The dock was completely dark as Harley moved the cart next to the bow of the boat. He looked all around. No lights were on in any of the houses across the canal, and the blue light of a TV shown from the old man’s house next door. Harley kept watch while Duke went aboard and began unloading the product. They quickly moved it into the lab, closing the door behind them just as another squall started dumping rain again.
Inside, a single concrete pier stood in the center of the room, a large stainless steel table next to it taking up most of the space. Two smaller tables were against each wall.
Harley had called his chemist guy earlier in the day. Paul had told him he’d come tomorrow with the cut, so they didn’t bother to put the product away. Instead, they just unloaded the packages on the big main table, leaving plenty of space for Paul to set up his equipment and do his work.
The chemist would bring two hundred and fifty pounds of procaine, a powdery substance used as a local anesthetic, for the cut. For several hours, he’d very carefully weigh out the coke in three-quarter ounce portions. He’d do each package individually, adding just enough of the procaine to make it a full ounce. This process would create about twelve thousand little one-ounce bags.
Cutting the coke effectively increased their product weight from five hundred pounds to around seven hundred and fifty, and still kept it above sixty percent purity—at least that was what Harley hoped for. The last few shipments had been less than the usual ninety percent pure. The chemist could only step on it so much before the purity would be below what his customers would accept. And these days every street dealer carried a test kit in his back pocket.
In minutes, the Rafferty brothers had the drugs unloaded, put the cart away, locked the door, and left. Harley drove his own car, a black Cadillac CTS, and Duke drove his red Jeep Wrangler. The drive was a short one. They both pulled into the rear parking lot of Rafferty’s Pub just a few blocks later.
Harley went straight to his office in the back, telling Duke to keep an eye out for the boss. In the office, Harley opened a closet and squatted down. He spun the dial on the door of the safe anchored to the concrete floor and unlocked it. From the bottom of the safe, he pulled out a black valise and opened it. Then, from the top shelf, he started removing and counting out individual bank-wrapped bundles of hundred-dollar bills. The top shelf was nearly empty when he placed the two-hundredth bundle into the valise and closed it.
Two million bucks, Harley thought, lifting the valise and noting its weight before placing it on his desk. More money than he’d ever spent in his whole life. But after cutting the coke, packaging it in individual one-ounce bags, and distributing it into his pipeline, it would bring in six times that. He fronted a good portion to a lot of local dealers—only to those he thought were good for it, and he kept detailed records—but occasionally one would disappear, along with several thousand dollars of Harley’s blow. Duke usually did an exceptional job of tracking those guys down. He was good at it, and usually made a decent example of the wannabe thief to deter others from trying. But now and then, one got away scot-free, costing Harley a few thousand dollars.
Not much of a loss, compared to the potential profit of ten million, he thought. It had taken him nearly two years to get deep enough into the boss’s organization to make the pitch, all the while turning kilos and stashing the profit. And now it was finally gonna happen. This one big score was going to set him up for life.
There was a knock on the door, and Duke stuck his head in. “Mister Delgado is here, Harley.”
“See what he’s drinking and show him in.”
The door was pushed open and Jack Delgado said, “I’m drinking Scotch.”
“Come in, Mister Delgado,” Harley said, coming around the desk. “Duke, get Mister Delgado a drink. And set his men up, too.”
“They don’t drink,” Delgado said, crossing the short distance and sitting down on a small couch against the wall.
“I got everything right here,” Harley said, as Duke closed the door. “Two mil, just like we agreed on. The drop went really smooth, too. Even with the bad weather, your man was right on time.”
“Figured you’d be all set, Rafferty. You strike me as an intelligent man to do business with.”
“Is something wrong with Milton?” Harley asked, opening the door for the real question he wanted to ask, but wouldn’t.
There was another knock on the door and Duke came in. He handed Delgado his Scotch and left. “He’s fine. I like to meet people I do a lot of business with. And I wanted to ask you something, and get the answer straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“What’s that, Mister Delgado?”
“You’re turning into a big player down here and gonna be coming into some really big money now, am I right?”
“Enough to hold me the rest of my life,” Harley replied, “if all goes according to plan.”
“How long will it take you to distribute five hundred pounds?”
Harley didn’t like the direction the conversation was going. He only wanted to make this one big score. “A month, on the outside.”
“I like a guy who knows how to take his time and do things right. I’d like to offer you a chance to do this on a regular basis.”
“I sense a but at the end of that,” Harley said. “And to be honest, Mister Delgado, I’m not real sure I want to do this continuously.”
“Let me make this clear, Rafferty. If I were to want you to do it continuously, you would.”
Harley swallowed hard. Delgado was the top of the heap in South Florida. Most of the people who became his enemy had a habit of disappearing. Harley wasn’t sure he wanted to continue the risk of running a large volume of coke, but Delgado had a way of making people want to do what they thought they didn’t.
“I still sense a but, sir.”
“You’re perceptive, too,” Delgado said, as he stood up and took a long drink from his Scotch. He placed the glass on Harley’s desk and opened the valise to peer inside. Closing it, he pulled the zipper shut. He looked Harley squarely in the eyes. “Why is an ounce of my product sitting in the Monroe Sheriff’s evidence locker, connected to a double murder?”
Harley played poker once a week. The guys he played with weren’t big stakes gamblers, but they were good and you had to be good just to sit down at the table with them. It was all about micro-expressions, Harley had learned. And he was good at it.
“An ounce?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in feigned interest. “And two murders? How are they connected?”
“That’s what I’m asking you, Rafferty. How is an ounce of my uncut coke connected to these two murders here in Key West?”
“Uncut?” Harley asked, with just enough of a surprised look on his face. “Just an ounce? The one doesn’t match the other. Whatever I buy from you is stepped on to about sixty-five percent. Just like most everyone else who sells ounces. There’s a whole lot more profit down here at the bottom. I don’t know anyone who sells higher purity by the ounce.”
Harley seemed to ponder it, while Delgado studied his face. Harley snapped his fingers and said, “Hey, maybe the killer is a bigger dealer. Someone like me, who sells the ounces. And maybe that ounce was his own stash! I never touch the stuff myself, but I know a lot of guys whose profits go right up their own noses. I can put the word out, if you like. Maybe someone here in town knows something. Any idea where it came from or who the killer is?”
The corners of Delgado’s mouth turned up a little. “I like you, Rafferty. Yeah, if you hear anything, you let me know.”
“Absolutely, Mister Delgado. Can I have Duke get you another Scotch?”
“You got a VIP lounge here?”
“Yes, sir,” Harley replied.
“The girl dancing now, and another one with similar features. Have a bottle of The Glenlivet brought to the VIP room, with three glasses. Four, if you’d like to join us.”
Harley smiled and stepped over to the door, opening it. He looked out to the stage and then moti
oned Duke over. “Grab Brandy off the stage. Tell her and Jasmine to go to the VIP room with a bottle of The Glenlivet and three glasses.”
Harley closed the door and turned back to Delgado. “I’d like to join you, but I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on here. Want me to put the bag in my safe until you’re ready to leave?”
Delgado clapped his fat hands and rubbed them together vigorously. “Yeah, we won’t be but an hour or so.”
“No hurry, Mister Delgado,” Harley said, putting the valise back in the safe. “Take your time and enjoy yourself. Brandy is the girl you saw onstage. She and Jasmine are like bookends, and they’ll take really good care of you.”
Opening the door again, Harley found Jasmine standing just outside, smiling. “Walk this way, sir,” she said to Delgado.
The old boss stopped at the door and watched Jasmine’s ass as she seductively crossed the back of the bar toward the VIP lounge, wearing only a thong and sheer negligee. “If I walked like that,” he said, “I’d probably break something.”
Delgado’s two bodyguards followed him as he followed the retreating Jasmine like a hound on a deer trail. Harley motioned to Duke again, then closed the door. When Duke came in, Harley said, “We got trouble, little brother.”
“What?”
“Somehow Delgado knows that the ounce you planted on the salvage boat came from him.”
Ben Morgan dashed from the covered porch of his houseboat to his car, but was pretty soggy when he got in anyway. Hurricane Ike was paralleling the Cuban coastline on its southern Caribbean side, but Cuba was only ninety-six miles from Key West, so the Keys were getting a lot of the rain from it.
Ten minutes later, Ben parked in the Key West Courthouse parking lot on the corner of Fleming and Thomas Streets. He’d already spoken to the judge, and knew he’d only be inside a minute or two. When he came back out, the sun was shining and steam was rising off the sidewalk.
Welcome to Key West, Ben thought. Don’t like the weather? No problem, just wait ten minutes. He walked to his car and drove to the suspect’s address in Old Town. Walt’s forensics guys were meeting him and Devon there, along with two patrol deputies.
When he arrived at the little house on Grinnel Street, the patrol car and forensics van were already there, the deputies and techs milling around at the gate, drinking coffee.
“The warrant’s all signed off,” Ben said, getting out of his car. Devon pulled up right behind him, climbed out of her car and joined him. They walked toward the two deputies.
One of the deputies held a clipboard. With a nod to Ben and a smile for Devon, he said, “The techs have already signed in, Lieutenant.”
Ben handed the warrant to the deputy, who checked the address against the one on the porch post. He handed the warrant back and extended the clipboard. Ben signed the log and handed it to Devon, then put the warrant back in his inside jacket pocket.
“Let’s go see what Mister Lovett has to hide,” Ben said, and the two deputies fell in behind him and Devon.
“Morning, Lieutenant,” one of the techs said with a smile. “Sergeant Evans.”
“Wait here while we clear the house,” Ben said to the senior tech, a man named Mitchel Bailey.
Unlocking the front door with a key the suspect had provided, Ben drew his sidearm and stepped inside. “Police! We have a warrant!”
Ben stepped inside, sweeping the room with his sidearm. He quickly moved to the opposite corner and glanced down a hallway. Covering the living room and little eat-in kitchen, he nodded to Devon. There were two doors off the kitchen, one with a window that obviously went out to the backyard and the other possibly a pantry or utility room.
“Check there,” Ben said, nodding toward the solid door and lifting his weapon to allow her to pass in front of him.
Devon crossed quickly and stood at the side of the door, her Glock raised and ready. Ben glanced at the two deputies, who’d followed them in, then jerked his head toward the hall. As the deputies disappeared toward the bedroom area, Ben crossed the small kitchen and joined Devon. He positioned himself on the opposite side of the door and nodded. Devon turned the knob and threw the door open as both of them stepped back and aimed into a utility room, well-lit by a window.
“Clear!” Ben shouted over his shoulder.
Hearing the deputies call out that the bedrooms were also clear, Ben went back to the front door and waved the techs inside. It was clouding up and looked like another rain band was about to come through.
“Two bedrooms, one bath,” Ben said to Bailey. “Plus a small kitchen, living room, and utility room. Typical Conch house.”
“About an hour, Lieutenant,” Bailey replied.
Ben nodded, and the techs set to work as he and Devon stepped outside. “Let’s go get some coffee,” Ben said.
The two detectives got in Ben’s car and drove two blocks to the corner of Eaton Street, to a place called Old Town Bakery. They sat at one of only two tables, next to a window. Ben ordered a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit and a large black coffee, and was surprised when Devon told the girl that she’d have the same.
“I just don’t know about this guy,” Devon said, after the waitress left their table.
“Me either,” Ben agreed. “But it’s not our job to know. We gather evidence and process it to its own conclusion. Never try to force things to go one way or the other.”
“Really, sir?”
“What do you mean?” Ben replied.
“You seem to have it in for Lovett.”
“Not at all,” Ben said. “It’s just that right now, the only evidence found has brought him into the focus of the investigation. We just follow the evidence, and if it tells us that Mister Lovett isn’t our guy, then we look elsewhere. There’s never anything personal, just a job.”
“How long have you been a detective, Lieutenant?”
“Ten years in the Marine Patrol, ten years as a detective, with the last five as a lieutenant,” Ben replied as the waitress brought their coffee. “What about you? What’d you do before joining the department?”
“Eight years in the Marines,” she replied, “then two years in college, and four now with the Department.”
“You were a Marine?”
Devon smiled. “I still am.”
He chuckled. “Once a Marine, always a Marine, I get it. There’s a guy up island you should meet.”
“Not interested,” Devon responded.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”
Devon had been looking through the window at the people on the sidewalks. She’d always enjoyed people watching from an inconspicuous place. She glanced back at Ben. “I probably took it wrong. I’m sorry. I’ve been through a few … what you might call turbulent relationships. Decent guys are hard to come by.”
“You could have your pick of them,” Ben said.
“Yeah, right.”
“You don’t notice the way guys are more pleasant when you’re around? I’ve done a million warrant searches and never had a forensics tech or deputy smile at me.”
“I didn’t notice,” Devon said.
“What did you do in the Marines?”
“Deployed twice to Afghanistan.” Devon shrugged. “I was military police.”
“That explains the rapid advancement,” Ben said. “Some of the best and brightest cops I’ve known came from the military.”
Their food arrived and the two detectives ate quickly while discussing the case. When they were done, they both ordered another large coffee, and four more in a go-tray, then returned to Lovett’s house.
The deputies were leaning on their squad car and the fence, talking. Both smiled as the two detectives approached. Ben extended the go-tray and both men gratefully accepted a cup.
“See what I mean?” Ben said, as he and Devon approached the front door. Mitchel Bailey was just coming out with a desktop computer.
“I’ll take this to the lab,” Bailey said. “Our computer forensics guy will be able to
recover anything, deleted or not.”
“Anything else?” Devon asked.
“You’re not gonna believe it,” Bailey replied. “Huge rolls of cash, stuffed under the far side of the mattress in the bedroom. Kathy’s bagging them now.”
Ben and Devon went inside and found Kathy Jennings sealing a gray plastic bag with something heavy in it. There was an identical one sitting on the bed.
“Whatcha got, Jennings?” Ben asked.
Jennings looked up from what she was writing on the bag, as the two detectives entered the bedroom. “More cash than I’ve ever seen, Lieutenant. Twenty rolls, each big enough to choke a manatee.”
The morning sky was dark gray and threatening rain when I woke up. I dressed quickly for the cooler weather that I knew the storm had brought with it: jeans and a long-sleeved Gaspar’s Revenge tee-shirt. Digging a well-worn pair of boat shoes from the bottom of my hanging closet, I slipped them on, too.
I’d never been one to have a large wardrobe. In the Corps, I could just about put all my clothes in a single sea bag. I owned exactly two pairs of jeans, a couple work shirts, four pairs of cargo shorts, a pair of flip-flops, and the Topsiders on my feet. I didn’t own even a single pair of socks. Several months before, Kim had set up an account with a tee-shirt printing company and created what she’d called a virtual Ship’s Store on our website, gaspars-revenge.com. She kept my tee-shirt drawer well stocked while earning a little walking-around cash on the side. She did the same thing for Rusty. He now has a display rack full of both Rusty Anchor and Gaspar’s Revenge souvenir shirts, mugs, and hats. Some of the other guides had even asked her if she could do the same for them.
I went up to the salon and flipped on the coffeemaker. Finn rose from his spot next to the aft hatch and looked at me expectantly. I opened the hatch and he bolted outside. I’d already set the coffeemaker up the night before, but never set the timer. Deuce and I had come aboard to talk about helping Lawrence, and we’d been up late. He’d told me that the team was on a temporary stand-down, and Deuce felt sure he could take a few extra days, as there wasn’t anything on their schedule other than personal fitness. He said he could probably get Stockwell to make a call and get us clearance with the sheriff’s office to at least see what was going on and what they had on Lawrence.
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