Mortal Dilemma (21 page)

“I think I'd treat that as a distinct possibility. Can you connect him
to the Fortson murder? Could he be the one that Tom and Linda saw leaving the beach this morning?”

“Maybe. But it doesn't make sense that he'd stick around the scene for that long after the murder. If he did the killing.”

“Maybe he came back and was surprised by the Joneses.”

“But why would he have come back to a murder scene?” she asked.

“Could he have lost something? Maybe something that would tie him to the murder.”

“That's a possibility, I guess. We sure didn't find anything at the scene.”

“What about the shoe print you found in the hedge at the edge of your property?”

She shook her head. “I don't think that's going anywhere. The forensics people called this afternoon. They looked into that, and it turns out that the shoe is a Nike, but they've sold millions of them.”

“And you didn't find any similar shoe prints on the beach?”

She was silent for a moment, thinking. “Maybe. Manatee County made molds of some of the prints, but those never stand up very well when they're left in the soft beach sand. The Manatee techs probably don't know anything about the prints in our shrubbery. Our department handled that.”

“Even if they match,” I said, “the only thing it would prove was that the same man who wore the shoes was at both scenes. We can't tie it to the guy in Tiny's.”

“Check,” she said. “But I'd like to know if it was the same person. I'll call the Manatee lab first thing in the morning.”

“Tomorrow's Sunday, you know.”

“Yeah. I'll have to muck up somebody's day off.”

“What about David Parrish? Anything from him yet?”

“He called this afternoon. Said that he's got the subpoena ready and will serve it on the bank first thing Monday morning. I'm not sure how much good that'll do now that Fortson's dead.”

“You may be able to track the money back to whoever put the hit on you.”

“Yeah. I'll follow up on it. We'll see. Reuben found a lot of financial stuff on Fortson's computer. I'll get it to a forensic accountant on Monday. See what the data tell us.”

“I've got a buddy that can do that for you and have you some answers by tomorrow. Will the department pay him?”

“Sure. Who've you got in mind?”

“Ken Brown. He's a CPA who practices in Orlando. He testified as an expert in several cases I tried over the years. He'll do a good job and get it done quickly.”

“Set it up,” she said. “I'll have Reuben email him the documents we found on Fortson's computer.”

I called Ken and he agreed to look over the documents and be ready to give us some conclusions by Monday.

J.D. called Reuben Carlson and got the documents moving toward Ken Brown. She came back to the sofa and settled in. “You hungry?” I asked.

“As a bear.”

“We could go to Moore's. The stone crabs are in.”

“Yummy. Let me take a shower first.”

“Want some company?” I asked.

“What about the crabs?”

“You've got crabs?”

She laughed. One of those big ones that always sets me back on my heels. “Stone crabs,” she said. “Just stone crabs, silly boy.”

*    *    *

We sat at the bar at Moore's and ate stone crab claws as we chatted with the bartenders, Tina and Rebecca. The crabs were pulled from
the bay on a daily basis and served fresh. The crabbers detached one claw from each mature crab caught in their traps, and threw the crab back into the sea. It would grow a new and larger claw soon enough.

The bar was crowded with newly arrived snowbirds, and we welcomed a couple of friends, who spent many of their winter evenings in Tiny's, back to the key. It was this time of the year, at the beginning of the season, when the year-rounders, those of us who live on the islands full time, begin to hunker down in our homes, hesitant to venture out lest we become overwhelmed by the traffic on the roads and the waiting lines at the restaurants.

Each year, we'd notice that some of the regulars from the north didn't show up. Soon the island gossip would let us know that one of the couple had died or was too ill to travel. We knew they'd never see the island again, and that always brought us a fleeting sense of loss and a renewed appreciation of the fragility of life, the inevitability of frailty and, eventually, the certainty of death.

Our island demographic is mostly old people. I think the average age is seventy-one, so death is a constant. Logan once said that the loss of friends is part of the tax we pay for enjoying life in our little slice of paradise. As was often the case, I thought he was exactly right.

We finished our crabs, had one more drink, and walked home, holding hands and enjoying the cool evening. Our day had started when J.D.'s phone rang at three o'clock that morning in Lower Sugarloaf Key. It had been very eventful for each of us, and a good night's sleep beckoned.

J.D. was staying over. The house was quiet, and although I hadn't expected anything out of the ordinary, I was relieved not to have to confront any more situations that day. We got ready for bed, turned out the lights and I went to sleep thinking how nice it was to be snug in my own bed, safe and sound.

S
UNDAY
, N
OVEMBER
2

“H
IS NAME IS
Charlie Bates,” J.D. said, as she walked in the front door of my cottage. She'd gotten up early and met Kevin Combs, the Longboat Key police department's forensics investigator, at the station. He'd run the prints left on the remains of the beer bottle that Bates had used the night before in his attempt to brain me. “Got a heck of a rap sheet.”

I looked up from my newspaper. “Bad guy?”

“Bad enough. Most of the stuff is fairly minor, assault, battery, breaking up a bar. But he was charged with murder twice, the last time about four years ago, but neither one of them stuck. Strangely enough, in both cases the witnesses all changed their stories and a couple of them disappeared. Guess where he's from?”

I shrugged.

“Franklin County.”

“That's where you were last week.”

“Exactly. I called the sheriff up there. He's well aware of Mr. Bates. Says he's like a walking bomb with a defective fuse. Anything can set him off. He lives on a sailboat he keeps in a marina in Carrabelle, and has no visible means of support. Law enforcement thinks he's engaged in illegal activity, but they can't catch him at anything. There've been rumors that he's not above killing for hire.”

“Any ideas about what he's doing here?”

“Yeah,” she said, “but you're not going to like it.”

“Try me.”

“The sheriff said Bates fits the description of the man who paid that kid up there to kill Rachel Fortson.”

I put the paper down. “You think he killed Peter Fortson?”

“Probably.”

“Do you know where he's staying here?”

“I'm guessing he's on his boat. The sheriff checked with the marina where Bates keeps it. It's not there, so I'm assuming he sailed it down here. I've got a description of the boat, and Steve Carey is calling around to see if he can find it.”

“You don't have enough evidence of Bates' involvement to get a search warrant.”

“I know. If we could have found any bit of evidence at the scene of Peter's death, it might be enough, but there's nothing. Kevin got the shoe prints the county guys took on the beach, and they seem to match the ones found in the hedge at my condo.”

“So, Peter's murderer is the same guy who came to your condo yesterday.”

“I think so, but the prints aren't of good enough quality to be sure.”

“But good enough for you.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I think it was the same guy. And I think I might be on his list.”

“Why?”

“I don't think he was making a social call yesterday.”

I grinned. “Maybe not. By why would he want to kill you?”

“If he killed Peter, he might just be cleaning up loose ends on Rachel's murder. This might be connected to the shooting up in Gainesville. Maybe whoever is behind all this thinks I know more than I do about Rachel's murder and that makes me a loose end. If
Peter was involved, he was probably the weak link and needed to be taken out. Ergo, Bates was sent here to kill both Peter and me.”

“I'm not law enforcement,” I said. “If you find his boat, I can go in, warrants be damned.”

“Right. And then when the defense lawyer finds out about your involvement with the search, he'll use the fact that you're my squeeze of the moment, and whatever evidence you find will be thrown out, along with anything we glean from that evidence. Fruit of the poisonous tree.”

“Squeeze of the moment? The moment? What the hell are you talking about?”

She laughed. “It means you better stay off Bates' boat.”

“What boat?”

“There,” she said. “I like it when you're docile.”

“Do you have a description of Bates' boat?”

“Yes. It's an older Hunter thirty-three footer with a green hull, named
Wayfarer
. Why?”

“We could take
Recess
out today, cruise through the marinas, go up to Tide Tables for lunch. I don't think either Bates or Youssef will get to us out on the water.”

“Sounds like a plan, but I need to call Ken Brown. See if he's made any progress.”

“He just got all that stuff late last night,” I said. I looked at my watch. “It's not even eleven, yet.”

“I need to see anything he's got, even if it's not much. I want him to concentrate on any links between Fortson and Bates. I can't believe there's not something there. If it doesn't involve Bates directly, then somebody Bates reports to or deals with in the panhandle.”

“Okay. I need to check on Jock.” She left for the bedroom to make her call.

I called Paul Galis. “How's your houseguest doing?” I asked when he picked up.

“He seems okay, but I don't think he's tracking too well.”

“How so?”

“He's back in front of the TV with the sound off. I don't think he's really paying much attention to the programming, but he seems glued to the screen.”

“Is he drinking?”

“No. I got all the booze out of the house, and he hasn't asked about a drink.”

“How's his arm?”

“No problems. I had a paramedic who lives down the street take a look at it yesterday after you left, and he said it's healing nicely. No restrictions in his movements.”

“Is Jock talking at all?”

“Not much, but when he does talk, he sounds lucid.”

“Paul, I'm sorry to have dropped this on you.”

“It's fine, Matt. I owe Jock a lot. My life, probably. I'll do everything I can.”

“I appreciate it. Can you put him on the phone?”

I heard Paul in the background telling Jock I wanted to speak with him. “Hey, podna,” Jock said, “how're they hanging?”

His voice sounded fine, just like the old Jock. “Loose, Jock. How're you doing?”

“I'm okay. I think spending a little time here with Paul is just what the doctor ordered.” His voice had changed quickly, now carrying a hint of resignation. “Are you and J.D. okay?”

“Yes.” It was time to tell him. See what kind of reaction I got. “I killed three of Youssef's men yesterday before I left Key West.”

“Including the one you told me about yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“How many does Youssef have with him? Do you know?” Suddenly, his voice was back to normal, his cadence businesslike, a professional
marshaling the facts he needed in order to put a plan into operation.

“Five altogether. Plus Tariq, the one you met yesterday. He's in isolation in the Monroe County jail. That leaves Youssef and one more. I have their names and Dave Kendall is trying to find out what he can about them.”

“Have you talked to Dave?”

“Several times,” I said. “Have you?”

“Not yet.”

“When?”

He sighed. “I'll call him today. I ought to come join you guys in Longboat.”

“Jock, promise me you'll stay where you are for now. If you come here, I'll just worry about you, and I don't have time for that.”

“I'm better, podna. Maybe I can help up there.”

“Are you ready to kill Youssef?”

“No. I don't think I‘ll ever be ready for that,” he said. “I'm done with killing anybody. Ever.”

“I'm ready,” I said. “I'll take care of it. You stay put until I do.”

“What are you doing, Matt?”

“I'm not sure, but I'll let you know when it's over. Do I have your word that you'll stay with Paul until then?”

“Yes, but you be careful. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I don't have a choice, Jock. If I don't take care of Youssef and his guys, they'll get J.D. or me, and then you. I've got things under control.” I hung up thinking I had badly overstated my situation.

S
UNDAY
, N
OVEMBER
2

W
E WERE TRAVELING
north on the Intracoastal, maintaining an idle speed, enjoying the sun and the lack of humidity. I told J.D. about my conversations with Jock and Paul. “One minute he sounds like the old Jock, and the next minute there's a change. He sounds tentative, not sure of himself, depressed, maybe. He wanted to come up here, but I talked him into staying in the Keys until I can sort things out. I asked him if he was ready to kill Youssef and he said he might never be ready for that.”

“As soon as we can get this mess straightened out, we need to get him up here. Maybe get one of Dave Kendall's shrinks to come down and work with him.”