Collateral Damage (10 page)

There were a lot of still photos, many of the bride and groom, of the entire wedding party, the parents of the bride and groom, and candid pictures from the reception. There was nothing in any of them that raised alarms. There were no pictures of an Asian man. Another dead end.

I gave J.D. copies of the memos I'd written about my conversations with Meredith and Bud Stanley. “Read these and I'll answer any questions you have.”

She took a few minutes to peruse the printouts. “Do you think this Soupy could have sent a hit team to take out Jim Desmond?”

“It's not as far-fetched as it sounds. Asians put a lot of emphasis on what they call ‘face.' Soupy's a big deal in that part of the world. He might very well have figured that the only way to get his mojo back after Jim whipped him was to kill Jim.”

“Mojo?”

“Yeah.”

“What's mojo?”

“I don't know. Maybe like machismo.”

“I don't think so.”

“What do you think mojo is?”

“I don't really care,” she said. “How can we dig further into Soupy? Maybe find out if he's the one behind this.”

“The whole idea of me getting involved in this was to find a likely target and file suit. The problem here is that I'd never get jurisdiction over Soupy or his organization. I could never show that he was in this country or was responsible for any acts that took place here. Until you get a court to accept jurisdiction, you can't do anything with the case.”

“Would it be worth a try?”

“No. Even if we could figure a way to get around the jurisdiction issue, I don't know how we'd serve Soupy with the lawsuit. Even then, if he simply didn't respond, the only thing we could do is get a default judgment entered and then we'd have no reason to take depositions to prove the case. The default would work just as if Soupy admitted to all allegations. There'd be no reason to take depositions, and the court wouldn't let
us issue subpoenas. The default wouldn't produce any evidence and would be meaningless in a criminal court.”

“We need to find out more about this Soupy guy.”

I thought for a minute. “There's always Jock.”

“Ah, the magic man. Will he do it?”

“He will if I ask nicely. Probably have to buy him a bottle of wine or something.”

“Why don't you call him?”

“I think I'll ask him to come for a visit. He hasn't been here in a couple of months.”

“You sure he'll come? It's hot here,” she said. “It's hot in Houston, too.”

“You've got a point.”

“You want to go to Pattigeorge's for a drink?”

“Sure. Is Sam back from vacation?”

“Yeah. Some vacation,” I said. “Where'd he go?”

“St. Armands. Sat around and drank for a week.”

“Wow.”

St. Armands was the next island south connected to Longboat Key by the New Pass Bridge. Sam could take the trolley back and forth so he wouldn't have to drive. And as he pointed out, the trolley doesn't make him go through metal detectors to board.

I called Logan and asked if he and Marie wanted to join us at Pattigeorge's for drinks and dinner. They agreed and were pulling into the parking lot just as we arrived. Marie was a blonde in her late thirties with short hair, sky-blue eyes, long legs, and a slender body.

Logan Hamilton was my best friend on the island. He stood five feet eight, weighed about one sixty, and was beginning to lose his hair. What was left was mostly gray. He had retired early from the financial services industry after making a lot of money. He moved to the key about the same time I did, and we became fast friends. I think the fact that both of us had served in Vietnam was the initial attraction. Logan had been an infantryman on his first tour and, after flight school, did a second tour as a helicopter pilot.

We went into the restaurant and were greeted by the bartender, Sam Lastinger, an island legend. Sammy knew all his customers and made sure that any newcomer was immediately introduced to all the others at the bar. He was an institution on the island, a man of cheerful verbosity, a friend, confidant, and ladies' man. He was about forty, a slender, dark-haired guy with a ready grin who seemed to never have a bad day, unless his beloved Florida Gators lost. Women took to him like flies to honey and he always treated them well. He had a lot of ex-lovers who were all still his friends. I never could figure out how he managed that.

The bar was full. We knew everybody there and spent a little time talking before we took our seats at a nearby high-top table. Sam brought our drinks and a menu. We all ordered salads.

Logan looked at J.D. “What's this I hear about you bringing on a junior detective to help sort out the murder on the beach?”

“Just trying to keep him honest,” she said. “Find some work to keep him busy.”

“Any luck?” asked Logan.

“Not so far,” I said. “We've developed some stuff, but I don't know that you can call it a lead.” I filled Logan and Marie in on what we'd found out about the Laotian connection, if there was such a thing, and that we were pretty sure there had been a hit team of at least two people who took Jim Desmond down.

Logan sipped his Dewar's. “Any way to run down anything on this Soupy guy?”

“I called Jock,” I said. “He'll be here tomorrow afternoon.”

“Great,” Logan said. “Things always get interesting when Jock shows up.”

Marie grinned. “I hope not too interesting. You boys seem to draw trouble.”

“Not this time,” I said. “Jock's just going to use his contacts to get us some information.”

“What can I do to help?” Logan asked.

“Nothing right now,” I said. “We're just trying to connect dots.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

Our conversation moved on to the things that friends discuss, one of those kinds of evenings when the next day you can't remember just what you did talk about, because the conversations were without substance. Just another quiet evening among friends.

I was up early the next morning intending to jog on the beach. I looked outside to a drizzling rain. It was overcast as far as I could see across the bay. It looked as if the weather was settling in for a wet spell. I decided to head for the beach anyway. A little water wouldn't hurt me, and I hadn't gotten much exercise in the last couple of days.

The beach was deserted. I began my run south, trying to stay on the flatter surfaces. The tide the night before had been higher than usual and there were little hummocks of sand where the water had eroded parts of the beach. I had to be careful not to turn an ankle.

I made it to my turnaround point and headed back north, keeping a
steady pace on the sand. The rain was coming a little harder now, and I was soaked. Even in the July heat, I was beginning to feel a little chilled, the sweat mingling with the rain to cause my skin to lose warmth.

I neared the North Shore Road access and slowed to a walk, letting some of the energy drain off. I came to the boardwalk ramp that would take me over the dunes and into the parking lot where I'd left my Explorer.

I mounted the ramp and walked east. I saw a man coming toward me, a plastic poncho covering his head and upper torso. Another inveterate beachcomber, I thought. But the hairs were standing at attention on the back of my neck, an electric tingle moving up into my scalp. Something was wrong. My gut was sending me signals, a recognition of danger that hadn't yet made its way into my consciousness. The man was dressed in jeans and work boots, not the clothes of a runner or a beachcomber. He kept his head down, eyes to the ground. I stopped, waiting for him to pass, every muscle tensed, alert for the unexpected, not sure that the signals my gut was sending to my brain were valid. I wasn't even sure if he saw me and as he closed on the spot where I was standing, I said, “Good morning.”

The man looked up as if surprised and then lunged at me. I saw his hand coming out of the pocket of the poncho. He was grasping something. It took me a nanosecond to recognize the knife, a big one, like the KA-BARS the Marines had in Vietnam. His eyes were boring into me, his face a grimace of concentration. He was moving in for the kill.

I reacted without thought, a muscle memory left over from my days as a soldier, honed by my regular martial arts classes in Bradenton. I did just what he didn't expect. I moved into him, sidestepping his thrust, turning my back to him, using my left arm to grasp his knife arm as it slid past me. I caught a bit of the blade in my side. I was aware of it, but the pain had not yet registered. I brought my right arm across my body, clasped his wrist in my right hand, twisted and pushed down hard while using my left arm as a lever to push his upper arm forward. I heard the knife drop to the boards of the crosswalk and at the same instant I heard his elbow snap.

The man screamed in pain. I let go of his wrist, pivoted, and punched him in the solar plexus, using all my strength, aiming for his spine, knowing it would take his breath away. I thought for a second that my fist had gone all the way through him and bounced off his vertebrae,
but that was only wishful thinking. He went down, and I stomped his broken elbow. He screamed again. I kicked him in the face, once, twice, backed up, stooped, and picked up the knife. I was going to carve him up like a Christmas turkey. I was filled with rage. The thought that somebody would think nothing of killing me on a rain-cloaked beach on my home island blotted out all my civilized instincts.

I held the knife, dropped back onto the man now writhing on the boardwalk, put my knee in his stomach and the point of the knife under his chin. “Who are you?” I said, my voice sounding in my own ears like a roar. “Who the fuck are you?”

“No,” he said. “Don't kill me.”

I pushed the point of the knife in farther. He was a dead man. I was going to stick the knife into his brain. Then, like a curtain lifting, the rage dissipated, leaving me, as it always does, emotionally limp and drained. I asked again, this time in a quiet voice, “Who are you?”

“Get off him,” I heard a feminine voice say. “Get off or so help me I'll shoot.”

I looked up. A woman was standing near the parking lot end of the boardwalk, a large pistol held in both hands, pointing at me.

I didn't move. “If I let him up, you'll still shoot me.”

“No,” she said. “This is over.”

“Tell you what,” I said. “You put the pistol down on the boards, and I'll let your friend up. He's not going to be using his left arm for a while, so I don't think he's much of a threat. He and I will walk toward you, and you turn around and walk toward the parking lot. You can pick up the pistol when your back is turned to me. If you try to turn around, I'll stab your friend to death.”

“How do I know you won't kill him when I put the gun down?”

“If I do, you'll have time to pick it up and shoot me. When you start walking, if I stab him, you'll have time to turn around and shoot me. I think this will work.”

She stooped slowly and placed the pistol on the boardwalk. I noticed that she'd been holding the gun in her right hand. “Turn around,” I said, “and pick up the pistol with your left hand.”

She did as I told her. “Start walking,” I said. I prodded the man with the tip of the knife next to his carotid artery and we began to follow.

The woman walked to a small sedan parked next to my Explorer. She stopped. “This is my car,” she said. “What now?”

“Get in the driver's side,” I said. “And don't point the pistol at me.” She did as I said, keeping the weapon in her left hand. When she was under the steering wheel, I walked toward the passenger side of my Explorer. I used the electronic key fob to unlock the door. I kept the man in a hammerlock with the knife at his throat. “Okay,” I said, “I'm going to release him so that he can get into the car with you. I'll be ducking down as soon as I let him go, so you won't have a shot at me. I've got a nine millimeter in the Explorer and I'll have it in my hand before he gets to your car. We'll have a standoff. You drive off, and I won't shoot.”

And that's the way it went down. They were gone in an instant, roaring out of the parking lot and toward the Longboat Pass Bridge about a quarter of a mile away. I memorized the tag number, but knew that by the time the police were alerted, the couple would be across Anna Maria Island and over the Cortez Bridge onto the mainland. There'd be almost no chance of spotting them in the traffic. I called 911 anyway. Told them who I was and what had happened. Said I'd be at my house if they needed to talk to me.

I got into the Explorer and drove out of the lot, across Gulf of Mexico Drive, and headed east on Broadway. My phone rang. J.D.

“I just heard. Are you all right?”

“Yes. Shook up, a minor cut on my rib cage. Nothing else.”

“I'll meet you at your house.”

“You don't have to do that.” But I knew she'd come and that thought put me right with the world.

I peeled off my clothes as I went through the house toward the bathroom. I showered with water as hot as I could stand it. I looked at the laceration on my side. It was a clean cut, not deep, but it had ruined a good T-shirt.

There was little pain, but I knew I'd taken a hit.

I toweled off and put on a pair of shorts. I could hear someone rattling around in the kitchen and assumed it was J.D. I joined her. She had the coffeemaker on and the smell was starting to permeate my senses.

“Let me see where you're cut,” she said.

She peered at it, felt around the edges and said, “I don't think you'll need stitches, but we need to get some antiseptic on it and get it bandaged properly.”

“You know how to do that? I don't want you to kill me.”

“I'm an EMT. I know what I'm doing.”