Fatal Decree (18 page)

Jock arrived while I was in imaging and was sitting and talking quietly with J.D. when they brought me back to the emergency room. “How you doing, podna?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Jock. Don’t even have much of a headache any more. I’ve had worse after a night at Tiny’s.”

“You ready to go home?”

“They said they’ve got some paperwork for me to sign. They’ll be along soon. How’s the side, J.D.?”

“No problem. They gave me a couple of Tylenol for pain.”

“I guess they told you that somebody’s got to stay with me for the next couple of weeks,” I said.

She smiled. “They said a couple of days.”

“Well, I knew it was a couple of something,” I said. You never know what sympathy will do for you. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

A lady in a dress came with a sheaf of papers for me to sign. We left the hospital in the Explorer and Jock drove us back to the key. It was nearing four in the afternoon when we crossed the Ringling Bridge onto Longboat. “Anybody hungry?” I asked.

We stopped at Harry’s Corner Store for take-out sandwiches and drove on to the village. A Longboat Key patrol car was parked on the side of the street in front of my cottage. The cop sitting behind the wheel waved at us. I was pretty sure he’d be there all night. I’d keep him supplied with sandwiches and coffee until we turned in for the evening.

The chief called just as we settled into the living room with our lunch. “I’m sending a tech out to go over your car, Matt. If there’s a tracking device on it, he’ll find it. Tell J.D. he’ll need the keys to her car. Is it back at her condo?”

“Yeah,” I said. “One of the Sarasota cops drove it back early this morning.”

“Okay. If you need anything, call,” he said, and hung up.

Logan showed up as we were finishing our food. “Lester called. Said you guys were causing trouble downtown. Everybody okay?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “I just can’t figure out how the bad guys knew J.D. was going to be at the police station this morning.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Logan. “Maybe they weren’t after J.D. Maybe they came for you.”

“That doesn’t make any sense at all, Logan,” I said. “Why in the world would a Guatemalan hit squad be after me?”

“I don’t know,” said Logan. “But you almost got killed by that car in front of Cha Cha’s last night.”

“I ran in front of him.”

“But he didn’t even try to stop. He was speeding up, like he was trying to hit you.”

“Logan’s right,” said Jock. “I thought that was a little odd at the time.”

“Just some drunk,” I said.

“Then he was a Hispanic drunk,” said Jock.

“Are you sure, Jock?” asked J.D.

“Pretty sure. It was dark and I only got a glimpse of the driver, but he was looking right at Matt. Like he was aiming the car. And he was picking up speed. I’m pretty sure he was Hispanic. His skin was dark and he had black hair. I wouldn’t have thought anything about it except for what Bill had to say about Guatemalans. I figured he just didn’t see Matt.”

“Why would they be after Matt?” J.D. asked. “He didn’t have anything to do with anybody at Glades Correctional.”

“Matt’s name was in the paper,” said Logan. “In the article about Qualman getting killed in the Lazy Lobster parking lot. It didn’t name Jock and it wasn’t clear as to who fired the shot that killed him.”

“Revenge?” asked J.D.

“Why not?” asked Jock. “That’s apparently what’s motivated the attacks on J.D.”

“I’ll be damned,” I said. “You think he was waiting for me to cross the street? That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

Jock shrugged. “Maybe he was waiting for you to leave Cha Cha’s, or maybe he was about to do a drive-by and he saw an opportunity to get you with the car.”

“I guess that’s a reasonable hypothesis,” I said.

My cell phone rang. Blocked ID. I answered. It was David Parrish. “The governor called back,” he said. “He talked to the superintendent down at Glades. I think you’ll get everything he has by first thing in the morning.”

“Thanks, David. I hope you didn’t have to call in too many favors.”

“No. Nothing like that. Glad to help. Tell J.D. hello for me.”

“Before you go,” I said. “Do you have any information on Guatemalan gangs operating in this area?”

“There’s one. A bunch of really bad hombres. Why?”

“Two guys took a shot at J.D. or me or both of us this morning. They had tattoos that the Sarasota P.D. gang unit said are tied to a Guatemalan gang. I understand they probably operate out of Tampa.”

“Are they in custody?”

“No. They were killed by some really pissed off Sarasota cops.”

“What do you need to know about them?” asked David.

“Do they hire out as killers?”

“They do. If there’s a buck in it and it’s illegal, they’re your go-to guys.”

“We’re thinking that they may have been hired by whoever is trying to kill J.D.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Let me check in with my people who’re monitoring the gangs.”

“How’d you do with Deanna Bichler this morning?”

“She kicked my ass. I’ll call when I have something.”

“Thanks, David.”

I looked at J.D. “Your buddy kicked the big man’s ass in court this morning.”

J.D. laughed. “She thinks Parrish will get her in the end. But she keeps on plugging.”

“You two are a lot alike,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said, grinning. “But she has better taste in men.”

I wasn’t going to touch that one. I told them that David was looking into the Guatemalan gang based in Tampa and would let me know when he had something.

I was on my patio drinking coffee and watching daylight slowly push back the darkness. There was no sun that Friday morning and the bay looked bleak. A chilly wind blew from the north. A weak cold front was moving in and would probably bring some rain.

We had turned in early the night before. Jock drove to J.D.’s condo and retrieved the suitcase of clothes she’d packed that morning. She was tired and went to bed early. Jock and I sat for an hour talking about old friends and times gone by. He went to bed and left me with my thoughts.

J.D. and I hadn’t yet finished our conversation about our future, or lack thereof, and somebody was trying to kill her and perhaps me. Not a good way to start a relationship, even if that was what she wanted. I couldn’t tell. I gave it up and went to bed. I slept fitfully and was up early.

The somber bay, gray and foreboding under the cloud cover, matched my mood. Even the seabirds that nested nearby were quiet. In deference to the weather, I was wearing socks, boat shoes, jeans, and an old sweatshirt that read “Longboat Key, a Place in the Sun.” Well, most days that was true.

The morning paper was full of bad news, but then that seemed to be the state of things these days. The Bradenton City Council had annexed some land a few months before when the county fathers balked at a developer’s plans to turn a beautiful piece of bayside property into another condominium complex. The city then granted permits for the developers to start tearing up more of our limited waterfront property. They were planning a couple hundred condos in five high-rise buildings overlooking the bay near the Manatee Avenue Bridge. It didn’t matter that someday when the big hurricane came ashore, the roads would not be able to
handle the traffic fleeing to safety. No thought was given to what that many people would do to our beaches or the strain they would put on our water supply. All the councilmen could see was the taxes that would flow from the new residents. More money for them to piss away. The Florida I knew and loved, the one in which I’d grown up and lived in for most of my life, was dying under the onslaught of the omnipresent bulldozer.

Soon the coastal zone would be overrun with people and they would start moving inland. That was already happening north of Orlando, all the way to the Georgia state line. Towns springing up, old Florida villages becoming boom towns fueled by the new retirees’ need for sunshine. I supposed the growth would eventually make its way into the cattle ranches and truck farms of the interior of South Florida. What then? What would we do when that last vestige of old Florida filled up with people ignorant of the history of this magical place? Invade Cuba, I guess. Build a bridge across the Florida Straits so the snowbirds could move easily into the Caribbean. Castro wouldn’t know what hit him.

My cell phone rang. I looked at my watch, not yet seven. Blocked ID. I answered.

“Matt, Martin Sharkey.”

“Good morning.”

“I understand our detective is sleeping over with you.”

“Well, she’s in the guest room.”

He laughed. “Sorry about that. Is she up yet?”

“No. She’s sleeping in. I can wake her.”

“If you don’t mind. It’s important.”

“I’ll have her call you back. You at the office?”

“Tell her to call my cell. She has the number. And tell her I’m pulling the cop from your front yard. We’ll have somebody there again tonight.”

I knocked on the guest room door. “J.D.?”

I heard a sleepy voice say, “What?”

“Sharkey called. He needs to talk to you.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost seven. He said to call him on his cell. Said you have the number.”

“Okay. I’m awake. I’ll call him. What’s the weather like?”

“A little chilly. Better put on some clothes.”

“I thought I would, you pervert.”

I went to the kitchen and put on a fresh pot of coffee and then back to the patio and my paper. The news hadn’t gotten any better.

J.D. came out fifteen minutes later. She was wearing jeans, a plain white sweatshirt, and running shoes. Her hair was in a ponytail, still wet from the shower. She had a cup of coffee in her hand. “Good morning, Sunshine,” I said.

She smiled and sat down next to me. “Good morning, Matt. Wouldn’t you be warmer inside?”

“Are you cold?”

“A bit. Want to go to the Dolphin for breakfast?”

“Sure. I’ll wake Jock up.”

“He’s up. I heard him rattling around in his room.”

“Sharkey sounded as if his call was important,” I said.

“The superintendent down at Glades Correctional e-mailed a bunch of stuff to Bill Lester during the night. I guess the governor must have chewed on him a bit.”

“Anything that’ll help?”

“Martin said there was a lot of paper. He wants me to come in and look at it. He said if I showed up without you or Jock, I’d be in trouble.”

“You got time for breakfast?”

“Sure. An hour or two isn’t going to make a bit of difference.”

Jock stayed at my cottage, saying he had some e-mails to catch up on. He also wanted to talk to his director and bring him up to date on what progress had been made on finding Nell Alexander’s killer. Not a whole hell of a lot, I thought.

“Not much to tell,” I said.

“Yeah, but I’ve been thinking about that Guatemalan connection.”

“If there is such a thing.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time in Central America,” he said. “Maybe they’re after me and you just got in the line of fire. Mistaken identity kind of thing.”

“That doesn’t make a lot of sense. I’ve got hair and I’m a lot better looking than you.”

“In a feminine sort of way,” he said.

I gave him the finger, and followed J.D. out the front door. She was shaking her head, and had one of those looks on her face that I can only describe as a frown of dismay.

Breakfast was a quiet affair. She didn’t seem in the mood to engage in a lot of small talk, so I held my tongue. Finally, she said, “Do you think the Guatemalans are after you?”

“No.”

“What about that car trying to hit you?”

“I think the driver was just a drunk tourist. There’s no reason for a Guatemalan gang to be after me.”

“You don’t think whoever is trying to kill me might hire those guys to do their dirty work?”

“It’s possible, but why would they be after me?”

“Other than revenge for the shooting of Qualman, I don’t know.”

“That’s possible, I guess, but if this whale tail bunch is hiring Guatemalan gangbangers, why wouldn’t they just hire out the hit on you? Put another layer between you and the people who want you dead.”

She shook her head. “I just don’t know. Maybe they did. Qualman and Bagby definitely weren’t part of the original whale tail murders.”

“We’ll figure it out sooner or later,” I said.

“I hope so.”

By the time we reached the police station on Gulf of Mexico Drive, it was raining, a soft cold drizzle that was part of the front enveloping the island. The temperature had dropped while we were having breakfast, bringing a touch of winter to our usually sunny key. By tomorrow, the front would be gone, and we’d have clear skies for a couple of cool days, with the thermometer reaching only into the low sixties. Winter in southwest Florida didn’t amount to much.

I followed J.D. through the reception area and into her office. A stack of printouts sat on her desk, the trove from Glades Correctional. Martin Sharkey followed us into the office and shut the door. “J.D.” he said, “I’ve got more bad news. Fred Bagby woke up dead this morning.”

J.D. had a puzzled look on her face. “What do you mean?”

“He was dead in his bed when the jailers tried to get him up for chow call.”

“How?”

“They don’t know. There weren’t any obvious signs on the body. Other than the ones you left when you kicked his butt. The medical examiner will do an autopsy today, so maybe we’ll know by late this afternoon.”

“Could I have killed him?” J.D. asked.

“I doubt it. It may have been a natural death. We’ll have to wait for the M.E. Let me know if you find anything in that stuff from Glades.” Sharkey left, closing the door behind him.

“Darn,” she said. “There goes our best shot at getting information.”

“His lawyer wasn’t going to let him say anything,” I said.

“He might have if we offered him a deal.”

“You’d deal with a guy who tried to kill you?”

“If it’d get us to the one pulling the strings.”

“The puppet master,” I said.

She smiled. “That’s a good name for him.”

“Or her,” I said.