Mortal Dilemma (7 page)

“I didn't know that. Is there anything else I can do here?”

“Does the name Peter Fortson mean anything to you?”

“Afraid not.”

“He was the brother of the murder victim. He owns the house where she was killed. He's a rich guy, a trust-fund baby who lives in Windermere. I thought he might have made the newspapers for something or other.”

“Windermere's full of very rich people. Are you familiar with it?”

“It's an Orlando suburb. On the south side. That's all I know.”

“You think Fortson was involved in the murder of his sister?”

“It's possible,” J.D. said. “He got five million dollars from a life insurance policy and his sister's share of what appears to be a very large trust fund.”

“If he had a big trust fund, I wouldn't think he'd have to murder his sister for money.”

“He probably didn't. The detective who worked this case when it happened did a pretty in-depth investigation of that angle, but he didn't actually get into the bank accounts or books of the trust. He didn't have a reason to dig that deeply and it might not have been possible anyway.”

“You'd like to see those books.”

“I sure would, but I don't have any way to get to them.”

“If you do figure out a way, Fortson would probably find out that you're looking at him.”

“That's not a problem. I want him to think I'm looking at him as a suspect. It might concern him enough that he makes a mistake.”

“Do you think he set up the hit on you?”

“I don't know. I thought it was a bit too coincidental for Mabry to have gotten the same amount of cash that the guy in the panhandle got for the hit on Rachel Fortson.”

“Is there a bank involved as a trustee?”

“Yes. The Third National in Orlando.”

“Some years back, I had a case that required me to get a look at some bank records. I talked the U.S. attorney into issuing an investigative subpoena for the records. I think it goes easier if the U.S. attorney, rather than the state attorney, goes after a nationally charted bank. If you talk to the U.S. attorney in Orlando, he may be able to help you out.”

“Thanks, Glenn. That's a good idea. I know him. I'll talk to him about the records. One of our guys is working with me on this, so if you hear from Steve Carey, he's legit.”

“Okay. Tell Matt hello for me.”

J.D. laughed and hung up. She looked up a number on her cell phone directory and dialed it.

“David Parrish,” the mellifluous voice of the U.S. attorney for the Middle District of Florida answered. His speech carried the light accents of his native Georgia, a honeyed quality that J.D. always found soothing. Probably because it reminded her of her late father, who'd spent his career as an Atlanta cop. “How's my favorite detective and why are you still hanging out with Matt Royal?”

J.D. laughed. “I'm fine and I'm trying to find a new man, but it's difficult. Too bad you're married. I'm calling to see if you can help me on a case.”

“You know I will if I can. What's up?”

She explained the Fortson case and told him about her need to see
the bank's books on the two trusts, particularly those that cover the time of Rachel's death. “I'd also like to see what his trust was doing for a year or two before her death and how he's handled the money since.”

“Since it's a murder case, and possibly involves fraud on a federally insured financial institution, I think we can legitimately issue an investigative subpoena without going before a judge for a search warrant. How soon do you need it?”

“Yesterday.”

He laughed. “It's too late to do anything today. Banks keep banker's hours, you know. How would first thing Monday morning work?”

“That'd be great. Thanks.”

“Tell Matt hello.”

She clicked the off button and was putting the phone back in her pocket when it rang. Matt. “We're going to Key West. Leaving on Coit Airways as soon as you get home and throw some stuff in a suitcase. Jock's in the hospital down there. I'll tell you about it on the way. I need you here as soon as possible.”

“Leaving now. Pick me up at my condo.”

F
RIDAY
, O
CTOBER
31

I
T WAS NEARING
seven o'clock as we started our final approach to Key West International Airport. The sun was sinking into the Gulf and the lights in town were winking on, providing the festive air that defined this little town at the end of the continent. A cruise ship, aglow with colored lights that painted the sea in bright colors, glided out of the port. The small island was alive, day and night, the energy palpable. I could almost feel it as we slipped low over Duval Street on our way to the airport.

Russ' wife Patti had joined us for the flight. J.D. sat in the right seat next to Russ, and Patti and I took the seats right behind them. After we had reached cruising altitude, I leaned over the seatbacks in front of me and told them what I knew of Jock's condition. I told them that the only other thing I knew was that the Key West police were at the hospital and so was a friend of mine who was a Monroe County detective.

Russ greased the plane onto the runway and taxied to a fixed base operator's private ramp. “We can stay if you need us,” Patti said.

“We'll be fine,” J.D. said. “We've got reservations at the Pier House and there's a rental car waiting for us here.”

We thanked them for the ride and watched as the little plane took off and disappeared into the darkness. The ride to the hospital was
short, less than three miles. The emergency room looked pretty much like every one I'd ever been in. It was full of people waiting to be seen, most of them shabby looking, their clothes unwashed and hair unkempt. Children sat in their moms' laps, some sleeping, some crying. A television, tuned to a twenty-four hour cable news channel, was bolted to the wall in a corner of the waiting room, its volume turned low enough that nobody could understand what was being said, but loud enough to be annoying.

A surly woman sitting at the reception desk glared at me as I approached. “I'm Matt Royal. Would you tell Ms. Rudek I'm here?”

“What's this in reference to?”

“She'll know.”

She glared some more, trying, I think, to determine if I was some deranged maniac who went around to hospitals and killed social workers. “Have a seat,” she said.

I stood there until she picked up the phone and said, “A gentleman named Royal is here to see you.” She stressed the word “gentleman,” like she didn't think for a minute that it fit me. I smiled at her and took a chair next to J.D.

In a minute or two, an attractive woman came from the back of the department and introduced herself to me as Tina Rudek. I introduced her to J.D. “Come on back,” she said. “Mr. Bailey is resting easy and Detective Galis is with him.”

She led us to a treatment room where I found a Key West patrolman sitting by the door. “Mr. Royal?” he asked.

“I am, and this is Detective J. D. Duncan, Longboat Key PD.” J.D. flashed her badge.

The cop nodded and opened the door, “Detective Galis is waiting for you.”

Paul Galis and I had met each other a few years back when I was visiting Key West. Jock had been with me and he and Galis had become
friends. A year or so later, Jock saved Paul's life when a dicey situation that also involved J.D. turned murderous. Galis shook my hand and hugged J.D. “How is he?” I asked.

“Drunk and shot,” Galis said. “The gunshot is superficial, the drunk took some work.”

“Do you have any idea what happened?”

Galis looked at the social worker. “Tina, would you excuse us?”

She nodded and walked out the door.

“Key West PD is investigating, but they don't have a lot to go on. Jock was in a bar on Duval Street, and, according to the bartender, had been there since they opened at nine this morning. The bartender said he was flying low when he got there. He must have been drinking for some time. He didn't eat anything all day, didn't talk to anybody, just sat in a corner and sipped scotch. Around three o'clock this afternoon, he fell off his chair and the manager cut him off and told him to leave.”

“We know he flew from Tampa to Miami last night,” J.D. said. “He got to Miami about one this morning. I wonder how he got from Miami to Key West.”

“He could have driven it in three hours or so at that time of the night,” Galis said. “Or he could have chartered a plane. Our airport's open all night.”

“I'm betting on the plane,” I said. “He would have been here easily by three o'clock. That'd have given him six hours to drink before he got to the bar on Duval.”

“But where would he have gone to drink?” J.D. asked.

“There are a lot of places that don't pay too much attention to our liquor laws,” Galis said. “Who's he running from?”

“Himself.”

“What's going on, Matt?”

“He's in bad shape. His last mission must have been rough. He
can't seem to pull out of it. He's been with me on Longboat for the past week trying to sort things out. He disappeared last night and his boss tracked him to Miami.”

“Have you told his boss he's here?” Galis asked.

“No. I wanted to make sure it was really Jock before I made the call. How did he end up in the hospital?”

“We're not sure. We think someone saw him lying on the sidewalk and called a taxi to come get him and take him home. Jock woke up enough to tell the driver to bring him here, then passed out again. The driver didn't know he was shot. Just thought he was another drunk.”

“What time was that?”

“He got here about three this afternoon and passed out in the reception area. They brought him back here and discovered the gunshot wound. When they went through his wallet, they found your name and number.”

“Jock would never have taken that information with him on a mission. He must have been planning to disappear, but wanted me to know if he ended up dead. I take it the gunshot wound wasn't serious.”

“Grazed his left shoulder. Barely a flesh wound.”

“Doesn't it seem a little bizarre that he got shot in broad daylight on a busy street and there are no witnesses?” J.D. asked.

“Bizarre as hell,” Galis said. “I'm guessing whoever shot him must have used a silencer. Nobody in the area complained about hearing a gunshot.”

“What about witnesses?” J.D. asked. “Did the police canvass the neighborhood where he was picked up by the cab?”

“We had a cruise ship in port,” Galis said. “Those things dump a couple thousand people on us every other day or so. They arrive from Miami or Lauderdale or Canaveral early in the morning and leave at dusk. If any of them saw anything, I doubt they'd speak up. They wouldn't want to miss their sailing.

“Then there's Fantasy Fest. This is the biggest gathering we have all year. People come from all over to get drunk and hang out in outrageous stages of undress. I had to call in some favors to get you two a room at the Pier House.”

“Could it have been a routine mugging?” I asked.

“We don't think so,” Galis said. “He had several hundred dollars in his wallet and a passport in the name of Mark Bailey. Plus some credit cards in that name. None of that was taken.”

“The silencer would indicate something more than a random shooting,” J.D. said. “Most muggers who carry guns don't have silencers. Sounds professional.”

“I agree,” Galis said.

“He's going to have one hell of a hangover,” I said.

Galis chuckled. “That he is, my friend. Have you two had dinner?”

“No,” I said, “but I need to be here when he wakes up. If he decides to leave, nobody will be able to stop him. If he knows I'm here, he'll be okay.”

“I can order a pizza,” Paul said.

When Paul had gone, I said, “Too bad we're stuck here. This is the night of the Fantasy Fest parade. We could get naked and walk down Duval Street.”

“Hush your mouth. I'd never do that. Again.”

“Again?”

She flashed a familiar smile, the one that is so enigmatic that I normally just shut up. Not this time. “You walked totally naked down Duval Street?”

“I wasn't totally naked.”

“Glad to hear it. Makes me feel better about your judgment.”

Again the smile. “I wore a Halloween mask and flip-flops.”

“That's all?”

“You don't want to know.”

“But I do.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to stir up your prurient interests.”

“Well, you did.”

“You have prurient interests?”

“Yeah. They mostly deal with you.”

“Only ‘mostly'?”

“I meant to say ‘only.'”

She smiled again. “I knew that.”

“Are you going to tell me about your sashay down Duval?”

“I didn't sashay, thank you. I just walked. Normally.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Maybe later.” Again, the smile. “We can let our fantasies run wild.”

“Fantasies?”

“Yes. You don't really think I'd walk naked down Duval Street, do you?”

“You wouldn't?”

“Only in your fantasies.”

“My fantasies?”

“Our fantasies. I'll tell you all about it later.” And she blasted me again with that smile that was so full of mystery and promise that I almost forgot about the pizza.

F
RIDAY
, O
CTOBER
31

T
HE SAILOR WAS
on Longboat Key, sitting at the far end of Tiny's bar listening to the local gossip. He didn't know the people there, but they all seemed to know each other. “Russ flew Matt and J.D. down to Key West for some reason,” the one they called Logan said.