salt water, so my anxiety level crept up appreciably before we exited the bridge. Shortly thereafter we parked in a lot big enough to accommodate half the vehicles in south Florida. After retrieving our totes from the backseat, we entered the park.
Paul observed they had a golf course. “We should’ve brought our clubs.”
“We can rent some, if you want.”
“I’d rather spend the time in the water.”
But first we strolled the long beach on the Atlantic side of the key. I plodded through the sand; Paul took off his shoes, rolled up his pant legs, and walked in the gently rolling surf. His excitement was contagious. He’d expected the ocean to be colder. He’d never seen water quite that color—turquoise. Were those coconut palms? Could we try the kayaks? How about the jet skis?
“Hey, man, now there’s a real lifeguard’s chair.” He pointed to one of the elevated towers strung out over the beach. “Makes me feel like an amateur.”
The bayside nature trails affected us differently. The Miami skyline lying just across the flat stretch of water reduced him to a gawking tourist, and it took a lot to render Paul speechless. Soon enough, though, he’d had his fill of dry land.
We changed into our suits and hit the water. The sea floor sloped gently, so we waded quite a distance before it was deep enough to swim. Then he suddenly disappeared and surfaced again ten yards ahead of me as he used a steady overhand stroke to quickly carry him away. Then I lost sight of him. Seconds later something brushed my belly. He surfaced behind me, laughing aloud.
“This is great!” He punched a hand into the air. “Man, let’s move the whole state of New Mexico to the Gulf Coast.”
I puffed from exertion, all the while keeping a wary eye on the now-distant shore. “Then we’d lose the mountains.”
“Yeah, the mountains are great, but this is the ocean! I’ll catch you later, man. I gotta swim.”
“Don’t overdo it. There are currents, you know.”
“Yeah, pops. I know.” A gentle reminder he was his own man.
“I saw some wheelchairs for rent back there. Look for me with the rest of the geriatric set.”
He laughed again and headed for deeper water. Resigned to the reality I wouldn’t be able to keep him on a leash, I settled into my therapeutic routine, alternating between various strokes. There were no laps to swim, so I kept to one set until tired and then switched to another. I headed back to the shore on the backstroke. It took longer than expected.
I found our totes and pulled out a big beach towel. After drying off, I spread it in the shade of a palm—not close enough to be bopped by a falling coconut—and settled down to wait and maybe catch a few zzz’s. I couldn’t see Paul, he could have been any of a number of dark heads bobbing out there in the Atlantic, but I had enough confidence in his ability and good sense not to worry—much.
I got in a nap before I woke to spot a familiar lanky, finely muscled body trudging my way. A giggling, sun-bleached blonde nymph walked at his side. She looked disappointed when he waved good-bye and headed in my direction. I tossed him a towel. “Good swim?”
“The best. Man, I could get addicted to this.”
He managed a short rest, but he soon prowled the beach again. Before the afternoon faded away, he had us kayaking out to a lagoon where we snorkeled down to a 1,500-year-old fossilized mangrove reef. We saw spotted leopard rays, a huge puffer, countless angelfish, and something called a damselfish. He was disappointed we didn’t spot a bottlenose dolphin. Someone had told him they inhabited the area.
I wore out a good hour before the park closed at twilight but dragged my carcass around in his wake out of sheer determination. My major concern, however, was burning to a crisp under the bright sun. Even Paul’s bronzed skin soon took on a rosy hue.
He had some energy left, so he drove back to the hotel while I played navigator. Halfway across the causeway, my phone rang.
“Mr. Vinson, this is Kenneth Hammond.”
“Unexpected pleasure. I didn’t think I’d hear from you until tomorrow.”
“We need to talk. Someone just tried to kill me.”
Suddenly I wasn’t so tired anymore.
Chapter 27
WE HEADED straight for the construction site in North Miami, where a uniformed police officer flagged us down. Two police vehicles, an EMT unit, and an ambulance sat near a spidery skeleton of steel girders rising behind a long white trailer—probably the field office. Flooring had been poured on a few tiers of the high-rise, but the upper levels were open to the sky. Cranes and other equipment littered the fenced and gated site.
We were expected. After checking with someone over his radio, an officer directed us to a parking area in front of the trailer. As we got out of the Impala, the door to the field office opened. A dark-haired man in a business suit came down the wooden steps and introduced himself as Det. Tony Padilla. He offered a broad hand with a strong grip. I judged him to be about forty years old and forty pounds overweight.
“Is Mr. Hammond okay?”
“Yeah, he’s inside. He told us he called you, but we need a private talk before you go inside. Best I can offer is my car.”
“My Impala’s closer. Let’s use it.”
He beckoned, and his partner came over to escort Paul elsewhere while we had our chat. The dying day remained warm and humid, so we left the car doors open. The dome light would make it easier for him to observe my body language. That was okay; I could read his as well.
“First, I gotta tell you I’m recording this. Okay?” Padilla said.
“Sure. I didn’t know I’d be working tonight, or I would have brought my own so we could both have a copy.”
“I’ll give you a duplicate of mine,” he said. I took that with a grain of salt. “I’ve already listened to Hammond’s recording of your meeting this morning. But first let’s go through the formalities.”
He directed me to repeat my name and contact information, as well as my driver’s and PI license numbers. He confirmed I was staying at the Ritz-Carlton and then asked the purpose of my visit to Miami.
I gave him the entire story, step by
step, providing names, dates, and times as well as I could recall them without my notebook, which remained back at the hotel with my recorder. That took twenty minutes, and then he spent another twenty asking questions to clarify certain points. He was justifiably upset we hadn’t called the police after the attack at Club Sugar. I apologized and pointed out our visit had to be low-key.
“That might be so, Mr. Vinson, but you’re a former lawman and a licensed private investigator. You, of all people, oughta know when to involve the authorities. And we shoulda been called.”
“Mea culpa.”
“So you got a good look at this Carlos character?”
“He sat at my table and drank with me for twenty or thirty minutes.”
“How about the two thugs who came at you outside?”
“It all happened so fast I didn’t get as good a look at them. I can tell you they were Hispanic. I saw that from the glimpse I got of the one who came at me, and I heard the other one cursing at Paul in Spanish. He speaks the language better than I do, so he might be able to tell you more.”
“My partner will get all of that. Would you recognize the guy who tried to knife you outside the club if you saw him again?”
I wiggled my right hand back and forth. “Iffy, Detective. I might be able to pick him out, but a lineup would be risky.”
“Don’t need a lineup.”
I assumed he meant they had the man who’d made the attempt on Hammond. We went over things a second time, with him asking the same questions in a different way, a familiar technique. He was pretty good at it too. Finally he asked for opinion, not fact.
“You think this Hector Acosta’s behind the attack on you and your buddy?”
“Yes. I have no proof, but my investigation led me to that conclusion.”
“An investigation that started over a stolen duck, huh?” He had a sense of humor.
“Or as they’re calling it, the ducknapping of Quacky Quack the Second.” That brought an outright chuckle. “Now that I’ve answered all your questions, will you tell me what happened?”