Fallen Hunter (Jesse McDermitt Series) (7 page)

“I just moved here from Nebraska last winter. Guess I’d just had enough of snow and sub-freezing temperatures.”

“That’s quite a move,” I said.

“I’d just gotten out of a bad relationship. I bought a map of the whole country and studied it, to find the furthest place from Lincoln. It was either here or Caribou, Maine, which was a little further away.”

“Caribou’s loss is Key West’s gain,” I said.

We talked for a while, but when the waitress came and asked if I wanted another beer, I told her no. Then I asked Tina if she’d like to go for a walk. I left a twenty on the table, under the empty bottle,e and we got up and went out into the cooling night air. The smell of jasmine and frangipani filled the air, as we walked away from Blue Heaven. We wound our way through the quieter streets going south on Thomas, then east on Olivia, toward Old Town. She took my arm as we walked across Duval Street and asked me what I was really doing in Key West.

I looked down into her eyes and decided I could trust her. So, I told her all about Trent’s problem with Santiago and how I was trying to get him out of it.

“He was at the bar last night,” she said. “The drug dealer I told you about. That was Santiago. Be careful, I hear he’s pretty ruthless.”

We walked in silence for a few minutes. There was still a bit of foot traffic on this part of the island, but not so many cars. “Would you keep your eyes open for me and call me if you see him, or hear anything about him?” I asked.

“Are you asking in my capacity as a bartender, or a Reserve Deputy?” she asked.

“
I’ve learned that bartenders, waitresses, waiters and taxi drivers know more about what’s going on around town than any of the cops,” I said.

“
I’ll do what I can, but I’ve only seen him a few times.” She continued to tell me all that she knew about him, but said that most of it was just gossip.

We’d walked quite a way, zigzagging through the narrow streets of Old Town and I had no idea where we were going, if anywhere. I was just enjoying walking down the quiet lanes, lined with old style Conch houses. Large oak and gumbo limbo trees lined the streets.

She stopped at a gate in a white picket fence and said, “This is where I live. Would you like to come in for a while?”

I had to admit, I was tempted. Instead I said, “I’d like to, but I don’t think I should.” Her smile turned into a frown and without thinking I added, “Why don’t you come by the marina tomorrow and we’ll go for a boat ride.”

She smiled brightly and asked, “You have your boat down here?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Not really much of a choice.
The Beast
, that’s my car, probably wouldn’t survive the trip.”

“I’d love to,” she said. “What time? I’m off all day tomorrow.”

“I usually get up before sunrise, so any time is fine. Do you know where Oceanside Marina is, on Stock Island?”

She nodded and I said, “They have a private, gated dock there. Just come to the gate and push the little button for slip number fourteen and I’ll come down and let you through.”

“It’s a date, then,” she said. “See you in the morning.” Then she stood up on her toes to kiss me on the cheek, before opening the little gate and walking up to the door of her little house.

When she got up to the porch she called back, “What should I wear?”

“Supposed to be warm, a little over eighty,” I said. “Shorts and tee-shirt weather. Bathing suit if you want to swim, or get some sun. The water will be a little cold though. About seventy degrees.”

“Good night,” she said. “See you in the morning.”

“Night,” I called back.

I suddenly realized I had no idea where I was. I knew I was somewhere on the east side of Duval Street, in Old Town. A quick glance up at the nearly full moon gave me a direction, so I started walking toward Duval Street. If anywhere, that’s where I could find a cab. Turns out, I was almost a mile off of Duval.

I joined the throngs of people walking north on Duval Street toward the busier end, near the docks. I stopped at Irish Kevin’s Bar for a cold Guinness and to call Lawrence. It was very crowded inside. I made my way to the bar and ordered my ale, then handed Lawrence’s card to the bartender and asked if he could call me a cab.

“What’s ye name, mate?” he asked in a decidedly Irish accent.

“Jesse McDermitt,” I replied.

“An Irishman, eh? Guinness on the house, mate. Me name’s Paul, Paul McGahee. Of the Gregor highlands clan.”

I reached across the bar, took the offered hand and said, “Pleased to meet you, Paul. Looks like Irish Kevin has a gold mine here.”

“Thank ye, lad. Tis doing okay, I reckon. Ye don’t look like na tourist. From up the Keys?” he asked, dialing the phone.

“Yeah, out of Marathon,” I replied, wondering yet again what my tell was.

He turned away for a minute, covering an ear to talk into the phone, then hung up and turned back, saying, “Lawrence’ll be here in a wee bit.”

I thanked him and even though he’d offered the free beer, I laid a five on the bar and walked over by the door, so I could see outside. Minutes later, Lawrence pulled up. I finished the beer, went out and got in the front seat.

“Evenin’ sar,” he said. “Callin’ it a early night?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Taking Tina for a boat ride at first light.”

“Knew it, mon!” he exclaimed while weaving down Duval and turning left on Eaton Street, taking a short cut through Old Town.

“Nothing like that,” I said. “She mentioned she’d never been on a boat before. That’s all.”

“Ya, mon,” he said with a huge grin.

We rode on, crossing the Palm Avenue Causeway, then south on First and east on Truman. Crossing the bridge to Stock Island, Lawrence said, “I ask roun bout Santiago, mon. Mostly gossip, but a frien say dat di mon stood an watch as his goons near beat his brudder to deat. He a bod mon, fuh shore.”

We got to the marina a minute later and I gave Lawrence a ten and told him if he learned anything more, like where the man liked to eat, or any habits he had, to call me. Then I got out, walked to the private dock, opened it and climbed aboard my boat.

The lights in the harbor were low, but the moon was bright. Instead of going below I climbed up to the bridge, sat down and looked out over the low island toward home, wondering how Trent, his family and Pescador were doing.

Turning on my phone, I saw that Deuce had called again, but left no message. I called the number Trent had given me and he picked up on the first ring.

“Jesse,” he said. “I was just debating calling you. A chopper landed here earlier this afternoon.”

“Who was it?” I asked.

“No idea, we were anchored on Raccoon Key so the kids could swim,” he replied, then added with a laugh, “Hey, I figured out why you named that mutt Pescador. We had his catch for supper.”

I laughed with him, then asked, “That chopper have any markings?”

“Couldn’t make it out, real well. We were a couple miles off. Looked like it mighta been Customs. It only stayed a minute, then flew off toward the southeast.”

“Don’t worry about it. It was a friend of mine. How are you guys doing up there?”

“Couldn’t be better,” he said. “The kids love the dock and the dog. We’re camping out. Built a nice fire in the clearing with some of the deadfalls you piled up.”

“Okay, well, call me if you need anything. I’m going out to the Tortugas tomorrow morning with a friend. Then calling Doc tomorrow evening.”

“Sunday evening?” he asked. “You’ll probably catch him and Nikki at the Harley dealer, or over at Hog’s Breath, depending on the time. Nikki works there and Bob turns wrenches there on the weekend. A bunch of local bikers get together at Hog’s Breath on Sunday afternoon.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Want me to tell him anything?”

“Just tell him I hope he’ll stick this out. He’s a good Mate and replacing him will be a tough task.”

“I’ll do that,” I said. “Don’t worry, Carl. I’ll come up with something to get this turd fondler off your back. Y’all just enjoy yourselves.”

I ended the call, then decided to call Deuce. It rang four times and I hung up. As I started to get up, it chimed, Deuce calling me back.

“Hey Deuce,” I said.

“You’re still a hard man to find, Jarhead.”

“Well, if it was easy, a Squid could do it,” I replied laughing. Rivalries between services is common, but between Marines and Sailors, it reaches epic legendary status.

“Where the hell are you?” he asked.

“I’m in Key West for a little while. I heard you landed at my house earlier. What can I do for you?”

“How’d you know I’d been there?” he asked.

“A friend spotted you in a Customs chopper. Not very good spycraft, buddy.”

“I’m not even going to ask where your friend was when he spotted me. Probably laying right under the chopper in a freaking ghillie suit.”

“Close, but not that close,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Need to talk to you,” he said. “Face to face. We’ve been asking all over Key West, but you islanders are a tight lipped bunch.”

“You’re here? Who’s we?”

“Me and Julie,” he replied. “We just checked in at the Double Tree and were about to go back out and look some more.”

“You have wheels?”

“Yeah, where are you?”

“See Susan at the desk,” I said playing with him a little. “She’ll have written directions even a Swab could follow.”

I ended the call and pulled up the number to the Double Tree and called. Susan was on duty, as I expected. I said, “Hi Susan. This is Jesse McDermitt.”

“Hi Captain,” she said. I could almost hear her smile over the phone.

“Hey, could you do me a favor?” I asked. “Do you know where Oceanside Marina is?”

She did, so I told her what I wanted her to do. She wrote it down and I asked her to read it back.

“Go back the way you came,” she said, “Until you pass where you feel most at home. Then keep going until you see what was on my shoulder, but not on yours. Turn windward and make your course 90 degrees for half a click. Then make your course 135 degrees for one click. Then look for where seals and dogs mingle. Go to the private dock and punch the button for fourteen.”

“Perfect,” I said. “A man and woman will come down and ask you for directions to where I am. Give them that, okay.”

“Well sure, Jesse,” she said. “But it makes no sense.”

“It will to him,” I said.

I ended the call, went down to the galley and put a six pack in a cooler, then carried it back up to the bridge. A few minutes later, I could see headlights moving slowly toward the marina gate, then accelerate into the parking lot. It was Alex’s Jeep. Since I didn’t have much use for it, I’d given it to Julie. I felt a pang of pain for a moment, then pushed it aside with the knowledge that it’s just a tool to move people, nothing more.

Opening the gate as they walked up, Julie gave me a big hug. “Very funny, mister.”

“Thought you’d get a kick out of it,” I said, shaking Deuce’s big hand. “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” he said. “Almost had me at the end, until I saw the sign for Oceanside.”

“I didn’t get that part at all,” Julie said. “Until Russell explained that Oceanside, California, was a little town between a Marine base and the SEAL base. How are you doing, Jesse?”

“Just fine,” I said. “Y’all come aboard. I have some cold ones up on the bridge.”

We climbed up to the bridge and I passed a cold Hatuey to each of them. “So, what’s on your mind, Deuce?”

Deuce looked at Julie, then said, “Right now, all I can say is we have a mission and the Director thinks you’re the man to take us in. Ever been to Cuba?”

“Americans aren’t allowed to go to Cuba,” I reminded him.

“We have special dispensation, you might say. All you have to do is get us to within two miles of shore.”

“That’s still ten miles inside of Cuba waters,” I said. “What’s the target?”

Deuce looked at Julie, who rolled her eyes and said, “Do you have any wine down there, Jesse?”

“Sure, there’s several bottles in the wine cooler, down in the galley. Help yourself.”

Once she climbed down and went through the hatch to the salon, Deuce said, “Man, I hate this. How the hell did you do it with your first two wives?”

“Pretty much like we just did with Julie. It’s not healthy, man. Better to just not talk about it at all. Who’s the target?”

“A drug smuggler, also suspected of arms smuggling. He’s moving a great deal of marijuana, coke, and meth into the States through Key West and Miami. A legit businessman in Miami, by the name of Carlos Santiago.”

“You’re shitting me,” I said. “Man, we gotta quit working like this.”

“What do you mean,” he asked.

“Did Jimmy and Angie tell you why I was down here?” I asked.

“Yeah, something to do with helping Angie’s dad. She said he’d been roped into smuggling marijuana on his shrimp boat. Wait. You don’t mean...”

“Yeah, the guy who’s forcing Trent to keep smuggling is your guy, Santiago.”