Mortal Dilemma (11 page)

I needed to stay in the Keys. It was time to start hunting. I didn't have a clue as to where to begin, except for the bar where Jock had been drinking the day before. Maybe he had enough memory of the day that he could at least point me to the place he'd gone in the morning. According to what the bar manager had told the police, Jock showed up at opening time and stayed until he was kicked out.

We navigated our way through the main gate security, and one of the gate guards directed us to the ramp where the sheriff's chopper was scheduled to land. We checked in with the sailor who manned
the desk in the small office adjacent to the helicopter landing area. He examined our IDs again and told us the aircraft was inbound and should be on the pad in about twenty minutes.

A half hour later I watched the lights of the sheriff's helicopter disappear in the distance, heading due north for Longboat Key. I pulled out my phone and called Chief Bill Lester.

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
1

T
HE PILOT WAS
descending toward Longboat Key when J.D. called Steve Carey and asked that he send a car to pick her up at Bayfront Park near mid-key. The Little League ball field there was the only place on the island with enough open space for a helicopter to land. It was a little before six and astronomical twilight was supplanting the night sky, the sun still hidden below the eastern horizon.

The chopper touched down and J.D. thanked the pilot and walked to the waiting patrol car. She was at the murder scene five minutes later. Steve Carey was waiting for her beside Gulf of Mexico Drive, standing beside a line of vehicles, including police cars and vans from the crime scene section and the medical examiner's office. Steve led her to the beach where the body lay sprawled on the sand. It was dressed in a polo shirt and shorts, no shoes. Police tape was strung in a square twenty feet to a side, guarding the area where the body was found. A police all-terrain vehicle, one they used for beach patrols, had pulled three large light trailers into the area and the beach was brightly illuminated. The crime scene techs were there, milling about outside the protected area, waiting for daylight to finish their examination of the scene.

“Anything new?” J.D. asked Carey.

“No. The techs are waiting for daybreak. They've done all they can
in the artificial light, but they don't really expect to find much more. The scene is clean as a whistle.”

“That points to a professional job.”

“It does,” Steve said. “Maybe we got pointed in the wrong direction. Maybe the brother didn't have anything to do with his sister's murder.”

“Maybe, but I don't want to abandon that line of investigation. Maybe Fortson's murder isn't connected to his sister's, but let's not jump to conclusions.”

“That'd be a pretty big coincidence if there was no connection.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess Matt wasn't too happy about me pulling you away from your vacation,” Steve said.

“Oh, he'll live. He's got friends down there. And there are a lot of bars.”

Steve grinned. “Lots of women, too.”

J.D. shook her head. “I'm pretty sure he doesn't have a death wish.”

“I hear you, Detective.” Steve was still grinning.

“I saw the Manatee County crime scene van parked on the road. Who's in charge of the techs?”

“Kevin's running the show.”

“I need to talk to Kevin, then. I'd like to know the details of what they've found.”

Kevin Mimbs was in charge of Longboat Key PD's crime scene investigations, but he was a one-man department. The Town of Longboat Key is divided at mid-key by the county line between Manatee and Sarasota Counties. It's a bit confusing at times, and it might be better if the town were located wholly in one county, but neither county wanted to give up its share of the tax revenue generated by the island. When something big happened on the key, like a murder, either the Sarasota County or Manatee County crime scene investigators were brought in
to assist, depending on where the crime occurred. But, Kevin was in charge, and the techs from either county reported to him.

J.D. found Kevin sitting on a tarpaulin spread on the sand, a Styrofoam cup half-full of coffee in his hand. “About time you showed up,” he said. “I heard you and Matt were down in the Keys playing hooky.”

She laughed. “Yeah. I try to get away from you people and you drag me back, kicking and screaming. What've you got?”

“Not much, J.D. It's a very clean crime scene and the beach isn't the best place for evidence. The tide washes it away or sand gets kicked over it. I'm thinking a professional hit, but that's just a guess. No evidence of it.”

“Give me the reasons you think it's professional. I've always trusted your gut reactions.”

“First of all, the cut to the victim's throat was clean. We'll know more when Doc Hawkins does the autopsy, but it looked like the killer got the vocal chords, the carotid artery and the jugular vein with one swipe of the knife. That's something they teach the special operations troops. Getting the vocal chords makes sure there's no noise. It's a quiet death.”

“And quick.”

“Yeah. He'd have bled out in less than a minute.”

“Anything else? Footprints, maybe?”

“There were a lot of footprints, some barefoot and others with all kinds of shoes. Typical beach environment. There's no way we could track the killer's route. He could have come from anywhere and gone anywhere.”

“Does it look like Fortson was taken by surprise?”

“Yeah. Another thing that makes me think a pro did it. The victim's on an open beach, no cover close to him, yet the killer snuck up and took him from behind.”

“Maybe,” J.D. said, “Fortson knew the killer and they were just out for a stroll.”

“I hadn't thought about that. I guess it's possible.”

“Was there any identification on the body?”

“No. He didn't have anything in his pockets. Tom and Linda Jones recognized him, but the medical examiner will run prints just to be sure.”

“Could you tell if he'd been drinking?”

“No way to tell yet,” Kevin said. “They'll run tox screens when they get him to the morgue. We'll know soon enough.”

“I take it that there's been no canvass of the neighbors.”

“Not yet. We're waiting until people start waking up. The chief didn't want to roll them out of bed in the middle of the night. He was afraid it would cause a panic. Dead neighbor on the beach in the wee hours.”

“Do you know where the chief is?”

“He had to go back to the station for something. Here he comes now.”

Chief Bill Lester was picking his way through the low dunes that bordered the beach. J.D. walked to meet him. “You sure know how to interrupt a vacation, Chief.”

“Welcome back, J.D. Did you enjoy Key West?”

“You mean all seven hours of it?”

The chief smiled. “Sorry to drag you back, but I figured you might have some walking around knowledge about the victim's sister's murder that would help us here. Something that didn't get into the paperwork.”

“No sweat, Bill. I don't know what this is all about, but I think the sister's murder is the place to start. I've already got somebody in the Orlando area trying to dig up some financial information on Mr. Fortson.”

“You suspect him for the murder of his sister?”

“That may be too strong, but I certainly want to dig a little deeper on him. He got a lot of money as the result of Rachel's death.”

“Who gets the money now that Fortson's dead?”

“Good question, Bill. I'll have to wait until Monday to start digging into that.”

“You've got your work cut out for you. What about Matt?”

“I left him in Key West. Am I still suspended?”

“No. The Alachua County sheriff gave me verbal clearance to get you back to work. Said it was a good shoot and he'll be filing the paperwork on Monday. You're good to go.”

“Thanks, Chief. All things considered, I'd just as soon still be on suspension and lying on a beach in Key West.”

“There are no good beaches down there.”

“Well, there's that.”

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
1

I
T WAS A
little before six. I was sitting on Paul Galis' deck reading the morning paper and sipping a large coffee that I'd bought at an all-night convenience store on the way back from Boca Chica. “Anything interesting in the news?” Jock asked. He'd slipped quietly outside and gave me a start. It must have shown. “A little jumpy, podna?”

“Jeez, Jock. You've got to start making more noise. You scared the hell out of me.”

“What's on the agenda today?” he asked.

“We need to talk, old buddy. There's a coffee maker in the kitchen. Already loaded. Just turn it on.”

He returned a few minutes later with a steaming cup. “J.D. still in bed?”

“She's probably in Longboat by now.”

“Lover's spat?”

“Bill Lester called her back for a murder that happened on the beach a few hours ago. I took her out to Boca Chica, and a sheriff's helicopter picked her up.”

“I slept through all that?”

“We tried to keep quiet,” I said. “I never want to interrupt a man and his hangover. How're you feeling this morning?”

“Like a man who survived a hell of a drunk. I'm done with the drinking for a while.”

“What about your plans for finding an island and going to ground?”

“That's still my plan. I was dead serious last night. I'm done.”

“I have a favor to ask. A big one. Maybe bigger than anything I've ever asked before.”

“Whatever you need, podna. You know that.”

“I want you to agree to stay here at Paul's for a few days. Give me a chance to sort things out. Figure out who's trying to kill you.”

“I'll be putting you all in danger.”

“Think about it for a minute. Nobody knows you're here. The bad guys wouldn't know that you and Paul have a history, or for that matter that Paul and I do. J.D.'s on Longboat surrounded by cops. Bill Lester knows what's going on, so he's going to be extra vigilant.”

Jock chuckled. “I can't see J.D. sitting still for that.”

“She won't know.”

“Okay. What about you?”

“I'll be fine. I'm not just some retired lawyer lying in the sun.”

“Matt, I know that better than anyone. I've watched you work. We've been in scrapes together, and of all the people I know, including some of the best trained agents in the world, you're the one I'd always pick to be on my side in a fight. But these guys, if they're who I think they are, are the most brutal bastards in the world. They'd think nothing of taking out a building full of women and children if their target was there. Killing is what they do. They're like wolves. They run in packs. You take out one and there're several more waiting in the shadows. They won't stop until they're all dead. Or we are.”

“I know that.”

“Then, leave it alone.”

“You haven't been thinking too straight, Jock. If you disappear, the
threat to J.D. and me remains. The fact that they can't find you won't stop them from trying to kill us.”

“You've got a point,” Jock said.

“And what if they do find you and kill you?”

“Then I'm dead.”

“And what about J.D. and me?”

“What do you mean?”

“You're worried that the bad guys want to kill us to ruin your life. What do you think your death will do to us?”

He sat quietly, mulling over a thought that apparently had not occurred to him. “I haven't thought that through very well, have I? What are you thinking about doing?”

“How many people are in Youssef's group?”

“About ten, we think.”

“Do you have names, pictures?”

“Yes.”

“I think you need to call Dave Kendall and let him know what's going on. We need the information on Youssef and his people.”

“Okay. What else?”

“We need to figure out how they know who you are and how they found out about J.D. and me. How do they know where you are?”

“I've been thinking about that,” Jock said. “There has to be a leak in our agency.”

“What about other intelligence agencies you've worked with in the past? Could the leak be coming from there?”

“Possibly.”

“We need to find out.”

“I'll call Dave this morning. Bring him up to date and get him to send the pictures and names of Youssef's men.”

“Jock, call Dave now. Roll him out of bed if necessary, but I want to be at the bar you were in yesterday when they open this morning. I'd
like to have those pictures to show around. You never know. Maybe somebody saw the one who shot you. Have Dave send the photos to my phone.”

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
1

I
FOLLOWED
P
AUL
Galis to a small café perched on the side of U.S. 1, just before the bridge leading to the next key. It was a little after seven and I was craving breakfast. I was wearing my running shoes, a pair of chinos, a baseball cap bearing the logo of the Tampa Bay Bucs, and a golf shirt that hung over the Walther PPK/S twenty-two-caliber pistol that was tucked into my pants at the small of my back. Jock had given me the weapon, saying that it was untraceable. I parked the rental next to Paul's unmarked cruiser and walked into the air-conditioned restaurant.

A server brought us menus and coffee, and we settled into a booth overlooking the sound. “They've got the best waffles south of Miami,” Paul said. “And real maple syrup they get directly from Vermont.”