Fatal Decree (17 page)

“I’ve got to go,” said Logan. “I just wanted to make sure J.D. was okay. Watch your back, Matt. Hers, too.”

“I will,” I said.

But as it turned out, I didn’t do a very good job of watching anybody’s back.

The Sarasota Police Department is housed in brand-new quarters on Adams Lane a couple of blocks from the judicial center. J.D was wearing fresh clothes and her equipment belt with a nine-millimeter pistol holstered at her side. Her gold badge was pinned to the front of the belt. She looked tough, but I could tell from the small grimaces she made from time to time, her side still hurt.

I left my pistol in the glove box of my Explorer, knowing I couldn’t get it through the metal detectors that were sure to be in the police station lobby. An exception was made for fellow cops. J.D. announced herself and we were told to take a seat in the waiting room. Detective Robson would be right with us.

Within minutes, the detective came through the door leading from the reception area to the interior of the building. He was a tall man with gray hair, a prominent nose, sunken cheeks, and sallow complexion. He was wearing a beige suit, a light-blue button-down shirt, and a tie patterned in blues and reds.

“Detective Duncan?” he asked, as he walked up to us. “I’m Harry Robson.”

J.D. and I both stood. “I’m J.D.,” she said, “and this is Matt Royal, my babysitter.”

He looked at me. “I don’t understand,” he said, shaking my hand.

“My chief wants him to look after me,” said J.D. “He’s okay, and he’s brighter than he looks. Tougher, too.”

“I still don’t understand,” Robson said. His look said that he didn’t like being jerked around.

“Sorry, Detective,” said J.D. “Matt’s a good friend and Chief Lester
thought he should stick with me for a few days. The chief also put a uniform outside my house. Matt’s house, actually. We left him on the key.”

“J.D.’s a little defensive,” I said, “but somebody has tried to kill her three times since Sunday. The chief is just being careful.”

“You’re on the Longboat force?” asked Robson.

“No,” I said.

He shook his head. “I still don’t get it, but y’all come on back. This shouldn’t take long.”

We were taken to a small interview room that held a table and four chairs. Nothing else. Robson told us to make ourselves comfortable and left us, saying he’d be right back. J.D. and I sat quietly, my thoughts going back to our unfinished conversation of the morning, wondering if we were both reacting to the events of the past few days, or if there really was a future for us that held more than just friendship.

“He’s calling Bill Lester,” J.D. said.

“Babysitter?” I asked.

She grinned. “What would you call you?”

“Gallant protector?”

“I can see that. But, you’d be wrong. Grown-up detectives don’t need protecting.”

“How about companion, then?” I asked.

“I think that implies that we’re more than friends.”

The door opened before I could reply. Robson came in and took a chair across the table from J.D. “I called Chief Lester,” he said.

“I thought you would,” said J.D.

“He said that even though Mr. Royal isn’t law enforcement, he’s family and should be treated as such.”

“Thank you, Harry,” J.D. said.

“He also said that Royal’s the toughest son of a bitch he ever met, with the possible exception of somebody named Jock, who is also family.”

J.D. smiled at that. “Did the chief also tell you that Matt’s a lawyer?”

“Good Christ,” said Robson. “No. He didn’t mention that.”

“Don’t let it bother you, Detective,” I said. “I’m a retired lawyer and I’m only here as a babysitter. Nothing official.”

He laughed. “Everybody says you island people are strange. You ready, J.D.?”

“Shoot,” she said.

J.D. talked into a tape recorder. Robson asked a number of questions, got answers, doubled back to some of the same questions, got the same answers. When he was finished, he sat back and said, “Thanks, J.D. I hope I wasn’t too intrusive.”

She smiled. “Just doing your job, Harry. I understand that Bagby lawyered up and isn’t talking.”

“Yeah. He’ll have his first appearance in the morning. I don’t think the judge is going to set bail. He’s already on probation and the attempted murder of a law enforcement officer charge should keep him behind bars forever.”

“I don’t guess you found out anything about who’s behind all this,” said J.D.

“We’ve got nothing. I wish I could give you better news.”

We walked out of the police station into the bright sun of late morning. J.D. was talking about Steve Carey, the young cop who’d been shot at Leffis Key. He was doing well, and the chief was keeping J.D. updated on a daily basis. “He wants to get back to work and the chief is going to let him start coming in tomorrow to do admin stuff. His arm is still hurting, he says, but he can answer phones.”

I noticed a car with darkly tinted windows idling at the curb about thirty feet from us. I’m not sure what caught my attention, maybe that it was idling in a no parking zone in front of a police station. It obviously hadn’t been there very long or some cop would have been writing a ticket. Three officers in uniform were coming up the sidewalk, apparently heading toward the door we had just come out of.

The car started to move and the right rear window glided down. The muzzle of a shotgun was beginning to poke out of the window as I dove to my left, taking J.D. to the sidewalk. We fell behind a concrete receptacle that held a trash can, giving us some cover. I twisted as I fell, bringing J.D. on top of me to cushion her fall. At the same instant, I heard the explosion of the shotgun and heard buckshot hitting the trash container.

I landed on my side and back, with J.D. on top of me. My head hit the sidewalk. I felt pain shooting through every lobe of my brain. My eyesight dimmed and the buildings within my line of sight seemed to sway. My world slowed down. I heard pistol shots, people running, a crash. A weight lifted off me, my sight sharpened some. I saw J.D. standing next to me, her knees flexed, her hands holding her pistol. More gunshots. The smell of cordite. A yell of pain. Darkness was edging into my consciousness. I
pushed it back, tried to sit up. I felt pressure on my chest, somebody holding me down. The darkness receded further. My eyes began to focus. I saw J.D.’s face looking down at me, marked by worry or fear or sadness or, maybe, pain. I couldn’t read it. I realized that she was sitting beside me, my head in her lap, her hand resting on my chest. She was saying something I couldn’t make out. Her lips were moving and sound was coming out of her mouth, but it was just noise. Nothing made sense.

I heard sirens. They were coming toward us, getting louder. J.D.’s words were becoming clearer, starting to make sense. I tried to get up. “Stay down, Matt, please.” It was J.D.

“I have to get up,” I said.

“No, Matt. Stay down. You’re hurt. The paramedics are on the way.”

“Was I shot?”

“No, I don’t think so. You hit your head pretty hard. You’ve probably got a concussion. Just stay still until they get here.”

I felt a stickiness through my shirt and reached down to my waist. I was relieved that I couldn’t feel any holes in my precious hide. My mind was clearing. Then it hit me. J.D. was bleeding. “You’re hit,” I said.

“I’m fine. I think you busted up my bandages when you pulled me down. It’s just blood from the knife wound.”

“Did you get the bad guys?”

“I think I hit one of them. The officers on the street fired at the car. They must have hit the driver, because he crashed into a parked car. Just as I was getting untangled from you, one guy came out of the car’s rear door with a pistol in his hand. I think I hit him, but there were other cops firing, so who knows. How’re you doing?”

“My head hurts like a son of a bitch.”

A paramedic came up with his bag of supplies and squatted down beside me. “You get hit?”

“No,” said J.D., before I could form an answer. “But he hit his head when he pushed me out of the line of fire.”

The medic snapped on a pair of latex gloves and felt around on the back of my head. “I don’t think there are any fractures, but you’ve got a large bump back there. We better get you to the hospital for x-rays.”

“Check her side,” I said. “She’s bleeding.”

J.D. lifted up her blouse. “It’s from a knife fight last night. I think I opened up the wound.”

“A knife fight?” the paramedic asked.

“Yeah. But you ought to see the other guy,” I said.

He smiled and pulled the bandages from J.D.’s laceration. He pulled a spray can out of his kit and doused the area. “A little antiseptic,” he said. “I’ll get another bandage on this and we’ll take you in to the hospital.”

“Can we ride in the same ambulance?” J.D. asked.

“Sure,” said the medic.

“Can we share a stretcher?” I asked.

“You’re going to ruin my reputation, Royal,” J.D. said.

The medic laughed. “I’ll go get the gurney.”

I was in the Sarasota Memorial Hospital emergency room for the second time in less than twelve hours. Only this time, I was the patient. They were going to take me upstairs for an MRI to see if my brain had been scrambled. The doc was pretty sure there was no skull fracture, but the imaging would tell him for sure.

J.D. was in the next cubicle having her laceration tended to. When they finished, she came and sat by my bed. “You’re going to have to buy a whole new set of blouses, if this keeps up,” I said.

“How’re you doing?”

“Head still hurts, but they gave me some aspirin or something and it seems to be getting better.”

She leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. “Does that help?”

“Yes, but I probably need a few more doses.”

She leaned down again and kissed me on the lips, softly and fleetingly. “You’re my hero,” she said, grinning at me.

“Ah, I’m just the babysitter. Not a very good one, I’m afraid. I almost got the baby killed.”

“Your famous quick reflexes saved us both,” she said.

“Yeah, but I messed up your side.”

“Not a big deal.”

“If it scars up, we’re finished, you know.”

“Just like that?” she asked.

“I like my women unblemished.”

“Better stay away from cops, then.”

“Let’s wait and see how it turns out. The scar and all.”

She laughed. It was that big laugh that made me feel good enough to jump up and do the watusi. “How about another kiss?” I asked.

“We better wait. You know, see how the scar turns out.”

“My head isn’t getting any better,” I said.

She leaned in and kissed me again. On the lips. Very quickly. I’m not above using sympathy for my own ends.

“That’s better,” I said. “Have you heard any more about the bad guys?”

“No, but Bill Lester’s here. One of the Sarasota cops said he and their chief are talking out on the ambulance loading dock. He’ll be here soon.”

“Okay. Tell the nurse that I don’t want to go to imaging until I’ve talked to Bill.”

“If they try to take you away, I’ll just shoot them.”

“You’re getting pretty aggressive.”

“I’m feeling aggressive. I want the bastards who’re behind this. And it’s not just about me. There’re two dead women whose only connection to me was that somebody was trying to tell me something. Make a statement or scare me. Something that got them killed just because somebody wants me dead.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“I know that. But there will be more innocent women killed if we don’t stop these people.”

Lester walked into the cubicle. “You okay, J.D.?”

She nodded.

“How about you, Matt?” he asked.

“I’m good, Bill. They’re going to run some tests, but everybody seems to think I’m fine. What do you know?”

“The two guys in the car are dead. Apparently one of those Sarasota cops who was on the street when the firing started got a lucky shot and hit the driver in the back of the head. The car crashed into a parked car and some guy crawled out of the backseat with a pistol. He took five or six shots to the chest. I think they’re still counting the hits over at the morgue. Sarasota P.D. will need your weapon, J.D.”

She pulled the nine-millimeter out of its holster, pointed it toward the
floor, dropped the magazine out of the butt, pulled the slide back to clear the chamber, and handed it to the chief. “How did they know we were going to be at the police station?” she asked.

“This may not be the same bunch,” Lester said. “One of Sarasota P.D.’s gang detectives was on the scene and he said the tattoos on the guys in the car were Guatemalan gang ink. They’ve recently moved into the area.”

“Still,” said J.D., “somehow they knew we were going to be at the police station today. How?”

“That’s the sixty-four-dollar question,” Lester said. “How did they know you were going to be at Lynches last night?”

“Somebody followed me from home to the Lazy Lobster Sunday night. Maybe they’ve been following me all along.”

“What about a tracking device, Bill?” I said. “Somebody put one of those on my Explorer a couple of years back.”

“I remember,” said Lester. “I’ll have your car and J.D.’s car checked out.”

“My car’s at the Sarasota police station.”

“I figured as much. I’ve got a patrolman bringing Jock here.”

“Why is he coming here?”

“I told him to come armed. I want a little more protection for you two.”

I laughed. “You know, Bill, I’m never going to live this one down. Jock will tell everybody we know that he has to protect my fragile ass.”

“Obviously, somebody’s got to do it.”

“Call your guy,” I said, “and tell him to take Jock to my car. It’s parked on the street about a block south of the station. Jock knows where I hide the spare key. He can bring it here and take us home later. And tell him to bring me the pistol in the glove box.”

The MRI showed no damage, but the doctor wanted to keep me overnight for observation. I told him I couldn’t do it. I had to get home. He said I’d have to have somebody there to check on me every couple of hours. I told him I had two houseguests, and we’d make do.