Unknown Remains (21 page)

FORTY

Ruben's stomach was making noises. He was so hungry, sitting in the dusty lot with the windows down, sweating, the afternoon sun turning the car into an oven. They were in Captiva, outside the hotel restaurant, waiting for Jack to appear, Cobb, fingertips drumming on the top of the steering wheel, singing some country tune.

Ruben's head hurt from the music and the sound of Cobb's voice, the Southern twang getting to him. He reached over, turned off the radio, and saw McCann come out of the restaurant, hand up shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. “You see him?”

Cobb turned, looked through the windshield. “It's McCann.”

“Before you do anything, wait till I get close. I'm gonna surprise him.” Ruben got out of the car and followed McCann, moving in a row, between cars, going through the parking lot, ducking behind a minivan.

McCann was forty feet away when Cobb, the idiot, backed out of the parking space, gunning it, speeding toward them, kicking up sand from the hard-packed lot. McCann saw the Caddy coming toward him and started running. Ruben chased him around the restaurant building, past the tennis courts and the pool, lounge chairs lined up, people lying in the sun, and people in the swimming pool. It was loud and hot, Ruben, sweating and short of breath, felt tightness in his legs, hoping McCann would get tired and slow down, but he didn't and Ruben lost sight of him for a time, then picked him up running between two hotel buildings.

Ruben stopped, upper body bent forward, hands on his knees, sucking in air, taking long, deep breaths, been years since he done road
work. When he could, he took out his cell phone, dialed Cobb, and told him the direction McCann was going.

Diane, standing just
inside the door, had seen everything. She ran to her car and got in. Cobb, in the white Cadillac, was parked on the other side of the small dusty lot. She didn't think he'd seen her. If he did, he wasn't doing anything about it.

She went left on Captiva Drive, heading north, sure Jack would go this way, and just beyond the 'Tween Waters Inn property line, he appeared, running toward the road on the hard-packed sand. She hit the brake and lowered her window as he approached. “You better get in.”

“I'm okay,” Jack said, standing next to the car, leaning with his hands on the door sill, breathing hard.

“You're not going to be for long.” Diane glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the white Cadillac in the distance coming after them.

Now Jack looked and saw them. He opened the door and got in. The tires spun on the hard sand and squealed, making contact with the blacktop.

“Why're you doing this?”

“I don't know.” Even after all he had done, she didn't want anything bad to happen to him. The Caddy was down the road a couple hundred yards and closing fast. She was going fifty, twenty over the speed limit.

Up ahead the road jogged right ninety degrees, going from the ocean to the gulf side of the island, and then a sharp left turn as the road curved again.

She went right on South Seas Plantation Road. Now they were on a narrow strip of land with water on both sides, the aquamarine ocean to the left with beach houses tucked behind walls of foliage and stands of palm trees, and to the right the deep blue gulf, pelicans gliding through the thermals high above.

Jack said, “You see them?”

Diane, glancing in the rearview mirror, said no.

“Maybe we lost them.”

She gave him a questioning look.

“Take the next left and we'll find out.”

Diane slowed down and turned onto a hard-packed sand path barely wide enough for a car, drove thirty yards, kicking up a trail of dust, and took another left, now seeing glimpses of beach houses set back from the ocean behind sea grape, dogwoods, and coco plum. She stopped behind a sand berm that ran parallel to the road. A white Cadillac zoomed by and Diane thought they were safe, till she saw brake lights.

The Caddy turned around. She floored it and they took off. “There's a turnaround up here that'll take us back to the main road.”

She went left around the circle and then up a short rise to the road. Diane glanced in the rearview mirror; all she saw was a wake of dust behind them, no sign of Cobb and Ruben, and she felt relieved. “I think we should go to the police.”

“And say what?” Jack paused. “I'd rather have you drop me off, and take my chances.”

“Drop you off where?”

“The beach house.”

“I called and asked if you had rented a place. They said no.”

“I did under a different name.”

“That's right; you're a fugitive. Who're you pretending to be?”

“Richard Alan Keefer.”

“Come on? All the names, that's the one you pick?”

“I didn't have a chance to consult with you.”

“That's the first thing you've said that sounds like you. I was starting to wonder.”

Diane glanced in the rearview mirror. There was a silver SUV maybe a hundred yards behind them. “You've had a lot of time to think. What's your plan? What're you going to do with the rest of your life—aside from running away from your problems?”

She glanced at Jack. He was clearly annoyed, or angry. That's how he reacted when he didn't get his way, like there was a boy still inside of him. He didn't say anything else till Diane pulled up in front of the beach house. She had a lot of good memories staying here.

“Want to come in?”

Diane pictured them sitting on the deck, drinking wine, watching the sun set. They were in love then. Their life together was perfect and she couldn't imagine it ever changing.

“I don't want you to leave like this,” Jack said.

“What did you think was going to happen?”

“I don't know. I didn't think I would ever see you again, and here you are.” Jack was laying it on heavy. “You can even stay with me if you want.”

“And forget everything else?”

“Why not?”

“I can think of a few reasons.”

“Why don't you see how it goes. You never know, you might be surprised.” Jack, used to getting what he wanted in life, was selling hard now.

“I don't think so.” She didn't know what else to say.

He opened the door, got out, and hesitated. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I'm sure.”

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Diane watched him walk to the front door and go inside.

FORTY-ONE

Jack was positive she was going to follow him to the house they'd rented on their last Captiva vacation. He left the door unlocked, grabbed a beer, and sat on the deck, looking out at the ocean fifty yards away.

Thirty minutes later, Jack knew he was kidding himself. Diane wasn't coming. She'd had enough. He didn't blame her for taking off. He was the one who'd screwed everything up. He'd been through it enough times and decided not to beat himself up anymore. He tried. There was nothing more he could do.

The sun was resting on the horizon when Jack started down the beach, walking on the hard, wet sand along the water's edge, carrying his sandals and a can of beer. There was a warm breeze coming off the ocean. The beach was deserted except for joggers and dog walkers. He was thinking about Ruben and Cobb. No way they'd find him on this secluded part of the island. No way anyone could see the house from the road. You had to know where you were going to find it.

Jack had the beach house for a week. After that, he was going to pack up and head north across the Florida Panhandle, through stretches of Alabama and Mississippi into Louisiana, stop in New Orleans for a couple days, eat oysters, redfish, and étouffée. From there, he didn't know where he was going or what he was going to do. Ahead he could see the outlines of buildings in the 'Tween complex, picturing two football fields end to end, thinking that's how far away it looked.

Diane sat in
the car for a few minutes not sure what to do. Was she really going to let him go? It sounded like a song. She drove to the south end of
the island, took the bridge to Sanibel, pulled into the public beach parking lot, and looked at herself in the rearview mirror. What was she doing? This was it, the moment of truth. She either went back and worked things out with Jack, or she'd never see him again.

Of course there were other issues. Could she ever trust him after what he had done? But how would she ever know for sure unless she tried? If things didn't work out, would she be any worse off than she was now? Probably not. The most important question: Did she still love him?

Jack moved through
the alley behind the 'Tween complex used by the maintenance staff. He stood at the edge of a building, scanning the parking lot. It was dark now, incoming headlights making it difficult to focus on anything or anyone. He moved closer, stood in shadow along the side of the building, the sound of rock music coming from unseen speakers, people everywhere. He had a good angle now, saw his rental car where he'd left it earlier. Didn't see a white Caddy, but that didn't mean anything. His gut told him Cobb and Diaz were still around. They'd expended considerable effort to find him, and he didn't think they would give up that easy. Not with this much money at stake.

He needed his car and thought this would be a good time to get it. Jack walked behind the building, crossed the complex, and came out on the opposite side of the parking lot, standing behind the tall smooth trunk of a palm tree. He watched for a while and moved through a row of cars to his, got in, turned the key, and put it in gear, creeping through the lot with the lights off.

Jack waited till he was on the road before he turned his lights on, checking the rearview mirror. He drove past where he was staying, went down another mile or so. He could see headlights in the rearview mirror. He pulled over on the side of the road, let the car pass. It was an SUV. He made a U-turn and drove to the beach house.

He unlocked the door and turned on a couple lights, feeling relieved. Cobb and Ruben hadn't caught him, and now they weren't
gonna. He cracked a beer, opened the sliding door, felt the breeze, heard waves breaking on shore. He walked down to the beach, drinking a beer, staring out at the water for a while, then went back to the cottage and sat at a table on the deck.

Earlier Cobb had
boosted a Mazda MDX in a strip mall parking lot. Jack had made the Caddy, so they didn't have a choice. Scanning the cool interior, thinking the Japs had really got their shit together. Cobb was checking out the instrument cluster when Ruben surprised him, saying, “You want him? He has to go back to the restaurant to get his car.”

First time ever Ruben had suggested something Cobb hadn't already thought of. Well, Jesus H. Christ, mark this day on the calendar with a fucking star.

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting in the dusty lot, watching the sun go over the motel buildings, watching cars pull in, watching people go in the restaurant. Ruben telling him he should come down to Puerto Rico. “Man, beautiful women, beautiful beaches, great food, gambling, fishing. The place is alive.”

“What do you think, we're gonna hang out?” Cobb pictured them walking around Old San Juan, Ruben introducing him to his greaser buddies. “This is my American friend, Duane.”

Cobb saw someone moving on the other side of the parking lot, car lights illuminating him. Looked like he was sneaking around, didn't want to be seen. Then he was hiding behind a palm tree. “See him over there?” Cobb pointed.

“I don't see nothing.”

There were cars pulling into the lot one after another. “Keep watching.”

A few minutes later, McCann appeared moving through the parking lot, ducking behind cars.

“Yeah, there he is,” Ruben said.

FORTY-TWO

Diane walked around to the back of the beach house, felt the wind coming off the water. Jack, with a can of beer in his hand, was sitting at the small round table. “I don't know if this is a good idea,” Diane said, walking up the steps to the deck.

“We'll find out.” Jack paused. “How about a drink?”

“Bourbon would be good, on the rocks.”

“I'll be right back.” He got up, slid the screen door open, looked back at her. “I'm glad you're here.” And went inside.

Diane wasn't so sure. She leaned against the railing, looking out at the ocean. Five minutes later, when he wasn't back, she wondered what he was up to.

Diane stepped into the room and saw Duane Cobb pointing a shotgun at Jack. Ruben came behind her, grabbed her biceps, pushed her deeper into the room, closed the door, and locked it.

Cobb said, “Where's our money at?”

Jack said, “You didn't see what happened on nine-eleven?”

Cobb said, “The hell's that mean?”

“The cashier's check was in my sport coat.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The coat's gone, blown to dust.”

“Oh, okay,” Cobb said. “Well, thanks anyway. I guess we'll be going.” Cobb jabbed Jack's chest with the shotgun. “Let's try it again, Slick. Where's our money at?”

Jack said, “You set me up, didn't you? Why'd you pick me?”

“You picked yourself. Vicki was the bait, and you went after her like a hungry dog,” Cobb said, glancing at Diane. “You can't blame Jack—everyone wanted her.”

Diane shrugged. “You're defending him now?”

“I'm just saying,” Cobb said.

“You remind me of frat boys talking about a cheerleader. You all wanted her, but Jack got her. What a lucky guy, huh?” Diane said, glancing at her husband. “All we've been through, I hope she was worth it.”

“Myself, I always thought you were the keeper. And I like your new look,” Cobb said, moving next to her, pressing the barrel of the shotgun against the small of her back, moving down her butt, caressing her with the hard steel. “I was hoping for a shot at you.” Cobb glanced at Jack when he said it. “She thought you'd kicked and still wouldn't fool around. That's devotion, my friend.” Cobb paused. “Now here's the deal. Jack, you don't fetch the money, and I mean quick, I guarantee I will pull the trigger and never think about it.”

“It's outside,” Jack said. “I buried it.”

Cobb shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Think I just fell out the hayloft?” He racked the slide. “I don't know if I'll be doing you a favor, or you still want her, but she's gonna be all over this wall you don't start talking.”

“Come out, I'll show you.”

Cobb nodded. “Well, all right. Ruben, why don't you keep Lady Di here company till we get back.”

Diane said to Ruben, “I'm going to make myself a drink. You want something?”

“I don't know it's a good idea.”

“That's right. You better keep an eye on me. I'm going to try to get you drunk and take off.”

Ruben smiled and followed her into the kitchen, which had a half wall separating it from the dining room. There were fifths of booze on the counter: Stoli and Maker's and small bottles of mixers.

Diane said, “What do you want?”

“Vodka.”

She opened the cupboard, took out two lowball glasses, opened the refrigerator, and filled them with ice and his with Stoli, and handed it to him. Diane filled hers halfway with Maker's and took a sip.

Ruben was somehow different. Maybe it was the island clothes. He didn't seem as tough, didn't seem as hard-edged in the guayabera shirt, blousy pants, sandals, and black socks, the outfit reminding her of German tourists she'd seen on holiday in Rome.

Diane said, “How'd you get involved in this mess?”

“After I stop fighting I needed a job. I was a bodyguard for a few years, working for a rich Cuban in Miami.”

“What does a bodyguard do beyond the obvious?”

“Take the man's wife to the beauty parlor, wait while she get her hair done. Take her to the club, wait while she eat lunch. Take her shopping, wait while she try on outfits.”

“I can see how that would get to you, particularly if you're not patient.”

“You know me a little, uh? What do you think?” He sipped the vodka and put the glass on the counter.

“After chasing me through the supermarket and breaking into my house, I have to say no.”

Ruben smiled, and for the first time, she noticed a diamond pattern on his front teeth. “Yeah, I have to scare you.”

“You did a good job.” Diane sipped her bourbon, thinking this lunatic who'd terrified her seemed kind of normal now.

Ruben drank some vodka. “You gonna stay with your husband?” he said, changing the subject.

The question surprised her. “I don't know. Things are pretty screwed up right now. Jack's in a lot of trouble. He can't go back.”

“So you start over. How many people would go for that, uh?” Ruben picked up his glass, drank his drink. “Is the same for me. I can't go back.”

She wasn't expecting that. It sounded as though he was confessing.

“What happened?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“What's San Marino Equity?”

Ruben grinned. “Is nothing.”

“Was Vicki Ross really in debt to a loan shark?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So Jack does owe the money?” Diane paused. “Something tells me you're working for yourself. You're not going to give the money to the Italians, are you?”

“You figure that out, uh?”

“As far as I'm concerned, it's yours. You know Jack won't say anything, and I won't either.” She sipped her drink. “Where you going? No, I don't want to know.”

“Why, you gonna come visit?” Ruben grinned, showing his glitzy front teeth again.

Jack led Cobb
across the sand path behind the cottage to a wide stand of high shrubs, sea grape, dogwoods, and palm trees that separated the beach from the house.

“Don't even think about trying to get away. I'll go back in there—”

“You're not gonna do anything,” Jack said, cutting him off. “I'm gonna give you the money, and you're gonna leave here and we're never gonna see you again.”

“Where do you get your confidence at? A shotgun in your face, you're telling me the way it is?”

Jack ignored him, found the spot and knelt in the sand, Cobb standing a few feet away as he started digging, knew it was right in this general area, about five feet from the palm trees. He knifed the sand with his fingertips in different places, but didn't feel anything. He was thinking about Vicki. He was gonna give her the cashier's check the night she was shot.

After she was murdered, he ended up depositing the money in the Pompano Beach bank. A week and a half later, he tried to withdraw it. The manager said no customer had ever taken out that much. The bank didn't have enough cash on hand, had to order it from the Federal Reserve, and it would take a couple days. The manager also said it was dangerous to carry that much cash and suggested Jack hire armed security.

Marquis Brown had
stopped at the vacation rental agency on Sanibel Island and was told the house he was inquiring about had been rented for the week. “Who rented it?” Marquis asked the office manager, a foxy Hispanic babe about his age, said her name was Carmen.

“Due to a citizen's right to privacy, I'm not at liberty to give you that information.”

“Not at liberty, huh?” Marquis took out his detective shield, flashed it at her. “Somebody's life's at stake. You want that on your conscience?”

“Oh, it's a police matter; that's different,” the woman said. “The house is on Captiva Island, the main road, ocean side. We rented it to a Mr. Richard Keefer.”

“What's the address?”

It was dark when Marquis arrived at the rental house. He parked on the side of the main road. There were two cars sitting on the hard-packed sand and trampled sea grass in front of a thick wall of vegetation. Could be Mrs. and her man reunited, or someone entirely different. If it was the McCanns, Marquis believed Cobb and Ruben would be close by.

He walked along the north side of the house, catching glimpses of the beach and ocean, another wall of green separating this property from the neighbor's.

Looking around the back corner of the house, Marquis felt the wind and heard waves breaking on shore. He thought he heard voices, but couldn't hear what they were saying. Thought he saw something
move, and yeah, there was a dude on his knees digging in the high shrubs behind the house about twenty yards away.

Marquis walked straight toward the ocean, went left around the vegetation, ducked behind palm trees, and saw another dude holding a sawed-off shotgun. Then a third dude appeared, slid the screen open, and stepped out on the deck. “Man, what you doing out there?” This one had a Spanish accent. Had to be the PR, who else?

“Says he can't find it.”

The PR said, “Want me to come out there, help you?”

“You just watch her. I'll handle this.”

A couple minutes later, Marquis saw the digger pull a gym bag out of the sand like a magic trick. The digger stood up, gripping the strap. It was Jack McCann. The dude holding the sawed-off walked McCann to the deck, and they went in the house.

Marquis crouched on the outside of the deck railing. The sliding door was closed and the blinds had been pulled down. He went around to the south side of the house, looked through the window into the kitchen, and beyond it into the main room and saw them all: Mrs., Jack, Ruben, and Cobb. He walked around the house to the front door and drew the Glock.

Diane was surprised
when Jack said he hid the money, and thought it was a ploy to get away from Cobb and call the police. She was more surprised when he came in with the black nylon bag still covered in sand. Jack placed the bag on the wooden dining table, which had three chairs on each side. Ruben was next to him, Cobb across the table, and Diane stood at one of the ends, everyone staring at the bag as Jack unzipped it.

“I'll take it from here,” Cobb said, pointing the shotgun at Jack, motioning him away from the table. Jack took a couple steps back, and Ruben moved closer, unzipped the bag, reached in, and took out a banded stack of bills, fanning the end. Cobb was grinning, took his left hand off the shotgun, and grabbed a couple bundles of cash like he had just won the lottery.

“The surprises keep on coming, don't they?” Diane said, directing the question at Jack. “This is what he embezzled from one of his clients, an old woman who can't think straight.”

Cobb glanced at Ruben. “Put it back in the bag, will you?” Aiming the shotgun at him now.

“What is this?”

“Change in the plan,” Cobb said. “Should've done it a while ago. I don't need a partner, and this seems like a good time to sever ties and move on.”

Ruben, no expression, dropped the money in the bag and stared at the shotgun. In Diane's mind, it was all over for everyone except Cobb until she saw Detective Marquis Brown come into the kitchen with a pistol in his hand. So unexpected, it seemed as though she was hallucinating.

“Drop the sawed-off,” Marquis said.

Cobb turned, fired, and blew a hole in the cabinet where Marquis had been standing.

Diane went down on the floor, ears ringing. She heard Cobb rack the shotgun again, but couldn't see him.

“Throw out your weapon,” Cobb said.

Now she saw Marquis rise up over the counter, aiming the Glock, squeezing the trigger:
Bam, bam
, followed by the
boom
of the shotgun, and Marquis was blown off his feet. She could see him on his back on the kitchen floor. Cobb was feeding shells into the shotgun.

Diane scrambled on hands and knees into the kitchen, picked up Marquis's Glock from the floor next to him. He opened his eyes and looked at her. His sport coat was spread open across his chest, and the top two buttons of his bloodstained, buckshot-puckered dress shirt were undone. She could see the outline of the vest beneath it.

Cobb racked the shotgun and came around the counter. Diane was on her knees, two hands on the Glock the way her father had taught her. “Put it down, Duane.”

“You've got to be kidding me.” Cobb grinned. “Think you can play with the big boys?” He held the shotgun barrel pointed at the floor.

Diane felt her hands shaking, finger on the trigger, fifteen feet from Cobb, who was grinning. “Ever shot somebody? Ain't like shootin' at a target. Now drop the gun, you might live to tell about it.”

She centered the site on Cobb's chest, trying to steady her hands.

“You don't have the nerve.” Cobb brought the shotgun up, aimed it at her, and Diane fired twice. Cobb went down on the living room floor and didn't move.

She stood over him, a look of surprise on Cobb's face, eyes open, two holes in his chest, blood soaking his yellow golf shirt and white pants. She crouched and picked up the shotgun, walked into the kitchen, and rested it on the counter. Diane was surprised to see Marquis sitting on the floor with his back against the cabinet doors. He tried to get up.

“Easy now, sure you should be doing that?”

“I'm fine.”

“Yeah, you could've fooled me. You might be fine after we get you to a hospital. You've been shot. You're probably in shock.”

He was unsteady trying to stand, back sliding up the doors below the counter, and then resting elbows on the granite. There was blood on his collarbone above the vest.

“I'm all right.”

“You don't look all right. You look like you're going to fall over. I'm going to call an ambulance.”

“Relax.” Marquis smiled. “You can shoot. Man, can you shoot. I'm not surprised, girl as tough as you. You can give that back now 'less you're gonna shoot someone else.”