A Dark and Lonely Place (39 page)

John jotted it down. “What do you think, Emma? You’re a good judge of character. What’s he got?”

“I don’t know the man,” she said proudly, “but he’s convinced it’s a life-and-death situation.”

“So, on a scale of one to ten, with ten life-changing and earth-shattering?”

“I’d give it a nine-plus,” she said. “Consider the source, John. The man ran a high-profile lawyer’s entire office operation. He must have some credibility, don’t you think?”

“You’re right. Thanks. Be careful, and stay in touch. I need you.”

He called the number. Lonstein answered. “John Ashley here, Gil.”

“Thank God, you got my message! I’ve been looking all over town for you, tried everywhere. How do you find a man the whole damn police department is looking for and can’t find? If they really do want you. Come on now, Sarge.” He sounded coy. “You’re in no real trouble, are you? They fed that story to the press to put you undercover with the bad guys. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“What message?” John said, to protect Emma. “I got no message. Just thought I’d touch base, see if you had any new ideas. Since nobody else is investigating, it’s up to me.”

“Don’t tell me! You needed my help and called on your own. I knew it! We’re on the same wavelength, Sarge.”

“Call me John.” He rolled his eyes.

“John, I have news for you. Really, really big news.”

“I’m listening.”

“Listen.”

John rolled his eyes again.

“I finally got around to opening the wall safe in Ron Jon’s office. I’d nearly forgotten about it, hidden behind a Carol Garvin painting of the Key West lighthouse. I open it and right on top is a manila envelope with my name on it, underlined in black ink. That was Eagle. That’s his style. Inside is a little red envelope with a key and a hand-printed note. Here, let me read it: ‘Gil, enclosed is the key to our safe-deposit box at
the Wachovia branch on the Boulevard at Fifty-first Street. You may have forgotten that you’re my cosigner. Get over there ASAP. Open it. Now. RJE.’

“Hadn’t thought about it for years,” Gil said. “We opened the box my first year on the job, had our fingerprints entered into the electronic ID system. I was given an entry code but no key. Never gave it another thought. Now I have the key.”

“What do you think is in there?” John looked longingly across the room at Laura, who was speaking loudly on the phone to her great-grandmother, who seemed to be hard of hearing. “I miss you too, Gram,” he heard her say. “You’ll love him as much as I do.”

“I don’t
think
anything,” Lonstein replied. “I
know.
I’ve seen it!”

“And?” John asked.

“A gold mine!” Lonstein sounded breathless. “I went to the branch. You have no idea what I went through. Despite the key, my fingerprints, and my signature on file, I was personally unknown to anyone at the branch. They have an overweight woman obsessed by minutiae in charge. Her joy in life must be to jerk people around.”

“What did you find, Gil?”

“A big, fat, overstuffed manila envelope.”

“And?” John’s eyes lingered on the tilt of Laura’s chin, the sleek curve of her hip. His attention drifted.

“It said, ‘Eyes Only. To be opened only by Gil Lonstein.’”

“So you opened it?”

“Damn right, on the spot.”

“What’s it about, Gil?” John asked, as he focused on her legs.

“You. It’s about you, Sarge.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

W
hat did you say, Gil?”

“Listen to me, John! This is big! Really big!” Lonstein’s boyish voice shook with excitement. “A stack of receipts and spreadsheets, and another note from Ron Jon. I swear, it’s eerie, like a message from the dead. It
is
a message from the dead!”

“What’s it say?” John reached for a pen.

“I copied it verbatim, John. Listen.”

Gil,

If you’re reading this, I’m dead and you’re the only one I trust to do the right thing, to bring down my killers. You know how I am, Gil: I always want the last word.

People I associate with are becoming increasingly paranoid and most likely plan to whack me. I’m doing everything I can to avoid that possibility, but some things are inevitable. So, just in case, I enclose an affidavit. You know my signature. Notarize it, date it two weeks before my death, then do me one last favor. Take the entire package to Miami homicide detective John Ashley, the only honest cop in town.

He’ll do the right thing. Trust no one but him. Tell him I’m glad I couldn’t have him fired. Ironic, isn’t it, how the game of life plays out?

R. J. Eagle

Suddenly on his feet, John paced, phone to his ear, his voice charged. Katie stared. Laura closed her eyes and prayed for good news.

“Did you read the affidavit, Gil?”

“Skimmed it, John. It’s heavy. Names names, identifies conspirators, people you know from the city and county police departments. Your late captain, Politano, is one of them.”

“Holy crap!” John said. “You have the papers with you?”

“Hell, no, they’re too dangerous to have around. They’re incendiary. I shoved ’em back in the safe-deposit box until I found you. Didn’t know how long that would take.”

“We need to get copies to the right people,” John said. “I’m in Miami. How soon can we meet?”

Laura quietly left the room.

“I’m in Broward,” Lonstein said, “but I can be down there in half an hour.”

“Good. I’ll meet you. You said the bank’s at Fifty-one and the Boulevard?” John said.

“Right.”

“Does anybody else know, Gil?” John’s question was almost an afterthought. The pause that followed made his heart sink.

“I mentioned it to my partner. He said not to get involved, said to shred everything, then we’d get out of town for a few weeks, take a cruise. But I’m a loyal man, John. My boss was difficult but good to me. He saw my value and that’s priceless. How could I ignore his last request?”

“Anybody else?”

Another guilty pause. “Well, when I found the first note at the office, I told one of the paralegals. I mean, it
was
mind-boggling. A note from the dead. But after I went to the bank and saw the documents, I wouldn’t tell her anything. She asked, but I told her it was confidential.”

John sighed. “Don’t talk to anybody else about it.”

“I won’t,” Lonstein said. “You can count on that.” Then he recalled something more. “When I was leaving messages all over for you, I got a call back from your Lieutenant Myerson. Asked what it was about, if he could help. Sounded like a good guy.”

“Don’t talk to these people, Gil. They’re dangerous.”

“Maybe I can draw him out, pump him for a little intel that might help you. I’m willing to do that.”

“No, I’m serious. I’m warning you, Gil.”

“You surprise me, John.” He sounded cocky. “You don’t need a badge to have a feel for what goes on in the human mind. It’s instinct. Pure instinct. You have it, or you don’t. I have a hunch that if I—”

“Gil, thanks for the offer, but don’t.”

“John?” Katie tapped him persistently on the shoulder. “John.”

He frowned at the interruption, then saw her face. “What is it?”

“Just heard your name on TV, a news bulletin.”

“Hold on, Gil.”

“Wait, John!” he cried. “Your picture just flashed on TV. Breaking news. Wow! They said you just robbed an armored car driver at Dade-land Mall, shot him, and fled south on US One. Are you in a high-speed police pursuit? Police and TV choppers overhead, following your car?”

“What the hell?” John said. “What station you watching?”

“It’s on all of them,” Katie whispered, her eyes huge.

“Where are you, John?” Gil demanded.

“Nowhere near Dadeland, Gil. I guarantee no choppers are following me.” He closed his eyes in dismay as the unmistakable thud of chopper blades filled the room. “That’s the TV, Gil. Somebody just turned up the volume.”

Katie and Laura, who had changed into a denim shirt, blue jeans, and cuff-high boots, stared at the screen.

“Talk to no one, Gil. I’ll meet you in the bank parking lot in forty-five minutes. What are you driving?”

“A 2011 silver-blue BMW.”

“Good for you, Gil. I’ll find you,” John said.

He joined Laura and Katie in front of the TV. A female newscaster, sweaty and windblown at the scene, breathlessly reported that a lone, bold bandit had shot a Brink’s employee as he wheeled a hand truck loaded with money bags from a mall department store to his armored car. The gunman escaped with two bags containing a large amount of cash.

Two witnesses described his getaway car as a late-model dark-blue Dodge Charger with a Florida tag.

“The armored car driver caught only a brief glimpse of the robber who
killed
his partner. That’s right.” The reporter nodded solemnly. “The victim has been pronounced dead at the scene, despite the efforts of passersby and paramedics who tried to save him. His killer is described as about six feet two or three inches tall, with sandy brown/blond hair, blue-gray eyes, and a light complexion. The robber fled south through
midmorning traffic with police in pursuit. Our eye in the sky chopper is in the air and will provide continuing coverage of the chase in a few moments.

“The fleeing gunman remains unidentified, but an unnamed police source has confirmed that the killer fits the description of rogue Miami cop John Ashley, a fugitive charged in the murder of his own captain and a person of interest in other cases. Police say Ashley had been seen in the Dadeland area earlier. Several calls to the Miami police tip line reported sightings. Ashley is believed to be desperate for cash to flee the country.”

“What?” John, Laura, and Katie echoed. They stared at one another.

“You are a busy man, John Ashley.” Laura batted her eyelashes seductively.

“You certainly get around, bro.” Katie shook her head. “That must be how you solved all those cases, by being in two places at once.”

“This is crazy!” he said. “Dadeland’s at the other end of the county. And the tip line’s had reported sightings all over the tri-county area. I don’t believe this.”

A male reporter at the Dadeland scene urgently reported new information. “We have just received reports of two robbery shootings in the Dadeland area last night. The gunman fits the description of John Ashley, who police say may be on a crime spree after killing his supervisor.”

John fumed. “They’re blaming me for every crime that happens anywhere.” He pulled out his notebook, then punched a number into his cell phone. “Hey,” he said, “I need you to patch me in to Jeff Burnside. I know. It’s important. This is John Ashley. Yes, that John Ashley. I need to talk to Jeff, now.”

He picked up the remote and switched the big flat-screen, high-definition TV to Channel Six. Burnside was visible in a wide shot of chaos at the mall, in the background, talking to a security guard. They watched as the reporter answered his cell phone.

“Jeff! Yeah. This is John. John Ashley. No joke. It’s me. Remember, we last talked the night of the motel shooting in Aventura? Listen, Jeff, let me assure you, swear to you, I’m nowhere near Dadeland. I’m not driving a Dodge Charger and have no police or news chopper on my tail. Don’t buy it! They’re piling it on to make me sound like somebody I’m not and never could be.”

“I wondered, John,” Burnside said. “So, you’re saying that next they’ll say you shot JFK and masterminded nine eleven? It may be safer to turn yourself in.”

“No way, Jeff. I’d like to avoid dying mysteriously in jail or doing time for crimes I didn’t commit. Who’s investigating what really happened the night Politano was killed, who murdered Ron Jon Eagle, Summer Smith, and Cheryl Ann Sutter? I may be able to prove what happened, but not from behind bars. I just need more time.”

“Hold on a sec, John.”

On the TV they saw Burnside speak briefly to someone behind him. “I just heard on a police radio, John, that they have a positive ID on you as the killer of this Brink’s guard, that you abandoned your stolen Charger and fled on foot.”

“Do I sound out of breath? Do you hear rotors stirring up a storm over my head?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Look, we were having bagels when . . . Wait a minute.” He beckoned Laura and Katie and handed them the phone. “Say hello to my friend Jeff at Channel Six.”

“Hi, Jeff,” Katie sang out. “Love you, watch every night.”

“Me too,” Laura said. “You’re the best. When all this is straightened out, we want autographed eight-by-ten glossies, suitable for framing. And I swear”—she giggled—“the only person in pursuit of John Ashley at the moment is me.”

“Is he still there?” Burnside asked.

“Sure.” She handed John the phone.

“Good,” Burnside said, “because police radios just broadcast that you jumped from the stolen Dodge Charger after crashing it into a tree and are swimming across a drainage canal.”

“You hear any splashing, Jeff?”

“No, I don’t, John.”

“I just hope they catch the son of a bitch,” he said, “so everybody will know it wasn’t me.” John checked his watch. “Gotta go, Jeff. I’ll be in touch.”

“Wait, John, I want to set up an on-air interview—”

“Have to call you back.” He hung up. “I need to go to a meeting,” he told Laura and Katie.

“I’ll go with you, John.” Laura picked up her handbag.

He’d hoped she wouldn’t say it but was glad she did. “No, I have to meet a guy. I believe him but don’t know if I can trust him. It might be dangerous.”

“More reason for me to be there, to watch your back. Two guns are better than one.” She trembled as though caught in a cold wind from the past. Her eyes locked on his. “You promised you’d never leave me again.”

“You’re right.” He frowned. He knew he’d made that promise, but when? “They’re not sure if you’re a victim or an accomplice,” he said. “If things go wrong, I’d rather have you treated like a victim.”

“Not on your life,” she said.

He saw the unflinching determination in her eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”