Florida Firefight, page 8
He had not died easily. Or prettily.
A black line, as clean—but not as deep—as a razor’s slice encircled his neck. The Colombian’s eyes bulged.
He had been garroted. Strangled with a wire.
Three blocks away a police car skidded through the turn, blue light pulsing.
Hawker hurried. With his foot he turned the dead man on his side. There was a gurgling noise and a sudden fecal stench mixed with the sheared-metal stink of blood. Hawker found the billfold and slid it into his own pocket.
He felt someone beside him. It was Winnie. She had watched him, and her face was filled with worry and suspicion.
“Who are you, James Hawker?” She seemed to be asking some person beyond his own eyes. “I want to know who you are. Why won’t you trust me?”
Hawker turned away and took the Gerber Mark II from the ankle sheath. He wiped the blade and black handle clean and forced the dead man’s right fist closed around it.
The police car skidded to a halt in the drive. The dome light blinked on as a squat, heavyset man got out.
Hawker went to Logan and squeezed his arm, hard. “I’ve got to make this quick, Logan. Listen good. I don’t care if you killed that bastard or not. In fact, I hope you did—”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“I don’t care, understand? But they’re going to figure you did it. And if you decide you want to admit it, remember: He came at you with a knife. Not the knife that killed Sandy. Another knife, a knife like a dagger.”
“I didn’t see any other knife.”
“It’s in his right hand. I put it there.”
The huge head turned as if on a turret. The shock-glazed eyes cleared momentarily. He nodded his understanding. “Thanks, James. But I didn’t kill him.”
A baritone voice with a hint of drawl came from over Hawker’s shoulder. “Well, somebody sure as hell has been doing some killing around here. You boys wouldn’t be trying to put together some bullshit story for me, now, would you?”
Chief Ben Simps, head of Mahogany Key’s one-man police force, came across the lawn adjusting his gun belt. He was a wide, military-looking man carrying too much fat. The leather holster creaked as he walked.
Hawker had yet to meet him. He had hoped to get together, individually, with both Simps and Boggs McKay when he and the townspeople were ready to strike the Colombians.
He had hoped that would be in about another month.
Now he knew it would be sooner. Much sooner.
“The killer is dead, Chief Simps. He’s over by the rock wall.”
Simps looked at him sharply. “Are you an eyewitness?”
“No.”
“Did you kill the man who you say is the killer?”
“No.”
“Then who appointed you spokesman? When I want something out of you, Mr.—”
“Hawker. James Hawker. I bought the Tarpon Inn from Buck Hamilton.”
“When I want something out of you, Mr. Hawker, I’ll ask. Until then, just keep quiet, hear?”
“Spare me the Marshal Dillion bit, Simps,” Hawker said softly. “I know a bit too much about you to let it slide.”
The cop whirled, as if he welcomed the confrontation. But then he caught the look in Hawker’s eyes. It stopped him. He backed up a step, nervous under Hawker’s gaze. He noticed the weapon in Hawker’s hands and seemed thankful for the chance to be on the offensive again.
“Where in the hell did you get that?”
Hawker toyed with the idea of saying he had found it on the lawn. He had been damn stupid to bring the Ingram submachine gun.
“It’s mine,” Hawker said. “With all the killing going on in this peaceful little town, I thought it was appropriate.”
Simps held out his hand. “I’ll take it. Uncle Sam has a thing about private citizens carrying automatic weapons.”
Hawker made no effort to give him the Ingram. “That’s right. I guess that’s why they make people in my occupation carry them.”
Hawker had no permit. But he had given Simps the proper impression. He wanted him to think he was a federal cop. Hawker watched his reaction closely. Ben Simps didn’t seem the kind of man to be intimidated easily. But he was intimidated now.
The meaty face swung around, checking to make sure the other two couldn’t hear them. Simps said, “What did you mean, you know too much about me?”
Hawker strung together the list of facts he had gotten from his computer check on Ben Simps. It was an impressive list. Simps had once been a cop in Miami, a crooked cop who knew how to play the game. He had won some commendations. Hawker named the commendations. Unexpectedly, Simps had resigned from the force. Hawker guessed at the reason why, and he could see in Simps’s face that he was right.
“You got caught taking payoff money, Simps. Until then your record had been pretty clean—but only because they’d never caught you before, never caught you shaking down whores and bar owners and pimps. So they gave you a choice: Quit the force, or hang around and be indicted. So you stuck your tail between your legs and ran—ran right here to Mahogany Key.”
“And I’ve been trying to do a good job,” Simps said quickly. “But Christ, this place has gone crazy in the last year. You know where the county seat is? Key West! The damn county seat is a hundred miles by water or two hundred miles by car, so I’m stuck out here in the damn ’Glades without any help—”
“The Colombians are helping you, aren’t they? The people in this town aren’t dumb. You drive a big new car and own a big new houseboat. They can put two and two together. So can we, Simps. Maybe some friends of mine at the IRS should get down here and do a net-worth investigation—”
“Shit, not that, Hawker—or whoever you are.” Simps had grabbed his arm. He was pleading. “Look, they forced me. They threatened me and my wife. I’ll do anything. I’ll turn state’s evidence. You just name it, and I’ll do it.”
Hawker pulled away from him. “You’ve got a murder to investigate, Chief Simps. Hadn’t you better get started? Or do you just sort of turn your head when one of your Colombian friends kills an innocent woman?”
“Anything,” Simps whispered feverishly. “I’ll do anything. Christ, I’ve got grandkids. Don’t send me to jail.”
“That woman with the knife in her eye had more courage in her little finger than a dozen of your kind, Simps,” Hawker said coldly. The hook was in, and Hawker set it. “Unfortunately, I’m going to be needing you. I’ll tell you when, where and what. Until then, investigate your murder.”
Simps turned away, grateful. His face was shiny with sweat. But then his cop instincts made him look at Hawker again. “You didn’t show me any identification. How do I know you’re who you say you are?”
“I don’t remember telling you I was anything but owner of the Tarpon Inn.” There was a metallic edge to Hawker’s voice. “And that’s the way it’s going to stay. Personally I’d like to see you trucked off with the others when we finally clean this place out. It’s up to you.”
“I’ll help,” Chief Ben Simps said quickly. “I’ll help and I won’t ask any more questions.”
Simps adjusted his gun belt. He hurried away toward the corpse.
thirteen
“Did you learn anything about explosives in the Marines?”
Hawker and Logan walked beneath trees down the boulevard toward the Tarpon Inn.
It was 3 A.M.
“I was a cook.”
Hawker knew he was lying. His computer check had told him Logan had been a Marine sergeant, twice winner of the Bronze Star. On his last tour in Nam, he had been placed with a squad of Navy SEALS. He was a demolitions expert. From the gaps in his record, Hawker guessed he had also done some work for I-Corps, military intelligence. Hawker now began to suspect he worked for the FBI—or the CIA.
Someone else had been monitoring the activities of the South Americans. Hawker wondered if it was Logan.
“What kind of cook?”
“A very good one.”
“And you didn’t kill the Colombian?”
Logan gave him a warning look. He had already answered his share of questions. Chief Ben Simps had done a professional and complete preliminary investigation, probably to impress Hawker. Through an arrangement with Monroe County, Mahogany Key’s county, Collier County had sent a coroner’s wagon for the bodies. Simps had questioned Winnie Tiger and Logan individually. He had asked them the same things over and over.
Their answers were always the same. Winnie had been in bed, listening to the stereo. She had had no idea what had happened until Logan pounded on the door. Logan said he had been on the way to Sandy Rand’s apartment when he heard a scream. He couldn’t tell if it was a man screaming or a woman. Both Sandy and the Colombian were dead when he got there.
“So who killed the Colombian?”
Logan’s eyes burrowed into Hawker’s. “Didn’t you? The way you planted the knife was pretty slick. You’re no amateur, Hawker. I figure you’re just trying to protect your cover—and I don’t even want to guess why. But you’re more than just the new owner of the Tarpon Inn.”
“And you were more than just a cook in the Marines.”
“That’s right. I was a very good cook in the Marines. So let’s drop it, huh? I don’t know who killed that greasy bastard, but I’d like to thank him.”
“And I don’t suppose you’ve been slipping out at night, watching the Colombians from the mangroves in Chatham Harbor?”
Logan stopped and jammed his fists on his hips. “Look, Hawker, I like you. And I appreciate what you’re trying to do for the people in this town. So let’s cut the bullshit, huh? I don’t want any part of your cops-and-robbers games. I’ve had a stomach full of that crap. I just want to cook, okay? Let’s leave it at that. I’m just a cook.”
“Not tonight, you’re not,” Hawker said softly. “Tonight you’re more than a cook.”
“And just what in the hell do you mean by that—”
“I need your help, that’s what I mean. I’ll show you.”
Hawker was surprised to see lights on in the Tarpon Inn bar. Graeme Mellor was still up. He wondered if someone had called and told him about the murder of Sandy Rand.
He led Logan down the drive to his flamingo-pink cottage. Birds were making their first tentative morning sounds. They rattled in the dark trees.
Hawker stopped at the Monte Carlo. “I saw two Colombians messing with my car tonight. They had the hood up.”
Logan’s knees cracked and popped as he squatted at the grille. He looked at it without touching it. “You have a flashlight?” Hawker went into his cottage and produced a flashlight.
“Did they close the hood like they were trying to be particularly careful?”
“Quiet. But not that careful.”
“Do you have a wife and kids—people who need you around?” Logan’s hand was under the grille, looking for the hood latch.
Hawker smiled. “No.”
“Good.” Logan swung the hood open. Both men exhaled loudly. They had been holding their breath.
“It’s a pretty simple device,” said Logan.
In the white beam of the flashlight, Hawker could see two sticks of dynamite joined by electrician’s tape. Two lengths of copper wire ran to something in the engine.
“It’s an ignition bomb,” Logan continued. “The wire runs to the solenoid, then back to that blasting cap taped to the dynamite. Starting the car both provides the current and completes the circuit.”
“I thought you were a cook.”
“In the Marines they blew up bad cooks. I had to learn about these things.”
“Boom,” whispered Hawker.
“Ka-boom,” Logan said. “Two sticks of dynamite, remember? You want me to take it off?”
“Unless you’re in the market for a Monte Carlo. I’ll sell it right now. Cheap.”
“Get some wire cutters.”
“I’ll get the wire cutters if you’ll help me when you’re done. I don’t like people planting bombs in my car.”
“Oh? You never struck me as the fussy sort.”
“The car has sentimental value. I’ve leased it for almost two months.”
Hawker turned to go into his cottage. Logan called after him, “Thanks for killing that Colombian, Hawker.”
“Thank you for killing the Colombian, Logan,” Hawker said over his shoulder.
Hawker and Logan removed the ignition bomb. Hawker wrapped it in canvas, and the two of them headed for the airstrip.
It was 4:13 A.M.
They could see two guards in the fluorescent glare of the Chatham Harbor warehouse. One sat with his legs over the dock. The other leaned on his rifle, bored.
Moored at the deep-water quay was an oceangoing yacht. It must have been a hundred feet long. It had a white hull with blue superstructure. There were Boston Whalers on davits, bow and stern, covered with canvas.
The stern of the vessel read: Demonio Del Mar, Bogotá.
Hawker had never seen the yacht before. Buck Hamilton had described it to him. It made Hawker wonder why the Colombians had chosen this as their night for revenge. Why would they risk a retaliatory strike—not to mention trouble with the law—while Medelli, their leader, was in town? It didn’t make any sense. Hawker wondered if it had all been a personal vendetta carried out by Pedro Cartagena and a few of his friends.
But Medelli wouldn’t like one of his men being killed. And he would like even less what Hawker and Logan were about to do.
“Do you know the guy who owns that boat?”
Logan shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Let’s give him a warm welcome.”
“Did he have anything to do with killing Sandy?”
“He had a lot to do with it—but indirectly.”
“Let’s make it real warm.”
They skirted the harbor, staying low. Hawker led the way. The field trips with Dr. Winnie Tiger had been a big help. They waded across a shallow creek and weaved their way through underbrush. Hawker threw himself to the ground belly first. The airstrip arrowed away before them. Newly mown, it smelled of grass.
The red and green landing lights were off, and January stars glimmered above the field.
There was only one plane: a three-engine Trislander. It rested on the far side of the airstrip. It looked big enough to carry fourteen or fifteen people.
There were two more guards near the plane. They carried long guns: automatics.
They paced opposite sides of the runway, their weapons slung over their shoulders.
“Shit,” whispered Logan. “Looks like we’re not going to be able to plant our little surprise.”
“Maybe you ought to look the other way,” Hawker whispered back.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means if we somehow get arrested, you’d be in better shape if you could honestly tell them you don’t know a damn thing about what I’m about to do.”
Hawker disappeared through the trees before Logan had a chance to reply.
He made his way parallel to the runway, moving silently through the palmetto cover. The one thing he had going in his favor was that the guards patrolled in opposite directions rather than marching side by side.
As the guard closest to him walked east, Hawker went west.
At the base of the runway was a decrepit-looking tank truck. They probably used it for fuel. Hawker waited until the guard was at the farthest point from him, then sprinted to the cover of the truck.
He’d left his Gerber with the corpse, so he’d have to improvise. He figured he could club the guard closest to him, then rush the other before he had a chance to react.
As the first guard drew near, Hawker stepped out and cracked the man’s head open with the Ingram. The blow would have knocked most men unconscious. But the guard wasn’t most men. He screamed out a warning before Hawker kicked his mouth closed.
The clatter of automatic-weapons fire sounded from across the field. The dirt near Hawker erupted in a series of explosions. Hawker dove, rolled and came up shooting. The silencer made the Ingram sound like a series of soft, thudding drumbeats.
Thirty yards away the guard jolted three feet into the air before landing back first on the asphalt runway.
Hawker waved Logan in.
Logan was surprisingly calm. “Not bad,” he said. “You shoot pretty good.”
“Never mind about that. Get to work on the plane.”
“You really think they’re going to try to fly that thing after they’ve found their two guards dead?”
“By the time I get done, they will. I’m going to make it look like they got in a fight and killed each other. They’re a damn violent bunch, and they don’t always save aggression for enemies.”
“Good trick.”
“Spend time as a Chicago cop and you learn a lot of good tricks. But my tricks aren’t going to help us unless you get your ass in gear.”
When Hawker was done staging the corpses, he maintained battle-ready, the Ingram on his hip, while the big Vietnam vet worked. It didn’t take Logan long.
Even so, it was nearly dawn before they headed back.
They moved quietly through the thickets of Brazilian pepper and mangrove that edged both sides of the airstrip. They worked their way out to the main road that connected Mahogany Key with the mainland, then walked nonchalantly back to town.
Mosquitoes found them, whining. The sulfur stink of the mangroves was strong on the dark morning wind.
“I’m not going to get arrested for this, am I?”
Hawker said, “You tell me.”
“I’m just a cook.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Logan looked at him strangely, then shrugged as if there was no understanding Hawker. He said, “Well, I don’t care if I do. It’s time we stood up to those assholes.”
“Did you go the night Buck Hamilton led his raid on Chatham Harbor?”
“That was before I moved here. I’ve only been at the lodge for six, seven months.”
“I’m sorry about Sandy.” Hawker meant it.
