Collateral Damage (18 page)

“Yeah.”

“Bullets?”

“They were in the clip in the gun.”

“Did you reload them?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Did you?”

“No, ma'am.”

J.D. cleared the pistol and dropped the clip into her hand, looked at it. “There're several rounds left in the mag. Maybe we can get some fingerprints.”

She turned back to Bates. “Did the man in the bar tell you why he wanted these guys dead?”

“No.”

“Weren't you curious?”

“No, ma'am. I wouldn't have done it either, except I didn't want the other guys in the bar to think I was a pu—, uh, chicken.”

J.D. smiled. “A chicken, huh?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Were there other people there when you met with the man who gave you the money?”

“No. Just Big Tony. The bartender.”

“Did you just happen to wander in and find them there with a job for you?”

“No, ma'am. Big Tony knows my number. He called me.”

“Okay, Steve,” J.D. said. “Take him back to the station. I may have some more questions for him when I get through with these victims.”

Steve laughed. “I think if ol' Clyde here had any idea who these victims were, he'd have left town.”

“That would have been a wise move,” she said.

“What do you want us to do?” I asked.

“My car's in the driveway up there,” she said, pointing to the nearest house. “I'll take you home and we can get your formal statements. You know the drill.”

We drove in silence the short distance to my cottage. I felt like an errant schoolboy being driven home by the principal. J.D. was not happy, but I wasn't sure what Jock and I had done other than almost get killed by a teenager.

We went into the house. “Coffee anybody?” I asked.

“Put some on and come sit down,” said J.D., a peremptory tone in her voice.

I went to the kitchen and Jock sat on the sofa, a bemused expression on his face. J.D. took a chair and sat quietly. I put the coffee on and returned to the living room. I sat on the sofa next to Jock facing J.D.

She looked at us for a moment. “I don't want to lose you guys,” she said. “You come here and start turning over rocks and something big crawls out and tries to kill you.”

“J.D.,” I said, “we were jogging on a public beach.”

“You know what I mean, Matt. You're not cops. I am. It's my job to turn over rocks. I get paid to do that. You're the amateurs. Civilians.”

“Not exactly amateurs,” I said. “Besides, you're part of what we're doing.”

“I know.” she said, “And Jock you have resources I don't have. Matt, you're developing facts that we didn't have before, but this is the second time somebody's tried to kill you.”

“The second time this week,” I said. “People have tried to kill me a lot more than twice.”

She frowned at that. “We cops seem to generally have some immunity. The bad guys are at least reluctant to kill us because then the full weight of cop world falls in on them. But you guys are civilians and don't have the same protection.”

I looked at her. “Do you want to end our little cooperative affair?”

“Yes. No. I don't know what I want. But I don't want you dead.”

She was looking directly at me as she said this. There was a softening about her eyes and mouth, a glint of tears welling. She looked away, rose, and went into the kitchen. My heart did a little lurch and Jock just sat and smiled.

We sat quietly for a couple of minutes, neither of us saying anything. I rose and went to the kitchen. J.D. was standing at the sink staring out the window to the bay, her back to me. “You want some coffee?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

She turned without looking at me, went to the coffeepot and poured a cup, handed it to me, and went back to the living room. Not another word. I followed her. She sat back down in her chair and said, “We've got to go check out Big Tony and O'Reilly's. See if we can get a lead on the man who hired that idiot Bates to kill you guys.” The softness was gone. Detective J.D. Duncan was all business.

I nodded. “I'd also like to see if we can get somebody to check on the Brewsters in Charlotte. See if they're still in the house. I'd like to talk to them.”

“I'll see if I can get Charlotte P.D. to check on that,” said J.D.

Jock looked at his watch. “It's only ten. I doubt the bar's open this early.”

“You're probably right,” said J.D. “Let's get those statements taken care of. Gotta keep the paperwork in order.” She pulled a small tape recorder from her pocket and set it on the coffee table. “Who's first?”

Palmetto is a small town that lies just across the Manatee River from Bradenton, its downtown area straddling Highway 41. The place was in the throes of some sort of urban renewal, older buildings being spruced up and new structures coming out of the ground. It was a quiet piece of old Florida where the residents took pride in their town and left most days for work in Bradenton, Sarasota, or St. Petersburg.

O'Reilly's took up the northern end of an old strip center that had not yet been graced with the brush of renewal. The whole place was decaying, most of it empty. It wasn't long for this world. One day soon, the bulldozers would come and wipe it off the map. A new building would take its place and the town would move on into a more modern version of itself.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon and the sun was beating down on the asphalt parking lot, the steamy heat enveloping us, turning the world into a giant steam bath. We walked into the air-conditioned bar, the smell of stale beer and old cigarette smoke assailing our nostrils. The interior was dark, a bit foreboding, but the coolness was welcoming. There were no patrons, the place having just opened for business. A bar ran along the back wall. To the right were doors marked as restrooms. Four or five tables took up the floor space. It was not an upscale tavern.

The bar was low, table height with a row of five wooden chairs placed in front of it. At one end, two steps led down to the area where the bartender worked. It was an unusual arrangement, but not unique. The bartender could still serve his patrons without bending down, but there was no leaning on the bar here. One had to sit in the chairs.

A small man, maybe five foot six, stood behind the bar, a wet towel in his hand. He was getting the place ready for his customers. He had thinning
gray hair that had not seen a comb that day and lay like shriveled weeds on his balding head. He had a beard that didn't quite cover his face, as if there were some areas where the hair could not grow. He was wearing a white golf shirt and jeans and a scowl.”

“Help you?” he asked.

“We're looking for Big Tony,” J.D. said.

“You're looking at him,” said the man behind the bar. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you about Clyde Bates,” J.D. said.

“Never heard of him. Who the fuck are you?” A man clearly out of sorts with the world.

Jock had moved to the edge of the bar, his hand resting on the back of one of the chairs, giving the man a hard look. “Your face reminds me of an old dog I used to have. He got the mange and his coat did the same thing your beard's doing. Looked like shit.”

The man reached under the bar, a look of anger flashing across his face. At the same time Jock picked up the chair. The bartender came up with a sawed off baseball bat in his hand and pulled back to swing at Jock. At that instant Jock threw the chair into the man's chest, knocking him backward. He dropped the bat as Jock vaulted over the low bar. In less time that I can describe he had the man by the neck, one hand pushing upward, the other ready to throw a punch into the gut of the little man.

“Everybody stop,” said J.D. her voice ringing loudly in the quiet bar. “Let him go, Jock.”

Jock removed his hand from the bartender's neck and stepped back two steps. He picked up the bat and held it in his right hand, staring at the man as if daring him to try again.

“What do you want?” the bartender said.

J.D. held out her badge. “I just told you. I want to talk to you about Clyde Bates.”

“What about him?”

“About how you and he tried to kill my friends here.”

The man blanched a little and held up his hands as if trying to ward off bad news. “I ain't tried to kill your friends.”

“You sent Bates to do it.”

“No.”

“Look, Big Tony. I can run you in right now on all kind of charges. But all I want to do is talk. You help me, we might just forget those laws you broke.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I ain't broke no laws.”

“Well, there's conspiracy to commit murder, aiding and abetting attempted murder, accessory to attempted murder, assault on a police officer. That's the one that will keep you locked up the longest while you wait for trial. No judge is going to grant bail on the assault charge.”

“I didn't assault a cop.”

“You tried to hit me with a baseball bat.”

“I didn't know you was a cop. Besides, I was trying to hit him,” pointing at Jock.

“Well, I thought you were aiming for me,” said J.D. “That'll be enough for the judge.”

“I didn't know you was a cop.”

“Won't matter.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me how you got Bates involved in the attempt on my friends' lives.”

“I didn't.”

“You know, Big Tony, instead of arresting you, I could just let my friends here take you out back for a little discussion. They are not nice men.”

The bartender looked from Jock to me and back to J.D. “Okay. Some guy comes in here yesterday and tells me he needs somebody to do some wet work. He didn't say what. I gave him to Bates.”

“Who was the man?”

“Don't know.”

“Ever seen him before?”

“No.”

“You mean some guy comes into your bar and tells you he wants somebody killed and you just set him up with a hit man? Suppose the guy was an undercover cop.”

“I didn't set him up with no hit man. I set him up with Bates.”

“Bates said you thought that's what he did for a living,” said J.D.

The little man laughed. “Bates is always talking that shit, but nobody believes him.”

“Then why introduce them?”

“The guy gave me a hundred bucks. I told him Bates was the man for the job. If the guy had been a cop, he couldn't do anything to me because Bates sure as hell ain't no hit man.”

“You're not real bright, are you?”

The man looked a little hurt. “I get by.”

“What time did the guy come in?”

“About three, I guess. He hadn't been here long when Bates came in. Clyde's regular as clockwork. He comes in at three forty-five every afternoon. He gets off at three thirty.”

“Bates has a job?” asked J.D., a little surprised.

“Yeah.”

“Doing what?”

“He cleans boats down at the marina,” said Big Tony.

“Did you call him?” I asked.

“No.”

“He said you did.”

“Maybe I did. I don't remember.”

“When you introduced the guy to Bates, did they leave?”

“No. They sat over at that table for a little while and then the guy gets up and leaves.”

“Has he been back?”

“No. Ain't seen any more of him.”

“What did he look like?” asked J.D.

“About six feet tall, gray hair and beard.”

“Anything else?”

“No. He wore sunglasses the whole time.”

“Did he have an accent?”

The little man thought for a minute. “Yeah. He was from somewhere in the South.”

“Think,” said J.D. “Close your eyes and think hard. Anything else about the guy that sticks out?”

“He had a great tan.”

J.D. looked at us. “Do either of you have any questions?”

“Yeah,” said Jock. “Why do they call a little-bitty fuck like you Big Tony?”

“I got a big johnson. People started calling me Big Tony in junior high and it sorta stuck.”

“Probably helped you with the girls,” said Jock.

“Not so you'd notice,” said Big Tony.

“Geez,” said J.D. “Let's go. Tony, don't leave town.”

“Where the hell would I go?”

We walked out into the parking lot. I turned to J.D. “Don't leave town? Who are you? Marshal Dillon?”

“I just like to use that sometimes. They always say it on TV and the idiots I deal with all watch a lot of TV. They take it seriously.”

“Look,” said Jock. He was pointing to a bank building across the street. “See that camera above the front door?”

J.D. and I looked. There was a small box attached to a bracket that extended from the wall above the entrance to the bank. It was making slow sweeps back and forth.

“That's a security camera. It's panning the bank parking lot and probably saving the images on a hard drive somewhere. It may pick up pictures of this parking lot too. We might get a look at the guy who hired Bates to kill us.”

J.D.'s cell phone chimed. She answered and listened, occasionally asking a question. She hung up. “That was the shift commander at the Charlotte Police Department. He sent a unit out to the Brewsters. He thinks they're gone. The house is locked up and this morning's paper was still on the sidewalk. One of the neighbors said he'd seen the daughter's boyfriend pull up in a utility van from U-Haul and load some boxes into it. He left and the Brewsters followed in their car.”

“They're on the run,” I said. “But from whom?”

“You?” asked Jock.

“That doesn't make a lot of sense,” I said. “Why would my visit have spooked them?”