by Tripp Ellis
Music pumped through speakers, and a DJ with a deep, soothing voice announced dancers as they took the stage. The place smelled like whiskey and cheap perfume mixed with the residue of glycol fog. Bills were stuffed in G-strings, and girls undulated in ways designed to separate the predominantly male patrons from their cash.
We stepped inside and glanced around. The manager, Jaco, leaned against the main bar. He wore a shiny gray sharkskin suit and a black shirt.
We headed toward him, and he greeted us with a smile. "If it isn’t my two favorite deputies," he said in a tone that was mostly sincere. Our investigations took us to Forbidden Fruit quite frequently, and we never leaned on Jaco or hassled him, unlike some other county officials. “Is this business or pleasure?
"Looking for Gianna Silver?”
He pointed to a brunette vixen who gave an impressive lap dance to a satisfied customer.
Gianna oozed sexuality, and her body rippled and writhed in enticing ways as she danced.
"Her stage name is Houston,” Jaco said.
I pulled up a picture of Armando’s mugshot on my phone and showed it to him. “Have you seen this guy in here before?”
"Yeah. He's in all the time. I think he's got a thing with Gianna."
"Has he been in lately?” I asked.
I haven't seen him in about a week. "What did he do?"
"We're looking at him for the murder of three people, among other things."
Jaco lifted his brow. "Impressive. You want me to call Gianna over here?"
"No. And don’t tell her we’re asking around."
"Gotcha," Jaco said with a wink. "Undercover surveillance. I like it."
"If Armando turns up, call me."
"You got it," Jaco said.
We meandered through the dim club and took a seat away from the stage. We kept a watchful eye on Gianna.
"Now, this is the kind of stakeout that I can get on board with," JD said.
38
Jaco sent us a round of drinks on the house. We surveilled Gianna for the rest of the evening and may have been forced to receive a few lap dances to maintain our cover.
After the club closed, we followed Gianna back to her apartment like a couple of stalkers. I had called Isabella and asked her to monitor Armando’s phone. So far, she couldn't find any indication that Gianna had been contacted by Armando. He was staying off the grid and remained elusive.
We hung out across the street from the Delphine, sitting in the convertible, waiting to see if Armando would show up at some point.
JD hopped out of the car and pulled the drone from the front trunk of the Porsche. He launched the craft and piloted it close to Gianna’s balcony, peering inside with the 4K camera. A quick survey of the living room and the bedroom didn’t reveal anything but Gianna undressing for bed—which we already had seen plenty of at Forbidden Fruit.
JD piloted the drone back to the Porsche, packed it in its case, and put it back into the trunk. We hung out until the wee hours of the morning, and Armando never did show his face. I was beginning to think he was long gone.
I asked Isabella to keep tabs on Gianna’s phone in case Armando tried to contact her.
We called it a night and drove back to Diver Down. JD dropped me off in the lot, and I told him I’d talk to him in the morning. I ambled down the dock toward the Avventura, still cautious that Phoebe might be lurking in the shadows.
I decided to go ahead and unblock her number. I cringed as I did so, expecting a flurry of text messages at any moment thereafter. But it was late. Well after 3 AM. And my phone remained silent.
I crossed the passerelle to the aft deck, slid open the salon door, and stepped inside. Buddy lifted his sleepy head from the settee, where he was curled up. I greeted him and took him for a late-night walk before settling into bed.
I woke up in the morning, and much to my surprise, there were no text messages on my phone. No nasty voicemails. Maybe Phoebe moved on as quickly as she had become fixated. That was my hope anyway. I really didn't mean to hurt her feelings. It was just too much, too soon.
I still hadn't heard anything from Isabella about Armando. All the networks were reporting about the fugitive, asking viewers to call the Sheriff’s Department if they had any information.
After breakfast, I took Buddy for a walk. On the way back to the boat, Daniels called. "I need you and numb-nuts to get down to the station."
"What's up?"
“Those pirates struck again."
"Is anybody hurt?"
"I don't think so."
"On my way."
I called JD and told him I’d meet him at the station. I rushed back to the Avventura, grabbed my helmet and gloves, and sprinted to my sportbike. I pulled on my gear, straddled the crotch rocket, and cranked up the engine. The exhaust rattled and howled as I twisted the throttle and eased out the clutch. I launched out of the parking lot and hugged the tank, racing down the road. It was like trying to hold on to a rocket that had been launched toward the moon. Instant adrenaline. The wind whistled through my helmet.
I pulled into the lot at the station, parked the bike, and jogged down the dock to the patrol boat.
JD arrived moments later, and we cast off the lines. Daniels took the helm, and we idled out of the harbor. He brought the boat on plane, and the aluminum hull carved through the swells.
“That pistol you took from Armando’s residence is a match in the Nina Harlow case,” Daniels said. “I can say with certainty that gun killed her and Sebastian.”
At least we were on the right track. Now, all we had to do was find the scumbag.
We caught up with a superyacht that had been anchored near Barracuda Key island. It was a 131’ Benini. A sleek Italian vessel with expert craftsmanship and opulent appointments.
We pulled alongside the swim platform and boarded the superyacht. The owner, Charles Anthony, greeted us on the aft deck with wide eyes, still trembling. He had reddish hair, a round face, and a healthy belly.
His girlfriend was a young blonde. She was in the salon pouring vodka into a glass, trembling. She was putting them down as fast as possible.
“Thank God you're here!" Charles said.
"What happened?" I asked.
We spent the night out here last night and were enjoying a nice breakfast when the Coast Guard came along and wanted to board us. I didn't think anything of it until they boarded with machine guns and demanded our valuables. Then I realized they weren’t the Coast Guard."
So far, this was sounding exactly like the group of marauders that I had encountered previously.
"How many were there?" I asked.
“4. They all wore tactical gear, and their faces were covered. One guy was clearly the leader. Seemed like a nice enough guy, except for the fact he had a gun in my face. I don't know about you, but I have an aversion to being on the wrong end of an assault rifle. He said if we cooperated, nobody would get hurt. They just wanted the valuables."
"What did they take?"
"My watch, her diamond necklace and earrings. They took the cash from my wallet, a couple guns from my stateroom, my 1959 Les Paul guitar…"
JD cringed. The classic instrument was worth upwards of a quarter-million dollars.
"… and my Picasso."
"You own a Picasso?" I asked.
"Yeah. It was a sketch. But still, not cheap."
"Then what happened?"
"They loaded up the loot and left. I called you boys."
"Can you describe any of the assailants?"
He shook his head. "Like I said. They all wore face coverings."
"Who knew about the Picasso?"
He shrugged. "Anybody that has been on board. It's one of my favorite pieces. I like to show it off to everybody. But I don't think that's what they were after. I think they got lucky. The guitar is worth more than the Picasso. I only paid $65,000 for the sketch."
"A bargain," JD said dryly.
"I thought so."
Charles filled out
a report, and we escorted the superyacht back to Coconut Key. Charles was understandably a little skittish about being on the water.
After we filled out after-action reports, I hopped on the bike, and JD followed me back to Diver Down. We pushed into the restaurant and took a seat at the bar.
Teagan greeted us with her usual cheery smile. “Rough morning?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I just got a bad feeling. It’s like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
When Teagan got a bad feeling, it was usually something to listen to. Maybe her on again, off again psychic powers were coming back?
39
“He just called, and boy, is he pissed off,” Shiloh said, her voice crackling through the speaker in my phone.
Shiloh was still at the Seven Seas under the protection of a deputy.
"What did he say?" I asked.
"Oh, he threatened to kill me,” she said casually. “Par for the course with Armando.”
"That's good.”
"What!?"
"If he calls again, keep antagonizing him. Maybe we can draw him out."
"You want to use me as bait? Hell no. Have you lost your mind?"
"Do you know where he was calling from?”
“I don't know where he was, but he called from his prepaid cellular.”
Isabella called me on the other line. "Thanks. I'll call you right back." I switched over.
“Armando’s burner phone just popped up on the grid and called Shiloh.”
"I know."
"He's at the FBO at the Coconut Key airport. You better hurry if you want to catch him. Looks like he turned on his phone long enough to make the call. It’s off the grid again.”
I called Sheriff Daniels as we raced out of the bar and hopped into JD’s Porsche. He cranked up the engine, dropped the car into gear, and left a streak of rubber across the asphalt as we peeled out of the parking lot. Wind swirled about the cabin as we dashed to the FBO.
We screeched into the private terminal, and JD parked the car at the curb. We raced inside, displaying our badges.
The 3,000 square-foot, two-story terminal at the FBO was a luxury lounge for the rich and famous as they waited for their departures. There was a conference room, a café, and restrooms—though the terminal rarely saw much traffic. Most travelers were chauffeured onto the tarmac by limousine. They’d hop out and climb aboard their aircraft.
Unlike traditional flights, private jets weren’t subject to the rules of the TSA. There were no security screenings. No tickets. Pilots still had to file flight plans, and passengers had to provide ID or passport, but there were no restrictions on baggage or pets. None of the hassles of commercial air travel. The 12,000 square-foot hangar at the FBO could accommodate Slipstream G750s with ease.
A jet raced down the tarmac as we entered the terminal. It lifted into the air and retracted its gear, nosing skyward.
I had a sinking feeling that Armando was aboard that aircraft.
I raced to the desk and asked the attendant where the flight was going and who was aboard.
“I believe the flight is heading to Mexico.” She looked up the flight plan and passenger manifest. “There is a single passenger on board. David Smith.”
My face twisted with confusion. I was pretty sure Armando would be traveling under an alias. There was no doubt he had a fake passport. I pulled up Armando’s mugshot on my phone and showed it to the associate. “You recognize this man?”
She studied it carefully. “Yeah. That’s him. The cab dropped him off out front. He walked through the terminal, onto the tarmac, and boarded the plane.”
My jaw tensed. The son-of-a-bitch got away, and there was no telling where he was really headed.
"We can always make a trip to Mexico," JD muttered in my ear. "Take care of this the old-fashioned way."
That was not my first choice.
I called Sheriff Daniels and updated him on the situation. His efforts to ground the flights out of the FBO had obviously failed. Daniels contacted the Mexican authorities and put out an international warrant for Armando Duarte, traveling under the alias of David Smith.
I wasn't holding my breath.
Sometimes you got cooperation at the border, and sometimes you didn't. If Armando had cartel ties, he was long gone. The cartels had everyone on their payroll. They would pay law enforcement officers more in a month than they would make in an entire year from their regular salary. The corruption was rampant and reached the highest levels of government.
Maybe JD was right. Maybe if we wanted Armando to face justice, we’d have to go down there and bring him back ourselves.
I knew JD would want to finish the job while we were there and save the taxpayers money, but I was trying not to use lethal force unless absolutely necessary. I had a deep-seated belief that I’d been given a second chance at life for the explicit purpose of doing my part to make the world a better place. Indiscriminately assassinating baddies seemed to be slightly at odds with my core premise. There needed to be some sense of just cause.
In my years as a clandestine operative, the phrase the end justifies the means was quite often used as justification for less than scrupulous activities. Sometimes, you had to do what you had to do. But it was a slippery slope. Soon, you could find yourself justifying all types of things for the greater good. I never wanted to go down that slippery path again. I wasn’t against breaking a few laws here and there to get the job done, but by and large, I wanted to serve justice honorably. I wanted to sleep well at night, and when my time was all said and done, I never wanted to go back to hell. Once was enough.
We left the airport and headed back across town. JD had band practice in the afternoon, and I tagged along.
We pulled into the parking lot of the practice studio, and the usual group of miscreants was out front, smoking cigarettes and other things.
"Sup, Thrash?" one of them asked, high-fiving JD as he passed.
"Living the dream," JD said. "Living the dream."
We pushed into the dim hallway and got a nice whiff of a potent herbal scent. We stepped into the practice space as the band was tuning up. Haphazard notes rang out as Dizzy and Crash tuned their guitars. Styxx tapped the drum heads as he tuned and positioned them just how he wanted them.
As usual, there were a couple groupies on the couch. I took a seat next to the lovely ladies and kicked back for the show. The band ran through their set, which was familiar by now.
People started piling into the room for a free show. Every practice turned into a small gig.
Styxx pounded on the drums, Dizzy's fingers streaked up and down the fretboard, and Crash laid down the groove on bass. JD pranced around, howling into the microphone, flipping his mane of hair like he was on the stage at Madison Square Garden.
It didn't matter where Wild Fury played. It was all or nothing, even in practice. It was more than music. It was an attitude. A take no prisoners, grab you by the throat and never let go rock 'n' roll band. The kind of band that's almost extinct now. And maybe that's why they were so well received.
And I was their manager.
It was a Tuesday night, and after practice, the band was more than ready to continue the party. It was like they were on a world tour that never left Coconut Key.
We shifted the party to Tide Pool, and JD picked up the bill. Fans crowded around the rockers, and JD kept them entertained with stories and shots. It was a little after 11 PM when Teagan called me. "Hey, can you come over?"
This wasn't an invitation for something naughty. There was panic in her voice.
"What's wrong?"
40
"Where are you?" I asked.
“I’m at my apartment,” Teagan replied. “I got off at 9 PM, and Alejandro took over. He's working till close at the bar. Some guy followed me home. He just came to the door and banged on it. I didn't answer. I don't know if he is still out there."
"You have your gun handy?"
"It's in my purse."
"I'll be right over."
I told JD I was going to check on Teagan. I didn't tell him she had a stalker. I let him bask in his rockstar glory.
I caught a ride-share to Teagan's apartment and rang her from the call box in the lobby. She buzzed me in, and I took the elevator up to her floor.
There was no one in the hallway.
I stayed on the phone with her the whole time and told her it was me knocking on the door and not to shoot.
She pulled the door open a moment later with panicked eyes. I stepped inside the foyer, and she closed the door behind me and latched the deadbolt.
“This isn’t some ploy to get me alone and take advantage of me, is it?" I asked.
She shot me a look. “No. I'm serious. You don’t understand, ever since that video, I’ve had to block so many freaks on social media. I swear, this guy has been following me around for days. I kept feeling like I was seeing the same guy in my periphery."
“When he knocked on the door, did he say anything?”
"No. I wasn’t about to go near the door and ask who it was. I just didn’t respond."
"I didn't see anybody in the lobby or in the hallway,” I said.
"He could be lurking in the stairwell or on another floor.”
“Do you know how he got into the building?"
"You know how easy it is to get around the security here.”
All you had to do was wait for someone else to exit or enter, or call some random number and say you were delivering a pizza. Most people would buzz you in.
"Thanks for coming,” Teagan said in a soft voice. “I’m so freaked out." She grabbed my hand. "Feel my heart. It's beating a million miles a minute."
She placed my hand on her chest, perilously close to her sumptuous cleavage. Her heart thumped against my palm.
I figured I better remove my hand before it accidentally slipped. I think my heart started beating a little faster, too.
"Do you think I could crash in one of the guest staterooms tonight? I'm never gonna be able to sleep here.”