A Hard Death (30 page)

J
enner drove slowly through the municipal lot, past cop cars and uniformed officers on foot, looking for a parking spot. As he crept along, he could almost
feel
the money in the trunk, feel it expanding, breathing, sending out signals…The three bags of cash were jammed right at the bottom of the luggage compartment, flattened against the carpet, hidden by a layer of loose clothes, the clothes covered in turn with the garbage bags holding his belongings.

Bartley was out front having a smoke as Jenner walked up to the building entrance.

“Hey, doc. Good timing. Mind if I finish this one? It's been a hell of a night.”

Jenner nodded. “I bet.”

A converted school bus drew up to the curb in front of them, its windows covered by grids of thick metal. It had been repainted white, and bore the county jail insignia. A half-dozen men in black-and-white-striped prison workclothes sat quietly inside, with three guards lounging up front. The door opened, and one of the guards climbed out.

The corrections officer nodded at Bartley. “Morning, Barts.” He shot Jenner a quick glance and added, “Sir.”

“Yo, Crespo! Taking your mutts out for a walk?”

Crespo stopped and shook his head wearily; he spat, bummed a cigarette from Bartley and fired it up.

“They got me on Polo Club detail today. It's supposed to hit ninety-five degrees, and they want my boys to pick up trash, rake, then edge the drive, the carriage circle, and the entire goddamn length of the property along Lakewood East!”

Bartley puffed his cigarette and said, “Sounds about right—it'll give
'em a chance to say hi to the crooked state attorneys who put them away, the scumbag lawyers who failed to defend them, and the corrupt judges who sentenced them…”

Both men laughed.

Jenner looked at the bus, then over to his car. He imagined an inmate slipping out of a window, sprinting the forty feet or so, and tearing off in the Accent.

Crespo wouldn't let it go. “But seriously, Bartley—don't you think it's bullshit? Why not the hospital grounds? Why not Burmeister Park? These country club fuckers can afford to pay for their own help. Sheeit!” He spat again; he had a rectangular gap in his upper teeth.

The detective snorted. “Jesus, Crespo—didn't you grow up here? The only thing I can't believe is how you can't believe this.”

Two uniformed cops came out of the building and marched to the flagpole near where Jenner, Bartley, and Crespo stood. The younger cop busied himself somewhat self-consciously with the halyard, the older moving back a few paces to watch the flags. Everyone in the plaza in front of the building stopped; the civilians stood still, some with head bowed, others with a hand over their hearts. The cops stood at attention. The two other COs got out of the bus and stood stiffly by the doorway.

They lowered the Florida flag first, a big red X on a white background. The young guy worked the rope, the sergeant monitoring the height. When the flag was at half-mast, the officer tethered it to the cleat, and then lowered the Stars and Stripes. They stepped back from the flagpole and snapped to a salute, and then every law enforcement officer on the plaza was saluting, and the aqua-tinted windows behind them were filled with cops, all saluting the flag, all saluting Rudge.

They stood that way for a minute, at full attention. It was midday, and the magnesium-hot sun was high overhead, Jenner's shadow a stunted puddle at his feet. From the new housing development beyond the small wood behind them, Jenner heard floating snatches of music from an ice cream van.

The sergeant released his salute, then turned smartly and marched
back into the building, followed by the rookie. The cops and civilians in the plaza thawed, and the day went on.

Bartley nodded at Crespo, turned to Jenner, and said, “Come on, doc. I know you want to get out of here, and we've got things to do—I don't think we need to keep you long.”

T
he interrogation room smelled of stale sweat. As the video technician set up the camera, Jenner tried to figure out which of the detectives was the bent one, Bartley or his partner, Halverson; maybe both.

He was surprised that they were videotaping it—probably Craine's idea, get Jenner locked down in his false statement.

When the ATF agent arrived, the tech gave the thumbs-up, and Bartley kicked off with a summary of the date, time, and location, and identified the personnel present. Then he had Jenner say that he'd come to Major Crimes out of his own volition, that his statement would honestly and accurately reflect his observations, and that it had not been coerced in any way.

Their questioning was perfunctory, mostly a repeat of the stuff Bartley had covered during the night at Rudge's house. The ATF agent got all woody again about UFL Tomato, even though Jenner said nothing remarkable had happened there, other than feeble attempts at spin control. At some points it was more like a discussion, the ATF agent even raising the possibility that Amanda Tucker had been the intended target of the bombing; no one took that very seriously.

Jenner was neutral about La Grulla Blanca—he implied they'd been greeted politely, if not warmly, and said the foreman had answered their questions brusquely, but without real incident. He couldn't recall a point in their investigation when they'd come across clear animosity, and, while he hadn't been with Rudge every second of every day, he had personally received no threats. In short, he had no idea why he and Rudge had been targeted.

Then Bartley asked if he had a weapon, and Jenner said, “Nope. They
don't look kindly on guns up in New York.” No need to mention the 9-mm Beretta under the Accent's front seat.

The specter of Northeastern liberalism seemed to set Bartley off. “Doc, seriously, screw that! If you're staying in Florida, we'll fix you up with a carry permit. Can you shoot?”

Jenner nodded. “Yeah. But don't sweat it, detective—I'm heading back to New York this afternoon. I'll come back down for Rudge's funeral next week.”

Bartley leaned back in his chair, out of the light. A smile played on his lips as he looked at Jenner. “Well, you'll have to wait a little, doc. His cousin Reggie said the Jewish Burial folks are going to fly him up to Chicago for free—that's where his brother is. We'll have a memorial service in a month or so, when things have calmed down a bit.”

“Ah.”
Bartley, then,
Jenner thought.

“Well, okay then, doc.” Bartley shuffled his papers. “This is all one big mess. We really have nothing to go on. Forensics didn't find anything useful at Rudge's house, the bomb-disposal people did the usual song-and-dance about how the testing will take a while but basically said it looks like a big pipe bomb, probably dynamite. We got no leads on the Roburns, and the dead men from the hammock…they're still dead.”

He stood and looked down at Jenner. “So you're heading out today?”

Jenner nodded. Bartley shook his hand, leaned in, and said, “Good luck.”

He grinned widely.

W
hen Jenner had finished his good-byes at the morgue, Flanagan walked him out to the car. Clapped a hand on his shoulder, shook his hand, and wished him well. He watched Jenner drive through the electric gates for the last time.

And then Jenner was free.

His spirits lifted as he drove under the scrub oaks on Municipal Drive for the last time.

He made good time to the Southland Mall. He parked in front of the Outback Steakhouse; before he picked up the dog, he had business to take care of. He left the air conditioner on, and unplugged his cell from the charger.

Garcia picked up on the second ring. “Lieutenant Garcia, Manhattan South Homicide.”

“Rad, it's Jenner.”

“Jenner! Jesus! I'm glad to hear your voice.” Jenner smiled. “You okay? We saw your motel on the news last night, and Dulcie says it's time for you to come home, get the fuck outta that fuckin' swamp.”

“I'm almost finished up down here.” Jenner paused. “This a safe line, Rad?”

“This is my direct line. Doesn't even go through the switchboard.” He was serious now. “What's up?”

“I need a solid contact in the South Florida DEA office.”

“What you got?”

“This whole thing is all about methamphetamine. And I'm talking Mexican cartel connections, major distribution through the East Coast corridor, tens of millions a year.”

“Jesus.” Garcia whistled. “Mexican speed?”

“No, they're cooking it up right here,” Jenner said. “You know Craine Brothers Medical?”

“Of course—
‘Craine—when purity and excellence count.'
Dulcie won't buy any other baby powder.”

“Well, Chip Craine is a major player in this. He owns the farm where they're making it, and they use his connections to get the precursor chemicals for the crystal.”

“So this is what the killings are all about?”

“Yeah. It's all tied in, this whole place is one giant cesspool. There are bad cops down here—I can't trust anyone.”

“Fuck.” Garcia was silent for a while. Then he said, “Okay. I'll make some calls—I doubt the DEA has an office in Douglas, so it'll probably be Dade County or Broward. I'll find someone good and get back to you. Where you at, now? You going to get out of town?”

“I'm almost gone already. Just got to pick something up and then I'll be on my way.”

“Good. Just get the fuck outta there, buddy. What do you have as far as evidence goes? They're going to need something, Jenner.”

“They'll find it at Craine's farm. There was a delivery of precursor chemicals in a Craine Brothers truck the day before yesterday—DEA goes there in the next day or two, they'll be cooking. Also, those chemicals are controlled substances, so if they poke the CBM distribution records, things will unravel pretty quickly.”

Jenner breathed out slowly, then said, “Also…Chip Craine paid me off.”

“He gave you
cash
? Can you tie it to him?”

“He'll be on the hotel surveillance video—first thing DEA should do is get to the Gulf Breeze Hotel in Port Fontaine and impound the tapes before they record over them. That'll put him in the lobby and on my floor, but he gave me the actual money in my room. I broke it up into different bags to hide it, but I kept the original carry bag for DNA, fiber evidence, whatever.”

“Okay, keep that bag, maybe they can use that.”

“Of course.” Jenner could hear the detective scribbling. “Craine's planning to skip the country today.”

“Shit. Well, they won't have time to get the necessary warrants, but they can certainly start tracking him.” More writing. “Shit! Okay, I'll move quickly.”

Jenner heard the sound of a sheet of paper being torn off a pad. “Wait, Jenner. How much did he pay you?”

“A lot.”

“Don't be a bitch, Jenner! Just how much are you worth?”

“One hundred thousand dollars.”

“Whew!” Garcia whistled again. “It's going to sting to give that up, my friend!”

“You don't know the half of it…”

Garcia snorted. “Okay, Jenner, now, you promise me you'll get the fuck outta there right now. It's not safe there for you. You got a gun?”

“Everyone keeps asking me that today—yeah, I have a gun.”

“Cocked and locked, just in case, eh, buddy?”

“Okay.”

“And Jenner? You sure you know where the safety is? Because last time…”

“Fuck you, Rad. Call me when you find me a contact.”

“Ha-ha. Okay, Jenner. You just get yourself the hell out of there ASAP; I promise you, by the time you hit fucking Disney World, the drug boys will be breaking down fucking doors and knocking fucking heads.”

Jenner grinned. “Team America!”

Rad said,
“Fuck yeah!”
and hung up.

J
enner called Deb Putnam; she was in the field, on the way to Bel Arbre; someone had reported kids riding four-wheelers in park grounds.

He said, “Hey. I wanted to see you to say good-bye.”

She was quiet for a second, so he said, “Deb?”

“I heard you.”

“Oh. I thought I lost the connection.”

“Nah. I'm still here, at least until I really do lose the signal—service is terrible out here.”

“Well, anyway—”

“I shouldn't be too long up here. When are you leaving?”

“A few minutes. Just have to pick up the dog, and then I'll hit the road.”

“Which way you going?”

“I was thinking I'd head across to Miami on Pelican Alley, then straight up I-95.”

“Come up this way; you can go up via Tampa and across. Much better. Plus you can stop off here for a good-bye taco.”

Jenner smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”

Deb paused a second, then said, “Hey—no way you can hang around a little? You could stay at my place, rest up, get some sun.”

He was silent. She said, “I guess you just want to shake our dust from your feet…”

“I want to go home.”

She was quiet again, so he said, “Maybe you should come up sometime—we have swordfish in New York, too, you know.”

“Sure. But it's different when you're eating swordfish on a dock, looking out over the Gulf of Mexico at sunset.”

He said, “Yeah, well, it's also different eating swordfish in a restaurant in a beautiful modern skyscraper looking over Central Park in fall through floor-to-ceiling windows. So, there's that.”

“Well, I also read that swordfish has been overfished, so I'm cutting down on eating it.” He could hear her smiling. “So there's that.”