Mortal Dilemma (14 page)

“No. He passed out before I could bring it back to him. I didn't think it was right to add the tip under the circumstances.”

The tab came to almost a hundred dollars. I pulled a fifty-dollar bill from my wallet and gave it to her. “Don't worry. He's a friend of mine. He'll pay me back. Thanks for taking care of him yesterday. You could have taken advantage, you know.”

“Not my thing,” she said and went back to work.

I turned to Mugsy. “Give me Stripling's address and I'll talk to him before his shift starts. Won't have to bother your customers while he's working.”

“Let me get it for you.”

“Mugsy?”

“Yes.”

“Don't tell him I'm coming. If I find out that you did, I'll just go fishing and let the feds take this thing over.”

“Got it. Be right back.”

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
1

O
VER THE YEARS
, Key West had become an island of wealthy people. The funky outcasts who had made this southernmost outpost of the continental United States home as late as the 1980s had been run out because of the continually rising cost of housing. In that sense it wasn't so different from Longboat Key, but at least Longboat was only a couple of bridges from the mainland. Key West just hung there at the end of a string of little islands connected by the asphalt and bridges of the overseas highway, U.S. 1, one hundred twenty-six miles from the southern tip of the Florida peninsula.

But there is always a pocket, a small piece of a town that hasn't yet fallen to the developer who sells a lifestyle to harried executives in New York or Chicago or some other places where winters are frigid. The whole town has not yet become completely gentrified, and it was in such a pocket of old Key West where Jimmy Stripling hung his hat.

The man who answered the door of the well-kept little house was about my height and probably outweighed me by thirty pounds of flab, most of it surrounding his waist. He was wearing a t-shirt, running shorts, and flip-flops. He was the same man I'd seen on the video tending bar at Mugsy's the day before. “Jimmy Stripling?” I asked as I flashed my badge.

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“We need to talk. May I come in?”

“Sure.” He stepped back and swung the door open.

I walked in. Just as I got past Jimmy, I felt an arm snake around my throat and begin to apply pressure. Old training kicked in. I jabbed backward with my left elbow, putting all the power I could behind it. It caught him in the soft spot just in front of his left ribs. At the same time, I raised my right leg and brought the heel of my shoe down hard on his virtually bare foot. It was a jackhammer blow, and I felt the crack of some of the small bones just under the skin of his instep. I reached around to my back with my right hand, and as he pulled backward from the elbow strike to his gut, I grabbed a handful of testicles and jerked downward, squeezing with all the strength I could muster.

The net result was old Jimmy screaming and falling forward onto his knees, holding his nuts with one hand and his stomach with the other. I pushed the idiot to the floor, put a knee in his back, and stuck my pistol's barrel in his ear. “Can you hear me, shithead?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“That option just went out the door.”

“I know my rights.” He was moaning as he talked.

“You waived those rights the minute you attacked me. You ready to die?”

“No. Please. I didn't know you were a cop.”

“You're even dumber than you look. You saw my badge and you wanted to tell me all about your rights. Who'd you think I was? The neighborhood drug dealer? Let's talk.”

“You almost ripped my dick off. What do you want?”

“How much money did you get for slipping that mickey into the guy's drink yesterday afternoon?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don't move a muscle,” I said. I stood and kicked him in the side. He screamed. “Lie to me again and I'm just going to give up and leave.
I'll call the cops and tell them your body is here so it doesn't stink up the neighborhood.”

“A thousand dollars.”

“You gave a man you didn't know a mickey for a measly thousand bucks? If he'd died, you'd be charged with murder.”

“It wasn't anything that would hurt him. Just some kind of knockout drug.”

“That's what the guy told you?”

“Yeah.”

“And you believed him?”

“Yeah.”

“What was his name?”

“He didn't give it to me.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“No.”

“So this guy you don't know just walks into your bar, gives you a vial of something, you don't know what, and a thousand bucks and tells you to drug a customer's drink.”

“He told me it was a mild sedative.”

“You believed him.”

“That's about it.”

“And you'd never seen the man before, didn't know his name, and you still committed a crime for him.”

“Well, yeah, and for the thousand bucks.”

“I'm going to show you some pictures and I want you to pick out the one who gave you the money.”

“If I do that, will you let me go?”

“Yes, but I'll know if you're lying and I'll shoot you.”

He sat up, his face showing the pain that was coursing through his rotund body. I showed him several of the pictures on my phone. He peered closely at each one and then pointed to the one of Akeem Said. I wasn't surprised.

“Good job,” I said. “Now, where is the money?”

“What money?”

“The grand you got in the envelope yesterday.”

“Why?”

“It's my money now.”

“Shit.”

“Yep.”

“It's in the bedroom.”

“Take me to it.”

He stood and limped toward the bedroom, favoring the foot I'd stomped. I followed, gun in hand. He bent over a bedside table and pulled out a drawer. “If I see anything other than an envelope coming out of that drawer, I'll shoot you,” I said.

He handed me the money. Ten one-hundred-dollar bills. “See you around,” I said, and turned to leave.

“You going to give me a receipt?”

“I'll mail it to you.”

“You're not really a cop, are you?”

I laughed. “Don't fret over that, but hear me on this. If I find out that you've gone to the law about our meeting today, and I will find out, I'll come back and kill you. In fact, if you tell anybody about this, you'll be dead within twenty-four hours. We clear?”

“Yes.”

I walked out, leaving him standing in the bedroom massaging his balls. As I was nearing the front door, I heard several hard raps. A visitor. I went back to the bedroom. “Somebody's at the door,” I said. “Answer it, but if I hear you say a word about me being here, I'll shoot both you and your guest. Got it?”

“Yeah, it's probably old Mrs. Harper from next door. She checks in with me most mornings.”

I stood behind the door between the bedroom and living room, peeking through the crack between the door and the jamb. I watched
Stripling waddle across the room and open the door. A swarthy man pushed his way into the room, shoved the door shut with his foot, raised a silenced pistol, and shot Stripling in the chest.

I was moving by the time the shot was fired, my pistol in hand, taking a bead on the shooter. He was concentrating on Stripling's body lying on the floor. He must have heard me, or caught sight of me in his peripheral vision, or maybe perceived danger from some feral instinct that lies deep in the reptilian part of the human brain. He was moving the muzzle of his pistol in my direction when I shot him in the face.

He dropped like a bag of rocks, landing on his back. I saw a neat hole, the entrance wound, just to the right of his nose. I shot him again. Right in the middle of his forehead. You can't be too sure in these situations. “Sayonara, Akeem,” I said.

I'd recognized the man when he first pushed his way into the house. Akeem Said, the man who'd paid Stripling to put the mickey in Jock's drink. I had not expected him to shoot the pudgy bartender, but I can't say I was surprised. The best way to ensure silence from a co-conspirator is to kill him.

I felt no remorse about my actions in taking Akeem out. He would have killed me, or much worse, J.D., without any more thought than stepping on a bug. He was a predator and the world was better off without him.

One down and nine to go, I thought. Assuming Youssef had brought his entire group to America. I needed to find out about that. I couldn't protect myself, or J.D., or Jock, if I didn't know the dimensions of the threat. How many were after us?

I had parked the rental two blocks from Stripling's house, a precaution on which I now congratulated myself. I drew the blinds in the living room and walked through the kitchen and out the back door. I wasn't too concerned about the sounds of the gunshots. Akeem had
used a silencer and my little pistol didn't make much noise. The day was warm, and most of the neighbors were locked in their hermitically sealed houses with the air conditioning running on high.

I had walked about a block when I spotted a car parked on the side of the road, the driver's side next to the sidewalk, a man behind the wheel. He was looking down, perhaps fiddling with the radio. He didn't see me. I stepped behind a big gumbo-limbo tree that stood next to the sidewalk, its low limbs hiding me from the man in the car.

I could tell that the car's engine was not running. The front side windows were rolled down, an attempt to catch the little breeze that blew across the island. I couldn't imagine why anyone would be sitting in a parked car in the heat, unless he was waiting for a passenger.

I peered around the tree trunk, pulling my head back quickly. The driver was dark skinned, his eyes steely, searching the street. He wore a white short-sleeved dress shirt, the collar unbuttoned. I pulled my phone out and went through the photos Dave Kendall had sent me. The man in the car matched one of the pictures. Mohammed al Tafari.

I pulled my ball cap low over my face, stepped out from behind the tree, and walked nonchalantly toward the car. I wanted it to appear to the bad guy that I was coming from the house that shared the lot with the gumbo-limbo tree.

The man behind the steering wheel watched me as I approached the car, but showed no concern. I was just a neighborhood guy out for a walk. I hoped. When I was even with the driver's side front door, I moved quickly, sidestepping to the car, pulling my pistol, and sticking it in his face before he could react. He flinched, and I said, “Don't move and put your hands in your lap.”

The surprise on his face was morphing into anger. I wasn't sure if he was going to follow my orders. If not, I was prepared to shoot him, and I told him as much. The look of anger dissipated and was replaced with one of resignation.

“I'm a cop,” I said. “Do you understand?”

He shook his head.

“Do you speak English?”

Again, the head shake.

“Okay, I'll just have to shoot you.” I pushed the muzzle of the pistol into his temple.

“No. I speak English.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes. I've seen your picture. You're Matt Royal.”

So much for my cop disguise. “Ah,” I said. “That's better. We can have a conversation. Where's Youssef?”

His English was heavily accented, but I could understand him, and he could obviously understand me. Apparently, martyrdom in the hot sun of a Key West autumn didn't appeal to him.

“I do not know.”

“I don't want to play games with you. The reason you're here alone is that I just killed Akeem in the house where he went to kill Stripling. I'll kill you the next time you lie to me. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let's try again. Where's Youssef?”

“He's here. In Key West.”

“Where?”

“I do not know. He is like a ghost. He moves around all the time and then calls us with orders.”

“Who's us?”

“Our team.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Five.”

“Where are the others from your group or cell or whatever you call it?”

“They are fighting in Syria.”

“Why did you only bring five?”

“We only had five passports.”

“Fake ones?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get to the U.S.?”

“We flew to London and then to Miami.”

“For what purpose?”

“We were to go to Longboat Key and kill you and the woman.”

“Why?”

“I do not know. Youssef said it was revenge for the one you call Jock Algren killing his family.”

“How did you know we were friends with Mr. Algren?”

“I do not know. Youssef did not tell us anything about that. He is our leader. We go where he says to go and do what he says to do.”

That had the ring of truth. “How did Youssef even know who Jock was?”

“I don't know that, either.”

“What did he tell you about Jock?”

“Just that he had found out the man's name and that he was visiting his friends in Longboat Key. He said that you and the woman were his only family and that you had to die.”

“Did he give you a reason?”

“I do not think he actually told us a reason, but we all knew it was revenge for the killing of his family.”

“If you were going to Longboat Key, how did you end up in Key West?”

“Youssef called me yesterday and told me to go to Key West and meet Akeem.”

“Did he say why you were to come to Key West?”

“No.”

“You didn't ask?”

“I follow orders. I do not ask questions.”

“How long were you in Miami?”

“Two days.”