T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril (34 page)

The assembled crowd and television camera crew followed as the head judge and her cohorts made their way to the Block’s table, toting a blue ribbon and a giant cardboard check. In his element, my father preened, chef’s hat standing straight up, a clean apron tied around his waist, and the verbal bullshit flowing.

Brad and I stood to the side of the flock, close enough to hear what Spud said to the television reporter.

“Our fish stew at the Block”—he rattled off the street address and aimed a blinding, lasered-white smile at the camera—“is an old, cherished family recipe. We use different types of fresh fish, of course, but our secret ammunition is the spices we use.”

Adjusting his stuffed bra, Garland whispered something to Fran, who relayed the message to Spud. “And we always praise our fish before it goes into the pot.”

Fran whispered something into Spud’s other ear.

“Braise,”
he clarified into the camera lens. “We braise the fish fillets on a grill before they go into the pot.”

One of the judges beside Spud started jumping up and down, making wild gestures with his hands. The videographer kept the camera trained on Spud.

“Oh, I’m excited, too,” Spud said, his walking cane up, pointed at the animated judge. “It’s a big day for all of us at the Block.”

Fran whispered into Spud’s ear again.

“He’s choking?” Spud said. “Oh, for crying out loud.”

Before anyone else—including Brad and me—could get to the choking man, Spud turned, tripped on a tree root, and lurched forward. The rubberized foot of his cane hit the judge square in the solar plexus. A piece of hard candy shot out of the man’s mouth, straight at the camera. The man coughed a few times and, with watery eyes, proceeded to thank my father for saving his life.

We didn’t stick around to watch the rest because Soup called. He’d isolated the single home in the photo. He had a street address and a GPS location.

“You’re a civilian,” Brad reminded me as we jogged the short distance back to the Block. “You need to stay out of this.”

I eyed him sideways. “Give me a break. I’m going.”

“Fine,” he said. “Then vest up.”

His gear was in the Murano, and a few short minutes after we arrived back at my pub, I’d changed into what Ox always dubbed my combat duds: black hiking boots, stretch jeans with a bunch of pockets, including one that held my backup piece, and a custom-designed bullet-resistant vest that molded nicely around my size D’s. I covered the vest with a plain T-shirt. A lightweight jacket concealed the Ruger attached to my waistband, slightly behind the hipbone. Beneath it all, I wore a black satiny Victoria’s Secret sports bra and hipster panties with a wide lace trim. It’s just something I do.

Brad punched the
street address into his GPS and we pulled out at the same time he deployed his team. On the way, he made phone calls to notify the local cops of a possible apprehension in their jurisdiction.

We took his SUV, with him at the wheel, looking like his old calm and capable self.

“Did you manage to squeeze in a shower?” I teased. “You’re calm again.”

“Impending action always calms me,” he said. “It’s the waiting that makes me nuts.”

“That’s good to hear.”

We passed Akel’s Seafood Market. The small store was dark except for security lighting. The sun had disappeared into the horizon, and the autumn evening was coated with a postdusk bluish tint. Brad’s navigation system said we were a mere four minutes
from our destination, and we looked at each other across the console, realizing how nearby we’d been earlier in the day.

When we were within two blocks of the target home, Brad killed the lights and pulled into a vacant rental home drive. Fingers tapping the steering wheel, he spoke into a small radio, confirming that his team was in place. Fourteen minutes later, they were. We drove to the house, headlights off, and surveyed the property. Television flickering in the front room. White Miata parked in the drive beside the single-story home, pine tree cutout air freshener hanging from the rearview. Blinds closed in all the windows. We compared an enlarged photo sent by Jonathan with the actual home. The roofline, window placement, and a dead palm in the front yard confirmed that it was the same place. An agent with an infrared detection device came over the radio to inform Brad that, best they could determine, one individual was inside. No animals. No heat-generating appliances, such as an oven, in operation.

Once satisfied with the intel, Brad reconfirmed that his people were where they were supposed to be and gave a command. He and I headed in on foot, behind two hunky men in full antiballistic gear who were equipped with a door-busting ram.

The front door splintered into pieces with a cacophony of noise as it broke from its wooden frame.

“What the fu—” Denny rolled upright from a sofa to the right of the entrance, a revolver in hand.

“Freeze!” somebody yelled at the same time Denny took aim. “Get on the floor!”

Denny fired at the hole where his front door used to be. The men with the ram charged forward, the lead man shooting. Brad and I dove and rolled to opposite sides of the sandy front lawn. Explosive pops of expended rounds were rapid and brief and ended almost immediately.

“Clear!” a voice yelled. “Suspect down!”

“Clear in back!” yelled a different voice.

Ears ringing, gun drawn, I followed Brad into the beach cottage. Denny lay sprawled on the floor, bleeding, handcuffed, moaning. A paramedic in Kevlar hustled to Ray Donnell Castello, hauling a trauma kit, and went to work. Brad made a phone call to somebody—presumably his boss—and I heard another agent call to request an ambulance.

Everyone kept their weapons drawn while the rest of the house and grounds were searched, but as the infrared indicated, Denny had been the sole occupant. I hoped he would live long enough to make it into the ambulance. I didn’t want to have a dead-body meltdown in front of Brad.

“Thank you, Jersey Barnes.” He hugged me to his body, long and hard. It felt good. But not exactly right.

I nodded.
You’re welcome.

Brad went to work, barking orders as a collection of emergency lights lit up the asphalt street in a coda of red, white, and blue. Holstering the Ruger, I inhaled the scent of sea air and walked the two blocks to the ocean. I knew it would be at least an hour or more before Brad would be ready to leave the scene. And I wanted to make a few calls. The wind swirled in forceful gusts, and moonbeams illuminated a choppy ocean. I sat on a thick piece of driftwood near the dunes, stripped off my boots and socks, and burrowed my toes deep in the sand.

I called Spud first, to congratulate him on winning the cook-off Grumbling, he explained that our team got disqualified because none of the chefs were actually employees of the Block. I reminded him that it was a loss of only five hundred dollars—which he would have had to share anyway—and congratulated him on saving the life of a choking victim. My next call went to the judge, to let her know that Morgan was safe; it was over. I thought about revealing
that her father was alive but decided the news should be delivered in person, by him. I explained that her brother could use her help, and without hesitation, she agreed to travel to Wilmington the next day. And my last call was to Ox, to see when he was coming home.

There were the
murder charges, of course, but Denny had also been slapped with possession, intent to distribute, and a bunch of other scary-sounding things—once he woke up in the hospital, coherent enough to be read his rights. Castello’s future would be incarceration until he died. That much was certain. North Carolinians don’t like to sentence their criminals to death, but about five or six are executed each year, and Denny could very well end up on that list. Regardless, he’d be off the streets and no longer able to mess with Argo’s or my judge friend’s family.

Brad’s team had hit the mother lode in Denny’s beach cottage: a handwritten grid with network distribution details, a box of prepaid cell phones, more than one hundred thousand dollars in cash, a stack of shoeboxes full of prescription drugs, names of physicians and pharmacists, and guns, including Jonathan’s trap gun. The greedy idiot had swiped the shotgun from Jonathan’s Corvette after he killed him and dumped the body offshore. Basically, Brad had
everything he needed to tie up his investigation and come out looking good. There was already talk of the DEA changing Brad’s status to educator, where he’d travel the country to train other agents on the ins and outs of prescription drug rings.

“It is so good to see you, Jersey.” The judge gave me a body-crushing hug, and when she stepped back, she looked as great as she always did. Beautiful smooth skin, killer clothes, and a commanding presence that made people want to please her. “Thanks for everything you’ve done,” she said. “Although I don’t know all the details yet. You’ll have to fill me in.”

“Plenty of time for that later,” I told her. “For now, let’s forget business and give you and your brother a chance to catch up.”

The Block had just opened, and a few people filtered in for lunch. But my crowd took up a whole section, right next to open garage doors, where we could see the river and wispy, low-slung clouds and all the people walking by. The celebration was in full swing, and everyone from the Barnes Agency made it a point to be there. Trish, the local P.I. who’d tailed Morgan for me, had come with her new boyfriend. Spud, his buddies, Fran, and a clump of their New Age Babes friends. Dirk and several others from the Wilmington PD. Brad and a slew of drug enforcement agents. Soup and a gang of his hacker buddies. Friends, such as financier Sam Chesterfield and his son, Jared. And, looking splendid in a sundress and heels, Deanna strutted in on Morgan’s arm.

“Morgan brought a date!” I told Cracker, rubbing noses with the dog. His tail wagged like as though he understood.

I was throwing an impromptu party with a double purpose: a thank-you to everyone who’d helped shut down the network and a retirement party for me. Of course, it was probably the third or fourth retirement party I’ve had. But I always enjoy them.

A local reggae-and-steel-drum band played at one end of the bar, and their island music enhanced the festive atmosphere. The
Block buzzed with upbeat energy. I felt good. It was a beautiful day to be alive, enjoying the company of my friends and family. And it was going to get even better. I found Morgan and the judge sitting outside at a patio table talking, bittersweet smiles on their faces.

“Now that I’ve got the two of you together,” I said, “I have a big surprise. Somebody you need to meet. I’ll be right back.”

Garland
waited upstairs at my kitchen table, pretending to read the newspaper.

“You ready?”

He nodded and stood, hugged me tight for a beat. “I don’t know how to thank you for—”

I put a finger to his lips. “Garland, seeing you with your son and daughter is going to be all the thanks I’ll ever need. The judge is like a sister to me. And I’ve come to know Morgan as a good, strong, successful man. They both love you—and miss you—like crazy. Enough said.”

Garland stood up, sucked in a deep breath. “I look okay?”

“You look fabulous, Chef Garland.”

I’ve
never heard the judge squeal with delight, but that’s exactly what she did when I escorted Garland downstairs, through the Block, and to the outdoor patio. She squealed, and after a beat of stunned silence, she flew into her father’s arms. Morgan looked from me to the two of them and back to me.

“Is it really…”

I smiled. “It’s really him, Morgan. Garland is alive.”

“Dad.”
Morgan joined the group hug, and the trio laughed and cried and looked one another over and hugged some more. I left before the judge had a chance to recover. Otherwise, she’d be on me
like green on a grasshopper, demanding to know why I hadn’t told her about Garland sooner.

When I went back inside, Brad leaned against a garage door frame, his forearms and ankles crossed. Despite the closed body language, his face held a smile.

I stopped in front of him. “Hi.”

“How long has he lived here?”

I played dumb. “Who?”

Brad uncrossed everything and pulled me into a hug. It seemed to be a day for hugs. “He was the woman at the cook-off, right? The one that looked like a senior drag queen with lopsided breasts?”

I nodded.

Brad burst out laughing. “When he finishes up with his kids, I’ll have to say hello. And let him know that the DEA is officially out of his life.”

“They would all appreciate that,” I said.

I sensed Ox before I actually saw him and let out a squeal similar to the judge’s. “Ox! I thought you weren’t back for a few more days.”

His arms wrapped around me. “We were going to stay in Connecticut for a few days after Lindsey’s internship ended, but we decided that it’s time to get her back in school and get me back to work.”

I made the introductions. Brad, Ox—co-owner of the Block. Ox, Brad—the DEA agent I told you about. The men shook hands and sized each other up.

“I’m off to see Garland,” Brad said. “Before I go, I want to let you know that you won’t be hit with any charges … aiding a fugitive, impersonating an officer, illegal wiretap … those sorts of things.”

“Yeah?” I copped a stance. “I want to let you know that I won’t be updating your director on all the little details … using a civilian as an undercover, illegal breaking and entering, losing a protected witness … those sorts of things.”

Laughing, Brad kissed me on the cheek before taking another look at Ox. “If he’s your complication, Jersey Barnes, I believe you’re in very good hands.” He shook Ox’s hand again. “Later, man.”

Before Ox had a chance to quiz me about Brad, his daughter came running and we went into a spinning hug. “Hiya, Jerz! The ESPN thing was fantastic. I can’t wait to tell you all about it!”