This was personal. The money mattered, sure, but regardless, he needed to take care if this. He had to presume that the information was solid. Now, it was matter of doing his best, methodical work to find this guy, finish him. When this worked out, he'd not only clean up the embarrassment of the boat, but he'd get some vengeance for Mike.
First things first-get out of the apartment. He went into Mike’s room with a large trash bag, collecting clothing and anything else lying about. As he stripped the bed, pulled the bottom sheet, he dislodged something that had been tucked between the mattress and box spring. When he picked it up, he saw that it was a photograph, and he immediately had to swallow to try to pass the lump in his throat. The picture was of Mike, his brother and sister in the foreground, Tony and Maria standing behind them. It looked like holiday decorations in the background. Lyle guessed Mike was only about eight or nine years old in the photo.
It was the only thing Mike had held onto from his life with a real family. Lyle felt the weight of promises, hope, disappointment. Without comprehending some significant, unspoken aspects, Lyle had become Mike’s family. He stood next to the bed, looking down at the shaky picture in his hand, dropped to sit on the edge. For the first time in his adult life, he broke down in sobs. Shudders started in his gut, building in crescendo like hot magma, up into trembling shoulders. Fatigue halted the sobs, but Lyle stayed there for several minutes. Memories flashed through his mind, past his eyes like a flipbook.
Finally breaking from his stasis, Lyle stood, finished packing the bag. He placed it by the door, then began to pack his own possessions. His belongings went into two small suitcases. He cleared out the bathroom to collect anything personal that might be traceable.
When he was certain that all was taken care of, he brought everything down to his car and drove away. He made one stop on his way out of town.
Pulling into an alley that served a small strip mall, he tucked the car in behind a dumpster. He got out of the car with the bag of Mike’s belongings and his throw-aways, opened the dumpster’s lid, dropped the bags in. He inverted a can of lighter fluid, squeezed until nothing remained. Lighting a cigarette, he flicked it into the bin, then returned to the car. He drove away as flames reached above the dumpster’s edge to lick at the Santa Barbara evening sky.
76. SOLID SLEEP IN SANTA BARBARA
Dan stirred, rolled over as much as the sofa'd allow. The cover slipped off his shoulder and the cooler air lifted him up, further... from... somewhere... misting away... in country... someone, something... chasing... water.
He squinted back the light, tossed the blanket, rolled back and to a sitting position. Firm face rubbing cleared away cobweb remains of another place, another time. He got up to his feet quietly, planned to avoid waking Tony, but needed to get some instant joe going.
◆◆◆
Tony's head and one shoulder leaned out from the kitchen's doorway, saw his pal sitting on the couch, rubbing his face. No definitive sign of life yet... Then his head tipped up, face in the direction of where Tony stood.
"Dano! You're back!"
"G'mornin', Boom, yeah."
"Got coffee coming, Bro. Hold tight."
A few moments later, he emerged from the kitchen, two mugs in hand.
"Ah, Man! Thanks!"
"You got it, Brother. How's your shoulder doin'?"
Dan rolled it, winced, rolled it again. "It's sore, but if it ain't, I'm dead, over!"
Tony pointed at two generic prescription bottles on the table. "I know I'm preachin' to the choir but... Amoxicillin." He pointed at the bigger one. "Take one every eight, starting now. Stay tuned to it, Man. More pain, more redness around the edges, you get to the doc. That one," he pointed at the other, "if pain's stopping you from moving it. No booze while on 'em."
Dan nodded, swallowing a swig of joe. He set down the cup, picked up the larger bottle, rolled a cap out, washed it down with more java.
They sat for two hours, drinking coffee, eating breakfast, considering options. Dan decided the only thing left to do was return home. He hoped the second man from the boat had been picked up. Too early for news. Maybe later. Tony told him he'd keep tuned in, listen for updates.
Dan still had a clean phone, decided a call to the local cop shop might produce some information.
"Make your call. I've got some chores to do in the shop. When you're finished, come on out."
Dan spent a couple minutes zig-zagging with a phone jockey. He finally succeeded with a couple simple statements.
“Look, I know that you're doing your job. Here’s the thing. I left a note and a thumb drive on the boat where they found the dead guy yesterday. I need to speak with the detective in charge. In five minutes, I'll be speaking with a member of the Santa Barbara News-Press. My stop watch is running.” It was effective.
◆◆◆
Before picking up the desk phone, Detective Simmons pressed the ‘record’ button at the side of the unit.
“This is Detective Simmons. Who am I speaking to?”
“Good morning, Detective Simmons. I left you a brief note and a thumb drive yesterday. Have you looked at the video yet?”
The detective replied, “Yes, I have. Who is this?”
Dan paused a second before replying. “Listen Detective Simmons, first of all, I presume you're recording this, and if not, I’ll wait.”
Alex paused, then “Go ahead.”
“At this point, you're not going to be learning my name. If, down the road, we go there, it'll be under very tight conditions. I understand why you want it and feel you need it. If you can accept the current conditions, we move forward. If you aren't able to, we’ll sum up our exchange so far as the best we could do. Up to you.”
Alex was stuck. He didn’t want to lose any chance for more later.
“Well, uh, Sir, can you give me a first name? Something I can call you?”
“How about you call me ‘Mr. Smith’? Will that do?”
Alex didn’t need to write that down. “Okay, Mr. Smith. What can you tell me about this?”
“That’s a pretty vague question, Detective. Do you have any specific questions you’d like answered? If not, maybe we're wasting our time here this morning.”
“Okay. Great. Let’s talk about the dead guy on the boat first. Who is he?”
“Other than being one of the two men seen dumping evidence of foul play, and the one who shot down my drone, I’d say he was a bad guy.”
“Did you know him personally?”
“No, but when we met, his actions suggested he was about to do me harm. I took that very personally.”
Alex wrote notes at speed. “Did you kill him?”
“Now you are getting to some seriously specific questions. Yes, I killed him.”
Alex stopped writing. He could always make notes later from his recording. “How did you kill him?”
“I used a twenty-two-caliber pistol, one shot, back of the head.”
“Good pistol work. So, he was moving away from you, not coming toward you with a weapon?”
“That's correct, Detective. Before you begin to weave this as a homicide though, remember that there were weapons available to him.”
“How'd you know that?”
“I was the operator of the drone, Detective. I figured you were going to get to that question sooner or later.”
Alex nodded to no one in particular. “Let’s talk about the other man in the video, Mr. Smith. Do you know who he is?”
“No. Here's what I know about him. I know that he also intended me harm. I have the slug from his pistol, pulled from my shoulder. It came from the twenty-five semi-auto your team would have found on the deck.
"I also know that in self-defense, I fired back and I wounded him. I believe my shot hit him in his left deltoid. So, some of the blood your forensic team is working on will be his, and he might have left some prints on the pistol."
"I guess we'll find your blood, too."
"Yes, I'd hope so...,"
Dan paused, wondering where that would go. "I know that after he shot me, and was hit by my return fire, he dove off the rear of the boat with his hands zip-tied behind his back. I presume he hasn't been located.”
“Well, I really can’t discuss developments...”
Dan laughed. “Really? You mean to tell me that we're not going to be cooperating in this?” and he emphasized the term.
Alex was already regretting his rote reply. “I’m sorry. That was an ‘auto-play’. No, we haven't located anyone nearby, wounded or otherwise. We do have some leads, based on individuals who saw, let’s call him a character. I’m hoping that might get us somewhere.”
◆◆◆
“If your team is any good, Detective, I suspect they'll be able to pull his face from the video. He's got a long scar across his forehead that drops down his left cheek. He's about five foot-eleven, thinning hair, mostly grey. He probably weighs a little under two hundred pounds. That’s about all I have.”
“This is great, Mr. Smith." He paused, writing. "Are you able to tell me anything more about yourself? How you happened to be in the right place at the time to catch this? Anything else?”
“Sorry, Detective. I don’t think I have anything more to tell you about me. I have a guess about the body I saw dumped, but I presume you do, as well.”
“What about reaching you in the future?”
“I’ll get back to you. I've got a sneaking suspicion that if I'm able to, I’ll be chatting with you again. Thanks for not pressing me this morning. I know you wanted to. Good bye.”
Dan disconnected the call. He opened the phone and pulled the battery and sim card. It wasn't perfect, but would do for the time being.
77. TONY'S WORKSHOP
Dan took the coffee cups to the kitchen, rinsed and placed them in the rack. Back in the main room, he gathered his gear, shoved it into his bag. He left the house and walked to the outbuilding on the other side of the garden.
Tony maintained a shop that was the epitome of a man cave. It wasn't the typical space, decorated with recliners, beer signs and a big screen TV. It did host a beer fridge. This was a shop where a guy who knew what he was doing, and liked machinery, could build stuff. It had two halves. A wood shop on one side, metal shop on the other. The power tools alone were a mature man's wet dream—a lathe, saws, drill press, welder, and a plasma cutter! All the hand tools one might crave were there, too. They rested in their places, waiting for Tony's command, his next build.
Dan rapped on the door, heard Tony yell from inside, “Come on in!” The smell of molten steel, an acrid blend of boiling metal and flux, hit his nose as he pulled open the door. Along with the aroma, a crackling-popping sound of intense heating, cooling, heating.
He set his bag down by the door. Tony stood at his welding table twenty feet away, his back to Dan. The white-hot flicker of light and wafting smoke cast Tony's hunched-over back in an eerie silhouette. It jumped with each sputter of the light, and the welding helmet gave Tony's head a Frankenstein-ian outline.
Dan puttered around work benches and tables, where projects sat in stages of development, waiting for his friend to finish his welding task. Ten minutes later, Tony came over to the wood shop side, where Dan admired a sculpture in process.
“How'd your call go?”
“Pretty good, considering the dick I spoke with wanted to be in charge of the discussion.”
Tony's look made Dan realize the misunderstanding.
"No, he was fine. By 'dick', I mean detective." They laughed.
“Excellent! You know I'm your guy in the neighborhood, so if you need any messages passed along, or dropped off, give me the word.”
“Thanks, Boom. I would like some assist in the research department, if you're up for it.”
“Lay it on me, Brother.”
“I'd like to learn what I can about the owner of the Mantis, if it is still owned by a senator, what he's about, work-wise, whatever.”
“I’ll see what I can dig up for ya.” He changed the topic.
“Dan, I've got a couple things for you to take home with you, in case you get any more unwanted visitors.”
"Oh, yeah? What's that?"
"Hang on a sec." He crossed to a storage vault against one wall, opened the door and withdrew a box. He returned to the woodshop bench, set it down.
When he opened the box, Dan immediately recognized the shop-made, cylindrical grenades. The bodies looked like ABS or a similar plastic. They reminded Dan of some Tony had produced in the past, when a mission took them to an eastern European city. During that short visit, he'd borrowed a small machine shop’s resources on a quiet Sunday night.
These were about five inches in length, an inch and a half in diameter. Three were black, three were grey, and both dimpled. He pointed at the lever on one end.
"They'll give you a five-second interval before the catalyst blows. The black ones are flash-bang, grey ones are a blend of peppers, in sticky and powdered form. Very effective. My own recipe!" His grin was contagious, as he picked one up. "I'm particularly proud of these hot puppies! They'll spew a load in a twenty-five-foot radius. Nobody inside that cloud will be thinking about anything else for a while!"
Seeing these little gems brought back memories for Dan. Tony’s creativity in ad hoc devices provided their team a vital variety of support. Sound, smoke, light and concussive pressure, and those were only the non-lethal ones.
Tony returned to his welding table, came back with the steel box he'd been working on, now cool, set it down. Then he went to the back wall, picked up a cardboard box, similar in size, brought it over. From it, he withdrew a block of closed-cell foam, tossed the cardboard off to the side.
He released some serious latches on the steel box, opened it, then slipped the foam block inside the steel box, lining it, with six cutouts, currently empty. He transferred the grenades into the heavy box, latched it and turned to look at his friend.
"Merry Christmas!"
“Tone, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You stay sharp, stay healthy, that’s how you thank me,” he replied. "If you're ready to head out, let's put these in the car."
Dan nodded and Tony hoisted the box, carried it out as they exited the shop, Dan grabbing his bag.
Outside, walking to the car, they made plans to talk the next day. Tony promised to look into the MV Mantis, see what he could learn. Dan got into his car and drove away, sending a thumb’s up to his friend in the mirror’s rear view.
78. DETECTIVE SIMMONS
"You're gonna have loads of fun with the YCK, huh?!" That greeting met Simmons when he arrived at work the next morning, coffee in hand. He cocked his head, a quizzical look at the patrolman.
"You know, the Yacht Club Killer."
Raised eyebrows and an upward roll of the eyes dragged his head into a nod. He didn't need to create nicknames. Somebody was always johnnie-on-the-spot with those. Caffeine was slow in its work, or he might've figured that one out faster.
He went to his desk, dropped his jacket onto the chair, ready or not. Some interesting and creepy cases highlighted his tenure. The interesting ones had been lessons in how people think, and more to the point, how criminals think. The creepy ones demonstrated an illness in society.
A deep breath, a swig off the coffee, and he jumped back into the reviewing pool. First off, he checked messages. He only listened to the beginnings. If they weren't about this case, he'd try to get back to them later. Near the end, he heard a woman's voice identify herself as Gloria Turner.
He listened, pen and pad at hand:
"Yes, this is Gloria Turner. I found your card in my door when I came home last evening. I hope everything's alright. You can reach me at home tomorrow... Oh! No, I have an appointment in the morning... umm... Maybe you should call my husband. If you'll call JCT, sorry, Justified Control Technologies, perhaps he can help you. Ask for Mary-Anne. She's his personal assistant. Okay? Alright, good-bye."
Nearly useless... she didn't
sound nervous... more like busy... Well, JCT was on his to-do list.
His review continued, now focused explicitly on this newest case, writing on a legal pad.
—d.b., shot in the head, accenting large blood contribution of another victim. Contracted hit on the hitter? (loose ends?)
—Mr. Smith- 1) well-informed 2) Admits trigger on d.b. 3) Provider of video 4) connected to second man in vid? 5) Still involved, call re: purported "person of interest" 6) feels like 'good guy'– a loose cannon? Wannabe? 7) Secondary contractor? 8) Bringing in P.D.? Effort to misdirect? Many ?s about Smith.
— Senator Turner's whereabouts?
—JCT- Business associates? Problems?
—Political associates?
The worst part of this case–he felt a total lack of control. He couldn't do much about Mr. Smith but wait for another contact. Meanwhile, plenty to do. He'd requested support from his captain, and expected it. This looked like a high-profile crime, which would bring a boatload of unwanted attention... no pun intended.
When Alex had asked for a dedicated investigator to assist him, the captain directed him to assign a full-time officer, taken off the street. He liked Miguel, thought he wouldn’t mind working in a different mode. Miguel smiled when Alex proposed the duty yesterday afternoon. He'd told Alex it offered him the opportunity to show off his analytical skills. Down the road, maybe helpful in landing a shield of his own.
Alex cut this crime sandwich into two large pieces. He gave the d.b. found on the boat to Miguel.
"Try to learn who this guy was, Miguel. Where he came from, how he's related to the Senator, how he came to be on the boat."
That part might come together or might stall. It depended on identifying marks, medical and dental histories, other bits and pieces. Their bird in the hand was now chilled, awaiting visits in the morgue.
The report from the M.E. could offer a solid piece of the puzzle. If forensics spread a little mayo on this sandwich, pieces would be easier to swallow and digest. The d.b.'s identification might help discover who the other perp was, presuming there was another perpetrator.
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