Chapter FIFTY-ONE
J.D. called a few minutes later. “Bagby died from an overdose,” she said.
“The guy who knifed you?”
“That one.”
“The lab got that done in a hurry.”
“They put it at the front of the line.”
“Does anyone know how the drugs got into the jail?”
“No, but it’s no big secret that the jails are full of drugs,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I was hoping he’d give us some information. What about talking to his lawyer? Any attorney-client privilege would have died with the client. Maybe Bagby told him something that he’d be willing to give us.”
“Good idea, Matt. I’ll call him. See if he’ll meet with me.”
“Let me know if you learn anything.”
“Did you and Jock find out anything last night?”
“Yeah. The Guatemalans killed Gene Alexander.”
“You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure.” I told her what we’d found out.
“How reliable is the information?”
“I think it’s solid. Our informant wasn’t holding anything back.”
“How do you want to handle getting the one-eared guy?” she asked.
“Jock’s out running. Probably thinking about that. I’ll let you know what he decides.”
“So you think we’ll just do what Jock decides?” There was steel in her voice. She wasn’t happy.
“I think this one is Jock’s call.”
“I don’t have to like it.” She hung up.
I put on my running clothes and headed for the beach. Jock still wasn’t back, but I thought he’d probably decided to take advantage of the beautiful day and run a little farther than usual. I walked up to Broadway and turned toward the Gulf, taking my time, enjoying the warm weather. A car turned off Gulf of Mexico Drive onto Broadway and was coming toward me. It was riding low on its axles, traveling well under the speed limit of twenty miles per hour. Loud bass sounds emanated from the vehicle, so loud I thought I could feel them in my toes. As the car drew abreast of me, I saw two men in the front seat wearing the dark skin of the Central American Indian. The one on the passenger side, the one nearest me, had tattoos on his neck, visible above his collar. Bells began to ring in my head. Guatemalans? Maybe. If so, where the hell were they going?
I watched until they turned off Broadway, and then I began to run after them. They had turned onto the street that led to my house. That couldn’t be a coincidence. As I rounded the corner onto my street, I saw the car parked in front of a house two doors down from mine. I stopped.
The street was deserted, no one outside. The houses on one side of the street, the side I lived on, backed up to the bay, which could be seen through the gaps between the houses. What the hell were they up to? I stood and watched for a couple of beats and pulled out my cell phone. I called J.D. “There’re a couple of gangbangers parked just down from my house. Probably Guatemalans.”
“Call Jock. It’s his case.”
I cut her off, slamming the phone shut. I was about tired of her pissy moods. I knew she was stressed. People were trying to kill her and there was apparently a Guatemalan gang trying to take out citizens on her island and a government agency that was pulling strings and screwing up her investigations. But I was getting pretty damn tired of her sarcasm.
I dialed 911 and identified myself. “There is a strange car with a couple of odd-looking people parked just down from my house. Can you send a police car to check on it?”
“How do you mean ‘odd’?” she asked.
“Like they don’t belong here. They’re not islanders.”
“I’m dispatching now.”
I thanked her and hung up. Nothing gets the Longboat Key authorities’ attention more quickly that a complaint about someone on the island who doesn’t belong. Somebody’s hackles rise, cops come, and IDs get checked. The uninvited and unwanted visitor gets the hint and leaves. It may seem a bit heavy-handed, but it makes us safer and the citizens never complain.
My phone chirped out the first bars of The Girl from Ipanema, J.D.’s special ring. I ignored it. It occurred to me that I’d never done that before. It took less than three minutes for the cop car to turn onto my street. I waved him down and leaned in the window.
“What’ve you got, Matt?” asked the officer, a man I’d known for several years.
“Not sure, Dean. There’re a couple of guys in that lowrider parked up there who I think might be Guatemalan gangbangers. From the same bunch who tried to take J.D. and me out downtown last week. I didn’t want to walk into some kind of trap.”
“Are you armed?”
“No.”
He looked at me, taking in my running shorts and T-shirt, chuckled and said, “Guess not.”
“Dean,” I said, “if those guys are who I think they are, you’re going to need some backup out here.”
He was punching data into the computer attached to his dashboard. In a moment, the screen filled with words. He looked for an instant and then said, “The car’s registered to somebody named Miguel Malindez in Tampa. Mean anything to you?”
I shook my head as he keyed his microphone and called for another patrolman. He listened and said, “Rory’s on her way. She’ll come in from the other side and block the car.”
Dean got out of the cruiser and stood talking to me, watching the lowrider. If the occupants saw us, they ignored us. In a couple of minutes, another cruiser turned the corner, coming from the opposite direction, and stopped, blocking the street.
I heard a car rounding the corner behind us, turned, and saw J.D.’s Camry coming up the street. She stopped and got out, walked over to us. “Sorry, Matt,” she said. “What’s going on?”
“Beats me,” I said, shrugging.
“I said I’m sorry.”
“I heard you,” I said, my voice flat.
Dean used the microphone in the cruiser to activate the loudspeaker. “Get out of the car, hands in the air,” he said, the sound reverberating about the neighborhood. I saw the curtains in a nearby house move, an anxious neighbor wondering what was going on. Nothing happened.
Dean tried again, this time in Spanish. That worked. The doors on either side of the car opened, and two small men emerged, their hands in the air. “Do you speak English?” Dean asked.
The two men shook their heads, looks of bewilderment on their faces. Dean looked at me. “I used all the Spanish I know getting them out of the car.”
“What do you usually do if you can’t communicate?” I asked.
“We take them to the station and put them in a holding cell until we can get a Spanish speaker to help out.”
“I’d think that might raise some civil rights issues.”
“We’ve never had a complaint,” Dean said, grinning.
“What’s up?” Jock said. I jumped, startled by the voice behind me. I turned to see him standing at the rear bumper of the patrol car. None of us had heard him walk up.
“You scared the shit out of me,” I said.
He laughed. “Hey, J.D, Dean.”
J.D. nodded.
“Jock,” Dean said. “Matt thinks those guys might be Guatemalan gangbangers, but they don’t speak English, so I’ll have to take them in.”
“Let me talk to them,” said Jock.
“You speak Spanish?” asked Dean.
“Some,” Jock said and walked toward the lowrider, speaking in rapid Spanish. Dean and I followed. I could see that the other cop had moved closer to the gangbangers, her pistol held casually down by her leg.
As we caught up, Jock said, “They say they were just riding around. Went to Coquina Beach and decided to see what Longboat was all about.”
“Ask them what they’re doing parked on this street,” I said.
Jock spoke some more Spanish, then turned to me. “Says they were just enjoying the day and the view of the bay.”
“Tell them I need to see some ID,” said Dean. Jock translated.
They pulled out their wallets, extracted two laminated cards each, and handed them to Dean. “Driver’s licenses and green cards,” Dean said. “They may be fake, probably are, but I can’t hold them to find out. Got to let them go. No law against looking at the bay.”
“I’ll bet dollars to donuts that there are weapons in that car,” I said.
“I don’t have probable cause to search it,” said Dean.
“You can if they agree to it,” I said.
“Jock,” Dean said, “ask them if I can search their car.”
Jock let go with the Spanish again. When he finished, the gangbangers just shook their heads. “Okay,” said Dean. “Jock, tell them they can go about their business.”
Jock translated and the little dark-skinned men got back in the car, cranked up the music, and drove off, the deep bass sound hanging in the still air. The female cop in the other cruiser waved, got in her car, and pulled out.
“Sorry, Matt,” said Dean, “but you know the law better than I do.”
I nodded. “You did the right thing. We’ll have to keep our eyes open. I don’t think those guys just happened to pick this street to park on.”
“I don’t either,” said Dean as he folded himself into his car. “Take it easy, guys.”
Jock, J.D., and I stood on the sidewalk and watched one of the village peacocks amble down the street. He was serene and confident that no car would dare run over him. He strutted a little, his long tail feathers dragging the road. “We should’ve shot the little bastards,” Jock said.
“You shoot one of those birds and the cops will drag your ass to the county jail quicker than you can say ‘peacock,’” I said.
“I was talking about the gangbangers.”
“That wouldn’t be nearly as serious. Probably treat it as an infraction or something.”
“You going for a run?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Keep your head down. Those guys might be back.” He headed for my house, walking at a fast clip.
“Matt,” said J.D, “say something.”
“Okay. We have a lot to sort out, but your acting like a spoiled child isn’t helping. And it’s sure as hell not like you.”
“You’re right. I’m not sure what the problem is. I’ve been out of sorts lately.”
“Out of sorts? You’ve been mean as a snake.”
“Okay. Mean, I guess. Can we just start the day over? Forget my acting crazy?”
I smiled. “Sure.”
“Are we okay?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll make this up to you.”
“How?”
She gave me the big one, that smile that lights up the dark and turns her face into a vision of beauty that, like Marlowe’s Helen of Troy, could launch a thousand ships. “We’ll see,” she said.
I nodded and headed for the beach, my heart pumping so fast it took my breath away.