Chapter SEVENTY-TWO
I slept like a rock and didn’t get out of bed until a little after seven on Thursday morning. Jock had left the house. Out for his morning run, I assumed. I made coffee and popped a pastry into the microwave. Not much of a breakfast, but I was still tired from the day before. If I’d dreamed during the night, I didn’t remember it, but as I watched the coffee drip, somewhere in the far distant reaches of my mind, I heard the faint screams of men being roasted in a palmetto patch. I shook my head to clear the image and took my coffee and pastry to the patio. Maybe the morning newspaper would take my mind off the events of the previous day.
I thought about calling J.D. The mere sound of her voice would brighten up the gloom that surrounded me. Then I thought better of it. She’d had a bad day as well and would need a little time to bounce back. Knowing J.D., I was sure she’d gone back to work. That was the way she handled bad moods and rare fits of depression. She simply worked at her job and stuffed the bad feelings back in the part of her mind that she could seal off.
The first bars of The Girl from Ipanema jangled me out of my reverie. J.D. was on the phone. “We got Worthington,” she said. “He’s in jail in Tampa.”
“How?”
“A Tampa PD officer found him in an abandoned building early this morning. It seems he had lived there a long time ago when the building was part of a public housing project. It was owned by the county and had been abandoned a couple of years ago.”
“Was he living there?”
“No. He was searching for some papers he’d hidden there before he went to prison.”
“I doubt they would be there if he left them that long ago. He’s been in jail for the past fifteen years.”
“He found them. He’d apparently placed them in a hole in the wall of the bedroom and then plastered it over. He said he’d put them there for safekeeping.”
“What were the papers?”
“Documents, actually. There was a driver’s license and a passport in the name of Geoff Woodsley. They had pictures that were probably of Worthington the way he looked before he went to prison.”
“The names are similar enough,” I said. “Makes it easier for him. How did Tampa PD get to you?”
“Once we figured out Flagler’s real name, Bill Lester put out a bulletin to all police agencies that we were interested in Worthington for the murders on Longboat and Anna Maria. When the fingerprints came back, Tampa called us.”
“That’s good news. Things are starting to fall into place.”
“I’m going up to Tampa to interview him. You and Jock want to go?”
“Jock’s out running. I’ll call him on his cell and let you know if he wants to go with you. I think I’ll sit this one out.”
“I’m surprised at you,” she said.
“I’m tired of these a*sholes,” I said. “I’ll let you handle this one. I’ll call Jock.”
I called Jock and told him that J.D. was on her way to interview Worthington and she wanted to know if he wanted to join her.
“Can’t do it, podna,” he said. “I’m on my way to the airport to meet Dave Kendall. He’s back from London and he’s flying here. Said it was very important that we meet as soon as possible. Tell J.D. to be sure and follow up on the Guatemalan connection.”
I called J.D. She told me she’d come by when she got back from Tampa and fill us in on what Worthington had to say. I decided to jog the beach.
My mind wandered back over the past few days as I jogged on the hard sand just above the surf. Things were coming to an end, and I marveled at the parts that fate and stupidity play in the biggest events of life. Two crazy people, Caleb and Mariah, had decided that J.D. had to die, but in the process they would take down other people whose only involvement was the happenstance of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nell Alexander and the prostitute from East Bradenton had been killed on a whim, picked out of the great mass of people simply because they were available when the killer needed a victim.
Fuentes was a murderer, but at least most of his kills made sense in a twisted way. He was running a business, moving and selling illegal drugs, and when somebody got in the way he had to be taken out. It was just business as usual in the dark underworld of the druggers. But in the recent murders, he’d been following his wife’s orders and even though he knew they made no sense, he went along because of either his love, or more probably, his fear. Now he was dead at the hands of his wife’s hireling.
Perez went along with the plan. He’d been stealing from the people for whom he had worked for years, and they were people who would think nothing of killing him if they found out about his scheme. He was taking care of his retirement plans and didn’t let a little thing like murder bother him. He may have been the worst of the bunch. He set up the murders out of sheer greed. And now he was dead at the hands of the man he’d duped, his old pal Fuentes.
The three men involved directly in the murders of Nell Alexander and the prostitute and the knifing of J.D. were dead, two of them at the hands of Worthington, their buddy from the years spent in prison. Their deaths seemed fitting to me. Live by the sword, as the man said, and die by the sword.
Worthington was in jail in Tampa and would probably spend the rest of his life in prison. Perhaps his death would be hastened by the state at the end of a needle filled with the drugs used for executions. He deserved whatever he got.
Mariah was still out there somewhere. We had to assume that she would continue with her quest to kill J.D. Crazy people just don’t think rationally. That’s the reason they’re crazy, I guess. The fact that her husband was dead and her drug business was crumbling around her wouldn’t be reason to give up her plans. She’d carry on until she was in jail or dead.
The Guatemalans were a puzzle. Maybe the mole in Jock’s agency had been responsible for pointing Cantreras at Gene Alexander and the fact that we found Fuentes’s fingerprint on the flap of an envelope that Cantreras had saved, didn’t exclude the possibility that other people used the same drop for contacting the hit man. Fuentes swore that he hadn’t set up the hit on Gene, and I tended to believe him. He was too scared at the moment to lie to us. Some of the most ruthless men are cowards at heart and will do anything to escape the pain that they’d so gleefully visited on others.
So, we needed to run down the Guatemalan connection. I was pretty sure Mariah had set that up on her own. She would have known how to contact the Guatemalan gangbangers and Cantreras. I still couldn’t see any reason she would have wanted Gene Alexander dead unless she was afraid he knew something about the killers or the reason for the murders. The mind of a crazy woman was beyond my ability to fathom, so we might never know, even if we eventually found her.
I wondered why the director wanted to see Jock so urgently. It was likely a problem out there in the world somewhere, some threat to the homeland that would take Jock back into the shadowy world of terrorists and assassins.
By the time I finished my run on the beach, my mind was as tired as my legs. Too much thinking can do that. I’d learned years ago when I practiced law that exercise would loosen up the parts of my brain that I used for problem solving and solutions would come to me. When it didn’t work, when I finished the run as perplexed as when I started, my brain wanted to shut down, think of pleasant things or nothing at all.
I decided I’d do just that. Go home, crack a beer, and think about nothing at all. I couldn’t have contemplated the news Jock would bring back from his conference with the director, news that would change my view of the world in which Jock lived, that world I had been on the periphery of for so many years. News that would seal J.D.’s decision on moving back to Miami.