Mortal Dilemma (15 page)

“How did you get to Key West?”

“I stole this car in Miami and drove here.”

“How did you hook up with Akeem?”

“I met him and Youssef at a small hotel on the last island before Key West.”

“Stock Island?”

“Yes. I think that is what it is called.”

“Were you with them yesterday when they found Jock?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know where he was?”

“Youssef knew.”

I pushed the pistol up under his chin. “What do you know? Lie to me and you'll find your martyrdom.”

“Okay, okay. Youssef got a call from a man who works with us. He said that the man called Jock was flying to Miami. I was staying at a hotel in the airport terminal. I went down to the security area and saw him leaving the concourse. I followed him to a charter service office on the other side of the airport.”

“Who was the man who called Youssef?”

“I do not know, but he followed Jock from Longboat Key to the Tampa airport.”

“How did Jock get to the charter service office?”

“In a taxi. I followed him in another taxi and went into the office. I heard Jock ask about a charter to Key West. I called Youssef and told him what I had found out.”

“How did you know what bar Jock was in when you got the cabbie to slip him a mickey?”

“A mickey? I do not understand.”

“Knockout drops. Something to make him pass out.”

“I did not arrive in Key West until about noon. I called Youssef and he told me where to meet him and Akeem. I went there and stayed in the car while they met with the taxi driver. That's all I know. I swear.”

“What's your name?”

“Mohammed al Tafari.”

“What was the name on the passport you used to enter the U.S.?”

“Amal Bargoon.”

“And the names on the other passports?”

“I do not know. I never saw the passports.”

“I need their real names.”

He hesitated and I shoved the gun a little deeper into his throat. “Okay,” he said and gave me two more names. They matched names on the pictures Kendall had sent me.

“What's the name of the motel where you're staying?”

He gave it to me. “But I checked out this morning.”

“Why? Are you planning on leaving?”

“No, but we were instructed to only spend one night in a place, check out early, and then move to another late in the evening.”

“How does Youssef call you? Cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“Let me have your phone. Where is it?”

“It's in my shirt pocket.”

And that's when I made a fatal mistake. As I reached for it with my left hand he grabbed my wrist with his left hand and jerked my arm down toward his lap. At the same time, he was beginning to move his right fist toward my face. The force of his grip and the jerking motion on my left arm pulled me toward him and my right hand, the one with the gun, was forced down from his neck. I had no time to react. I simply pulled the trigger. The pistol was pointed down toward his left chest. He died immediately, probably shot through the heart.

I pulled his phone from his shirt pocket and looked around to see if anybody had observed what had happened. The sound of the shot had been muffled because the barrel was buried in his chest and was inside the car. I didn't see anybody, but somebody could have been looking out a window. I straightened up the body so that a passerby might think he was sleeping. The blood that had appeared at the point where the bullet entered his chest couldn't be seen from the street. I reached into the car as if I were shaking hands with the corpse, waved good-bye and walked around the corner to my car.

As soon as I was out of the neighborhood, I called Paul Galis and told him what happened. “So,” he said, “you left two bodies in a house and one in a car on a public street, two of them terrorists, all in the Key West police department's jurisdiction and you want me to take care of things.”

“I'd be forever grateful.”

Paul made a grunting sound. Maybe he was reaching for a chuckle.

“The dead man told me he was staying in a small hotel on Stock Island,” I said, “in case you want to check it out. He left this morning.” I gave him the name of the hotel.

“I'll have a team get over there and see what they can find. I've got a drinking buddy who's a detective on the Key West force. I think I can get him involved and give you about two days before we have to start moving paperwork on the dead guys. Can I blame this on Jock?”

“Jock?”

“Yeah. If I put Jock in your place, nobody at Key West PD is going to do anything about it. Jock's boss can make a phone call or two and that'll be the end of it.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said.

“This all has to be worked out between the agency and the local law. Let's have Dave Kendall call the sheriff and the Key West police chief and tell them that an unnamed agent killed them because they
were terrorists who were here on a mission to blow something up. The agency was on to them but had not determined their target. What about the gun you used to shoot those guys?”

“The gun belongs to Jock and it's untraceable, but I wouldn't want either of us to be picked up with that pistol in our possession.”

“I understand. Ditch the pistol.”

“I'm going to throw it off a bridge. I'll have to find another weapon.”

“I've got a couple of untraceable ones at the house,” Galis said. “You can take your pick. Are you going to do any more hunting on my island?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“I know the group's leader, Youssef, is on the island. Or at least he was yesterday when Akeem threatened the taxi driver. And the one I just killed said Youssef was in Key West but didn't know where. If I find him, I'll take him out. Cut off the head of the snake.”

Galis let out a sigh. “Shit. I wish you'd take your fight somewhere else. Let me know if I can help you get the bastard.”

“Thanks, Paul. There is one thing. I've got the dead man's cell phone. It's probably a burner, but he told me he got his orders from Youssef by phone. It might be worth checking out the phone and the numbers that called him. Can your people handle that?”

“Not a problem, but if they're all using burners, it won't give us much.”

“Yeah. When the cops get to Stripling's house, they might want to check the dead Arab for a phone. I didn't think about that when I was leaving.”

“I'll call my buddy at Key West PD.”

I drove to Duval Street and found a parking place near St. Paul's Episcopal church. There was a poor box attached to a wall near the altar, with a sign that said something about helping those who had
little. I deposited the ten bills I'd gotten from Stripling and stood quietly for a few minutes, mulling over the two deaths I'd been responsible for that morning. I'd killed men before, and in some manner I'd regretted each one. But I couldn't find any contrition in my heart over the deaths of the two terrorists.

I wondered how many innocents they'd killed, and I knew the world was better off with them out of it. Besides, they wanted to take away my most precious gift, J.D., to wipe her off the face of the earth. I could not imagine a world without her. I shrugged, and walked out into the sunlight.

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
1

T
HE SUN SLIPPED
above the eastern horizon, bathing the beach in a soft light. The crime scene techs were on their knees scouring the sand, looking for any piece of evidence, no matter how small. One of the ME's assistants knelt over Fortson's body, closely examining it, looking for any anomaly other than the obviously slashed throat.

J.D. stood nearby, watching the assistant work. After a couple of minutes he looked up at her and said, “We'll know more when we get his clothes off, but I doubt we'll find anything other than the gash in his throat.”

“Okay. Bag him and let's get him out of here before folks start looking out their windows. We don't want a corpse to ruin their very expensive views.”

J.D. pulled out her cell phone and called Tom Jones. “Did I wake you up?” she asked when he answered.

“Not a chance, sweetheart. Neither of us has been able to sleep after seeing a dead man on the beach. Have you caught the killer yet?”

“You're my number one suspect.”

“Ha. I don't have it in me to hurt anybody. You might want to take a look at Linda, though.”

J.D. laughed. “You're a piece of work, T.J. Ratting out your own wife. I would like to talk to you guys. I gather no one took a formal statement from you last night.”

“No. It was kind of confusing. Are you down on the beach?”

“I am.”

“I heard the chief was dragging you back from Key West. I bet Matt liked that.”

“He'll get over it.”

“Come on up. I'll put some coffee on.”

“Would you and Linda mind coming down to the beach? I'd like to talk to you at the scene. Maybe you can point out something you might have noticed. Being there might jog your memory.”

“We'll see you in a few minutes. Want me to bring coffee?”

“I'd kill for a cup. Black.”

“On the way.”

J.D. walked over to the chief. “Bill, Tom and Linda Jones are coming down to give a statement. You want to sit in?”

“Might as well. Maybe they can put some context to this mess. Can you see any connection to Fortson's murder and your case on his sister?”

“Not yet, but if it's there, we'll find it.”

“How's Steve Carey working out?”

“He's a big help. He's going to make a good investigator. He's got the instincts.”

“Let's get him over to talk with the Joneses. Maybe the three of us can come up with some intelligent questions.”

*    *    *

Tom and Linda were showing J.D. about where they were standing when they noticed Fortson's body on the sand. “We almost stumbled over him,” Linda said. “It was pitch dark out here. It'd been overcast late in the afternoon, so I suppose we still had cloud cover. No moon at all. And no stars.”

“Was anybody with you?” Carey asked.

“No,” Tom said. “We'd just come back from dinner with Tom and Nancy Stout and Sammy and Courtney.”

“Ole Sammy,” Steve said. “Who's Courtney? His girl du jour?”

Linda laughed. “Hardly. She's way too smart for that. She's the bartender at the Lazy Lobster. She and Sammy are just buddies.”

“Did you know Fortson?” J.D. asked.

“Just to see him on the beach sometimes,” Linda said. “He always seemed pleasant. I heard stories about his sister being killed in his house a few years back.”

“He invited me up on his porch once,” Tom said. “We put away a bottle of wine and enjoyed the sunset. He told me his home was in Orlando and that he made his living as an investor.”

“Anything else?” Lester asked. “Had you ever met him in Orlando?”

“No. We'd never met until we bought the place here. That afternoon we mostly just chatted about the island, gossiped a little. You know, drank wine and talked about nothing important.”

J.D. asked, “Did either of you see anybody else on the beach just before or after you found the body?”

Tom looked at Linda. “What about the guy from next door we saw going into the building?”

“Yeah, but I think he was just one of our neighbors out for a walk. Like we were.”

“Did you recognize him?” J.D. asked.

“No,” Linda said. “It was real dark.”

“What made you think he was your neighbor?”

“Well,” Linda said, “I guess because he was going into the condo building next door to ours.”

“Did you speak to him?” J.D. asked.

“No,” Tom said. “He was already past us before we got close enough to say anything.”

“Can you describe him?”

“No,” Tom said, “I didn't get a good enough look.”

“He was white,” Linda said, “and I think he had a white beard. He was wearing a ball cap.”

“Anything else?” J.D. asked.

“No. I just got a quick glimpse when he walked by the security light at the condo beach access. You know how they have to shield those things because of the turtle nestlings. They don't give out much light, so it was real quick.”

“You're sure the beard was white?”

“I can't be sure. It looked white in the light, but it could have been gray. Or even red, for that matter.”

“Did you actually see him go into the building, or just walk toward it?”

Linda shook her head. “I just saw him walk into the garage that takes up the ground floor. I can't say whether he got on the elevator.”

J.D. looked at Tom. “Me neither,” he said.

“Thanks,” J.D. said. “That at least gives us some information.”

“You think he was the killer?” Tom asked.

“I don't know,” J.D. said. “He might have been a resident or guest in one of the condos. Looks like there're only about six units there. As soon as the people start waking up, we'll talk to them and see if there's anybody there with a beard. We should be able to figure that out pretty quickly. If nobody there has a beard, it might mean that the man you saw was the killer. On the other hand, it might just mean that he was trespassing on the property. Cutting through to the street. We'll have to follow up on it, though.”

*    *    *

J.D., Steve Carey, and Kevin Combs, the crime scene technician, were standing in the late Peter Fortson's living room, the vast expanse of
the Gulf of Mexico visible through the large windows that took up the west wall of the house. The sun had crawled higher in the sky as midmorning approached, and the glare off the water was strong. “Are we looking for anything specific?” Kevin asked.