Mortal Dilemma (4 page)

“You're home now. Safe. Want to talk about it?”

“There's not much to talk about.” She gave me more detail on the crash and the shooting. “I was so scared when that bastard pulled his gun. I thought I was dead. He missed with the first two shots and I killed him before he had time to fire again.”

“You did good.”

“Yes, but I killed a man.”

“A man who was trying to kill you.”

“Still, he was a human being.”

“Barely. Did you find out anything about him?”

“Alachua County is still investigating, but the fingerprints identified the guy. He was released from prison in Georgia two weeks ago after serving twenty years on a murder charge.”

“This wasn't his first rodeo,” I said.

She laughed. “I guess not. But it turned out to be his last.”

“You'll be all right.”

“I know. This isn't the first time I've killed a bad guy, but it never gets easier.”

“It's not supposed to.”

“I don't know how Jock does it,” she said.

“Every kill takes something out of him. He may be finished. I've never seen him like this.”

“Where is he?”

“In his room. Sleeping. He was still drinking this morning, but he says he's done with the booze. We'll see.”

“What happened to him this time?”

“I don't know. He won't tell me. He said he was afraid it was so bad that you and I wouldn't be able to accept it. He's afraid he'll lose us.”

“That won't happen.”

“I told him that, but I'm not sure he believes me. He said he might tell me about it tomorrow. Are you hungry?”

“Famished. But I don't want to go out.”

“Pizza?”

“Sounds just right.”

“I'll call Oma's.”

*    *    *

We ate the pizza and talked some more. J.D. seemed to revive a bit, maybe from the conversation, but more likely from the food and a glass or two of her favorite white wine. “Feeling better?” I asked.

“Lots. I need a hot shower and a little snuggling and I'll be good as new.”

I grinned at her, trying for a leer. “Snuggling? Anything else?”

“Maybe. Let's see what comes up.” She leered back at me. Really.

F
RIDAY
, O
CTOBER
31

I
WOKE AS
the light of the false dawn seeped into our bedroom. A new day, Halloween, All Hallows' Eve, a time for pint-sized ghosts and goblins to roam the neighborhood seeking treats in return for not trashing your property. I'd laid in a supply of candy to keep the urchins at bay. It was one of my favorite evenings of the year.

J.D. was balled into a fetal position on her side of the bed, her back to me. I slipped out of bed, dressed in a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt, and tiptoed into the kitchen. An envelope addressed to me was propped against an empty coffee cup on the counter. The handwriting was Jock's.

I opened it and pulled out a note that read:

Got to go, Matt. J.D. needs you and I'm doing fine. I'm off the booze and ready to get back to the wars. I'll check in with you in a couple of days. Take care of our girl.

Jock

I checked his bedroom. Empty, the bed made, toilet articles gone. Most of his clothes were in the closet, but those were the ones that permanently hung there awaiting his visits. His rental car was missing from its usual parking space. Jock had left the island.

I was worried that he'd left too soon, gone before he'd healed. I suspected that his reasons for leaving had a lot more to do with J.D.'s need to spend a few days recovering than with his complete rejuvenation.

I called his cell. It went straight to voice mail. I left a message. “Jock, call me.”

I made coffee, scrambled some eggs, put bacon in the pan, and popped bread into the toaster. The aroma of frying bacon would bring J.D. out of her slumber. I wanted to talk to her about Jock.

It didn't take long. I heard her stirring in the bedroom and a few minutes later she came into the kitchen and kissed me on the lips. She tasted of toothpaste and sleep. She pulled back and looked at me. “I feel so much better. Last night was just what I needed.”

“Glad I could help.”

She grinned. “I was talking about the shower.”

“Oh.”

She hugged me again and whispered into my ear. “You helped, too, sugar. Is Jock up?”

“Jock's gone.”

She pulled back. “Gone? Where?”

I handed her the note. She read it. “Did he leave because of me?”

“Not entirely. He's pretty screwed up about his last mission. I don't know what happened, but it must have been terrible.”

“Is he ready to go back to work?”

I shook my head. “I doubt it.”

“Did you call him?”

“Yes. Went straight to voice mail. I left a message to call me.”

“I don't like this. Should we call his boss?”

“Not yet. Let's give it a day.” Jock's boss, Dave Kendall, was the director of the agency with no name. He'd recruited Jock into the group and had been his friend and mentor. As Dave rose in the ranks, he had heaped more and more responsibility on Jock. When he became
the director, he gave Jock direct access to the president of the United States, the only agent with that privilege.

Kendall also understood that J.D. and I were Jock's only family, and after a lot of bureaucratic rigmarole, had cleared us both to know anything Jock cared to tell us about his job and his missions. He also knew about the cleansing times and what they entailed. It wasn't needed often, and when it was, a week or so was all it took to get Jock ready again for the wars he fought all over the world.

“Will Dave tell us what happened on Jock's last mission?” J.D. asked.

“No. Our deal was that Jock could tell us whatever he wanted, but Dave would keep everything confidential. I think he wanted to give Jock complete discretion about what we're told and what we're not.”

“I guess that makes sense. What do we do now?”

“We wait to hear from Jock. Let's eat.”

*    *    *

Bill Lester, the Longboat Key chief of police, called a little before eight. “How's my detective?”

“She's fine, Bill. Getting dressed for work.”

“Is she ready?”

“I tried to talk her out of it, but you know J.D.”

“I do indeed. Tell her to take the day off. She's going to be on administrative leave for a few days until the Alachua sheriff sorts out the shooting yesterday.”

“I think I'll let you tell her. Can't you put her on desk duty or something?”

“I could, but I don't think I'll be able to keep her there.”

“I think she needs to be busy. Can't she work the panhandle cold case from her desk?”

“I don't see why not, Matt. Let's give it a try. I'll talk to her when she gets in.”

“Bill, keep an eye on her. She's pretty fragile right now, but she's not about to admit it.”

“I'm not surprised. I'll call you if anything starts to go sideways.”

F
RIDAY
, O
CTOBER
31

T
HE GRIZZLED SAILOR
sat in the cockpit of his boat reading the morning's edition of the Sarasota newspaper. The front-page story was about the murder attempt on the Longboat Key detective. He was pissed. What was going on? Who was trying to kill the bitch? Why? He didn't understand and couldn't figure out who was pulling the strings. Oh, well, he thought. Not his problem. He had a mission and he was determined to complete it. His life depended on it.

He re-read the article, searching for some clue. There was nothing. Just the bare bones story, the kind the new breed of reporters write, bereft of important facts and proper English. He knew the papers were in financial distress, but thought that maybe if they hired competent reporters they'd sell more newspapers.

He folded the paper and dropped it in a trash can next to the patio at the Seafood Shack. He walked on, crossed Cortez Road, and slipped into a booth in a waterside café. Time for breakfast.

* * *

J.D. walked into the usual morning bustle of shift change at the police station at mid-key. Activity stopped and many of the officers
crowded around, offering support, making sure she was okay. Most just stood silently, letting J.D. know they cared about her. She nodded, thanked them for their concern, and made her way to the chief's office.

Bill Lester looked up from the document he was perusing. “Hey, J.D. You doing okay?”

“I'm fine, Chief.”

“Glad to hear it. You know I've got to put you on desk duty until the Alachua sheriff clears the shoot.”

“I was hoping that wouldn't be necessary, given the circumstances.”

The chief waved his hand. “You know how it goes.”

“I do. What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to sit at your desk and work on the Rachel Fortson case. See if you can tie the kid up in the panhandle to somebody who wanted her dead, somebody desperate enough to pay that idiot five grand to kill her.”

“What if I need to do some legwork?”

“If you can't do it from your desk, get Steve Carey to help you.”

“Okay. How long do you think this is going to take?”

“A week, maybe. Hopefully less.”

“I'll talk to Steve,” J.D. said as she left the office.

She spent most of the morning on paperwork. She had to bring the Fortson file up to date on her activities in the panhandle and fill out more forms about the shooting. She emailed them to the Alachua County sheriff's office to supplement what she'd told them the day before.

J.D. dialed dispatch and asked where Steve Carey could be found. He was a young patrolman with whom she had worked in the past. He was a good-natured guy with a quick mind and an intuitive sense of how to solve a mystery. He'd be a detective someday, probably on a bigger force than the Longboat Key Police Department.

He called her a few minutes later and said he'd come to her office as soon as he finished a meeting with an elderly lady who had called to complain about hearing people in her attic. It was a call that one or another patrolman answered every few weeks. The big problem was that the lady didn't have an attic, but every time the call came in, a cop responded and assured the woman that she was safe. She was always happy and a little less lonely when the officer left. It was the island way.

When Steve arrived at her office, J.D. handed him the Fortson file. “I'm going to be stuck at this desk for the next few days because of the shooting. The chief said I could use you for legwork on this case. You up for it?”

“Sure,” he said with a grin. “I get to work with the world's greatest detective and learn some of her secrets of deductive reasoning.”

J.D. smiled. “I deduce that you think flattery will work on me. You're right. It always does.”

“Good. We're on the same page. What do you need first?”

“Right now, I'd like you to familiarize yourself with the file, see if I'm missing anything. I interviewed everybody I could up in the pan-handle, but some of them wouldn't talk to me. When the chief cuts me loose, I'll probably head back up there.”

“Do you think the shooting yesterday was connected to this case?”

“Probably. I can't think of any other reason for somebody to try to kill me. You might see what you can turn up on the dead guy. Alachua County is looking into him, but it won't hurt to have a second set of eyes on him.” She gave him another file with all the information she had on the attempt on her life.

“Are you okay, J.D.?”

“I'm fine.” Her voice was a little tight, like she was tired of hearing the question.

“Sorry.”

J.D. softened. “Thanks for asking, Steve. I'm glad people care enough to ask about me, but I'm doing okay. And I'll be better tomorrow. This isn't the first time I've killed somebody.”

“They say it never gets easier. Anything I can do, you just holler.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Steve.”

F
RIDAY
, O
CTOBER
31

A
FTER
J.D.
LEFT
for work, I puttered around the house for an hour and then went for my morning run. I was concerned about J.D. going back to work so soon, but maybe it was best to keep her mind busy on her cases. I was hopeful that the mandatory investigation of the shooting would be completed within a couple of days and she could become engaged fully in her work. The horror of her near-death experience and the fact that she'd taken another human being's life would begin to fade, and soon, I'd have my girl back.

As I was nearing the end of my run, my phone rang. The caller ID was blocked. I answered.

“Matt, Dave Kendall.”

“This can't be good news.”

“Bad news? I don't think so. Is Jock with you?”

“No,” I said. “He left this morning.”

“Headed home?”

“He didn't say. I don't know where he was going, but I don't think it's Houston. He just took off without saying anything. He left a note.”

“What time did he leave?”

“J.D. and I went to bed about nine o'clock, I guess. He was here then, and gone when I got up about six this morning.”

“Shit. He's not answering his phone. Goes straight to voice mail.”

“Same thing happened to me,” I said. “Don't y'all have one of those tracking devices on his phone that'll tell you exactly where he is?”

“Yeah, but he knows how to disable it. When he didn't answer his cell, I got the printouts on his phone. The last time it pinged us was about midnight. He was at the Tampa airport.”

“He must have left here shortly after we went to bed. Do you have the license plate number on his rental?”