CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Officer Steve Carey came walking down the lawn behind the nearest house. I’d been able to give the police an exact address on Gulf of Mexico Drive because the street number was also painted on the seawall that protected the property from the Gulf.
He stopped at the end of the grass and stood surveying the scene. “So Jock, you causing trouble again?”
Jock laughed. “Good to see you, too, Steve.”
The cop walked on down to where we had Bates sitting on the sand. “What’ve you got here?”
I pointed to Bates. “This is Mr. Clyde Bates. He tried to kill us. He’s not too smart.”
“He can’t be too smart if he tried to kill you two.”
I told Steve what had happened and what we’d found out from Bates.
“I’m sure Detective Duncan will want some formal statements. She’ll be here in a minute.”
“You guys okay?” The question was shouted from the lawn. I looked up and saw J. D. Duncan coming our way.
“We’re fine,” I said.
I watched her make her way down the lawn and over the short sea-wall. There was a grace about her even when she was wearing the big pistol on her lovely hip. I was not above fantasizing about her, but knew that’s all it would ever be. A fantasy. The more time I spent around her, the more the fantasy grew. Ah, the damage we men do to ourselves chasing the unobtainable.
J.D. spent a few minutes talking to Jock and me and then to Bates. He’d ridden his scooter out to the key and parked down the street from my house. When he saw us leave for the beach, he followed. He was going to ride the scooter down the beach, kill us and make a fast getaway. When he was coming down the little road that served as public access to the beach, he saw the ATV parked in the carport of a small house that sat on the access road a couple of hundred yards from the beach. He thought it would handle the sand better. He left his scooter in the carport.
“Where’d you get the gun?” J.D. asked.
“The dude in the bar gave it to me.”
“The same one who gave you the two hundred bucks?” she asked.
“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?”