Chapter FIFTY-TWO
The day that had started so well had taken an ominous turn. The gangbangers in the lowrider had put a chill in my spine, an omen perhaps of a day that would get worse. The warmth of the Florida autumn should have made for a pleasant run on the beach, but I turned left at Gulf of Mexico Drive. Even in the best of weather the beaches of Longboat Key are sparsely populated. A few sun worshipers, walkers, joggers, surf fishermen, and the occasional cop on an all-terrain vehicle could usually be found, all enjoying the day in some fashion. But the beach was not a place for a man who felt hunted. It was relatively deserted.
I kept to the sidewalk, jogging at a steady pace. The two-lane Gulf of Mexico Drive was the only road that ran the ten-mile length of the island. Traffic was fairly heavy, the snowbirds slipping back to the key and starting the winter season a little early. It was a time the locals looked forward to with a kind of welcoming trepidation, enjoying the energy infused into island life by our friends from the north, but dreading the consequences. The restaurants and bars would be crowded, the traffic impossible. By Easter, when most of them left, we were happy to ease back into the quiet life of summer on the barrier islands, when the roads were clear, the restaurants and bars empty, and the locals came out like bears emerging from hibernation.
I didn’t think I was in any danger. The sidewalk was full of people enjoying the weather, walking, riding bikes, and jogging. The traffic alone would be enough to scare off the predators. The gangbangers were looking for Jock, so there was no reason for me to be concerned about them. Still, the flicker of cold dread would not leave my spine.
I had run about a mile and was nearing the intersection of Gulf of Mexico Drive and Dream Island Road when I saw the lowrider out of the corner of my eye. It was driving slowly south, coming from behind me. The left blinker winked as the driver pulled out of traffic, turning left onto Dream Island Road. He stopped, blocking the sidewalk where it crossed Dream Island. The driver’s-side window slid down and I could see the dark-skinned man behind the wheel. He was staring at me. I had no place to go. An impenetrable eight-foot hedge of sea grape trees blocked me to my left. If I ran to my right, I’d be in traffic. My only recourse was to turn and run the other way. That wasn’t going to happen. Never let the bastards see fear. It only encourages them. Jock had taught me that lesson.
I decided to keep running, right at the car. I’d swerve around its rear and continue. If they made any move to get out of the car, I’d run into the Cannons Marina property that took up the other side of the intersection. New boats were arrayed over the lot facing the main drag. I didn’t think they’d follow. Too many people and a lot of boats to hide behind. The owner, Dave Miller, probably wouldn’t like it if any of his new boats got shot up, but I figured he had insurance. And better his boats than my hide.
The car was perhaps thirty yards from me. I picked up speed, running directly at it. The driver raised his hand and pointed a finger at me. He pantomimed the pull back on the hammer and then the pull on the trigger. I was getting close and I wondered if his next move would produce a real pistol. It didn’t matter. I was committed.
I was more worried about the passenger. He could easily shoot me in the back as I passed them and ran toward the marina boat lot. The more I thought about that, the more real the possibility seemed. I was seriously considering changing course and darting into traffic. I’d rather be killed by an ancient Michigander in a Chrysler than some gangbanger in a low rider.
As I was about to make my move, a car coming down Dream Island Road came to a stop at the intersection. The Mercedes SUV was between the gangbangers and me. The right side window of the Mercedes glided down and I saw the familiar face of Billy Gallagher grinning at me. Billy was from Vermont and I hadn’t seen him since he’d left the island in May. “Need a lift?” he asked. He was kidding. He always told me that my exercise regimen was using up heartbeats so fast that I would very soon make a healthy-looking corpse.
I rushed his car, grabbed the door handle, swung the door open and jumped in. “Go,” I said. “Quick. Get us the hell out of here.”
Billy didn’t quibble. He slammed down the accelerator and turned right onto Gulf of Mexico Drive. “What’s up?” he asked as we headed north.
“I think those guys in that car next to you were trying to kill me.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing I can put my finger on. When did you get back?”
“Yesterday. Why would somebody be trying to kill you?”
“It’s probably nothing, Billy. Sometimes my imagination gets the better of me.”
“You want me to drop you at your house?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. Welcome back.”
“Thanks. I’ve been here less than two days and I’ve had more excitement than I did all summer in Quechee. I hope you’re not going to keep this up all winter.”
When I walked in the door of my cottage, I heard the shower running in Jock’s room. I grabbed a cold Miller Lite out of the refrigerator and sat on the patio enjoying the beer and the light breeze blowing from the north. I finished the beer and got another. I was puzzled by the events of the morning. We had all assumed that the gangbangers were after Jock, but if that were so, why were they stalking me? It didn’t make much sense, but then violence seldom does.
Jock came out and took a seat. “You’re back early. Short run?”
I told him about the gangbangers. “They seem to be after me. Today was some kind of warning, I guess, but why warn me if they’re trying to kill you? Why not just shoot me?”
He chewed on that for a couple of beats. “They were trying to rattle you,” he said, “but I don’t see the connection. If the Guatemalans are involved in the leaks in my agency, why come after you? If they’re somehow involved with the whale tail bunch, why kill Gene?”
“Maybe we’re still dealing with only one thing. The whale tail folks may want me because they think I killed Qualman. Maybe they ran out of people and hired the gangbangers to take me out.”
“What about Gene?”
“Could he have been a loose end somehow? We’re pretty sure that Nell was picked at random by Qualman, but maybe Gene knew something or they thought he did, and they decided to take him out.”
“Could be,” said Jock. “But we still have the Guatemalan connection to the Mexican drug cartel that our people were trying to infiltrate.”
“All you really have there is that one agent’s body was dropped off in Guatemala and that the cartel uses the Guatemalan gangbangers for some of their work.”
“Don’t forget that Gene had come across something important enough for him to get the director to fly down to discuss it. And his laptop was taken by the murderer.”
“That could be just a crime of opportunity,” I said. “The killer saw the laptop and figured he could make a few bucks off it.”
“Maybe,” said Jock, “but my gut tells me there’s more to this. I think it’s about time to speak to the earless guy.”
“How’re you going to get to him without blowing Suarez’s cover? If the gangbangers even suspect he or someone on his crew is talking, the whole crew will be killed.”
“I’ve given that some thought,” he said. “I wonder if David Sims would help.”
Sims was a Manatee County sheriff’s detective who was a friend of ours. “Probably,” I said. “What do you have in mind?”
He outlined the plan. It sounded pretty good. Not great, but workable.