Mortal Dilemma (16 page)

“Yeah,” J.D. said, and yawned. “I want you and the Manatee crime scene people to take this place apart. Treat it like you would a murder scene. But specifically, I'd like to see any financial records you can come up with, or any documents that might lead me to bank accounts. That sort of thing.”

“I'll get the people and get on it. Where are you going to be?”

“I'm going to look around, see if anything pops up. Like maybe a computer. After that, I'll be on my cell. If I find a computer, I'll probably be at the office with the department's geek.”

“J.D.,” Carey said. “Are you thinking about a computer like that laptop sitting on the table in the dining room?”

She laughed. “You're going to make one darn fine detective, Officer Carey.”

J.D. sat at the table and booted up the computer. It was password protected, but she tried several times using name combinations. Finally, she ran out of tries and the computer shut down. “Got to take this to the geek,” she said, and left the house.

*    *    *

People expected the department geek, who described himself as a “computer nerd,” to be a small man with rimless spectacles and longish hair wearing a t-shirt and jeans, maybe flip-flops. In reality the geek stood six feet three inches tall and had the build of a man who worked out regularly. He had grown up across the bay in Bradenton, earned a football scholarship to Florida State University, was red-shirted his freshman year and started at outside linebacker in every game for the next four years.

At the end of his fifth year in college, he graduated with a master's degree in computer science and was drafted in the first round by the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. He signed a four-year contract worth about twenty million dollars, played out the contract, got tired of being beat up by big offensive linemen, retired, and moved to Longboat Key. He'd offered his services to Bill Lester for a nominal salary and came to work every day just like he needed the money. His name was Reuben Carlson.

Twenty minutes after J.D. had turned the laptop over to him, Carlson called her on the office intercom and said, “I'm in. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Financial records, Reuben. Anything you can find. I'm going home for a short nap. Steve rolled me out of bed at three this morning and I'm beat. I'll call you when I wake up, probably around noon.”

“If I find them, I'll print them out for you. Anything else?”

“Go through it with a fine-tooth comb. You know the drill. I want his Internet history, his emails for the last couple of months, the names of everybody he's corresponded with by email for as far back as you can go, anything that looks the least bit interesting.”

“I'm on it, J.D.”

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
1

J.D.
STRIPPED AND
stepped into her shower. She let the hot water run over her body, rejuvenating her a bit. She'd had little sleep, a long helicopter flight, and hours of standing around on the beach. She was gritty with sand and exhausted by the stress that a murder investigation always brought. She soaped herself, rinsed, and turned off the water. She dried herself with the large beach towel, hung it on the hook on the back of the door and fell into bed. She was asleep almost instantly.

She awoke when she heard a noise from the front door of her condo. A key in the lock. Her bedside clock told her she'd slept for almost two hours.

She got out of bed, realized she was naked, and grabbed another beach towel from a nearby chair. She wrapped the towel around her and pulled the service pistol from its holster laying atop the pile of dirty clothes she'd discarded as she'd headed for the shower.

She was sure she'd engaged the dead bolt when she came into her condo. She ran it through her mind and couldn't specifically remember doing it. It was force of habit, though, and she thought she could rely on the routine. The dead bolt was a security measure ensuring that no key could unlock the door from the outside. She heard the key in the lock turn again, then again, and then a hard bang, as if someone was hitting the door in frustration. Then, silence.

J.D. walked to the door, listened carefully, and heard nothing. She turned the dead bolt and pulled the door open, her gun in her hand and pointed outward. Sunlight flooded into her condo, a cool breeze ruffling the palms that grew from the ground past her second floor and on up to the building's third story. An open walkway ran the length of the building, with the individual doors to each of the units opening onto it. “Who's there?”

Nothing. Then she heard a moan. It came from her left, from the area of the alcove that held the elevator landing. She walked outside, pistol ready, holding her towel tightly around her. She saw a man sitting on the walkway and leaning against the railing. He was holding his head, shaking it a little as if trying to clear his mind. She recognized him. The condo's maintenance manager. She rushed to him, knelt beside him. “Larry, what happened?”

He looked at her. “Hi, J.D. I don't know. Somebody came out of the elevator and knocked me in the back of the head.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“No. I was unlocking the door to the storage room and had my back to him.”

“Did he get your keys?”

Larry looked down at his waist where he kept his keys attached to his belt. He felt around to his back, shook his head. “Looks like he did.”

“You've got a master key that lets you into any unit here, right?”

“Yeah. It's gone, too.”

“Will that key open a door if the dead bolt is engaged?”

“No.”

“Isn't that a bit unusual?”

“Yeah, but when the developer built this building, he was planning for it to be mostly rentals. He installed locks that work like the ones they put in hotels. As long as you've got the dead bolt engaged, nobody can get in.”

“Okay. Stay right here, Larry. I'm going to get my phone and call for the paramedics. I'll be back in two seconds.”

“Thanks, J.D. I'm feeling a little nauseous.”

When J.D. returned, she was on the phone to the fire department and paramedics were being dispatched. She relayed that information to Larry, and then called the police dispatcher. “Iva, this is J.D. Somebody attacked the maintenance man at my condo and stole his keys. Whoever it was tried to get into my place with the master key, but I had the door dead-bolted. I'm okay and the paramedics are on the way to check Larry out. I need the crime scene people to come over and see if they can find anything that would tell us who was after me.”

“Martin Sharkey's parked around the corner from you at Cannons talking to David Miller. He'll be there in two minutes.”

“Thanks, Iva.”

A minute after J.D. hung up, an unmarked police car rushed into the parking lot and stopped. Deputy Chief of Police Martin Sharkey jumped out and in another minute was leaving the elevator. J.D. was still kneeling beside Larry. The ambulance siren was getting louder. The paramedics would arrive shortly.

“You all right, J.D.?” Sharkey asked.

“I'm fine, Martin.” She told him what had happened.

“That towel looks good on you, but I think you'd better go put on some clothes. I'll stay with Larry.”

J.D. had forgotten about her state of dishabille. She went to her condo, dressed quickly in shorts, a pullover top, and flip-flops. When she got back to Larry, the paramedics were arriving in the elevator. She explained what had happened to Larry while they examined him. They decided they needed to have him checked over by a doctor at Blake Hospital. Larry didn't resist. He climbed onto a stretcher, and the little group headed for the ambulance in the parking lot.

“Matt's going to be really pissed,” Sharkey said.

“About what?” J.D. asked.

“We were supposed to keep an eye on you.”

“Who's we?”

“Us. The department. Cops.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Matt called the chief early this morning just after you left Key West. He told Bill you might be in danger and he was worried. Matt asked him to make sure you were protected.”

“Crap. I hate that. I know he's just looking out for me, but I can't stand to be babied.”

“He told Bill about Jock's thoughts that some very bad people want to kill you.”

“That may be so, but I can take care of myself.”

Sharkey held up his hands in a sign of surrender. “I know you can. That's why I didn't have one of our guys guarding you, even though the chief told me to do just that. I didn't think you needed it, and I knew it would embarrass you. I'm sorry, J.D. I could have gotten you killed.”

“Martin, if that guy, whoever he was, had come through my door, I'd have blown him away. I don't need protection.”

“Be careful, J.D. Somebody tried to kill you in Gainesville a couple of days ago, and Jock thinks some crazy Arabs are after you. If he's right, you've got lots of people trying to kill you, and we don't know why.”

“I know why the terrorists want me dead. What I can't figure out is who those people in Gainesville were. Could they be connected to the mess Jock is talking about?”

“What is Jock saying? Why do some terrorists want to kill you?”

“I'm sorry, Martin. I can't talk about that. But I trust Jock and I trust his instincts.”

“Did you get a look at whoever was at your door?”

“No, but he probably ran down the stairs at the end of the building. He could have gotten out the door and into that empty lot next door. It's pretty wooded and would have given him some cover.”

“What about Larry?”

“He didn't see anything. When the elevator door opened, Larry was standing in that little alcove unlocking the door to the storage room. The bad guy hit him in the back of the head before Larry could react.”

“Hit him with what?”

“I don't know. I'm assuming the butt of a pistol.”

“Did you see a pistol?”

“No. But I'm pretty sure if someone was after me, they would've brought one.”

“You're probably right. I've got to call Matt, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Tell him to call me when you two finish plotting my security. And Martin, thanks for your confidence in me. For understanding that I really don't need a babysitter.”

“You're welcome. But Matt's still going to kill me.”

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
1

I
DROVE TO
Lower Sugarloaf Key to bring Jock up to date on what I'd found. He was sitting in the living room watching Fox News with the sound turned off. He looked up when I walked in and returned to the TV without saying anything. I'd stopped at a small store on Stock Island just over the bridge from Key West and picked up some sandwiches and soda. “You hungry?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“You want to hear about my morning?”

“Maybe after lunch.” He was still staring at the TV.

“You okay, buddy?”

“Fit as a fiddle.”

I opened the bags of food and handed him a sandwich on a plate I found in a cabinet over the sink. I was getting my sandwich out of the bag when my phone rang. The caller ID told me it was Martin Sharkey.

“Jock,” I said, “I'll take this outside.”

I answered as I walked out the door. “What's up, Martin?”

First, he assured me that J.D. was fine and then told me what had happened at her condo. He admitted that he'd ratted me out on my request for protection for her, but assured me that she didn't appear too mad about it. I figured I hadn't heard the end of this one.

J.D. is serious about her ability to take care of herself in a job that
has traditionally been for men only. She had the respect of every cop she'd ever worked with and was feared by every criminal she'd ever sent to prison. The problem was that she didn't know that, or at least, she didn't believe it, or understand it. This all led to a lot of sensitivity over my overly protective nature. It wasn't that I didn't have confidence in her ability to protect herself, but rather that my greatest fear was the possibility of losing her. I was the nervous Nellie, not she.

I called J.D. as soon as Sharkey hung up. “Are you okay?” I asked when she answered.

“No worse for wear, Matt. What're you up to?”

“Tell me what happened this morning.”

“I'm sure Martin filled you in.”

“He did, but I want to hear it from you.”

She gave me the whole story, and then said, “If he'd come through the door, I'd have shot him dead. I'm not in danger.”

“I know you can take care of yourself, sweetie, but be very careful.”

“I will. Now tell me what's going on with you.”

“I've had a busy morning. I can't talk about it on the phone. I'll tell you about it when I get home.”

“When's that going to be?”

“Tonight. I'm at Paul's house. I'll get my stuff and start for Longboat. It'll take me seven or eight hours.”

“Can't you get a flight?”

“I don't want to take a chance on one of the terrorists seeing me if they're watching the airport. The less they know of my whereabouts, the safer I'll feel.”

“What about Coit Airways picking you up at the Naval Air Station where the sheriff's chopper picked me up this morning?”

“The Navy isn't going to let a private aircraft land there.”

“Then I guess you're driving. Are you coming home to take care of me?”

“No. I'm coming to let you take care of me. You'll understand when I tell you about my day.”

“Bad?”

“Bad enough.”

“What about Jock? Are you bringing him?”

“I think I'll leave him with Paul. He's pretty well hidden down here and I don't think he feels any need to leave. It's like he's moved into some sort of different dimension. He's in the house watching a news program on Fox with the sound turned off. He didn't say anything to me when I walked in and he wasn't interested in what I'd been doing since I left him early this morning. I'm worried about him, but I've got to keep him alive until things settle down and we can get him some treatment.”