Mortal Dilemma (17 page)

“I'm sure his agency has shrinks who take care of this kind of problem. Maybe they can help.”

“Good idea,” I said. “I've got to call Dave Kendall about what's going on. I'll ask about the shrinks.”

I went back inside and asked Jock if I could use his encrypted cell phone to call Dave Kendall. “Help yourself,” he said. “It's on the counter in the kitchen.”

“Do you want to talk to Dave while I've got him on the phone?”

“Nah. I'll talk to him later.”

I stepped back outside and called Kendall. I told him about my morning and about the state that Jock seemed to be in. I gave him the names of the two men I'd killed and the other three the man in the car had identified.

“Good work,” Dave said. “We at least have the names of the five that are in the country.”

“If Mohammed was telling the truth.”

“Maybe I can help find out if he was lying to you.”

“How?”

“We've got people on the ground in Aleppo. I think this little group has become dangerous enough to be put on a kill list. I should have something in a couple of days. That'll only leave you two more to run down, plus Youssef.”

“Thanks a lot, Dave. Based on what Mohammed said before he died, it sounds to me as if someone is tracking Jock. Could that be one of your people, a mole?”

“If it is, he's well hidden. We're trying to track him down. If we find him, he's finished.”

“You're not talking about firing him.”

Dave laughed once, more of a “hah,” some bitterness leaking out. “Not exactly. We'll wring him dry and then he'll meet with a fatal accident.”

“Well deserved.”

“Matt, do you need some help? I can send an agent down.”

“Let me think about it. I'd just as soon not have any of your people know about the state Jock's in these days. I hope he'll get better if we can get rid of the terrorists.”

“I can also send one of the shrinks to Key West.”

“I think it's too early for that. Let's see if we can get this mess cleaned up and bring Jock back to Longboat. That might be the right time to get the shrink involved.”

I hung up and called Paul Galis at his office. I told him about J.D.'s problem in Longboat. “I need to get back up there. Do you mind keeping an eye on Jock for a few days until I can get this mess settled?”

“Not at all. How're you getting home? The flights out of here aren't all that good, unless you're going to Miami.”

“I'm going to drive. I'll get moving as soon as I get my stuff together.”

“Can't you get your buddy to fly down and pick you up? Be a lot quicker.”

“I want the bad guys to think I'm still in Key West. They seem to have a lot of eyes, and somebody might be watching the airport.”

“Not if you use Lower Sugarloaf International.”

“What's that?”

“It's our less-than-famous airport on Lower Sugarloaf Key.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. Have you noticed the sign on the highway advertising Sky Dive Key West?”

“Yes.”

“Well, right down that road, there's an old airstrip. It was just dirt for years, but recently they paved it. There're no lights, so it's only good for use during the day. Nothing out there but the little building the sky divers use and two or three planes.”

“Can anybody land there?”

“Sure, but I think they have to check in with the Navy people at Boca Chica. I'm pretty sure you can't get in there without air traffic controllers at the base helping you out. They don't want to bend one of their jets on some yahoo trying to land on that strip.”

“I'll call Russ. He'll know about all that. Or he can figure it out.”

“Okay. Let me know what you decide. I'll keep an eye on Jock.”

I called Russ to see if Coit Airways was operating. He assured me it was.

“Did you know anything about an airstrip on Lower Sugarloaf Key?”

“Hold on.”

He was back in a couple of minutes. “I've got all the FAA airport information on my iPad. That little strip on Lower Sugarloaf is big enough for me to land on. When do you want me to pick you up?”

“There're no lights on this strip. Can you get here around dusk and still have time to take off before it's too dark to see?”

“If I'm in and out by six this evening, we're in good shape.”

“Suppose I meet you at the strip at six. Will that work?”

“See you then.”

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
1

I
CALLED
J.D. again to tell her Russ would pick me up and I'd be on Longboat by seven-thirty or so. She was back in the police station putting together what little evidence they had on what the locals were calling murder on the beach. “Sounds like a good name for a drink,” I said.

“Yeah, or a mystery book store.”

“Have you found anything that points you to the murderer?”

“Not really. The killer left nothing at the scene. The best evidence we have is the description Linda Jones gave us.”

“Not much to go on,” I said. “What about your situation?”

“The crime scene techs didn't find anything. They think the guy was wearing gloves, so no fingerprints. They found Larry's keys on a step in the north-end stairwell and some shoe prints in the dirt in that hedge that separates our property from the lot next door.”

“What about the shoe prints? Anything that'll help?”

“Too early to tell. The techs are going to run them and see if they can identify the shoe's manufacturer, but they think it's hopeless. The prints look like the kind you see on millions of athletic shoes. They may not even belong to the guy who was at my door.”

“And nobody saw anything?”

“Maybe. Marylou Webster and Susan Mink were in the hot tub down
on that end of the property and they saw somebody running through the hedge. They didn't get a good look at him, but both of them thought the guy had a white or gray beard. That sounds like the man the Joneses saw leaving the beach where they found the body.”

“That sounds like too much of a coincidence,” I said.

“Yeah, but it probably won't mean anything. Doc Hawkins puts Fortson's time of death at eleven p.m., give or take an hour. The Joneses saw the bearded man at about one a.m. I'm pretty sure the killer wouldn't have stayed around for an hour or more after he murdered somebody.”

“Has Hawkins finished the autopsy?”

“He's going to do it on Monday. We know the cause of death, so there's no big hurry. I didn't want to ruin his weekend.”

We hung up and I sat and thought about a plan that I had been mulling over. I was pretty sure that Tariq Gajani, the cab driver, wasn't as innocent as he would have me believe. He could very well be part of Youssef's group, maybe a sleeper who'd been inserted into South Florida to be activated when needed. Or, he might have been completely intimidated by Youssef and dragged into the operation. Whatever the situation, if my suspicions were correct, I thought I might be able to use Tariq.

I made another call to the cabbie. “Mr. Gajani, this is Detective Monk. I need to meet with you again.”

“I do not think so.”

“It's important. I've just got a few details to iron out.”

“And I have my life to think about.”

“Tariq, I've done a little digging. Your status here in America might not be as clear as you led me to believe. I'm not the border patrol and I really don't care about your status, but if you don't meet with me, you may have some problems you don't want to deal with.” I was taking a shot in the dark, but it landed.

A long sigh. “Okay. Where do I meet you?”

“Are you working?”

“Yes.”

“Can you take your cab out of service for a half hour?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Meet me at the marina in the Garrison Bight. Turn off Roosevelt Boulevard onto Palm Avenue and there's a parking lot on your immediate left, right at the beginning of Charter Boat Row. You know it?”

“Yes.”

“I'll meet you there in an hour.”

“Okay.”

*    *    *

I wasn't sure what to expect. Maybe I had Tariq figured all wrong. Maybe he was an electrical engineer from Pakistan temporarily driving a cab. Or maybe he was a terrorist, a jihadist. Something had bothered me when we met at Starbucks. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I thought he'd been less than honest with me. My bullshit meter was pinging in the red. But that meter wasn't always right. Maybe I'd know more after another conversation. Just in case, I had one of Paul Galis' untraceable pistols in my pocket. It was a thirty-eight-caliber revolver, not much good at a distance, but I reasoned that if I needed to shoot Tariq, it'd be from up close.

A half hour after I hung up with Tariq, I pulled into the parking lot right behind the boats moored stern-to along the bulkhead known as Charter Boat Row. I parked the rental at the far end of the lot. I wanted to be early and inconspicuous. I wanted to see whether Tariq arrived alone or brought reinforcements. I walked back along Charter Boat Row. As I neared the end closest to Roosevelt Boulevard, I saw
four men standing on the sidewalk at the stern of a forty-five foot sportfish boat, a beautiful assembly of gleaming fiberglass, teak, and stainless steel. I had dressed in something more akin to what the tourists wore, a Hawaiian shirt, shorts and athletic shoes, a ball cap pulled low on my forehead. The pistol was tucked in the short's waistband, hidden by the overhanging shirt.

“Beautiful boat,” I said, as I walked up to the little knot of men.

“You in the market for a charter?” one of them asked.

“I wish. I couldn't afford the tariff. What do you guys usually fish for?”

They were happy to tell me about their experiences. We were into a conversation not unlike those of idle men everywhere. I kept my eye on the parking lot, waiting for Tariq. He pulled up in his cab within a few minutes. He, too, was early and he had a passenger sitting in the front seat. He stopped on the road and a swarthy man got out. Tariq drove on down Palm Avenue, circling the marina and disappearing from sight.

The passenger walked down the pier jutting out from the seawall on the other side of the road. The pier was flanked on either side by permanently moored houseboats, most of them large, some with second stories, structures that floated but had never been meant to move. People lived on those boats.

The man was carrying a long package covered in brown wrapping paper. A rifle? Fishing rod? I couldn't tell, but I felt the first flush of an adrenalin rush. My system was telling me that I needed to be alert.

I watched as the man with the package walked up the little gang-way to the third boat in the row, the first one with a second story. He knocked on the door, waited, got no answer. He bent to the door and used either a key or a pick to unlock it. He disappeared inside.

I had continued my conversation with the fishermen as I watched the swarthy man. I told them that I enjoyed talking to them and
made my exit. I walked toward the houseboats, keeping my head down, the bill of my cap shielding my face. I stepped onto the gang-way of the boat the swarthy man had entered. I was counting on the fact that if he were watching the pier, he would not pay any attention to me, thinking I was just another resident or visitor to the houseboats.

The boat was large enough that it didn't move as it took my weight. I tried the door handle. The man hadn't relocked it. I pulled my pistol, eased the door open, and slipped inside. I stood quietly for a moment, getting my bearings. I was in the living room, which seemed to take up most of the first floor. There was a staircase at the back of the room leading to the second story. I could see a small kitchen and dinette near the stern. I was going to be one very embarrassed inter-loper if it turned out that the man was an innocent citizen bringing a new fishing rod to his own home.

I started up the stairs, putting my weight on the outer edges of the steps where a squeaky step would be less likely to give me away. As my head rose even with the second floor, I could see that it was one big room, a bedroom with windows overlooking the marina on one side and the parking lot on the other. The man I was following was standing at an open window, a rifle with an attached scope in his hands. He was staring at the parking lot, waiting, probably for me. My instincts were right. Tariq was one of them.

I took two more steps up, high enough that I could train my pistol on the rifleman, but still low enough to give myself some protection. “Drop the rifle,” I said, “or I'll shoot you dead.”

The man turned his head and looked squarely at me. I saw a look of recognition cross his face. He knew me, and he was hunting me. But what he didn't know was that I'd been hunting him, too. I recognized him immediately. He was one of the men in the array of pictures Dave Kendall had sent me. He started to turn his body toward me, the rifle
coming around. “Drop the weapon,” I said, loudly. He was bringing the weapon up into firing position when I shot him in the chest. Twice. Two quick shots, each one finding its mark.

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
1

MIDAFTERNOON
, R
EUBEN
C
ARLSON
walked into J.D.'s office. “Got a minute?” he asked.

“Sure. What you got?”

“I've gone through all the emails on Fortson's computer. I don't think he ever deleted anything. There were more than a thousand of them, so I didn't actually read them all. I read enough of them to get a sense of what was going on and then used a search function to find names or words that I thought might be pertinent. That tends to weed out the garbage.”

“Did you find anything of interest?”