Mark of the Devil (9 page)

Shaking his head with mounting irritation and hoping the attendant would appear before he got back in the Jeep, Matt eased past the gate arm and made his way to the backside of the lot where the Grand Cherokee was parked, the last in line next to a six-foot stockade fence. With keys in hand, he pushed the
unlock
button on the key fob and heard the unmistakable double-click of the doors’ locks snapping open. For an instant, he thought he saw movement inside the Jeep, but his attention was diverted when he heard a voice behind him.

“You Berkeley?”

Expecting it to be the parking lot attendant, he turned to see a man nearly a foot taller than himself, broad shouldered with upper arms the size of his own thighs, heavily whiskered, his hair pulled back in a braided length of rope. Wondering how the man knew his name, Matt answered, “Yes. You the attendant?”

“Naw, but we’re fucking gonna attend to you.”

Before Matt could react, the Jeep’s door swung open behind him and shoved against his back, pushing him toward the man with the braided hair and a fist that slammed hard into his stomach. The blow forced his upper body forward and down, the breath in his lungs bursting upward in a blast of coughing and gagging.

Simultaneously, something rock solid collided with the back of his head, sending him headfirst toward a pair of motorcycle boots, one of which swung up in his direction. The involuntary reflex of his head to the side was all that kept the toe of the boot from crushing the bridge of his nose and driving bone fragments into the frontal lobe of his brain. The boot glanced off his cheek and rammed into the meaty part of his left shoulder, sending him sideways against the Jeep and onto the ground.

Now there were two pairs of feet, one with the boots, the other with a pair of dirty running shoes extending from a set of skinny, very hairy legs. Although struggling to breathe and stunned from the blow at the back of his head, his left shoulder and arm momentarily paralyzed from the boot kick, Matt knew he had to fight if he wanted to stay alive. With the Jeep’s ignition key held tight between the index and middle fingers of his right hand, he jabbed the sharp end of the key forward, gouging deep into one of the hairy legs in front of him, then ripped downward with every bit of strength he had.

The man grabbed the jagged tear in his leg and screamed as blood poured between his fingers and over the top of his running shoe. Literally dancing up and down on one foot, both hands functioning as a sling for the bleeding leg folded at the knee, the man shouted, “Goddamn sonofabitch! Kill him, Race, kill the sonofabitch!”

The words, “Muthafuckin’ asshole!” blasted Matt’s ears as the blur of a boot swung forward, the toe digging deep into his rib cage and ramming his body against the bottom edge of the Jeep. With the fear-response part of his brain taking over, something deep inside screamed,
Gotta move, gotta hide.
Automatically, Matt forced himself beneath the Jeep and lay there, sucking in air, facial muscles drawn tight against the pain surging through his body.

“Drag the muthafucka outta there, Race,” the injured man cried, now on one knee, wrapping his shirt around the bleeding leg and tying it off with the sleeves. “Get him out and kill him, goddamn it!”

From somewhere in the distance, Matt heard, “Hey, what the hell’s goin’ on back there?” followed by the sound of feet running through gravel. The crunch of gravel suddenly stopped as the giant of a man called Race shouted back, “Unless you want a shiv up your ass, none of your fucking business.” Footsteps on gravel, slow at first, then more rapid, grew faint in Matt’s ears, and he knew his would-be rescuer had just turned tail and run for cover.

To the man with the bleeding leg, Race growled, “C’mon, jerk-off, forget the leg and let’s get outta here.”

As Matt watched the feet from where he lay, a hand went palm-down on the ground for support and Race’s whiskered face appeared.

“Don’t go out there again, Berkeley,” the man warned, “or next time, you’re dead meat.”

“Out where?” Matt asked, his voice strangled with pain.

“You know what the fuck I mean. Whatever’s out there, leave it alone, or next time, you’ll look like road kill before we’re through.”

Suddenly, the hand and face were gone as sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer and louder. Matt closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath, but each time the pain in his side and stomach felt like a red-hot branding iron searing its way up through his gut and into his throat.

Another pair of feet crunched their way to the side of the Jeep. “Hey, you, under there. You all right? I called nine-one-one and the cops are on their way.”

“Thanks,” Matt mumbled, recognizing for the first time the taste of blood on his lips. “Nice if you could’ve done that about five minutes sooner.”

Jacksonville Beach, Florida

“Jesus Christ, Matt!” The words burst automatically from Steve Park’s mouth when he saw Matt’s face pressed against the other side of the store window, the rest of his body silhouetted by lights from the parking lot behind him. Flipping the lock and swinging the door open, Steve said, “What the hell kind of truck ran over you?”

“One big son of a bitch, let me tell you,” Matt said as he pushed past Park, the front of his shirt unbuttoned, revealing a swath of adhesive around his ribs. “So late, I didn’t know whether you’d be here or not.”

Park relocked the door and followed Matt through the store to the sales counter. He watched as Matt leaned forward and, with both hands on the counter for support, hung his head almost to the counter’s glass top.

“Hey, man, I’ve got some Scotch back in the office. Want some? Not the best, but—”

“Anything would be good right now,” Matt responded as he lifted his head back over his shoulders and rolled it around, trying to work out the kinks. Vertebrae in his neck complained with an outcry of tiny pops and groans. With a deep intake of breath and a sharp rush of air from his lungs, Matt followed Park to the office in the back of the store. “What are you doing here so late?”

Park unscrewed the top of the Scotch bottle and poured the light golden liquid almost to the rim of a coffee cup, answering, “Got some new wetsuits, BCs, and regulators in today. Wanted to break them out and price them so I can get them on the floor for the weekend.”

Accepting the cup in both hands and taking a slug, Matt rolled his eyes and sighed, “Oh, yeahhhh.” Leaning his back against the doorframe, he bent at the knees and allowed his body to droop downward. Slowly, very slowly, he sank to the floor, eyes shut tight. The pain in his side was obvious from the wincing of his facial muscles, but he held the now half-filled cup in front of him as though its contents were the elixir of life.

“Guess your day wasn’t filled with too much sunshine,” Park said, his words intended more as a question than a statement.

“Not bad ‘til I got outta bed this morning. Downhill ever since.”

Park pointed at the bruises and bandage on the side of Matt’s face and the adhesive wrapped tightly around his midsection. “You meet with Dr. Mason before you got all that?”

“Yeah, and with a state senator named Jameson. Represents the Jacksonville and hereabouts area. A real sweetheart. About a five-foot-six, two hundred and fifty-to three hundred-pound sweetheart.”

“Nice guy, huh?”

“Not what I’d call particularly statesmanlike. Probably on the board of directors for Henry Shoemaker’s AFI organization or one of Shoemaker’s dozen or so other corporations. And for all I know, so is Brandy.”

“You know that’s not so.”

“Times and people change, Steve, and politics can be a great catalyst for change. Unfortunately, in most cases, not for the better. Learned that on a tour of duty in the Pentagon as a liaison officer to Congress.”

“So we’re out of luck with the application?” Steve asked, pouring himself a shot of Scotch.

“You might say so, at least so far as Tallahassee’s concerned. We’ve got Sam Gravely in Washington. If he got those copies of the application to the Smithsonian and the Library of Congress like I asked, we might still be able to prove we beat AFI to the punch.”

“Don’t think I’d count on that, Matt.”

Matt’s right eyebrow raised as he asked, “Whatta you mean?”

“Terri Good, a friend of mine with the Jax Beach Police Department, stopped by this afternoon with a Detective Hammersmith. They were looking for you.”

Matt jabbed a thumb against his chest. “For me? Why?”

Park pulled a swig from his coffee cup before answering. “Your friend Gravely was found dead yesterday morning.”

Matt’s upper body jerked to attention. “What the hell did you say?”

“His home in Chantilly, Virginia. Homicide. Shot to death.”

Setting the unfinished cup of Scotch aside, Matt pushed to his feet, shaking his head and arguing, “No! No way. You’ve got it all wrong. Not Sam.”

Speaking the facts as he knew them, Park went on. “Fairfax County police are checking all known acquaintances. Your name and address are in his Rolodex, and they picked up a phone call on his answering machine you made before you went to Washington, asking him to meet you at Dulles International. Tried Charleston, and your mother and Ashley told them you were down here.”

“Damn!” Leaning against the desk for support, Matt bit his lower lip in frustration before asking, “What else they tell you?”

“Nothing, but Terri and this Hammersmith guy want to see you tomorrow morning at nine sharp at police headquarters.”

Matt stared blankly at a framed, color photograph of Park’s dive boat,
Native Diver,
on the far wall. “Gravely dead. Son of a bitch!” Turning back to Park, Matt muttered through clinched teeth, “They did it. I know damn well they did it.”

“You hear me, Matt? Nine a.m., police headquarters, Jax Beach.”

“Yeah, nine a.m.”

“Not to change the subject,” Park said, “but assuming Dr. Mason and the good senator didn’t do that to you…” Park pointed again at Matt’s injuries, “…what happened?”

Matt shook his head. “A little warning not to go back out to the barge and to what I’m pretty sure is a World War Two German U-boat, based on what Gravely told me. I wouldn’t, however, put it past the senator to be involved.”

Letting out a massive sigh, Matt admitted, “Four hours waiting in the emergency room to get patched up, another two and a half on the drive back, and now Sam dead. I’ve about had it for one day.”

Park emptied the Scotch he had just poured for himself and said, “Not to add to your woes, but I got a fax from the Coast Guard today, thanking me for my services and informing me there’s no further need for same. Send bill, they’ll send money, and they’ll take care of the barge from now on.”

“I’ll bet. Them and AFI, but I’m not giving up,” Matt promised as he turned back to the framed photograph of
Native Diver.
“You don’t have to get involved any further, Steve. Me getting the hell beat out of me, and all of a sudden, Sam Gravely dead, murdered, too much of a coincidence, and I don’t believe in coincidences. I’m going to find out what’s down there, and I am not going to wait for Henry Shoemaker to tell me.”

“You’re sure?”

“Nobody beats my ass, figuratively and literally, murders an old friend who was just trying to help, then walks away with all the marbles.”

“You don’t know they did that to Gravely. Could’ve been a burglar. Anybody,” Park argued.

“I’ll see what the cops have to say tomorrow morning.” Matt checked his watch. “Damn! Should’ve said
this
morning.” Looking at the picture on the wall, he added, “Unless you’ve got something planned, I’d like to borrow your boat tomorrow night.”

“No problem…if I can come along.”

“Might get bumpy.”

Park laughed. “Bumpy’s my middle name.”

Friday, 19 October 2001

The Jacksonville Beach Police Department, which Matt remembered being cramped into the old City Hall a block from the beach, was now in a brand new building on the backwaters of South Penman Road, a building that lacked any personality.
Like something the military would build,
he mentally remarked to himself, remembering the fill-in-the-number architecture he’d seen on so many Navy and Marine Corp bases through the years.

At the moment, however, the building’s aesthetic value was only of peripheral interest compared to the day’s agenda. Rather than meeting with Detective Sergeant Terri Good and Detective Mike Hammersmith in an office, he was led to an interview room that felt more like an interrogation room. A bank of fluorescent lights mounted in the ceiling lit the room, while the walls, bare of any decoration, were painted a glaring Day-Glo yellow.
To keep the suspect awake,
Matt decided. They sure as hell didn’t have to worry about that, considering the pain still throbbing along the length of his ribcage and in his head from the beating he’d taken. As for furniture, a single table sat in the middle of the room. He sat on one side, Hammersmith and Good on the other. A cassette tape recorder with all kinds of bells and whistles sat within Good’s reach.

When the two officers introduced themselves and flashed their badges, Matt said, “Interesting!” He reached toward Good’s blue and gold badge nestled in a leather fold-over pouch. “Yours says Jacksonville Beach.” Pointing to Hammersmith’s, he went on, “And his says Jacksonville. How come?”

“Hammersmith’s on loan from the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office,” Good volunteered. “We’re a relatively small force and two of our detectives are in the hospital. Shot trying to stop a B and E in progress.”

“Breaking and entering,” Hammersmith tossed out in an educate-the-civilian tone of voice.

“I’ve heard the term before,” Matt said quietly, already knowing he didn’t like Hammersmith. Turning to Good, he asked, “Not sure why I’m here, but what can I do for—”

“I knew it!” Hammersmith said, his eyes narrowing on Matt’s face.

“You knew what?” Good asked.

Nodding at Matt, Hammersmith answered, “Who he is. Knew it the minute I saw his name on the fax.” To Matt, he said, “You’re the guy who was mixed up in that, uh…”

“Azrael case?” Matt offered.

“Yeah, that was it. Back in, uh…”

“Ninety-two.”

“Right. Those murders and the abortion clinic on Beach Boulevard. Yeah, lotta heads rolled ‘cause of you. Real good guys, like Chief O’Riley. And there was—”

“That’s ancient history, Detective,” Matt said in an effort to get back to the issue at hand. “I’ve got a lot of things to do, and I’m sure you and Detective Sergeant Good do, also. If you’ll tell me why you wanted me here, I’ll try to help any way I can.”

Hammersmith’s jaws tightened and his lips pursed in what Matt knew was immediate dislike, a look that elicited a false smile on Matt’s face, a smile meant to irritate more than anything else. With a bluntness delivered to either hurt or intimidate, Hammersmith said, “Okay, Berkeley, friend of yours named Gravely, found dead morning before last. His home in Chantilly, Virginia. Shot to death.” Even as the words tumbled from his mouth, Hammersmith adopted a bored, matter-of-fact tone. His pit bull face was without emotion.

“So Steve Park told me.”

“Fairfax County Sheriff’s office is checking’ all known acquaintances. Your name and address, in his Rolodex, and they picked up a phone call on his answering machine. A call you made before you went to Washington, asking him to meet you at Dulles International. They tried your Charleston office, NAARPA or somethin’ like that, and finally your wife and momma who told ‘em you were down here. What day were you in Washington?”

“Four days ago. Monday the fifteenth.”

“How long were you there?” Good asked, her voice much less demanding than Hammersmith’s.

“Flew in, met Sam in one of the bars at the airport, then out again. Never left the terminal.”

Matt studied both detectives. Hammersmith, short and stocky with more hair in his eyebrows and mustache than on his head, was a middle-aged man with a voice like a cement mixer churning gravel.
A real jewel,
Matt thought.

Terri Good, on the other hand, appeared to be in her late twenties, early thirties, better looking than the “rogues’ gallery” picture he’d seen hanging in the building’s reception area. Her hair, a reddish-brown, was now much shorter; she wore only a touch of makeup, something her complexion really didn’t need; and her figure was trim yet compactly built.
Works out,
he thought to himself,
and no wedding ring on her finger. If I weren’t a married man…
He let the thought slide, concentrating on the woman’s role in what he figured was undoubtedly the
good
side of the “good cop, bad cop” routine.

It was Hammersmith’s turn. “Airline stubs. Still got ‘em?”

Matt shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe. Be in my briefcase in my car.”

“I want to see ‘em,” Hammersmith demanded. “What were you meeting Gravely for?”

Matt shifted forward, arms crossed, elbows resting on the table. “If you’re trying to tie me in with whoever killed Sam, forget it. Sam’s been a friend of mine for years, since my time in Washington with the Navy.”

“Gravely was in the Navy?”

Shaking his head, Matt answered. “Civilian. Analyst for NISC.”

“What’s that?” Good asked.

“Naval Intelligence Support Center. Specialist on Soviet ships at the time. Also editor of the U. S. section of
Jane’s Fighting Ships.
As for why I was meeting Sam, that has nothing to do with you or the Fairfax County authorities. We met for less than thirty minutes at the airport, had a drink together, talked business, and that was that.”

Hammersmith’s fist pounded against the tabletop as he shoved his chair back and pushed himself to his feet. “This is a murder case. I ask a question, goddamn it, I want an answer. What were you meeting Gravely about?”

Good’s voice was soft and controlled as she explained, nodding in Hammersmith’s direction, “Mike’s had a long night on another case, Mr. Berkeley, and he’s tired. We just need to know why you were meeting him. Might be entirely innocent enough, probably was, but then again, it could have a bearing on why he was killed.”

Hammersmith leaned down and across the table in Matt’s face, his fists knuckled against the top of the table, supporting his body, his face red with impatience. “You know a man named Fitzwellen?”

“No.”

“Works for the Smithsonian.”

Matt’s mouth dropped open, ready to blurt out the
Oh, shit!
that was on the tip of his tongue, but instead, he bit hard on his lower lip and asked, “What about him?”

“What about him?” Hammersmith shot back. “Smithsonian rung a bell, didn’t it?” The detective waited for Matt’s answer. When one didn’t come, he shouted, “Didn’t it, goddamn it? Whattaya hidin’, Berkeley? We know who and what you are, Mr. former Navy Special Warfare Officer. Military, FBI, CIA, and that NAARPA thing you work for. They all have files on you, and none of them knows how many people you’ve killed. They just feed us this ‘in the line of work’ bullshit.”

“Mr. Berkeley,” Terri Good cut in, her voice still level and without emotion. “A man named Roger Fitzwellen with the Smithsonian Institute was also found shot to death in his home in Vienna, Virginia. We just received a fax from the Fairfax County people this morning. Ballistic tests on bullets removed from both bodies say Fitzwellen and your friend Gravely were killed with the same weapon. And guess whose name was found on a crumpled envelope in Fitzwellen’s wastebasket?”

Matt stared blankly at the tape recorder on the desk, his words spoken as though he had no control over his response. “Nine by twelve manila envelope, NAARPA seal on the top, left-hand corner, and my name and return address in Charleston, South Carolina.”

“You got it,” Hammersmith growled. “Is that what you gave Gravely at your little meeting at Dulles? What was in Fitzwellen’s envelope? Same thing you gave Gravely? What maybe got ‘em both killed?”

“Bastards,” Matt muttered between clenched teeth.

“Wha’d you say?” Hammersmith demanded.

“Somehow they trailed me to Washington. They killed Sam and this guy Fitzwellen for copies of the application and the magnetometer printout.” Matt leaned his head back, face to the ceiling, and closed his eyes. “Two men dead and copies of the proof of what we found are gone. There was a third copy for the Library of Congress, but who would he have sent it to? And did it even get there?” He sighed heavily and said, “I wish we’d never found the goddamn thing.”

“What application and what printout?” Good asked.

But Matt wasn’t listening. Finally, he said, “If this man Fitzwellen is linked to both Sam and me, that can only mean…”

As soon as Matt finished explaining events from the time he found the sunken barge and the object protruding from the ocean bottom, Hammersmith waved him off. “You can’t be serious. Henry Shoemaker?” The detective’s grunt-like laughter grated on Matt’s ears.

“Nonprofit or not, Antiquity Finders is one of Shoemaker’s corporations,” Matt said. “Either the people running AFI are operating behind Shoemaker’s back, or he’s the one calling the shots, and I choose the latter.”

“I think you’ve been reading too many mystery novels, Berkeley.”

“How many times have I got to tell you about the AFI boat, Shoemaker, and the goons with the machine pistols? We—NAARPA and other federally recognized archeological organizations—have all run up against AFI at one time or another. It’s widely known they only play by their rules, which, by the way, serve only AFI’s interests.”

“You own a weapon, Mr. Berkeley?” Good asked.

“Yes, a ten-round, nine-millimeter Beretta Cougar, Model Eight hundred Licensed to carry concealed in twenty-three states, including Florida, as well as registered with the Federal Bureau of Investigation through my work with NAARPA. Currently in the safe in my office in Charleston. Fairfax say what was used to kill Sam and the Fitzwellen man?”

Good answered, “Their ballistics people say thirty-two caliber automatic—” She abruptly stopped, her head shaking in disbelief. “Goddamn it! That’s all I can tell you, and I shouldn’t have told you that.”

Quickly changing the subject, Hammersmith asked, “How long you staying here, Berkeley?”

“At least till the roof on my aunt’s house is fixed, and hopefully until I find out what’s buried off Jax Beach.”

“Aunt’s house?” Good asked.

“Six-seventeen Fourth Avenue North. She passed away several months ago and left it to me.”

Detective Sergeant Terri Good stood and yawned, stretched her arms in the air, and flexed her muscles against the fatigue of sitting, before saying, “We’re going to overnight the tape of our discussion up to Fairfax County. In case they want more, we’ll get in touch through Steve Park or at your aunt’s house.”

“No problem, Sergeant.”

“And by the way, Berkeley,” Hammersmith said, aiming an index finger toward Matt’s face. “What happened to your face, and don’t tell me you ran into a door.”

Before answering, Matt very gingerly fingered the bruise and the cut on his left cheek, the bandage now removed. “Yesterday, one of Shoemaker’s heavyweights rather pointedly told me to back off.”

“Shoemaker, you’re sure?” Good asked.

“Process of elimination,” Matt answered.

“Word of advice,” Hammersmith cut in. “Unless you’ve got ironclad evidence, I wouldn’t go around talkin’ too loud about Henry Shoemaker. Lotta local politicians and a judge or two are beholden to him for what they got and where they’re at. They might not take too kindly you badmouthin’ their boy.”

Matt laughed as he stood, his eyes going immediately from Good’s stretching exercise to Hammersmith. “You know, Detective, it seems like that song’s on everybody’s top forty here in Florida, and to be honest, I’m starting to get a little tired of hearing it.” Moving to the door, he added, “But thanks for the advice. Then again, unless the Jacksonville and Jax Beach Police Departments are also beholden, maybe it’s time to take ol’ Henry down a notch or two.”

“Around here, unless you’re lookin’ to get your ass in a sling, Mr. Berkeley, that’s mighty dangerous talk,” Hammersmith warned. “Mighty dangerous.”