Blackwell Ops 12: Nick Soldata
Hey folks. I’m currently writing Chapter 26, so as far as posting “live” chapters, with this one I’m playing catchup.
Instead of the first seven chapters as I promised, instead here are the first ten chapters. These have been spell checked but not revised or edited.
Tomorrow I’ll post Chapters 11 through 20, and the next day I’ll post whatever I’ve finished up to that day. It might be the rest of the book.
For the next novel I’ll post whatever I write each day.
Still, this will give you a good glimpse at my process.
Harvey
Chapter 1: Going the Distance
On a dark, dank street on the outskirts of Chicago, I shivered in my rental car, hard enough to make my night-vision binoculars move around.
Damn it. Frustrating.
Even without the binocs I could just make out the beat-up white van. It was parked in a vacant lot, facing the street several yards beyond a building about a block and a half away.
The faded glow from the street light across the street reflected off of a blue oval on the grill. So it was the same Ford van parked in the same place. It hadn’t moved since I drove past earlier in the day as part of my final prep for the assignment.
I lowered the stupid binoculars and shivered hard in a frustrated attempt to get it all out, just as if that would work. Then strictly out of curiosity I glanced at my Timex. Same one I was issued back in the day in Marine Corps boot camp. Green nylon web strap, green plastic case. The marks on the dial and the minute and hour hands were green too, lit-up with bits of something radioactive. I forget what the substance is, if they ever told us.
Anyway, it was 2:12 a.m. I felt myself frown.
C’mon guys. I’ve been putting up with this frigid crap for over two hours. Back home in Texas I would don a jacket when the temp dropped below about seventy degrees for the first time.
It was partly my fault I’d been in the cold so long. So as not to draw any unnecessary attention, I had arrived almost a full hour before the targets were due to show up. But then they were almost a half-hour late.
After the first ten minutes of waiting, I wondered whether the move had been canceled. After twenty minutes I thought maybe I’d screwed up. Maybe there was another, identical van in an identical empty lot on the next street over or something.
Then about twenty-five minutes ago, they had finally shown up.
A black, late-model Caddy pulled up along the left curb and parked around fifty feet short of the van. As the trunk lid popped open a bit, six dark figures got out of the car. Three on the driver’s side and three on the passenger side.
The driver, a skinny guy about 5’9” or so dressed in a ball cap and a black t-shirt of all things—no coat—remained behind his open car door, shivering as he barked orders. So despite his obvious lack of common sense, apparently he was in charge. That would make him Hector Orosco, the primary target.
The other guys were all over six feet and bulky, or made to look bulky by their heavy winter coats.
As Orosco directed his crew, he pointed at one man, then another and another. In between, he gestured repeatedly in the direction of the van. The whole time, he was also gesturing with his head and either pointing or raising his arms to his side and dropping them, like he was flustered and telling them to hurry up.
I couldn’t hear what Orosco was saying, but the first guy he had pointed to ran to the back of the car and raised the trunk lid fully. He picked up a box and started toward the van. From the way he was struggling, the box must’ve been full. According to the assignment I’d received a week earlier on my VaporStream device, the cargo was uncut heroin.
By the time the first guy started toward the van, the other men had lined up at the trunk. One at a time they took a box from the back and stumbled toward the van.
Just as the last man struggled away from the trunk with his box, the first man returned. He leaned-in a little farther and brought out another box. Four more men of the men did the same. The fifth was on his way back to the trunk when Orosco said something. His mouth opened wide in the view through the binoculars, and he stiffly pointed twice back toward the van as if emphasizing his order.
The guy pivoted as quick as a politician changing his mind. He raced past the passenger side of the car, into the empty lot and rounded the front of the van. Then he opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat.
I adjusted the binocs and focused past the Caddy at the space behind the back passenger-side tire of the van. I was looking for white exhaust from the tail pipe. I thought he’d start the engine, at least to get the heater going.
Nope. Apparently he was awaiting further orders. Poor sap probably never had an original thought in his life. But that miserable time period was about to end.
I shifted a little in my seat. They were taking forever to transfer the boxes to the van.
Are these guys just slow, or what? Just sayin’, if I was doing what they’re doing, especially on an icy-assed night like this—and even more especially since they would be in full view of any cop who might happen by—I might have put a little gitty-up into the guys loading the stupid van.
But even before that I would have pulled the Caddy into the empty lot and backed it up to the back of the van. Orosco probably didn’t want to get the tires dirty or something. You know, like the folks who buy a Land Cruiser or something similar and then are careful to drive only on pavement and concrete.
I sighed. At least they were almost finished. Or they appeared to be.
I stretched my shoulders and then my eyelids to reset myself, then raised the binoculars again.
But I immediately lowered them, this time to wipe the breath-fog off the driver’s-side window with the left sleeve of my jacket. That was the third time since the targets had arrived.
Naturally, wiping the window made my jacket sleeve a little wetter than it was before. In a few seconds, the moisture would seep through the material to the sleeve of my shirt and the skin of my forearm, and I’d get even colder. I shivered again at the thought.
I wish I didn’t need the stupid binoculars.
I glanced through the freshly wiped window without them.
But from a block and a half away, all I could make out were shadows. And on a black night like this, all you can tell about a shadow is that it moved, and you can only tell that after the fact. In my line of work, that isn’t good enough.
I wiped the window again, maybe unnecessarily, but I hoped it would be the last time. Then I raised the binocs again.
Orosco was still standing behind the door of the caddy. The five bulky men were gathered alongside the left front fender, all shivering even in their heavy coats, apparently receiving final instructions.
But I’d seen enough. The boxes had been transferred to the van, though the trunk lid was still standing about half-open. It was over.
Well, that isn’t exactly accurate. It wasn’t quite over, but it would be in another thirty seconds or so.
Chapter 2: The Hit
I reached over to the passenger side of the seat and picked up the Tavor 7, a bullpup rifle chambered for 7.62 millimeter with a sixteen-inch barrel from Israeli Weapons Industries.
It wasn’t mine, of course—I’d flown into town and I would fly out—though I’d like to own one. My contact had delivered it along with two loaded, twenty-round magazines, and what we used to call a “Willy Peter” M34 white phosphorous grenade to my hotel room last night. The Tavor packs a wallop. And when it’s set to full auto, it delivers it like it’s late getting to a hot date.
One magazine would probably be more than enough, but I picked up the second one anyway and slipped it into my right jacket pocket.
I brought the binoculars up and looked through the driver’s-side window again.
They were all still chatting, probably about the way they thought the situation would turn out.
I shook my head and shivered at the thought of stepping out of the car into the icy wind.
I probably shouldn’t have accepted this stupid assignment. Chicago is too damn cold, and I knew that going in.
But an assignment is an assignment, and I had passed nine weeks without getting one. The time off was nice, of course. At least at first.
But the last few weeks of that time, I started to sweat. I thought maybe TJ had struck me from the rolls. That would mean he’d shifted me to the other side of the chess board and I was a target now. Usually we get no longer than six weeks between assignments, and often the interim is only three or four weeks.
I sighed again and mentally pulled up my big boy pants. The fact was, I had accepted the assignment. Besides, I was already frozen half-stiff, so it made even more sense to carry on. And there was no reason for further delay.
Just get it over with and get warm.
For the second or third time, I checked to make sure the dome light would remain off. Then I tugged on the door handle, let the door jerk away in the wind, and stepped out.
As I expected, even the five men facing in my direction didn’t notice me. They were all focused on their genius leader.
I eased the door shut, depressing the thumb knob so it wouldn’t click, then settled the stock of the Tavor against the crook of my right elbow and started toward them.
I was over halfway to the Caddy before I brought the rifle to my shoulder. I kept walking as I squeezed off a round. The bullet knows where to go.
It took Orosco in the head and he dropped.
One guy beyond him grabbed at his throat with both hands, and then he went down too.
Huh. A two-fer.
My ears rang with that weird, humming tone.
Damn it. Left my hearing protection in the car. I knew I should have put it in the front seat with the rifle.
Incredibly, the other four just stood there staring, some at the skinny guy on the ground.
But one gaped at me and raised one hand to point as he tugged at the zipper of his coat with his other hand. “Hey!”
Then my bullet took him in the forehead and he dropped too.
The others all ducked and started scrambling and jerking each other out of the way, trying to get into the Caddy. Nobody had returned fire. But in their defense, their weapons, if they had any, were probably buried inside those bulky coats.
I crouched next to the left rear wheel well of the car, took careful aim, and fired three quick rounds through the windshield of the van. Each bullet was spaced a few inches apart. The first and nearest impact was maybe an inch the other side of the center of the windshield.
The van rocked slightly, but otherwise it didn’t move.
I straightened, stepped up onto the sidewalk, and turned around.
The car windows were dark tinted.
Now that’s just not fair.
I sprayed a short burst through the driver’s-side back window, then the driver’s side front window, then the driver’s-side back window again.
I dropped the magazine just in case—I wasn’t counting—and inserted the second one from my jacket pocket, then brought the rifled up to my shoulder again and peered over the barrel into the interior of the car.
Nothing moving. Still, better safe than sorry.
But I’d hit that second guy in the throat. I wasn’t sure where.
I took a step to my left, located him in front of the car, and put a round into his head. Then I swung the barrel back to face the car.
Still no movement.
I took the Willie Peter grenade from my left jacket pocket, stepped to my right and pulled the pin, then tossed the grenade into the trunk.
Then I turned and walked toward the van. A second or two later, a muted pop behind me told me the Willie Peter was burning its way toward the gas tank of the Caddy.
I should have about a half-minute.
I continued toward the van. Of course, most of the windshield was blown out. And there was no movement, no sounds, no anything.
I walked around the back of the van. The back doors were closed.
Good.
I continued cautiously along the driver’s side.
That window was blown out too. The left shoulder of the guy’s coat protruded over the bottom of that space, his head lolling to the left. His tongue was lolling too, from the left corner of his mouth.
It reminded me of the first and only deer I’d bagged in the Sacramento Mountains above Mayhill, New Mexico back when I was young and stupid. He was a magnificent buck muley, and killing him was one of my very few regrets in life. He looked a lot better carrying that rack through the Ponderosa pines, stopping now and then to graze. Like I said, he was nothing short of magnificent. But I was only 17 then, and being urged-on by my father. I hadn’t yet realized that only humans deserve to be hunted and killed.
Not that the guy hanging in the window of the van was magnificent in any way. Like the others, he was a complete waste of flesh and bone. I’d done him a favor.
More quickly, I walked back to the Caddy and tossed the Tavor and both magazines through the front driver’s side window. Like I said, they weren’t mine. They had been provided only for this assignment. Then I hastened back to the van.
I depressed the button on the door handle and jerked the door wide.
The man fell out. He landed on his head, and his torso and legs flopped into the glow of the streetlight some fifty-plus feet away.
I looked in past the steering wheel.
He’d left the keys in the ignition. Good man.
I climbed into the van, started it, and pulled out onto the street just as the gas tank on the Caddy exploded into a ball of flame.
Well, there y’go. With any luck, the fire would give skinny man and his buddy outside the car and advance taste of Hell too.
* * *
A few miles and several minutes later, I pulled the van up in a no-parking zone in front of a police station—again, per instructions. I flipped the ignition key under the front seat, closed the door, then walked across the street to a waiting taxi and slipped into the back seat.
Neither I nor the driver spoke.
Several minutes after that, he dropped me at my rental car.
The Caddy was still burning. Several blocks away up the street, the headlights of a fire engine. It was racing through its own red-blue-red lights.
I started the car, turned the heater up to the max, and checked the clock in the dashboard. My flight to Dallas would leave in four hours. I’d spend a few days there, then catch a flight to Phoenix and drive home.
I drove to the next corner and turned right. Half a block farther along, I switched on my headlights and drove to my hotel to shower, change and pack.
Chapter 3: The Egress, and a New Assignment
Not that it really matters unless maybe you read about it later in the Sun-Times or the Tribune—well, or online—but Hector Orosco was only a minor player in the major drug world. The transfer I’d spoiled was to be his debut as a major player. But until I received the assignment, I’d never heard of the guy. And I never did know the names of the others. They were only the et al in the message that conveyed the assignment.
I still don’t know whether the city council or the cops or one of the rival drug lords made the call to TJ. It might’ve even been someone else. None of my business. Either way, I guess whatever shift of cops would go on duty after I dropped off the van would be in for a happy surprise.
I was just glad it was over and I could be warm again for awhile.
Except for the occasional ice storms and the wind that races almost constantly across the plains, Dallas was almost always warmer than Chicago. Maybe even during the ice storms. I was pretty sure the word Chicago would cause me to stop reading any future assignments and press the Reject button on my VaporStream device. At least in the late fall, winter, or early spring.
Oh, the VaporStream device. I received the new one via special delivery awhile back. The old one was fine, but I could tell at a glance the new one was better. The delivery guy asked for the old one back, and I was more than happy to trade.
In appearance if not in function, the VaporStream device is like a small cell phone. The screen is two inches wide by three inches tall, but that’s where the similarity ends.
It has three buttons: a small button marked On, another small one marked only with an uppercase R for Reject, and a larger Accept button marked only with an uppercase A.
If you hear the tone the device emits—and it’s advisable to do so—you have to press the On button within three minutes. Then TJ knows you’re on your toes and you can read the assignment. To give you an honest chance to catch the message—say if you’re in the shower or something—the tone repeats at intervals of fifteen seconds throughout that first three minutes.
But if you don’t press it within that time—and if it’s a general assignment, meaning it isn’t meant specifically for you—the message disappears and goes on to the next operative.
The message presents in no more than seven or eight short lines in light-green text on a dark background. Really low-tech stuff. From the time you press the On button, you have one minute to either reject or accept the assignment. When you do, the message disappears. No metadata to track and no trail. It disappears like vapor. So VaporStream.
But a minute is a long time. I always read the message. And unless I want to reject it, I read it a second and third time to commit it to memory. Then I press Accept.
* * *
The plane was wheels-up at Chicago O’Hare at 6:15 a.m. and landed at Dallas/Fort Worth International a little before 9. By ten I was walking through the door of my furnished apartment. Before I even set my bag down, I jacked up the thermostat.
Perfect. The first day of a brand-new vacation. That’s the great part about working for TJ Blackwell. The same significant paycheck hits your Swiss bank account every month, and the paid vacations are usually two to six weeks long. It ain’t a bad gig.
You know. If you can forget the faces.
But so far, I haven’t had a problem with that. Whenever possible, like the hit in Chicago, I don’t even see their faces. Well, except for the guy in the van. I saw his plainly, but it reminded me of that mule deer, and the face of that deer is the one I won’t ever forget.
* * *
After I showered and shaved, I sat down to read for awhile, the latest book in Robert J. Sadler’s Michael Grant series of Black Book Investigations. Grant is quite a character. According to the storylines, he had served in the National Guard, then worked for awhile as a cop before he was tagged to do some things for the CIA. Hence Black Book Investigations. Later he took out a license as a private investigator, and he had a great team around him.
Thing is, Grant isn’t only a character in Sadler’s books. He’s a real guy. He and I met several years ago, probably at the SHOT Show. I forget. As we chatted, we found we had some things in common, especially our interest in new weapons technology. Not so much bombs and missiles and other heavy stuff, but advances in pistols and rifles. We had gotten together for a meal or drinks from time to time, usually at Desperados Mexican Restaurant here in Dallas.
After I’d read a little while, I realized I was more tired than a thought. I put the book down and went into the bedroom. I was asleep about the time my head hit the pillow.
The next afternoon, I called Michael Grant at his office to see whether he’d like to meet me for supper. I’d never fired a Tavor 7 before the thing in Chicago, and I hoped to get his thoughts on the weapon. Especially whether he thought it might be worth the two grand it would cost me to invest in one. He could also advise me on the legal issues involved with owning one in Texas.
His secretary put the call right through, and he seemed glad to hear from me. It had been months since the last time we’d spoken to each other, and longer since we’d gotten together. We arranged to meet at Desperados at 8 p.m. that evening.
But not quite an hour after I hung up the phone, my VaporStream device sounded.
I caught it on the first tone and fished it out of my shirt pocket. The message was succinct, but longer than most I’d received. The first line was the extra:
Eyes only
Aw crap. That meant this one was only for me. So refusal was not an option. You know, unless I had a death in the family. And the death happened to be mine.
Proceed by air tonight Barbados
One-way ticket DFW
TWP Jackson Tingley
C Sam Smalley
The TWP in the fourth line meant Terminate With Prejudice.
That always makes me smile. I mean, is there any other way to terminate someone?
The next line was my contact. He would provide anything I needed.
The sixth line, which I have not shown here, was the range of dates during which the hit had to be completed. Usually the range is anywhere from five to ten days. But this time the opening date was only two days away. I guess that’s why he wanted me to leave tonight.
And the closing date in the range was the next day. So only two active days to make the hit. It was the tightest timeline TJ had ever assigned, at least to me.
I’d better have my ducks lined up. No room for error in this one. Or much time for research and preparation.
The last two lines were recommended locations for the hit, primary and secondary.
Staying Sandy Lane Hotel w/female
Payne’s Bay Beach early evening
I saw why he made Sandy Lane the primary site. I could catch the guy in his room, hopefully without the “female” present, off him and leave. On Payne’s Bay Beach, especially in Barbados, the woman was likely to tag alone. Not to mention there would be other people around.
I read the message a couple more times, then pressed Accept.
Chapter 4: A Rain Check and Wheels Up
After I pressed the Accept button, I dropped the VaporStream device back into my shirt pocket, found my cell phone and called Michael Grant at his office again. I figured he was still at work.
When the secretary picked up the phone, I said, “Hi Marnie. Nick Soldata again. Is he in?”
But she said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Soldata. He’s out for the rest of the day. May I take a message?”
“Please, especially if you can reach him before 8 p.m. Convey my apologies and tell him I’ll have to take a rain check for supper. Unfortunately, I’ve been called away on urgent business.”
“You know, I thought he said you two were going to supper. But I’m sure I can reach him. Should I have him call you?”
“Nah, I guess not. I’m heading out the door now.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“No, but thanks.”
“You’re welcome. You take care now. ‘Bye ‘bye.” And she hung up.
Marnie seemed like a sweetheart. I’d never met her, but I’d spoken with her a few times on the phone over the years.
Then I went back into the bedroom and started packing my bag.
* * *
Dallas/Fort Worth International only had three direct flights to Barbados per week, but the next plane was leaving just before midnight tonight.
I grinned. I was wrong before. That’s why TJ wanted me to leave tonight.
But that was good. I didn’t want to have to fly somewhere else first. Direct flights help me keep my focus. Plus the flight would last a little over twelve hours, so I’d have plenty of time to finish my initial research on Mr. Tingley while I was in the air.
But I also had a few hours before I would have to leave for the airport.
I pulled out my laptop and found a map of Barbados first so I could locate both the Sandy Lane Hotel and Payne’s Bay Beach.
Turned out the beach was only about a third of a mile due south of Sandy Lane. The hotel looked to be extremely luxurious, though it was considerably too pricey for my taste. Not that I couldn’t afford it, but unless I’m accompanied I don’t need all that. Besides, I’m allergic to throwing away money.
Over a thousand bucks a night? Nuh-uh. All I really need in a hotel or motel is a door that locks or a chair to lodge under the doorknob, a flat surface to sleep on, and a bathroom. Everything else is luxury. In a pinch, even the bathroom is optional.
Anyway, it’s probably not a good idea to check in at a hotel and then pop another paying guest. Especially a wealthy guest. And to stay there, the guy had to be wealthy.
That led me to go looking for whatever I could find out about Jackson Tingley, but it wasn’t much. For a multi-millionaire he maintained a pretty low profile.
Tingley inherited his money from his father, Jason Tingley, the racecar and sports car designer who worked from his home in Talladega, Alabama. You know, of Tingley Auto fame.
I grinned. I thought I recognized that last name.
Jackson had sold the company for several million dollars within months of the old man passing.
I wondered vaguely whether his mother might have contested the inheritance, but I discovered she was no longer around either.
In fact, not quite a month before her husband kicked-off from a heart ailment, she died too. Only she died as the result of blunt force trauma as she tumbled down the stairs of the big house she had shared with him for fifty-three years.
And the investigation into her death was closed within a week after her cremation.
Cremation. Down south. And her husband was cremated too.
And both cremations were arranged by—you guessed it—Jackson Tingley. Hmm.
The coroner officially ruled Mrs. Tingley’s demise a “death by misfortune.” That was not quite two weeks before he was seen driving around in a shiny new red Cadillac. Always before he’d driven a 1980-something Ford pickup.
It was also a month before the old man died of a chemical imbalance—too much lead in his system, and all of it from bullets. Hmm again. That caused me to wonder whether any law-enforcement types in Talladega county were currently driving shiny new Cadillacs.
But I didn’t bother to look. Focus, Soldata.
Jackson was forty-two and affluent, naturally. He was also a man whose tastes ran to the exotic. And they pretty much stayed there. He was single, so that ruled-out a wife wanting him gone. None of my business who wanted him tapped, but I like to speculate. He was also something of a womanizer, which is like saying Yuma, Arizona is something like a little warm at 2 p.m. on August 4th.
Ah, here’s a tidbit. Seems he always took his belle du jour out of the country for their first date.
I found that a little odd. Probably just showing off. Maybe that’s why he stays in places like the Sandy Lane Hotel.
But from the plethora of photos I found with a different women on his arm in each one, that first date might also have been their only date.
I understand the guy’s filthy rich, but where does he find the time? Not to mention the energy?
Plus, any women out there could find these pictures just as easily as I had.
But then, knowing a guy has truckloads of money can mute a lot of concerns about fidelity and cause a woman to set aside her curiosity in a snap. And apparently everyone on Earth knew who this guy was.
Except me, I guess. I’d heard of his father, but I’d never heard of Jackson.
Well, until now.
Unfortunately for him, TJ Blackwell had sent me his name.
With a big, fat TWP in front of it.
It was around 9:30 p.m. when I happened to glance up at a clock.
I closed the computer, put it in my bag and headed out the door.
* * *
The drive to DFW took only about a half-hour. Then security and all that. When I reached my gate, I had only another half-hour to spare, so I read for awhile.
I fly Coach when I can, even to a place like Barbados. Like I said earlier, I’m allergic to throwing away money, and I won’t spend the extra just so I can get on and off the place a few minutes before everyone else does. We all take off and land in the same place at the same time.
And it’s not like I need the leg room. I’m only 5’9” and in the neighborhood of 165 pounds. It’s a good neighborhood. I like it. And I don’t work out. But I also don’t smoke except for the occasional cigar, and I don’t drink unless I’m at Desperados. There I might have one or two Michael Grant margueritas. Yeah, the owner of the place named a drink after the guy. It’s a concoction Patron Silver tequila (Grant’s favorite), Gran Marnier, and a “splash of 43,” whatever that is.
Like I said, I don’t drink much.
The meals on the plane weren’t half bad, probably because most of the passengers were wealthy. There were only around fifteen people in Coach. Everyone else was in either Business Class or First Class. From what I could tell peeking through the little blue curtain, the flight attendants served us all the same stuff. Just those up front got more attention, which was fine with me. Anonymity is good. Plus I still had more research to do.
Chapter 5: Welcome to the Island!
There wasn’t much more to learn about the target. Or at least not much I hadn’t already assumed.
He was about my height, but rotund, about ten years older, and badly balding. With my thick black hair, I would never have to worry about that.
He combed what little hair he had straight back. I did too, but only because I’m of Italian heritage. And before you ask, no, I’m not connected. The only thing I’ve ever been accused of or “connected” with is an occasional run of bad judgment. And I don’t mean the kind of bad judgment where you knock a guy off and then dig the grave way too shallow. Besides, I don’t dig. The only thing I’m allergic to other that throwing away money is shovels.
But I’m guessing Jackson wore his hair slicked back because he was a ladies’ man, or thought of himself that way. I still think his money was a ladies’ magnet and he was just along for the ride, enjoying the fringe benefits.
He didn’t look dangerous at all either. Not really dangerous and not the kind of bad-boy dangerous that attracts women. He looked a little like a demure Jon Lovitz on a hamster wheel.
He looked meek and mild, like an inflated Clark Kent but with a non-existent chin and no jawline to speak of. Still, almost every photo showed him with the stubble of a few days’ growth of beard. With that and the puffed-out cheeks he resembled a squirrel who’d had a run-in with a porcupine.
Soon I was disgusted with myself. Not for the jokes and barbs at Jackson’s expense, but for spending so long trying to find even one picture in which he didn’t look like a sub-sub-sub-average Joe trying to look handsome, or at least fancy. He never pulled off either look.
I had forgotten to book a room, so I found a vacancy through Travelocity and booked a room in a place called the Wee Blue Inn. On the map, it was only about 2 kilometers, about a mile and a quarter, inland from the Sandy Lane. Then I turned my attention to the Sandy Lane Hotel itself. Just in case, I also studied Payne’s Bay Beach and the terrain and other details between the two.
The plane set down gently at Grantley Adams International Airport in Bridgetown a little before 1 p.m.
* * *
I took a cab to the Wee Blue Inn.
As you might imagine, it was a concrete-block building painted blue. The only modern thing about it was the single aluminum-frame glass door that led into the twenty foot by twenty foot “lobby.”
In the back left corner stood a worse-for-wear Coke machine filled with Pepsi. Alongside it was a vending machine filled with candy and bags of corn chips and potato chips A long couch with sagging cushions and an easy chair were backed against the front wall, a small table and lamp between them. A blond coffee table, vintage 1950s, fronted the couch. In the center of the room was a round table and four fiberglass chairs—two blue, one orange, and one yellow—on spindly aluminum legs.
A skinny, tired-looking gentleman of around 5’2” and of Oriental descent in a short-sleeved, white, button-down shirt and black trousers was standing behind a counter. Reading glasses were perched halfway down his nose, and a hand-rolled cigarette dangled from the left side of his mouth. He kept squinting his left eye to keep the smoke out, but he never took the thing out of his mouth. Behind him and above his head was a white clock face mounted in a round, cracked, black-plastic frame. The hour hand and second hand were black too. The minute hand was missing.
The front of the counter was whitewashed plywood—the knots and grain showed through—and the top was a thin, pinkish Formica. A white pattern ran through it. Anyone under about the age of four might think it was actually pink marble.
To the left on the counter was an old-fashioned cash register, and to the right were six or eight plastic stands filled with brochures about various local sites.
I looked around, but I didn’t see a computer or monitor anywhere. I looked at the clerk, who was probably also the owner, and frowned. “I made a reservation?”
In broken English, he said, “You di’?”
I nodded. “Through Travelocity?”
“Oh, that wa’ you?” He held up one finger. “One minute.” He searched through a pile of papers that was in disarray, occasionally muttering, “Don’ nee’ that no more” and letting one float toward a silver mesh trash basket on the floor behind him.
Finally he said, “Ah ha!” He pulled one out, held it up close to his face, then peeked around it. “You Mistah So’data?”
“That’s me.” I frowned. “But how’d Travelocity get you the information?” I glanced around again. “I don’t see a computer anywhere.”
He wagged one hand. “Oh, they call.” He pointed vaguely toward the end of the counter with the cash register. “I got a phone o’a the’ somewhe’.” He spread his arms. “Hey, Mistah So’data, you lucky we’ not full-up.” Then he burst into what I can only describe as a cackle.
When the cackle died, he donned a serious look. “You go’ money, righ’?”
“Yes sir. How much?”
“You go’ nine’y dolla’?”
“Yes sir.” I pulled out my wallet and started thumbing through twenties. “Goo’, then you ca’ eat too. The room is only twenny dolla’.”
I handed him a twenty and he pocketed it, then turned and walked past the cash register. As he passed from behind the counter, he put up one hand and curled his fingers over his shoulders. “Come. I show you room.”
I followed him along a path of round, chipped or broken, faded-pink concrete pavers toward the left end of a row of separate little cottages, also of cinder-block construction, each painted a different color but with a white frame around the door. Overall it was a gaudy presentation. Rainbows are nice viewed from a distance, but who wants to live it one? Mine was a faded purple or violet color.
He stopped in front of the door, inserted the key in the lock, turned it and pushed the door open. Then he gestured: “The’ you ah. Enjoy you stay.” Then he handed me the key.
There was no number on the door and no fob on the key.
I frowned. “What’s the room number?”
He wagged that hand again. “This room one.” He pointed. “On’a en’, see? But all’a keys the same. Beside’, you the only gues’.”
Okay.... So do all the keys look the same or are all the door locks keyed the same?
I didn’t ask. I held up the key and smiled. “Thanks.” I only hoped there was a chair in the room to wedge under the doorknob.
He flashed a toothy grin. “You we’come.” He turned and started for the office.
I called after him. “What if I need to stay another night?”
He kept walking, but raised one hand and rubbed his thumb against his fingers. “Anotha’ twenny dolla’, but you tell me when that happen.” He cackled again.
What a strange little guy. I turned, went in and closed the door. There was a reassuring click, but no deadbolt. Not even a chain or a peephole. No house rules posted on the inside of the door either, laminated or otherwise.
The room was actually much nicer than I expected: A queen-sized bed neatly made with apparently clean bedding. A nightstand on the far side of it with a lamp on a doily and an old rotary phone perched on a phonebook that was about a half-inch thick. No bedside clock. I guess I was on island time. There was also a small three-drawer dresser, a small desk with a straight-back chair (bingo!), and a narrow door in one wall of a cube in the corner that I hoped was bathroom.
I passed by the end of the bed and opened the door. Yep, a bathroom. And it was sparkling clean. Not even the rust stain I expected around the drain hole in the sink. The toilet looked practically new. No paper strip over the seat, but who are they kidding with that anyway?
Almost as an afterthought, I left the bathroom and opened the main door again. I stepped out and tried my key in the door of the next room over.
The key went in smoothly, but it wouldn’t turn. The door remained locked.
Good enough.
Chapter 6: Sam Smalley
I sat on the bed, picked up the old rotary phone, and took the phone book from underneath it.
I flipped through the pages until I came to the S listings, laid the open book on my lap, and ran my finger down the page. There were three listings for Smalley: James, Patterson, and Samuel. So no exact match for “Sam.”
I don’t like assumptions or even educated guesses, but I called the third number first anyway.
When a woman picked up, I said, “May I speak with Sam?”
She sounded annoyed. No I’m sorry or even Who wants to know? “There’s nobody here by that name.”
I quickly said, “Or Samuel?”
She switched from annoyed to suspicious. “Who is this anyway?”
I smiled to put the right tone in my voice. ”Please tell him it’s an old friend.”
“No you’re not! If you were, you’d know he hates the nickname Sam!”
“Well may I speak with him anyw—”
She slammed the phone down.
Wow.
I laid the receiver gently in the cradle and looked at the book again.
Only two names left. Combined they were James Patterson.
Okay, that’s not a good sign. I grinned.
As an avid reader, I can’t stand the guy’s work. Patterson is to pulling a reader into the story what 7Up is to caffeine: Never had it, never will. Apparently he’s hell on wheels for marketing his slop though. I picked up the receiver again and dialed the number for the James Smalley listing.
A man answered in a gruff voice, obviously not in a good mood. “Yeah?”
“Uh, James?”
“Yeah? But who are you?”
“Listen, are you sometimes called Sam?”
He snorted. “Are you drunk or just stupid?” He slammed the phone down. Must be an island thing.
Well, that’s two for two. It just isn’t my day.
I pressed the nearest button in the cradle to hang up on my end and glanced at the phone book again.
If Patterson Smalley isn’t also called Sam—fat chance—I’ll either risk calling Samuel back and hope he answers this time, or I’ll just do Jackson Tingley with a damn paperclip or something.
I picked up the receiver and dialed the third number.
In a soothing baritone, a man said, “Smalley residence. Pat speaking.” The guy might have been a radio jock.
I decided to cut to the chase. Then I’d go see whether the nice desk clerk had a paperclip I could borrow. “Sam?”
A second or two of silence. He cleared his throat. Then, more quietly, he said, “Nick?”
“Yes sir.”
“Where are you?”
“A place called the Wee Blue I—”
“Gimme a half-hour.” He hung up.
* * *
There was no television in the room. I was almost happy for that, but it might have been interesting to see whether the people of Barbados are subjected to the same schlock we put up with in the States.
I opened Sadler’s book. Grant and a few of his associates were off on another adventure. I with them.
I hadn’t realized a half-hour had passed when two light raps came at the door.
So I wouldn’t lose my place, I put the book face-down on the bed, then went to the door and opened it. “Sam, it’s—”
But it wasn’t Sam. It was the little guy from the counter in the motel office.
He frowned. “Who Sam?”
“Doesn’t matter. What can I do for you?”
“If you gonna stay anotha’ day, I nee’ twenny dolla’ now please.”
I frowned as I reached for my wallet, uncertain how much of the half-hour had passed. “I thought you said—”
“Yes. No’mally I wait, but my wi’ want’—”
Ah. His wife. I smiled. “Say no more, my friend.” I pulled out three twenties and let him see them. “Actually, I think I’ll stay three more nights.”
As he reached for them, I pulled them back, raised my index finger and moved it slowly side to side. “But no more interruptions for that three days, okay? No maid service, nothing. I’ll leave the key in the room when I go.” I jerked my left thumb over my shoulder. “By the telephone.”
He didn’t skip a beat. “Okey doke. No inneruption’, Mistah So’data.” He reached for the cash again.
I let him take it. “Thanks.” I raised one hand and closed the door.
I went to the bathroom for a necessary reason, then washed my hands and went back to my bed and my book. I had just rejoined Grant and his buddies. They—we—were just about to access—
A pair of light raps sounded on the door again.
I sighed, put the book face-down, then got up and went to the door again. As I opened it I said, “I asked you not to inter—”
But it wasn’t the clerk or owner or whatever he was.
The guy towered over me at around 6’2” but he probably weighed about as much as I do. In black sneakers, faded denim bluejeans, a blue ball cap and a colorful Hawaiian shirt that hung off bony shoulders, he was skinny as a rail, complete with a pronounced adam’s apple.
His face was pinched-in from the sides like a wedge, and his cheeks and chin were pockmarked under a sparse, two or three day stubble of beard. In his right hand, his knuckles straining white under the skin, he gripped a cardboard box about six inches square and two inches thick
He grinned, and his adam’s apple bobbed. “Nick, right? Good to meet you.” The same soothing baritone. Without offering his hand or waiting for a response, he stepped past me into the room.
I turned as I closed the door. “You’re Sam?”
He nodded. “But we’ve established identity.” He held up the box. “Let’s get to this little beauty. You got gloves?”
“I always carry latex with me.”
He grinned again, more broadly. “Sure, so do I. But you got gloves?” Then he wagged the hand that wasn’t holding the box. “Just kidding.” Uninvited, he sat on the foot of the bed. He placed the box on his lap, then looked up as he bounced a couple of times and glanced back at the bed. “Hey, this isn’t half bad, is it? Good sprangs?”
Ah, I get it. The latex joke and now the bed “sprangs.” Guy talk. Sex stuff. I grinned back at him. “How would I know, Sam? I just got here.”
He frowned up at me. “But your plane landed what, three hours ago?” He chuckled, leaned forward, and poked me in the ribs. “Man, you’re slow. The wahinis on this little jewel of an island are sweet.”
I nodded. “Maybe. Unfortunately, I won’t have time to find out.”
“Ah. Gotcha. You’re an in-and-out kind of guy. All business, eh?” He bobbed his head, then patted the space next to him. “Sit, business boy. Let’s get to it.”
As I sat, he turned the box, pulled out two little tabs on the front, and lifted the top.
Inside, pressed into a black foam mat, was a revolver with an S&W logo etched into the frame behind the cylinder and in front of the trigger guard. The barrel was threaded and it had a ramp front sight. Below the grip, a sound suppressor ran almost the length of the box. Six rounds were imbedded face-down in the foam where the trigger guard curved into the grip, their brass primers apparent in the steel casings.
He patted the rounds. “These are just extras in case you’re a bad shot.” He chuckled. “But the gun’s loaded and ready to go.” He picked it up. “This here is a Smith and Wesson thirty-two caliber hole puncher.”
“Why a revolver?”
He shrugged. “TJ said.” He gestured with the gun. “Besides, revolvers don’t jam.”
“And it’s a throw-away?”
He nodded. “Carry the extra rounds with you. Drop them and the gun at the scene and walk away.” He winked and grinned. “Nothing to it.”
He seemed a natural. Curious, I said, “You ever think of becoming an operative?”
He handed me the revolver, put the box on the bed between us, and stood up. He crossed the few steps to the door, then looked back and grinned again. “Nah. I like the wahinis too much.” He turned the doorknob and pulled the door open, then raised a hand as he stepped through. “See ya.”
He pulled the door closed.
Chapter 7: Payne’s Bay Beach and the Sandy Lane Hotel
There were still a few hours of daylight left, so I pulled on a dark blue ball cap with a bright white star on the front of it and took a walk. A guy hiring a cab to take him from the Wee Blue Inn, probably the cheapest place on the island, to the Sandy Lane Hotel might leave a lasting impression. I don’t need that.
Payne’s Bay Beach was nothing spectacular, but neither was it the uninhabited strip of empty wilderness that landlocked souls think of when they think of an exotic beach. Yes, white sand stretched to turquoise shallows. Yes, several singles and couples lounged on towels or chaise lounges under beach umbrellas. And yes, a couple of bamboo bars served beer, cocktails and a pink concoction in a tall glass with a straw. Nothing special, though I did slow my pace a bit and smile cordially as I passed some of the bikini-clad women. Most of them smiled back.
But as the less fantasy minded might expect, less than a hundred feet to the east of the beach along the whole strip was Blue Lagoon Highway, and just the other side of it was a mishmash of various hotels, homes with swimming pools, and apartment buildings with names Coral Cove Villas.
The Sandy Lane Hotel was north another quarter-mile or so. The highway looped inland a ways, but the same mix of lesser hotels, private homes and businesses continued on both sides of it. And who could blame the wealthy for building homes here? If I was that wealthy and wanted an island lifestyle I’d try to build a lavish home on the beach too.
But I admit I was a little awed when I finally passed through the white gates to gain entrance to the Sandy Lane Hotel. Maybe it did deserve to charge over a grand for a room for the night. The place was snazzy, with a lined, turquoise-blue inlet running from the ocean right up to the front of the hotel. A pristine, picturesque white bridge provided a path across it.
Out front, a swank patio featured several seating areas on concrete among exotic trees with long trunks and spindly branches and leaves. Some of the seating areas were furnished with wooden chairs and lounges, plushly padded with off-white cushions. Others were furnished with dark metal chairs padded in tropical orange.
Everywhere were stout Greek-looking white-marble columns supporting massive arches and walls of massive stone blocks. In the lobby, paired grand staircases led up to a spectacular mezzanine. The front desk, like almost everything else in the place, was of white marble.
I approached the clerk, a beautiful, trim young woman with long black hair. She was dressed in a royal-blue pantsuit and jacket over a white blouse buttoned to her graceful neck. A royal-blue bowtie completed the look. No wedding band.
I smiled. “Hi there. I’m not a guest, but I was supposed to meet a buddy of mine here from the States.” I paused and leaned forward the slightest bit, then quieted my voice. “But I believe he’s accompanied, and he and I have business to discuss.”
She smiled and glanced at the star on my ball cap, then at my face. Her eyes were deep blue, her focus intense. Quietly, she said, “And his name, sir?”
I straightened again, but glanced around and kept my voice quiet. “Oh. Jackson Tingley. I and my partners bought his company a couple of years ago.” I leaned forward again, but a little farther. Barely above a whisper, I said, “He’s thinking of coming in with us. I’m sure you understand the need for discretion.” Still smiling, I winked at her, then straightened again.
A tall, stately looking man with slicked-back hair and a stiff look about him walked past. His footfalls were soft but had the unmistakable sound of leather soles on the marble floor.
I didn’t look around, but the young woman glanced at him without moving her head and stiffened a bit. She looked at me, her eyes conveying an apology. In a normal tone she said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t divulge any information about our guests.” Again her gaze shifted to the taller man.
Still smiling, I said, “Oh, that’s fine. I understand.”
When he was apparently far enough away, she leaned forward.
I did too. She smelled like orange blossoms on a warm spring night.
She said, “I’ve only seen them together one time, and that’s when they checked in. They take all their meals in their room, but he often strolls on the beach alone.”
She surreptitiously gestured with an index finger to her right, north, and I nodded. She said, “To smoke a cigar, I think. That’s usually a little before sundown. You might catch him there.” Then her eyes shifted again and she straightened.
Behind me, I heard the same footfalls of leather shoes. As the man passed by again, she smiled and, in her normal tone, said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance, sir.”
I straightened too. “That’s all right. I understand. Thanks. And who knows? I’ll probably see him around when we’re both back in the States.” I offered my hand. “By the way, the name’s Stan Wickham.”
She flushed pink, but her smile widened. She shook my hand briefly. “Samantha. And thank you, Mr. Wickham, but I’m not allowed to date the guests.”
I smiled broadly. “Now that’s entirely too bad, young miss.” I bent to kiss the back of her hand, then released it, turned and left.
Wow, would I ever like to test the “sprangs” with her.
Maybe I should hang around for a few more days.
Focus, Neanderthal. You have a job to do.
And only two days to do it.
* * *
Back in the room, I opened my laptop again and looked over the map of Barbados I’d left open since the plane.
The beach immediately to the north of Sandy Lane was, duh, Sandy Lane Beach. It was as encroached upon with businesses and houses and all the rest as Payne’s Bay Beach was. The only real difference was that there seemed a lot more heavy foliage to the east. So maybe it was a little more secluded. It might be a little more difficult for people in the buildings or lounging beside their swimming pools to see what was going on to the west.
I was glad Sam Smalley had included a sound suppressor for the revolver. And that the revolver itself was a .32 instead of a .38 or .45. Less powder, so less of a bang. The sound suppressor might actually serve to all-but silence the sound of gunshots for a .32.
I had already marked Payne’s Bay Beach off my mental list for places to do the hit. Far too busy. So that meant I had to do it on Sandy Lane Beach.
But that was better anyway.
There were two places where the trees and brush grew right down to the water’s edge. Between the two was about a hundred feet of wide beach. If I wanted to walk alone in the evening, that’s where I would go.
The growth nearest the hotel would be perfect, but it was too near the hotel. But there was an inviting little strip of beach between the brush and the water that would lead him into the more or less secluded stretch of beach. Perfect.
I’m willing to bet that’s where he’ll go to smoke his cigar, pat himself on the back for his latest tryst, or whatever. He makes his way past the first growth onto the beach.
The growth farther away from the hotel was less dense and therefore would seem less threatening.
And that’s where I would be waiting.
The guy would be alone, too, so there would be no collateral damage, intentional or otherwise. The woman he’d brought with him would eventually have to make her own way back to the States, or not. But I can’t think of a better place to be stranded than Barbados. Can you? So I didn’t feel that bad for her either. Maybe that’s what she gets for gold digging.
But I had to think about myself too.
Like my egress.
Chapter 8: A Little More Prep and the Final Approach
I went online and searched for flights from Barbados to the States. Two airlines had a flight leaving daily for Miami at 9 p.m. I bought a ticket, then called the airline kiosk at the airport and told them I hoped to be on the flight tonight, but business might keep me one more day.
The kiosk attendant assured me I could use the ticket anytime during the month, to just call for it at the kiosk.
I hung up, returned to my laptop, and brought up the map again to study it.
The smaller growth of trees and brush was even better than I thought. A little north of Sandy Lane Beach, the Blue Lagoon highway looped back to the west again and came closer to the beach. And as that little growth grew back to the east from the beach, it got thicker and wider. Most importantly, it was uninterrupted, untamed by developers.
I sat back.
That’s it. I’ll pop the guy close to or from the trees in the second growth, then chuck the spare bullets and the gun with the sound suppressor still attached into the surf.
Then I’d have to make my way due east, but only about four hundred feet—so a football field and a third—and either grab a cab or disappear among the buildings until I could grab a cab.
Or whatever. I’d worry about all that later. The main thing would be to get off that beach.
But no. Worry about it now.
I zoomed in on the map and identified three or four likely places, all restaurants, from which I could call for a cab.
Okay. Good. Done.
But as I closed the laptop, Samantha, the pretty desk clerk at the Sandy Lane Hotel, crossed my mind. When the news broke, she would probably wonder about the coincidence. After all, the guy was killed at the very place she told me I could find Tingley alone.
Well, she told Stan Wickham.
But at least she wouldn’t know for sure. If the speculation existed, it would exist only in her mind. Alongside the fact that she wasn’t actually complicit in any way.
If she said anything at all to the cops, she would probably be questioned.
But she didn’t seem that dense to me. And even if she was questioned, she knew nothing about it. Only that she had told a short, flirty guy named Sam Wickham who was wearing a dark ball cap with a star on it where to find the victim.
She might also be troubled privately, but that was another matter. That would be collateral damage of a sort, and I regret that.
But her troubled memory would fade with time.
* * *
I got a good night’s sleep and spent most of the next day in my room reading. In the late afternoon, I dropped the extra rounds into my jacket pocket, stuck the revolver with the sound suppressor attached under the jacket in the waistband of my jeans, and headed out on foot for the Sandy Lane Beach.
I decided to approach through the same brush that would provide cover for my egress. As I moved through the trees and brush toward the beach, I stopped and looked behind me now and again. Not for any pursuit—if anyone noticed me, I was just a tourist doing a stupid tourist thing—but to get a reverse perspective. I wanted to recognize features on my way out.
When I neared the east end of that pinched, forested triangle, I checked my watch. About forty minutes until the sun set. The sound of gently lapping waves and the scent of driftwood and algae filled the air.
Then came quiet laughter. I stopped and peered through the brush.
Between me and the narrow strip of beach that would be my focus was the Sandy Lane Beach proper, and there were people out there.
Well, I should have expected that.
Two individuals and one couple had erected beach umbrellas. None of them had chaise lounges or coolers, only broad beach towels. So maybe they wouldn’t stay long. None of them went into the water either. They just lounged, watching seagulls and listening to the waves.
I looked around, found a good spot and settled in, then focused my attention on the narrow strip of dry beach around a hundred feet away between the larger woods and the ocean. The beachgoers were to my left front.
That strip a hundred feet away would be prime if I had a .22 rifle with a sound suppressor and low-velocity ammo. I could pop the guy as he exited that narrow lane. Even the beachgoers wouldn’t hear the shots or would dismiss them as something unrecognizable.
Of course, if they looked toward the hotel they would see the body, but that would only create panic, and panic is good. The body and the ensuing panic would divert their attention as I made my escape.
But I hadn’t known when I met Sam Smalley that I would need a rifle. Or be firing from these woods. With all the research I’d done back in Dallas and during the long flight, I had never considered making the hit from these woods. So I hadn’t done the research part of my job well enough.
Then again, I only considered hitting him on this beach after Samantha mentioned the guy’s sunset strolls.
Originally, especially after I saw how open and crowded Payne’s Bay Beach was, I’d have to make the hit in the guy’s room in the hotel. So in that light, the revolver made more sense, though a silenced smaller caliber would have been better.
Still, it was what it was. And Samantha said the guy “often” strolls out here with a cigar and “usually” around sunset. Neither of those words means “always.”
Maybe that was her way of defending herself against any blame if something unsavory happened to the guy. I hoped so.
But more than that, I hoped the guy would show up today. I didn’t want to have to come back tomorrow.
I alternated watching the narrow strip of beach with checking my watch. The longest time between checks was about three minutes.
Nerves. That isn’t normal. Well, for me.
* * *
I kept watching that narrow lane and checking my watch. The shadows of the trees kept stretching farther and farther across the beach and into the ocean.
One by one, the couple and the two singles folded their umbrellas and gathered their towels and walked up the beach to the west. They disappeared into the narrow line of trees and the paths to wherever they were going.
Good.
I shifted my attention back to the narrow strip past the thicker growth of trees and brush to the south. Quietly, I said, “Come on, Jackson. Come on past the trees.”
And he did.
But not past the trees I was watching.
What’s that smell?
Something burning maybe, but I didn’t see any smoke. But then, I was standing under a bunch of trees.
The smell wasn’t harsh and there wasn’t much of it, but it was distinctive.
Then a whiff of the smell came again, and I realized: It was a cigar. And a short distance to my right, someone said, “Ahh. Nothing better than this.”
I crouched. The smell and the voice had come from my right rear with the lapping of the waves as a backdrop.
I peered through the woods, searching.
There. I glimpsed the left side of a short, light robe, dark blue, moving along the beach, bright white man thighs beneath it. Then a step later, the face. Jackson Tingley was angling toward the ocean and the tip of the woods in which I was hiding.
Bent at the waist, I hurried through the trees, avoiding brush where I could. I settled again, crouched low behind some brush, and focused on listening.
The waves were a little louder, but the sound of his beach sandals came from my right front, flip-flopping toward the ocean and the end of the growth.
I risked raising my head.
He had turned slightly more toward the ocean, apparently planning to wade around the easternmost point of the trees.
I rose and moved closer, not worrying about making noise.
He took another step, then another, and his back was to me. He was about twenty feet from me, ten feet from the ocean, and maybe five feet from the trees on his left.
I stepped out behind him. “Hey, Jackson, is that you?”
Chapter 9: The Tingley Hit, the Egress, and an Epiphany
Jackson Tingley was surprised to hear his name called during what he thought was a private walk on a secluded beach. He turned quickly, but with a smile on his face. “Yes?”
His short, dark blue robe—silk or something—didn’t quite reach halfway to his knees. Then he saw that my hands were leveled in front of me, and maybe the revolver in them.
The smile vanished and the cigar dropped to the beach from his right hand.
As I took a step toward him, he said, “Who—who’re you?”
I took another step, the revolver still leveled.
He brought both hands up, palms out. “It—it was only a fling! She’s perfectly fine!”
As I took another step toward him, he jerked his right arm straight out to the right, his index finger pointing. “She’s in the hotel right now! I’ll—I’ll show you!”
I took another step.
He swung his right hand back in front of him and pumped both arms as if pushing me away. “I swear! She’s perfectly fine!”
I fired.
The sound of the explosion was almost as muted as it would have been with a .22. The bullet struck him in the forehead and he collapsed like a rag doll.
I took a few more steps, stopped a short distance from his feet to avoid blood spatter, and fired again just to be sure.
Then I threw the revolver, the sound suppressor still attached, as far as I could into the ocean. I reached into my jacket pocket, fished out the extra ammo and did the same with it.
I crouched at Tingley’s feet, grabbed his ankles and dragged him a short distance into the brush. It would take a little longer for anyone to find him there, and even a few minutes were better than no minutes.
I’d drop the latex gloves into a trash bin at the airport.
* * *
I glanced at my watch, then made my way west through the trees toward the highway. As I went, I peeled off the latex gloves and stuffed them into my jeans pocket.
I found a cab more easily than I thought I would and had the cabbie drop me off at a restaurant a little over three blocks from my motel. When the cab was some distance down the road, I bypassed the restaurant, found the motel, and went into my room.
I quickly packed my bag, then called another cab to come pick me up. I laid the room key next to the phone, then hung the Do Not Disturb placard on the doorknob on the outside. I went back in to sit on the edge of the bed, facing the window, to wait.
Only a few minutes later, a cab pulled up and parked the car sideways, right in front of my door.
Wow. The Wee Blue Inn truly must not get many guests. I wondered vaguely whether the other cottages were even furnished.
As I opened the back passenger-side door and tossed my bag inside, I said, “Airport, please.” I slipped in and glanced at my watch again. The hit had happened only eleven minutes ago.
The cabbie nodded, shifted the car into gear, and I was on my way home. Well, to Miami and then home. The driver never spoke, and he never so much as glanced in the rear-view mirror, at least not at me.
The fare was thirty-two dollars and change. He didn’t say anything even when I handed him two twenties and told him to keep the change.
Inside the airport, I casually dropped the gloves into a bin on my way to the airline kiosk. A little over an hour and a half later, the plane was wheels up for Miami.
I had only a four-hour wait for a plane to Dallas. Considering I didn’t have to go to Baggage Claim, the trip itself was almost an hour shorter than that.
* * *
Finally back in my apartment, I dropped my bag on the bed, then unpacked and enjoyed a hot shower and a shave. It almost felt as if I’d never left.
As I got dressed, I thought about that. The sense of never having left wasn’t that unusual given the situation. After all, over a period of—what, three or four days?—I’d spent some twenty-four hours in one plane or another, and another several hours sitting in airports waiting to take off. That plus a night’s sleep, a few hours’ reading, and a total of about half a day on two beaches comprised the whole trip.
But I was hungry. I checked my watch. It was early, going on 6:30 p.m.
Maybe I’ll drive to Desperados and treat myself to some good Mexican food.
That reminded me of the visit I had set up with Michael Grant and then had to abort when I received the assignment. I wondered whether he’d called back with an offer to reschedule.
I don’t have a landline or an answering machine, but I hadn’t received any messages on my cell phone either. Well, as far as I knew. Maybe I’d missed a call.
I pulled it out, hit the right icons and checked.
No recent calls, and no voicemail. Nothing.
He was probably tied up on another investigation somewhere. And we were only good acquaintances anyway.
Then an epiphany hit: Given what I do for a living, what am I doing hanging out with Grant anyway? Even occasionally?
And another, even larger epiphany—What in the hell was I thinking, planning to ask his advice about obtaining a weapon like the Tavor 7? Of course, I was going to ask about the legality issues of owning one too. But in a way, that was even dumber than hanging out with him in the first place. I mean, how would I explain even wanting one? Say it was for deer hunting? Oh man!
So the timing of the VaporStream device going off as it did only hours before I was scheduled to meet him for supper was a fool’s luck. I’m one of those who never personally believed in luck. I’m a professional, so I believe in preparation.
But this was absolute, sheer luck. At the minimum, that assignment coming in when it did and TJ’s demand that I fly out that night had probably saved me years of living with striped sunshine. Or more likely, a lethal injection.
I had literally dodged a future bullet. Grant’s senses about people like me must be finely honed. He was a cop, and now he’s a successful private investigator. One particular look in my eye or the nervous twitch of a finger or a minor slip of the tongue might pique his interest and set him on my trail.
And trust me, from what I’ve read of his adventures in Sadler’s novels, I wouldn’t want Grant to suspect me of jaywalking or spitting on the sidewalk, much less any of the things I’ve done in the service of TJ Blackwell.
If he calls me back about getting together, I’ll make an excuse. In fact—
I pulled out my cellphone, found the coded listing with Grant’s office number, and deleted it.
I have to admit, though, I would miss occasionally hearing Marnie’s voice.
* * *
Of course, none of that did anything to mitigate the growling in my stomach.
I went down to the car, but I decided to skip Desperados. Permanently. With my luck, Grant would be there.
Instead, I drove to Avila’s on Maple Avenue. It was closer to my place anyway. I thoroughly enjoyed a platter full of chicken enchiladas, rice and refried beans. It was maybe the best meal I’d ever eaten.
During the two days I was on the ground in Barbados, I’d had only a small bag of chips, a candy bar and a Pepsi from the vending machines at the Wee Blue Inn. I was so intensely focused on the assignment, I simply hadn’t thought of eating. I also had one small meal on the plane to Miami, but nothing after that.
When I got home from Avila’s, the near miss with Grant was still on my mind. How had I lucked out like that?
Jesus. Maybe I should consider relocating.
Chapter 10: Jackson Tingley’s Sin, and Considering Relocating
It was two days before I finally found and read an online account concerning the death of Jackson Tingley, the multi-millionaire playboy. Apparently he had been shot dead on a beach in Barbados.
Details were sketchy to say the least. According to the coroner’s preliminary statement, the body was discovered about thirty-six hours after the victim was killed. It was found among some brush in a wooded area by a young man who was leading his girlfriend into the woods.
I grinned. He led her from a pristine beach and into a more secluded wooded area? Gosh, I wonder what he had in mind?
Police had been notified, but there were no leads other than that the deceased had been staying nearby at a prominent hotel.
The report didn’t mention the name of either the hotel or the beach. That information was probably intentionally omitted at the insistence of the owners. The most expensive hotel on the island probably wouldn’t want the adverse publicity.
That’s where the account of the shooting and the discovery of the body ended. The rest of the story was about the young woman the responding officers found in Tingley’s room when they went to search it for clues.
After I read it, I shook my head. Tingley’s sin.
The unnamed woman was twenty-six, married but separated, and had accompanied Tingley for a “relaxing, romantic few days away from the stresses of business.”
At least that’s what she said Tingley had told her.
But there was a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, a trick I often use myself.
Inside, the woman was gagged and naked, though one corner of a sheet covered one leg and her hips. She was chained by the wrists and ankles to the bed. Tingley had repeatedly raped her, she said, and she had feared for her life. There was ample DNA evidence at the scene, primarily on the fitted sheet.
Paramedics transported the woman to a hospital where she was reported in stable condition.
In response to reporters asking where she was from, she said only that “no longer matters.” The United States, she said, no longer held any allure for her. She went on to say that when she was released from the hospital, she intended to apply for citizenship and remain in Barbados.
Well, there you go.
I wondered vaguely how much TJ had known about Tingley’s extra-curricular activities. Or was this just another job for hire? Maybe he neither knew nor cared what a skunk Tingley really was.
But TJ’s a businessman. Probably for him, it was just another well-paying contract.
Either way, I’m glad he picked me for the assignment.
* * *
Even though I was on vacation, as head-to-tail as the last two assignments had come in, I was on edge for the first few days. I kept expecting the damned VaporStream device to sound again.
But other than that tension, I felt good, as if I’d stepped onto a new path. Much of that evolved from my resolve to avoid the dangers the epiphanies had shown me. After the initial anxiety had passed, those epiphanies had brought me a huge sense of relief.
But when a few days, then a week, then two had passed with no new VaporStream messages, I felt almost normal again.
Well, my normal. I don’t mean going to a job five days a week and coming home to a loving wife and family at the end of the day. That will never be part of the equation of my life.
I mean not being completely paranoid. Not leaving my apartment, and if I did, not flinching at every loud sound or going out of my way to avoid any police vehicles. Not avoiding eye contact with normal people on the street.
I went back to Avila’s five or six times during that two weeks. The second time I went—I was too hungry to think the first time—I realized nobody in the place seemed familiar to me at all. Good. Anonymity is good. And Avila’s seemed like a restaurant full of anonymous people.
Except that during those visits I made a new friend.
Her name is Consuela.
Among the first things I asked her was whether a man named Michael Grant ever came in.
She shook her head and frowned. “Not that I remember.”
I honestly have no idea what she saw in me, but I was all but smitten with her, though I didn’t realize it at first.
She was the most physically attractive woman I had met in years. Those mysterious, olive-green eyes set in that coral face and set-off by her long black hair and perfectly arched natural eyebrows did something to me. And don’t get me started on her body. At about 5’2” or 5’3”, every curve was perfectly apportioned. Finally, her sense of humor and quick wit displayed an intelligence that far surpassed that of anyone I’d ever known, male or female.
There was a mutual attraction—call it electricity—almost immediately, and it grew during those two weeks.
Finally, on the last visit of that two weeks, I asked casually whether she might like to get a drink with me sometime.
She smiled, and for a second I thought I was going to pass out. There was real hope in her eyes.
“Sure,” she said. “You seem like a nice guy. Let’s give it a shot.”
That last word reminded me of who I am and what I do.
Why couldn’t she have said “whirl” or “spin” or—well, practically anything but “shot”?
I sipped my iced tea, then looked up at her. “Know what? You can actually do a lot better than a guy like me.”
Those perfectly arched eyebrows rose and her smile disappeared. She tore off my ticket and laid it face-down on the table. Then she crouched next to the seat of the booth I was in and looked up at me. “You sure? If you’re sure, I’ll have to take your word for it.” She shook her head. “I’m not in the market for any man who feels that way about himself.”
I sipped at my tea again. Quietly, I said, “I don’t blame you.”
She looked at me for a moment, then abruptly stood, turned, and walked away.
It was the last time I would ever see more than her back going through the double doors into the kitchen.
When she did, I turned the ticket over and checked the bill.
Twenty-eight dollars and change. Not bad, and really great food. But I couldn’t do that to her. There was literally no future in it.
I glanced back to see whether she had come out of the kitchen yet, but I didn’t see her anywhere.
I quickly stood, slipped a fifty dollar bill under the ticket and set my plate on it, then walked out.
Who knew Dallas, Texas could get so small in such a short period of time?
Relocate. That’s what I have to do.
* * *
No, really. I felt a pressing urge to move away. On my way back to my apartment, I considered my options.
I couldn’t move back to Brooklyn. As an orphan, I had left there at age 19 when a local wiseguy started patting me on the back and tousling my hair and calling me Nicky.
When I realized I enjoyed it and felt like I was part of something.
When I realized it would be cool to have the right to call him by his first name too.
When I started thinking maybe that should be my future.
I finally settled on moving from Dallas to southeast Arizona. Two big cities and a lot of little towns and villages where a guy could be anonymous.
*******
Chapters 11 through 20 coming tomorrow! Stay tuned!